Chapter 23
T he contrast between the light of day and the shadows of the barn was dramatic.
Cara stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust, the pungent smell of hay and animals filling her nose.
It seemed that barns smelled like barns in any century.
The thought was somehow reassuring. She combed the shadows looking for some sign of Michael, but in the gloom it was hard to see anything clearly.
Something hard rammed into her back. She spun around, heart pounding, rifle at the ready. A pair of baleful brown eyes met hers, and she relaxed, biting back a nervous laugh. A dilapidated looking old horse hung his head over the wooden crossbar of his stall, butting against her for attention.
She pushed him away, turning back to the stable, searching the darkness for a sign of Michael or the gunman. Nothing moved. Everything was quiet except for the soft sound of horses shifting in their stalls.
She took a hesitant step forward, followed by another, careful to stay low and silent, certain her tympanic heartbeat could be heard from every corner of the barn.
A soft noise filtered through the silence, so faint she almost thought she'd imagined it.
She froze, her back pressed against the hard post of a stall, her eyes straining into the gloom.
There, in the darkness, a shadow moved, stepping forward into a weak shaft of sunlight coming from the loft.
Michael.
She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and started for the front of the barn, her heart resuming a more modulated rhythm.
Michael had stepped into the shadows again, but she could see him now that she knew where to look.
He was examining a ladder that led to the loft.
She picked up her pace, not daring to call out to him.
The old horse evidently had other plans.
With a loud neigh, he announced her presence.
Michael turned to look toward his stall just as another shape detached itself from the shadows in the loft above.
Cara's heart caught in her throat. The shadow took on human form.
A man with a gun—a gun pointed at Michael's back.
Reacting on instinct, she pulled her rifle into position and fired.
The sound was deafening. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael drop to the ground and she realized a second shot had been fired.
Rage and adrenaline pumped through her. She lifted the rifle again, intent on killing the son of a bitch who'd started all this.
The man spun around, looking for the source of the gunfire. She inched forward. He crouched, peering into the dark—still looking for her. Michael moved and the gunman pivoted, bringing his rifle to bear.
Cara stepped out into the open, eyes narrowed, her weapon already sighted. "Wrong way, you bastard."
He turned and she fired.
This time the impact knocked him off his feet, throwing him backward out of the loft. His body landed with an audible thud, in the center of the barn. Still enraged, she pumped another bullet into him, watching dispassionately as he jerked once and was still.
"That one was for Michael." Her whispered words swirled through the air and faded into silence.
Her rage vanished as quickly as it had come, instantly replaced by fear.
Michael . She had to get to Michael. She stepped forward, but her legs had turned to butter and with a squeak of protest, she slid to the ground still clutching the rifle.
"Cara?" Michael's voice was like an infusion of energy. She struggled to her feet just as he rounded the corner, apparently unharmed. The relief almost made her collapse again and she leaned against the Winchester for support.
His arms closed around her as he reached her side and she buried her face in the familiar warmth of his chest, trying to get control of her rollercoastering emotions.
They stood like that for a moment, locked together in silent communion.
Then Michael pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, his eyes smoldering. "What in hell were you doing in here?"
Cara felt a flash of resentment. "Saving your ass. If I'm not mistaken, that gentleman ," she gestured towards the body in the doorway, "was about to blow you away."
The anger faded from his eyes and with a groan he pulled her to him, his mouth closing over hers, his hands holding her tightly against him. The kiss was quick and hard and thorough. She stared over Michael's shoulder at the fallen man, clarity returning. "There's someone else out there."
"Where?" Michael was instantly alert.
"In the stand of pines by the corral. I saw his gun barrel. I came to warn you."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"All right. I'll check it out. You," he tipped her head back so that he could see her eyes, "stay here."
"Can you see what's happening?" Loralee peered out the window, trying to see what had caused all the commotion.
"It's hard to tell," Patrick said, his eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "I think there's something on the ground by the barn door, but I can't say for certain."
"I can't see anything either, but I definitely heard gunshots." She chewed on her lower lip, nervously.
Patrick tightened his grip on the rifle. "Me, too. From the direction of the barn."
"Any possibility help has arrived?" She turned to look at him, hope surfacing, swelling through her.
"Maybe. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if we knew exactly who was in there doing the shooting." He scooted towards the door.
"All right. Give me the rifle. I'll cover you."
He paused, and their eyes locked, something hanging between them that she wasn't ready to recognize, let alone accept. With a faint smile, he tossed her the rifle, and drew his Colt.
He inched the door open. Loralee held her breath, waiting for the resulting gunfire.
Nothing happened.
He opened the door wider, this time sticking his hat out. Again nothing.
He swung the door all the way open and stepped out onto the porch. Loralee bit her lip, keeping the rifle trained on the barn.
Silence. The porch creaked under his weight. She tightened her grip on the rifle.
"It seems to be clear." He moved toward the window, stepping into her line of vision. "I'm going to try the barn. Wish me luck."
"You won't need it."
Brave words. Now if only they proved true.
Cara leaned back against a stall, eyes closed, drained of all emotion and energy.
The strain of the last few days was taking its toll.
She had no idea when she'd last slept. In fact, she had no idea what day it was.
She let out a strangled little laugh. In truth, she wasn't even certain what year it was.
Somewhere deep inside, she was worried for Michael, but her body had had enough, checking out of active duty.
She couldn't even find the energy to lift a hand and scratch the old horse.
He'd obviously accepted the fact, but bless him, he still stood guard, his head hanging out over the stall, just above hers, protecting her in his own equine way. She felt absurdly grateful.
"Move an inch and you're a dead." The voice came from the shadows of the stall to her right.
Cara felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. She couldn't move an inch even if he had ordered it.
"Drop the rifle and raise your hands."
She tried to force herself to let go of the rifle clutched in her right hand.
No go. The hand had taken personal leave along with the rest of her body.
She struggled for her voice, surprised when it came out sounding fairly normal.
"I can't move." The horse nickered in agreement, bending his neck to nuzzle her head.
The voice disentangled itself from the shadows, taking the form of a fierce green-eyed devil. Cara winced as the horse nipped at her ear. "Cut it out." She slapped at the sorrel, delighted to see that her mobility had returned.
The man was eyeing her as though she had flown in on a space ship. Which actually wasn't too far off from reality now that she thought about it. She realized she ought to be afraid, but found that she simply didn't have the energy.
Dropping the rifle, she looked up into the man's face, surprised to see that she recognized it.
Or at least parts of it. The dark hair fell forward in a familiar way, and the jut of the chin reminded her of another that was just as stubborn.
This man was a stranger, and yet she knew him.
"Patrick." The word came out on a sigh. She recognized the relief in her voice, and was pleased to note that she still had some emotion left.
"Who the hell are you?" The green eyes flashed with anger and she recognized the turn of his mouth.
Now there was a good question. Let's see, she was Michael's lover who just happened to be from the future.
That ought to be a winner. And, in a brilliant imitation of television's The Rifleman , she'd had the very great pleasure of pumping a nineteenth century sheriff full of lead, not to mention the fact that she'd done a fair imitation of indestructible, surviving a fire, an assault and a cave-in.
She leaned back against the stall again, ignoring the sorrel's love nudges. Oh yes, she'd almost forgotten, she was also the newest paramour of an over-the-hill equine. She decided on simplicity. "Cara. I'm Cara."
The rifle lowered and Patrick's look of anger changed to one of disbelief. "Michael's Cara?"
She'd have bowed if she'd been standing, instead she tipped her head, a weak imitation of royalty. Or at least what she assumed would be considered the regal nod. "One and the same."
"But…" Now Patrick looked totally confused.
She took pity on him. It wasn't his fault she'd just been through more crises than a Die Hard movie. It wasn't fair to take it out on him. "I came with your brother."
Instantly hope flared in his eyes. It was eerie how much he reminded her of Michael. "He's alive?"
"Yes." She struggled to stand, relieved when he reached out to help her. Once on her feet, she felt more stable. "He's out looking for the other man."
"What other man?" Patrick asked, supporting her as they walked.
"There were two of them. Amos over there." She motioned toward the booted feet of the dead man. "And someone else."
They reached the body and Cara steeled herself to take a look.
"Did Michael kill him?"
Cara wrenched her gaze away. "No, I did."
"You?"
She felt a surge of indignation, the emotion refreshing her. "Yes, me . He was trying to kill Michael."
Patrick nudged the man with his toe, and Cara was relieved when nothing moved. "This isn't Amos Striker."
It was Cara's turn to be confused. "What?"
"You said this was Striker. It's not. I've never seen this man in my life."
Cara sucked in a breath, one hand clutching at Patrick's arm. "If this isn't Amos Striker, then he's probably out there right now—with Michael."
Patrick placed both hands on her shoulders, the intensity of his gaze feeding her panic. "Which way did he go?"
"Toward the stand of pines behind the corral."
"How long ago?"
"I don't know. Not long. Maybe a quarter of an hour."
"All right, you stay here. I'm going after him."
Cara ran back to Jack's stall, surprised at how quickly she could move. Grabbing the rifle, she sprinted after Patrick, catching him at the edge of the corral. "I'm coming with you."
After everything they'd been through, she wasn't about to let Amos Striker win.