Chapter 22
M ichael scanned the scene below him, searching for signs of life. The ranch yard was peaceful, almost serene, but in his estimation it was too quiet. There was nothing to indicate any activity at all. No horses in the corral, no smoke from the chimney, no gear lying about. Nothing.
The place looked deserted, the skeleton of the new barn casting long shadows across the house and stable, giving them an almost sinister look. He shook his head, clearing his vision. Maybe it was just his mood.
"Can you tell anything?" Cara lay next to him, her voice lowered to a whisper.
The ridge was sparsely dotted with trees, but the little clump of aspen provided cover. Tucked in among the tall meadow grass, there was no way they could be seen. And from this vantage point, they could see the entire ranch. "No, but it just doesn't feel right."
"Well, it looks calm enough."
"Looks can be deceiving."
"True." She narrowed her eyes, studying the scene below. "So what is it that seems off?"
Michael focused on the ranch, trying to identify what was bothering him. The late afternoon sun shone on the front of the cabin, its rays sparkling off the windows. He blinked slowly, and refocused on the house. Nothing changed.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to find the inconsistency.
He knew it was there. He just had to find it.
It was amazing really how the light reflected off the windows.
They looked like rainbow-hued jewels, colors winking in the sun.
He sucked in a breath, his mind finally identifying the anomaly.
The window to the left of the door wasn't twinkling.
Granted the porch provided some protection, but the glass ought to be reflecting at least a little of the sunlight.
It wasn't.
"There." He poked Cara and pointed toward the house. "The window glass is gone."
She frowned and squinted at the cabin. "How can you tell from this far away?"
He moved his head so that his mouth was just above her ear. "Look at the other ones."
She studied them, and he watched as understanding washed across her face. "Okay, so what do you think it means?"
"I don't know for sure, but I'd say someone either shot it or knocked the glass out." He clenched a fist, his gut churning at the thought of what might lie inside the house.
"So you think we're too late?" Her whispered words held a trace of fear.
"No point jumping to conclusions. There might not even be anyone in there. All the missing glass proves is that something is definitely wrong. That window didn't break itself."
Cara nodded, her eyes still turned toward the ranch. Suddenly her hand closed around his wrist, her other arm extended, pointing at something. "Michael?"
He jerked his head around, his eyes locked on the area she pointed to. The grass in the yard between the cabin and the corral rippled in the slight breeze. "What? I don't see anything."
"Over there, by the big rock." She gestured, her chin and hand both jerking upward in an almost synchronized movement. "That spot of white. I think it's a?—"
"Body." He finished her thought, a band of steel tightening around his chest. White and blue shown through the waving grass.
Cara's hand tightened on his arm. "Can you make out who it is?"
Michael stared at the inert form lying in the yard, but the distance was too great. "No." He pulled out of her grasp, sliding back from the edge, his brain racing. It couldn't be Patrick. His mind simply wouldn't accept the possibility. "I've got to get down there. Now." He scrambled to his feet.
He turned to go, halting only when he felt Cara's touch on his shoulder. "Michael, you can't just go running down there. You don't have any idea what you're going to find. Whoever did that," she gestured toward the ranch and the body, "might still be there. You could be walking into a trap."
She was right. This wasn't the time for rash decisions. "All right."
She sighed and dropped her hand. "So what do you want to do?"
He tried to clear his mind of the awful images his imagination was dredging up, to concentrate instead on what to do next.
They had to get closer, to get a better feel for the situation without anyone knowing they were there.
His gaze fell on a stand of pine trees just below the ridge.
Large boulders, the residue of a long ago landslide, dotted the slope between the aspens and the pines.
"There." He pointed at the trees below them. "We go there."
She followed the line of his hand and stared at the trees. "And how exactly do you propose we get from here to there without being seen?"
"Those rocks will provide cover. And once we're in place, we should be close enough to make out who the…" He stopped, rage and anguish mixing inside him, filling him with hopelessness.
"Michael, it's not Patrick. You have to believe that."
He looked down into her eyes, trying to let her steady gaze comfort him, but the reality was too grim. "Well, somebody's dead down there, and I'm pretty damn certain it isn't Amos Striker. And if it isn't him…" He stopped, trying not to think the worst.
"My grandfather always said to believe in the best even when the worst is staring you in the face."
"Sounds reasonable." He tried to let her words buoy him, but his doubts continued to suck at him, pulling him deeper into the quagmire of his fear.
If the newspaper article was right, he'd already lost a father, and now it looked like he was too late to save his brother.
He shook his head, trying to shift his thoughts away from the macabre image of Patrick sprawled across the yard. "What else did your grandfather say?"
"That it's best to face your fears head on." She struggled to smile, but only managed a lopsided grimace. He blessed her for the effort.
"All right, then." He turned back to Clune. "Let's go." He started down the hill, his mind fervently praying that the body wasn't his brother's.
"How's he doing?" Patrick knelt beside Pete and Loralee, his gaze meeting hers.
"Not good." She ran a gentle hand along the old man's cheek.
Sweat beaded out across Pete's forehead and he moaned, his shoulders twitching in agitation. Patrick reached out to still him and was shocked as heat seared his hand. "He's burning up."
"I know. And it's just getting worse. I'm real worried."
"How long has he been asleep?"
"For at least an hour. I haven't been able to wake him up." She bit her lower lip, her face reflecting her fear. "Patrick, I don't think he can wait until sunset."
"All right, I'll go now. You cover me from the window." His Colt at the ready, he moved to the closed door and placed a hand on the doorknob. He watched as Loralee crawled across the floor to the window. She stopped about halfway, jerking up a hand, sucking on her palm. "You all right?"
"Fine. I just cut my hand a little." She tore a ruffle from her sleeve and tied it around her hand. "There's glass everywhere." She scooted the last few feet and settled in below the window, raising the Winchester so that the butt rested on her shoulder, the muzzle propped on the window sill.
"You ready?"
"I think so." Her gaze darted over to him and he read a thousand things in their luminous depths, none of them making it any easier to pull open the door, but Pete moaned and he knew it was time.
Sucking in a breath, he yanked the door open, stepping onto the porch just as a rifle blast filled the air.
A bullet smashed into the transom a couple of inches from his head, and before he could even react, a second one splintered the wood of the doorjamb.
He jumped back, swinging the door shut with enough force that the remaining window glass shook in its frame.
The door clicked shut just as a third bullet hit it with a thwack.
He dropped down and scrambled to the window, already hearing the crack of the Winchester as Loralee tried to return fire. "Hang on. You're not going to hit anything and we need to preserve the bullets. He's just trying to draw our fire."
Loralee lowered the gun. "I just wish I could see him."
"I know, but he's not going to show himself now. Not when he's got us right where he wants us." He looked out the window, too, searching the barnyard for signs of the intruder. Loralee slid down to the floor, eyes closed, holding her injured hand in her lap. "You okay?"
Her eyes fluttered open and she held it out for him to see. The makeshift bandage was red with blood, but it was dark and already starting to dry. "It's just a cut."
"I promised I'd take care of you, Loralee, and now…well, it looks like I may not be able to keep that promise." He ran a hand down her cheek and she covered his fingers with hers, a spark of lightning shooting up his arm at the contact.
"It's all right, Patrick, promises ain't all they's cracked up to be anyway." She pulled her hand away, her eyes shifting to the window. "We're not going to get out of here are we?"
She already knew the answer. He could see it there in her eyes. Sugar coating things wasn't going to help one iota. Now was a time for honesty if ever there was one. "No, angel, I don't expect that we will."
"What the hell?" Michael stared at the house, listening as the last of the shots died away. One minute his brother had been outlined in the doorway, and the next, all hell had broken loose, bullets flying everywhere. Everything had happened so quickly there hadn't been time to react.
"Was that—" Cara stirred beside him, her eyes wide, her breathing audible.
"Patrick." Michael finished for her, his eyes still riveted on the ranch house.
A gun barrel flashed in the setting sunlight as it was withdrawn from the window.
That meant there were at least two people inside.
Patrick and Pete? His eyes jerked back to the body in the yard, recognition dawning. Not Pete. Arless Hurley.
"Is he one of ours?" Cara's voice was soft, reverent.
"Yeah. A friend." Michael ground his teeth together, his eyes locked on Arless' body. Amos Striker had a lot to answer for.
Cara laid an soothing hand on his arm. "The shooting came from there." She jerked her head in the direction of the stable.
Michael frowned, turning to view the building. "Where?"
She nodded. "Up there." She pointed to the loft.
"You're sure?"
"Positive. When the shooting started, the door up there swung open a little wider and I'd swear I saw the barrel of a gun."
He studied the upper story of the stable, visualizing the inside.
It was nothing but a crude storage platform for hay.
It ran along the west side of the stable, opening out onto the stalls below.
There was a door in the wall they used to get hay bales in and out.
At the moment, that door stood about halfway open.
He looked up at the shadowy opening. He had to admit it was an ideal set-up.
A man could pretty much hit anything that moved in the ranch yard from that vantage point.
Anyone pinned in the house wouldn't have a prayer of escaping as long as the assailant didn't run out of ammunition.
All he had to do was wait. Sooner or later, they'd have to make a break for it. And when they did…
"I'm going to try and get to the back of the barn."
Cara looked up at him, her eyes wide. "You're going in there?"
"I don't see any other way. Besides, the odds are in my favor. He won't be expecting me. So, with a little luck, I'll manage to sneak up on him, and goodbye Amos Striker." He smiled at her, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
"But, what if he sees you and picks you off before you get the chance to surprise him?"
"Well, my sweet little crack shot, that's where you come in."
Her eyebrows arched upward. "And…"
"You need to create a diversion. Keep his attention focused on the ranch yard."
She nodded, her hand tightening around her rifle. "I think I can manage that."
"Listen to me, Cara, draw his fire if necessary, but don't take any chances."
"I'll handle it." She tipped back her head, her eyes lit with determination.
He leaned forward and gave her a hard kiss, the contact making him long to pull her closer, lose himself in her sweetness. He ruthlessly pushed the thoughts aside.
It was time for Amos Striker to pay for his sins.
Cara watched and waited. Surely he'd had enough time to get into place, but there was no signal. She strained her ears, listening for his whistle.
Nothing.
She fingered the trigger of the rifle. It had sounded easy in principle, but now she wondered if she was truly up to the task. The little door was only a couple hundred feet away. She'd certainly hit a lot smaller targets, from a lot farther distances, but there'd never been as much at stake.
She shook her head and worked to bolster her confidence.
This was a piece of cake, a walk in the park.
Oh God, who was she kidding, it was a life and death situation.
She steadied her arm and gave one last cursory survey of the area.
Everything was so quiet. So peaceful. A stand of pines, just behind the corral, danced in the wind.
The breeze was picking up and she could feel its cool touch against her face and hands.
It would change the trajectory slightly.
Her mind had automatically started to make the adjustments when her eyes froze, sending a frantic signal to her brain. A sparkle in the trees grabbed her attention. More than a sparkle really, a bright flash.
Light against metal. Sunlight bouncing off a gun barrel.
Her blood ran cold.
There was someone out there. Someone else.
There were two of them.
She frantically tried to assimilate the information, to decide what to do.
If she shot at the barn, she'd alert the other man to her presence, most likely drawing his fire.
But if she stayed quiet, the other man was far more likely to notice Michael.
And even if Michael successfully got Amos, he'd have no way of knowing about the second man.
Her stomach churned. Of course, there were the people in the house, but she had no idea what condition they were in. Besides, they'd be sitting ducks if they so much as opened the door.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to make a decision—the right decision.
Grabbing the rifle, she sprang to her feet using the tall pines for cover. She had to get to Michael. If she hurried, maybe she could stop him in time. Warn him. Then they could rethink their position.
She sprinted to the edge of the trees, her heart beating a staccato rhythm high in her throat as she kept her eyes on the stand of pines. From this angle, she ought to be protected from view. Ought to be . That was the operative phrase.
She sucked in a breath and then blew it out forcefully. It was now or never. Tightening her hold on the Winchester, she began to run.