Chapter 25
" I don't believe any of this. People simply do not go traveling through time. It's impossible." Patrick paced in front of the porch steps, his frown underscoring his disbelief.
Cara leaned back against the wall of the house, trying to think of something that would persuade them of the truth. Something that didn't sound like a Jules Verne story. She sighed, realizing that Jules Verne was probably alive and writing somewhere at this very moment.
"I know it's hard to believe, Patrick. I probably wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me, but it's the truth." Michael was leaning against a porch pillar, his relaxed position belying the tense line of his shoulders.
"What I don't understand is the part about you and me being related." Loralee looked over at Cara her eyes filled with a mixture of wonder, disbelief and most amazingly, hope.
"It's the truth. The locket proves it. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. She inherited it from her mother—your Mary."
Loralee's eyes widened and she wrapped her arms around herself. "But, my Mary doesn't have it. I do . And she's just a little girl."
"I know. But someday you'll give it to her.
" Although, who was to say how things would play out now?
In coming here, Cara had changed everything.
Who knew what would happen when she went back.
Hopefully, there was a happy ending for Loralee.
She smiled at the younger woman, pushing away her negative thoughts.
"And then she'll pass it on to my mother and then to me. "
"And then you'll come here and … " Loralee's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "It just don't make sense."
"None of it does." Michael's words were firm, his expression grim. "But the fact is it's all true. Nine years ago, I found Cara in the snow."
"And if he hadn't been there, I would have died," Cara said picking up the story. "But once the crisis passed, and my grandfather came for me, we got separated again."
"Until I got shot." Michael moved to stand by Cara.
"And then she rescued you," Loralee finished with a faint smile. Patrick shot her a look. "Well, I like that part." She stuck her chin out. "A woman saving a man. Seems to me there's something kinda nice about a time where women and men are treated as equals."
"Maybe so." Patrick shrugged. "But that only makes the story more nonsensical."
"Patrick. We've been over this and over this." Michael ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And nothing I can say is going to make it easier to accept. You'll just have to take my word about what happened. The important thing now is to deal with Amos Striker."
A loud groan issued from somewhere inside the house, followed by a string of extremely colorful oaths, some of which Cara had never heard before. Loralee stood up, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Before we take on Amos Striker, sounds to me like we'd better see to Pete."
"I don't want any more." Pete closed his mouth with a click, his teeth locking firmly together. "Tastes like horse piss."
"It's willow bark tea." Loralee said. "Ginny says it helps with fever."
"The Ute woman? I ain't drinking no Indian tree potion."
"Come on, Pete, you don't mean to tell me that after all you've been through you're going to balk at a little tea?" Patrick lifted the old man's shoulders and Loralee held the cup up to his lips. He grumbled, but opened his mouth and obediently drained the cup.
"So what the hell happened out there?" He looked first at Michael and then at Patrick.
"We're not really sure. Cara killed the man in the barn. She thought it was Amos Striker." Michael blew out a breath and shrugged.
"And it wasn't?" Pete's brows pulled together in consternation.
Patrick shook his head, remembering the dead man's face. "Nope. It was some guy I've never seen before."
"I recognized him," Loralee added. "His name's Joe Ingersoll."
Pete stroked his moustache. "Bad hombre. Do anything for money." He looked over at Cara. "You telling me that little thing brought down Ingersoll?"
Cara's head shot up, her eyes flashing. "Why is it no one can believe I shot the man?"
Michael held up a hand. "Easy, honey, I saw you." He turned back to the old man. "Trust me, Pete, she's a whole lot tougher than she looks."
Pete grinned. "Just what you need, boy." He sobered. "Any sign of Striker at all?"
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarillo butts. "Only these. Found them under one of the pine trees where Cara said she saw a rifle barrel."
Pete lifted his head for a look. "So he was out there."
"Someone was. Probably him. And I figure he high-tailed it once he saw that Ingersoll was dead." Michael dropped the butts onto the table.
"Amos never was one to go against the odds," Pete agreed.
"You mean he's a coward?" Cara eyed them all quizzically.
"Yellow as they come," Pete grunted, then looked up at Loralee, who was refilling his cup. "Any chance I could get some whiskey?"
She shook her head. "More tea."
"Hell." He jerked upward as a spell of coughing shook his entire body.
"I think it's time we get you to bed." She gave him a fierce look.
"I ain't going." Pete crossed his bony arms across his chest, wincing a little with the movement. "I want to talk to Michael some more."
"Later. Right now you need some sleep." Loralee's voice was gentle. Pete tried to look mutinous, but the effect was ruined when he yawned. "Patrick, you and Michael help me get him to his room."
Patrick reached down to help Michael lift the old man.
"Watch it, boy, I ain't no bale of hay."
Patrick grinned, adjusting his grip. "Sorry, Pete." Obviously the willow bark tea was working. He was as cantankerous as an old mule, and their mother had always said that when a sick person started to complain he was bound to be getting better.
"Come on, old man, let's get you out of here." Michael winked at Patrick and they started to move toward the door, careful not to jar him.
"Who you calling old? I reckon I can whup your skinny behind anytime I've a mind to."
Patrick smiled as they passed through the door into the cool night air. Yes sir, Pete was going to be just fine.
"Do you think he's out there?"
Michael surveyed the dark perimeter of the ranch and considered Patrick's question. "Striker? I'd be surprised if he was. He's bound to know by now that you've had reinforcements."
"So you figure he's high-tailed it out of here?" Patrick sounded hopeful.
"Not likely. Whatever's going on here. It's not over."
"There's got to be something more we're missing." Patrick frowned into the darkness. "Maybe something to do with this Vargas fellow."
Michael had explained about Vargas and his preoccupation with the Promise, but even going over it with his brother had failed to clarify things. "It's all got to be tied together somehow, but I'll be damned if I can see the key."
"Well whatever it is, Striker thought Loralee and Corabeth knew about it. That's why he killed Corabeth and why he tried to kill Loralee."
"Makes sense. And then when you rescued Loralee, you became a threat, too."
Patrick nodded. "We'd have been dead if you hadn't gotten here today."
Michael looked over at his brother, aware how much it cost Patrick to admit he needed help. Patrick had been mollycoddled all his life. First by their mother, and then by Owen. And Michael supposed, in some ways, he'd spoiled his brother too.
And done him a disservice.
"I imagine you'd have found a way out if I hadn't arrived in time."
"Maybe." Patrick grinned, and the look reminded Michael of his mother. "But I'm glad you came all the same."
Michael reached down for a rock and lobbed it into the dark. "Where'd you bury him?"
Patrick jerked his head toward the hump back. "Up there. Seemed the right thing to do."
Michael swallowed back his pain. "What'd you do with his things?"
"There wasn't anything left. That's what made us think it was a robbery at first."
"What about his pocket watch?" It was the only thing of real value Duncan had carried. A gift from their mother. Even after she ran off, he refused to be parted from it.
"The watch, too."
Suddenly an image filled his head. Vargas on the street corner, checking his watch. "Son of a bitch."
"What?" Patrick dropped his foot and turned to face his brother.
"Vargas had Father's pocket watch. I saw him with it. It just didn't register completely until now."
"But how…" Patrick's voice trailed off uncertainly.
"His grandfather ." Michael paused, the knowledge hitting him even before he could complete his thought. "He said his grandfather left him all his possessions. The watch must have been part of it."
"So where did the grandfather get it? Surely he wouldn't have been old enough to know Father?" Patrick turned to look at him.
"No, but Vargas said his great grandfather was a cowboy named Amos."
Patrick's eyes widened. "Amos Striker."
"It fits. Striker worked the Wason ranch before he came here. That makes him a cowboy. And now that I think about it, there's a likeness between Vargas and Striker. That's why Vargas seemed so familiar."
The two of them stood silently for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts, silhouetted in the deepening gloom. Patrick was the first to break the silence. "There's no way to prove he has father's watch."
" We know. That's all that really matters. The thing to figure out is why he killed him."
"So we're back where we started." Patrick sighed.
"The locket." Michael hit his head with the heel of his hand. "Hell, I forgot about the locket. Father left a message. In Cara's locket. Vargas took it before I could get a good look at it. And then we lost it in the cave-in."
"But Loralee's locket," Patrick smiled triumphantly, "is the same as Cara's."
"Exactly." He grabbed his brother's arm impatiently. "What do you say we find out what's inside that locket?"
"Michael says you're an artist." Loralee shot a look at Cara from under her lashes as she measured coffee into the coffee pot.