Chapter 10 #2
Everything was different. Everything was the same.
Cara pulled the Jeep into a yellow striped space in front of what had once been an assayer's office.
The awning covered windows now housed an artfully arrayed selection of paintings, each nestled on white velvet and framed in carved gilt.
He didn't have to look for the sign. He recognized the work. "This is your gallery."
Cara nodded. "Want to come inside?"
"I have to finish getting these paintings ready for shipping. They're being picked up tomorrow."
He nodded absently, intent on studying a painting hung in a small alcove on one wall. "Where was this painted?" He kept his voice mild, even though the blood pounded in his ears.
She stopped and turned back, glancing at the painting in front of him. "That's my grandfather's ranch. We passed it on the way in, but it was too dark to see it."
She started to turn away and he reached out to stop her. "That's Clune."
She froze, staring at the canvas. "Your ranch?"
"Yeah, only it doesn't look like this—yet.
" It was like looking at his dreams coming alive under brush and paint.
The barn was there, finished and painted a dark green, just as he'd envisioned it.
And the new ranch house, barely more than a plan in his head, sat exactly as he'd intended to build it, nestled in the curve of the creek, shaded by willows and pines.
The old hands' quarters still stood across the way, its walls and roof looking just as dilapidated as they did in his time. Pete's haven. The old man wouldn't hear of any improvements, no matter how much Michael argued that he needed them. He almost expected Pete to be in the painting.
The corral, the out buildings, all of it. Clune.
"When did your grandfather buy it?"
"I don't know for sure. I think his father bought it actually, sometime in the '20's. The 1920's," she added sheepishly.
"Do you know whose it was before that?"
"Not really. It belonged to one of the founders of the town, I think. Someone named Preston."
"Prescott?" Michael felt the hair on his arms start to rise.
"Yeah. That's it. The library's named after him.
" She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.
"I don't think he was the original owner, though.
I think some Scottish fellow homesteaded it.
" She met his gaze. "I'm sorry, I…" Recognition dawned.
Her eyes dropped to the sgian dubh fastened to his belt.
"You're Scottish. Macpherson. My grandfather's ranch is yours? "
He nodded. "Clune."
"Oh my God."
"Do you still own it?"
"Yes, but I lease it to some people who've turned it into a retreat for fishermen. That's why I live up at the cabin."
His head was spinning. How had Owen wound up with his ranch?
Had Patrick sold it to him? The boy was never interested in ranching.
Another more sobering thought occurred to him.
Maybe something had happened to Patrick.
Patrick and Owen had always been close. Especially after his mother left.
If anything happened to Patrick, his brother would definitely leave the ranch to Owen.
Not that Owen would have any particular interest in it.
But Owen was a sentimental man. He'd keep it just to remember.
Michael ran a hand through his hair, alarm racing through him.
What the hell had happened? Unanswered questions rattled around in his brain.
Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to run, to try and get home.
He felt a hand on his arm and looked down into clear green eyes.
"I know this is hard for you. I wish I knew what to do to help."
Get me the hell out of here . He shook his head, dispelling his panic and pulled her close, inhaling her soft scent, letting her warmth soothe his soul. Tomorrow he'd find out what he could and then head back to the tunnel. But right now he wanted to be here, with Cara.
"Can I see The Promise ?"
Cara tipped back her head, trying to focus on his words not his body.
"Of course. It's the only one still not crated.
" She led the way to the back, a work area separated from the gallery by screens.
Her head still reeled with the knowledge that her grandfather's ranch—her ranch now—had actually belonged to Michael.
"We call it the Meadows."
"What?" Michael's breath was warm on her neck as he stopped behind her.
She turned, looking up into the deep blue velvet of his eyes. "The ranch, it's known as the Meadows now."
Michael smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She resisted the urge to capture his strong fingers in hers. "Clune is Gaelic, Cara. In English, it means meadow."
"I just can't believe I grew up in your house. That somehow, my home is?—"
" My home. It seems we're attached in more ways than we even imagined." He traced the curve of her lip with his thumb.
She sucked in a breath and tried for a lighter note. " The Promise is behind you."
She watched as he turned slowly around, his shoulders tightening as he took in the scene depicted in the painting.
She wanted to rub the tension out of his shoulders, to soothe the worry away, but she couldn't find the courage to move.
This was so far beyond anything she had ever experienced.
And if she felt overwhelmed, she could only imagine what Michael was feeling.
"There's nothing left."
At first she was confused, but then she realized he was talking about the painting. "No. It's almost gone. I'm surprised I even found it."
"Maybe you were supposed to find it. You said you felt drawn to it, maybe it wasn't just a feeling."
A shiver ran up her spine and she suddenly felt chilled. "Is it your father's mine?"
"Yes. This is the upper entrance. There's another one below here.
" He pointed to the cliff edge. "On the side of the mountain.
My father spent most of his life looking for the mother lode.
The Promise was supposed to be his dream come true.
It assayed out at hundred ounces of silver per ton. Even for Silverthread that was rich."
She moved to stand beside him, entranced by the painting, lost in his memories. "Why did he name it the Promise?"
A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "For my mother. She'd been after him for years to settle down. And he kept promising he would as soon as he hit it big."
"So it was his promise to her." She studied the painting. "What happened?"
"The mine played out. And my mother ran away with the profits."
Cara flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
"She was always the center of our family, my mother.
Rose O'Malley. We all adored her. But no one could have loved her like my father.
" He reached for her hand, holding it tightly, his eyes still locked on the painting.
"My father had two partners. Owen Prescott, an old family friend and a man named Zachariah Bowen. Zach was a muleskinner."
"Muleskinner?" The name did not conjure a pretty picture.
Michael smiled. "He drove a wagon for one of the freight companies in town. They call them muleskinners because to get down the mountain in one piece the driver had to be pretty handy with his whip. Using it to control the team of horses?—"
"Or mules." She finished for him.
"Right. Anyway, Zach was young and a hard worker, so my father was glad to have the help. Since the mine was isolated, they did most of the work by hand. It was too expensive to carry the ore out of the mountains, so my father built a crude smelter on site."
"I don't understand."
"Silver is mixed with loads of other minerals. So the oar often weighs tons. Getting it out of there would have cost almost more than the silver was worth. Especially after the mine played out. Anyway, the idea was to smelt the ore at the mine, and reduce the size of the load to be shipped."
"Wasn't it dangerous to keep the silver at the mine?"
"Safer than a bank actually. You've been up there. It was hard to find, and even harder to reach. Even Owen never went up there."
"But I thought he was a partner."
"Silent partner, mainly. He bankrolled my father. I don't think he ever spent any real time up at the mine." He squeezed her hand, but Cara could see that he didn't really even remember she was there. "Anyway, once the mine played out, it was time to sell the silver."
"Was there a lot?"
"Not really. We'd sold some already. To makes ends meet. And to continue working. There was enough left to fill the wagon."
"But the stories make it sound like there was more—a treasure."
"Even when the mine was new there were stories like that." He smiled, caught up in the memories. "And my father didn't help. He loved to spin a story. To hear him tell it, the Promise was going to be the new El Dorado."
"Except silver instead of gold."
"Right. Anyway, there wasn't anything close to a fortune. But there was enough to have gotten by for a long time."
"So the last of the ore was smelted?" Cara said, picking up the story again.
"Yes. Each one stamped with a rose."
"For your mother?"
He nodded. "My father's tribute. It was a surprise.
He didn't tell a soul, not even Owen. Just unveiled it there on the mountain for her.
" He smiled with the memory. "She was so pleased.
My father's dreams—our family's dreams—finally coming true.
I can still see them standing there, arms locked around one another. It was a magic moment, Cara."
"Then how can you believe—" She met his eyes, shaken by the pain she saw reflected there.
"I had no choice." He stood there, staring at the painting again, lost in the past, and she thought for a moment that he wasn't going to continue, but then he drew a deep breath, his shoulders tightening.
"We crated the silver, and then Zach and I loaded the crates onto the wagon.
He was going to drive it down the mountain to the railroad station. "