Chapter 27
T he first trace of fuchsia had inched its way over the tops of the mountains, the color reflecting off of the bottoms of the clouds as if a celestial spotlight lit each one.
Cara sat on the porch steps, hugging her middle to ward off the early morning chill, her attention riveted on the magnificent display above her, watching as the deep pink slowly faded into orange-tinged gold.
She longed for a paintbrush, wanting to capture the magic.
"Penny for your thoughts."
Cara started at the sound of a voice, glancing up to see Loralee emerge from the doorway.
She smiled at her great-grandmother, the concept somehow seeming less foreign now that she'd had a little time to get used to it.
"I was wishing I could paint the sunrise.
" She patted the plank next to her, and Loralee dropped down beside her.
"It'd be nice to capture the magic. Hold on to it for the hard times." Loralee closed her eyes, the sun illuminating her face. "This is my favorite time of day."
"Mine, too." Cara studied the soft lines of Loralee's face. She'd always imagined that ladies of the evening were a harsh lot, but Loralee had a special glow about her. Almost as if the sunshine emanated from inside her. Goodness . That's what it was. Pure and simple goodness.
"Are you going to stay here? When this is over, I mean?"
Cara bit her lip, considering the question. "I don't think so."
Loralee opened her eyes and smiled gently. "There's a connection between you and Michael, Cara. Anyone can see it."
"I care about Michael, but I'm not sure that's enough. I've had firsthand experience at losing people I love, and I'm not willing to risk that kind of hurt again. We're playing with time, for God's sake. Who's to say that the decision to stay or go is even mine to make?"
"I think you have make up your mind what it is you really want." Loralee closed her hand meaningfully over the silver locket hanging between her breasts. "And when you do, I suspect the decision will be yours. No matter where you come from, the future has yet to be decided."
Cara sighed. "It's all so complicated."
"I reckon everything in life is complicated."
"True enough." Cara decided turnabout was fair play. "How about you? Will you stay?"
"Now there's a mighty powerful question. There's reasons I might want to stay here."
She didn't say it, but Cara thought maybe she was talking about Patrick. She'd seen the way the two of them looked at each other. "But there are complications," Cara added dryly.
Loralee nodded. "Not the least of them being my daughter."
"But surely after everything you've been through, you deserve a happy ending."
Loralee looped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. "I honestly don't know if I believe in happy endings anymore." For the first time, Cara thought she heard a trace of bitterness in her great-grandmother's voice.
"Sometimes happiness is only a heartbeat away. You just have to look inside yourself to find it." Cara smiled. "My mother used to say that."
"Your mother was a wise woman." Loralee stood up, all traces of bitterness gone. "I suppose things will work out one way or another—for both of us."
"I hope so, Loralee. I truly hope so."
Michael swung up into the saddle, his hand automatically closing around the butt of the Winchester tucked safely into the leather holster on his saddle. It felt right.
He looked over at Cara, who was leaning forward checking her horse's bridle.
She sat her mount with the ease of someone comfortable with horses.
In fact, if he ignored her strange leather shoes, she almost looked like she belonged here.
Truth was, he wanted her to belong here, wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything, but the fact was, she didn't. And she'd made it perfectly clear last night that she wasn't going to stay.
"Maybe he won't even be up there."
Michael pulled his attention from Cara and focused on his brother. "It's possible, but I've got a feeling he's there. If we're right about the silver, he's not likely to go far without it."
"I suppose you're right." Patrick brushed absently at a stray piece of Roscoe's mane. "I wish you'd let me come with you. I don't like the idea of you going up there alone."
"I can handle it." Michael smiled and looked over at Cara. "Besides, I've got a sharpshooter with me, remember?" Cara met his gaze and smiled in return. His heart did a little somersault and suddenly, the day seemed to grow brighter.
"I still want to go with you."
Michael recognized Patrick's mutinous look. "I know, but we've been over this. Someone's got to tell Owen. He deserves to know. It's half his silver."
"A third." Patrick's words were soft, but certain, the lines of his face hard. "A third belonged to Zach and no matter what really happened, his share should go to Loralee."
"I've got no problem with that."
Patrick relaxed. "Best you get on then. I'll follow you as soon as I find Owen."
Michael looked over at Cara. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
He turned Roscoe with a slight movement of the reins. "All right then?—"
"Wait." Loralee came running out of the house, a leather satchel in her hands. "I've packed some food." She held up the bag,. "Can't let you all go off without something."
Michael took the satchel and secured it on the back of his saddle. "We'll be glad to have this, Loralee. Thank you."
She tipped her head up and smiled at him, then turned to Cara, holding out something in her hand. "Take this. It's as much yours as mine, and it seems to have brought us both luck. I like the idea that it'll be there if you need it."
The locket . Michael felt a shiver of dread. The locket had the power to send Cara back. He tried to push the thought away as Cara took it and fastened it around her neck. As if somehow in doing so he could postpone the inevitable.
"I'll take good care of it, Loralee." Cara's voice was low, choked with emotion.
"You just take good care of yourself." The two women clasped hands, their eyes locked on one another.
"I will."
Michael pulled his attention away from Cara and Loralee, glancing up at the sun. It was already beginning to climb in the sky. It was time to go. He looked down at his brother, meeting his solemn gaze. "Watch out for yourself."
"It's not me riding into danger," Patrick said. "You keep your eyes open. I'd just as soon not have to bury you twice."
Michael rubbed his injured shoulder. "My sentiments exactly. So you get your ass to Silverthread and then up to the Promise. I'm counting on you to watch my back."
Patrick nodded, the trace of a grin relieving the tension etched on his face. He raised a hand in farewell. "Good hunting."
Patrick kept a tight rein on the horses, trying to keep the wagon from bouncing too much on the rutted street.
Loralee was in back, Pete's head on her lap.
His face was still pale, but his fever seemed to have broken.
Arless' body was back there, too, underneath a blanket, silent testimony to everything that had happened.
The noise of the town was almost deafening. Men lined the streets, about half of them staggering their way home for a few winks before their next shifts started, the other half heading for the saloons, ready for some action now that their shifts were over.
None of the more respectable people of Silverthread were to be seen on Gin Avenue, as it had most suitably been named.
All told there were about thirty-five drinking establishments open along the street and that wasn't even counting the tents that consisted of nothing more than a whiskey barrel with a plank that served as a bar.
But that's where Doc kept his office—closer to the action no doubt. Although lots of injuries occurred up at the mines, a more impressive number happened right here in the middle of all the taverns, drink tending to make a man a little less cautious and often times a hell of a lot more foolish.
The occasional cat-call or whistle marked their passing, but for the most part they might as well have been invisible.
People in Silverthread tended to mind their own business.
He pulled the wagon to a halt in front of Doc's office and jumped down.
"How's he doing?" He shot a worried look at the old ranch hand.
"Better I think. Although the bouncing broke open the wound. He'd bleeding again." Loralee kept her eyes on Pete. They'd hardly spoken since Michael and Cara left. Each lost in their own thoughts.
"Quit talkin' about me as if I was dead already. I ain't." Pete's opened his eyes, and struggled to a sitting position. "'Course if you take me in there," he jerked his head at the office behind him, "my chances of kicking the bucket before my time go up considerably."
"You hush, now, Pete." Loralee ran a soothing hand across the old man's cheek. "Doc needs to see to that leg of yours, and no backtalk is going to change my mind."
Pete frowned, and Patrick bit back a smile. "Come on old man, let's get this over with."
"I ain't old. And I don't need no help." Pete scooted off the wagon, but almost toppled over when he tried to stand on his injured leg.
Patrick quickly flanked him on one side, an arm going around his waist for support.
Pete grinned weakly. "Well, maybe a little help wouldn't be out of line."
Doc Whatley appeared on his other side, lending more support. "Looks like you ran into a little trouble, Pete." They started to walk slowly toward the office door.
"Nothing I couldn't handle. Just didn't want to worry these young folks none." Despite his brave words, Pete's breath was coming in little gasps. "Arless is back there."
"He need help?" Doc shot a concerned look back at the wagon.
Patrick shook his head, his eyes meeting the doctor's.
"Well, why don't you let me have a look at you first, Pete, then we'll see to Arless.
" They managed to get him into the office and up onto an examining table, Pete grumbling the whole time.
"You all wait out there, and I'll see what I can do for Pete.
" Doc motioned to the waiting area they'd just come through.
"You go on and find Owen, Patrick. I'll be fine. If Doc gives me any trouble, I'll just wallop him." Pete grinned and then lay back, closing his eyes.
"He'll be fine." Doc nodded at them, and then turned to his patient.
"Come on." Loralee pulled Patrick into the waiting room. "I'll stay here and watch out for him. You need to tell Owen what's going on. Michael and Cara are counting on you."
Patrick nodded, his gaze meeting hers. "Thank you, Loralee—for everything." There really wasn't anything else to say, or if there was, he hadn't earned the right to say it.
She smiled up at him, her eyes a little sad. "I think you have it backwards, Patrick." She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "It's me who should be thanking you."
He stood for a moment lost in the soft warmth of her eyes. Then, with a deep breath, he turned to go. No sense thinking of things that couldn't be. He'd covered that territory last night, and nothing had changed. Besides he had a killer to find.
Patrick walked along the boardwalk, thinking about Amos Striker.
It was still hard to believe that Striker had killed his mother and Zach.
There was just something about the story that didn't ring true.
Oh, Striker was capable of killing people all right.
The last few days had more than proven that.
But something just didn't feel right. For one thing it was a hell of a coincidence that Striker would come across Zach and his mother and the silver by chance. It wasn't impossible, certainly, but it still seemed highly unlikely. The Promise was isolated. High up in the mountains above Clune.
They'd been real careful not to ever let on where the exact location was.
His father hadn't wanted anyone to be able to find it.
They'd even filed their claim over in Del Norte, changing details here and there, so that anyone who did manage to find the papers, wouldn't actually be able to find the mine.
It had been Owen's idea, but Duncan had liked the plan, too. Most likely his father thought the whole thing a grand adventure. It hadn't been wealth that called to his father, it had been excitement. Duncan Macpherson liked living on the edge.
Patrick frowned, turning his thoughts back to Striker.
The sheriff wasn't a bright man, just a devious one, and the elaborate scenario they'd come up with last night, required something more than devious.
So either they were dead wrong about Rose and Zach and the silver, or there was someone else involved.
Someone who was calling the shots, and using Amos Striker as muscle.
Or a fall guy.
Patrick pushed through the swinging doors of the Irish Rose, the cacophony of voices, laughter and tinny piano assaulting his ears.
Patrons in various stages of inebriation lined the big mahogany bar and clustered at the tables scattered around the room.
Sam was behind the bar, busy with the raucous miners.
He raised an arm to Patrick in salute, but his attention was quickly pulled back to patrons demanding more liquor.
Patrick headed for the back and Owen's office, his mind still puzzling on the problem of Amos Striker. If someone else was behind everything that happened, it had to be someone they knew. Someone who had something to gain by stealing the silver.
But who the hell could it be?
"Loralee." Ginny burst through the doctor's door, her dark eyes filled with relief. "Oh, honey, I thought… well there's been all kinds of talk. And when you just up and disappeared…"
Loralee hugged the older woman, fighting to keep from bursting into tears. "I've been at Clune with Patrick." She pulled away. "Amos Striker tried to kill me."
"You all right?" The older woman eyed her worriedly.
"I'm fine. It's Pete that's in trouble. Amos Striker shot him. He followed us to Clune and pinned us in the house. If it hadn't of been for Michael we'd be dead for sure."
"Michael's alive?"
"He is, and he brought…" she broke off, not knowing exactly how to explain Cara.
"Don't matter, you can tell me later. Where's Patrick?" Ginny asked, her dark eyes intense.
Loralee frowned. "He's gone to find Owen. To tell him what's happened."
Ginny grabbed her by the shoulders. "You got to find him now. Before he finds Owen."
"Why? I don't understand." She met the older woman's gaze, and something in her eyes made Loralee shiver.
"Because Owen Prescott's telling folks that Patrick is the one who killed Corabeth. He's the one that sent Amos Striker out to Clune."