Chapter 24
M ichael stood in the shelter of the towering pines holding back a curse. Striker, if he'd ever actually been there, was long gone. Probably hit the trail as soon as the shooting broke out. He blew out a breath and knelt in the pine needles beside a small sapling.
From here, the vantage point was perfect. He could see the ranch house, and the barn. He studied the area, searching for signs that someone had been here. Something to prove Cara's theory that there had indeed been a second shooter.
There were soft indentations in the ground, and some of the needles had been disturbed, but that wasn't enough. He needed solid proof. He shifted, his eyes scanning the ground. With a sharp intake of breath, his gaze froze on a spot at the foot of a large pine.
Cigarette butts.
His mind's eye obediently hauled out an image of Amos Striker, a thin cigar clamped firmly in his mouth.
Cara was right. The son of a bitch had been here.
Michael scooped up the remains of the cigarillos, glancing up at the sky.
It was almost twilight. Not much sense in trying to track Striker tonight.
What he needed to do now was talk to Patrick.
See if the two of them could make sense of what was happening.
A fresh wave of grief washed through him.
If the things he'd learned in Cara's time were right, his father was dead, and by God, the least he could to was bring the man who did it to justice .
He dropped the cigarillo butts into his shirt pocket.
Unless he missed his guess he knew exactly where he'd find the bastard.
A twig snapped somewhere off to his right, and he pulled his gun, pivoting in the direction of the sound.
"Wait. Don't shoot." Patrick stepped into the shelter of the pines, hands held up in placation. "It's me."
Michael lowered the gun and stood up, anger and relief rocketing through him. "Patrick, what the hell are you doing? I damn near shot you."
Patrick lowered his hands, the expression on his face mirroring Michael's feelings exactly. "Me? I should be asking you that. You're the one who's been missing for three days. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Rescuing you."
Patrick frowned, his eyes narrowing. "And just what made you think I needed rescuing?"
"You didn't look to be doing so good from where I was standing, little brother."
"Well, it was just a matter of time. I had things under control." He shifted, emotions playing across his face. "Father's dead." The words hung between them, anger evaporating. "And then I thought you were dead, too…" The words trailed off, anguish playing across Patrick's face.
Michael closed the distance between them in two strides, pulling his brother into a bear hug, grateful for the warm solid nineteenth century feel of his own flesh and blood.
"Michael?" Cara .
He released Patrick, his eyes meeting hers.
Uncertainty dominated her expression, her eyes wide, her teeth pulling at her lower lip.
He was home. But she… she was marooned here in a time that was far less civilized than the one she'd come from.
He felt a flash of guilt. But before he could think of the right words to say, the look vanished, replaced by determination. Cara was a fighter.
"Did you find any sign of Amos?" Her question broke the silence. Bringing all three of them firmly back to the present—and the issue of Amos Striker.
Patrick's face hardened. "Was he here? Cara said there was a second shooter."
Michael raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Obviously there'd been introductions, and there'd come a time for explanations. Explanations that made absolutely no sense. But this wasn't the place. He pulled his thoughts back to Patrick's question, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette butts.
"He was here."
Patrick eyed the tobacco remains. "Shouldn't we go after him?"
Michael shook his head. "It'll be dark soon. Best we wait until the morning. He won't get far tonight."
"You sound like, Pete." Patrick grimaced. "Son of a…" He paused, shooting an embarrassed look at Cara. "I forgot Pete." He turned his gaze to Michael. "He was shot."
"Is he all right?" Fresh concern washed through Michael. Amos Striker's sins were racking up, and Michael fully intended to see him pay.
"He's alive, but he's in bad shape. Loralee's with him."
"Loralee?"
"She's ah… well she's a…" He stumbled over the words, a dark red flush appearing under his tan. "She's a friend. She's been helping me with Father's death."
"A friend?"
"Not like that." The blush deepened. "She knew Father.
Was with him right before he was killed.
It all started when Amos tried to tell us that you killed Father.
" Patrick frowned at the memory. "Owen said he was just doing his job.
But I didn't believe him. Not after Loralee told me about Corabeth, and then Amos tried to kill her, and I was protecting her… Ah hell. "
Michael leveled a look on his brother. "Looks like I'm not the only one with some explaining to do."
Loralee stood on the porch, her hand raised to shade her eyes from the last of the setting sun.
It would be dark in just a little while and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Patrick Macpherson since he'd headed for the barn more than an hour ago.
There was only so much a girl could handle, and frankly, she was at the end of her rope.
She glanced over her shoulder through the open door of the cabin.
Pete was settled on the cot in the corner, sleeping.
His fever was down a little, but she still didn't like his color.
With a sigh, she focused her attention back on the barnyard.
Best just get on with it. Bolstering her courage, she stepped down onto the rocky ground, the grass brushing against her dress.
She held the rifle ready. At least it evened the odds a bit. Besides everything was quiet. Most likely Patrick had gone out the back of the barn. There hadn't been anymore shots, so hopefully he was fine. Just thoughtless. Leaving them waiting like that without so much as a word.
But then, that's what she got for depending on a man.
Seems she still hadn't learned her lesson.
And it was such a simple one: Men can't be trusted.
They'll leave you crying every time. She grimaced, wondering when it was exactly that she'd come to care about Patrick Macpherson anyway.
He was just a pup, still wet behind the ears.
Wasn't any room in her life for personal involvement.
She was a working girl, pure and simple.
She didn't need anybody to take care of her. She was doing just fine on her own.
She started for the barn, the tall grass was waving in the wind. Reaching the building she looked in and caught a glimpse of color. Her stomach clenched and her heart started to pound. There was a body here—a man sprawled on the ground in the center of the hay.
She gripped the rifle tighter and edged up to him, nudging him gingerly with her toe.
Dead. He was dead. And he wasn't Patrick.
She released her breath on a whoosh, and pulled her skirts back to step around him, intent on finding Patrick.
But the dead man's features were burned into her brain and she stopped short, realizing she recognized him.
Even death couldn't remove the cruel twist of his mouth and the harsh angle of his jaw. Joe Ingersoll. Probably wanted in a dozen counties. She couldn't say she was sorry he was dead. Word had it he had roughed up several of the girls over in Tintown.
She wondered what he was doing here, then dismissed the thought.
His kind could always be bought, and Amos Striker wasn't the kind to do his dirty work alone.
She resisted the urge to kick the body, and instead stepped over him into the barn.
Jack gave a baleful whinny, but, aside from that, the place was empty.
She frowned and stepped back into the barnyard, scanning the area for signs of life.
Nothing here but the dead. Arless' body lay sprawled off to the left of the barn, looking for all the world as if he'd just stopped for a nap.
Tears filled her eyes, as the old miner's voice filled her head—talk of griddle cakes and butter.
Arless Hurley had been a good man. Maybe not a sober one, but a damn fine one just the same. The least she could do was show him some respect. She stepped back over Joe and grabbed an old blanket hanging from a peg in the stable, then stepped back outside and walked over to her friend's body.
His eyes stared sightlessly up at the fading blue of the sky. She swallowed back tears, and bent to gently close them. Then, with reverent hands, she flipped the blanket out, letting it drift slowly downward, covering his battered body.
Kneeling beside him, she lowered her head, searching for the right words.
"Lord, you know I ain't exactly on your list of holy folks, but I got an honest heart and this here was a good man.
So you be sure and open those pearly gates for Arless.
He's on his way. And if you got any whiskey, you better hide it, 'cause I suspect he'll be ready for more than a drop when he gets there. "
She paused and studied the wool-covered mound, the pain of the moment nearly her undoing. "God's speed, Arless." She crossed herself, surprised that she remembered how. It had been a long time since she'd been in a church.
She stood up and surveyed the surrounding countryside, her eyes searching for any sign of Patrick. A slight movement from beyond the corral caught her attention and she let go a whoop when she recognized his tall figure emerging from a stand of pines.
There were two others with him. One man, bigger than Patrick, walked beside him, their dark heads bent together, obviously deep in conversation. The other figure was smaller, a woman dressed like a man.
She frowned, watching as the group drew closer, trying to puzzle out who the newcomers might be. Finally she shrugged. It didn't really matter. Whoever they were, Patrick seemed happy to see them. She glanced down at Arless and then over at Joe Ingersoll's body, shivering.
Lord knew they could use some friendly faces right about now.
Cara hung back a little as they walked toward the house, wanting to give the brothers time together.
The resemblance was almost uncanny. The two dark heads, bent together in conversation were almost identical.
There was no chance anyone could possibly miss the fact that they were brothers.
She felt a little pang of jealousy. An only child, she'd never experienced the bond that siblings had, but looking at the two of them, she knew it must be something special.
In the aftermath of everything that had happened, Cara again felt terribly drained, as if all the emotion had simply been sucked out of her.
She swallowed back beginnings of tears. Now was definitely not the time for a melt-down. Amos Striker was out there somewhere, and they had to find him—to eliminate the threat to Michael. Then her job would be done, and it would be time to go back where she belonged.
If she could find her way.
As if he'd read her thoughts, Michael slowed his pace, waiting until she caught up, looping a casual arm around her shoulders, still deep in conversation with his brother.
She could see the ranch house illuminated in the last fading rays of the sun.
It looked so much smaller than it did in her time, but still the lines were familiar.
Comforting in some intrinsic kind of way.
Perhaps home was home no matter the time.
She shook her head at her own silly musings.
She was a hell of a long way from The Meadows. This was Clune.
1888 .
"Cara?" Patrick's voice pulled her from her troubled thoughts, and she was surprised to see that they'd arrived in the barnyard. "This is Loralee."
Cara looked over at the smiling brunette, trying to find the energy to return the gesture, but before she'd managed to move a single facial muscle, she froze, her eyes locked on the necklace around the other woman's neck.
The silver was intricately carved, flowers curving softly across its face. Cara gasped, her heart stutter-stepping to a stop.
Loralee was wearing her great-grandmother's locket.