The Promise (5 page)

She eyed the dirty remnants, shaking her head. "I'll
use mine. It's cleaner."

"You'll freeze."

"I'll be fine." She slipped out of the shirt. "I've
got a tee shirt on underneath." With a forced breath, she turned
back to the task at hand. After ripping the bottom of the shirt
into makeshift bandages, she tore a sleeve off to use for padding,
then, gingerly, bound the wound with the strips she had torn.

Satisfied that she had at least staunched the
bleeding, she sat back on her heels. He was breathing rapidly and
even in the shadows she could see that he was deathly white.
Alarmed, she ran a hand across his cheek. His skin was on fire.
"You've got a fever. We've got to get you out of here. Now."

"I know." The words were incredibly weak, and she
shivered at the thought of trying to get him out of the tunnel. He
wasn't a small man.

She wrapped an arm around him, deliberately keeping
her voice light, "First thing to do is to get you on your feet
without reopening your injury."

Together they struggled to their feet, then,
precariously balanced, tried a few steps forward. Sweat trickled
down between her breasts as she supported his weight. At this rate,
she'd need a miracle to get him home.

What had been a few easy steps for her was like an
obstacle course with a man draped across her shoulders. There was
no question of using the rocks to cross the stream. The man
remained stoically silent, but she felt his muscles tense as they
plunged into the frigid creek.

Icy water soaked through her tennis shoes. "Are you
okay?"

The answer was more of a groan than a word, but she
was grateful that he was still conscious. They struggled up the
rocky embankment on the other side and she prayed that she had the
strength to get him home.

They stopped for a moment at the top of the rise,
Cara shifting to more comfortably support his weight. The afternoon
sun caught him in its light, his haggard features illuminated. His
face clearly visible for the first time. Her breath stuttered to a
stop, her heart following suit.

She knew this face. She'd memorized it in her
dreams.

"Your name?" The words came out on a whisper as she
fought for air, for control.

"Michael. Michael Macpherson." Blue eyes snapped
opened, his gaze colliding with hers. She could see the recognition
there. Feel it.

She swallowed, a wave of dizziness washing through
her.

Her heart rejoiced.

Her mind rebelled.

Michael Macpherson didn't exist.

Patrick stopped at the top of the rise,
reining in his black stallion. From this vantage point, a man could
see most of the valley below. The Rio Grande twisted and turned in
the distance, a wide silver band carved into the blues and greens
of the surrounding countryside. Nestled into a horseshoe shaped
curve, he could see Clune.

The framing of the new barn shone white against a
backdrop of brownish green meadow grass, dwarfing the older
structures. The clouds hung low, almost hiding the mountains.
Later, the sun would burn them off, but for now the somber sky
mirrored his thoughts.

He'd been riding since sunrise, impatiently exploring
the gulches and hollows of the mountains, but there was no sign of
his brother. Rationally, he knew it was hopeless. He could look in
a thousand places and there'd still be a couple thousand more. It
was too easy for a person to get lost up here. Between
unpredictable weather and predators, an injured man didn't stand
much of a chance.

The sound of hooves against the rocks filtered into
his thoughts, pulling his attention away from the valley. With
narrowed eyes, he watched the approaching horse, trying to identify
the rider. It wasn't Pete. He'd be on the other side of the ridge,
searching the higher ground. They'd agreed to meet later at the
road.

Patrick laid a hand on his rifle, just in case. The
horseman drew closer, raising an arm in greeting. Patrick nodded as
he recognized the man, wondering what in the hell Amos Striker was
doing this far out of town.

"Mornin', Patrick." Amos reined in his horse,
stopping a few feet away.

"Amos." Patrick studied the younger man's face. With
his curly hair and whisker-free face, he resembled a choirboy more
than a gunman, but Patrick knew his looks were deceptive. He
couldn't really say why, but there was something about the sheriff
he just didn't like. "What brings you out this way so early?"

"Mrs. Hurley. She seems to have lost Arless
again."

Patrick smiled, despite himself. Lena Hurley was a
bear of woman with a voice to match her stature. Her husband,
Arless, periodically took respite from her constant bellowing by up
and disappearing. Not content to let her husband roam around on his
own, Lena usually waited a few days and then sent for the sheriff.
"You think he's up there somewhere?" Patrick nodded toward the
peaks behind him.

Amos fingered the brim of his hat. "Well, he's been
known to use that line shack of yours. Thought it was worth a look
see."

"Any luck?"

"Nah, he ain't there. Ran into Pete, though. He told
me about Michael. Thought maybe you could use some help."

Patrick felt the moment of lightness slip away. He
had more important things to think about than Mrs. Hurley's runaway
husband. "Much obliged. I've searched the gulches west of Shallow
Creek and Pete is covering the area north of here."

"Fine, I'll head east. There's a couple of places a
man could shelter up in Grenard Gulch. First thing I'd do if I were
shot is head for shelter, and Grenard is the closest canyon to the
road."

Patrick glanced sharply at Amos. "What makes you
think Michael was shot?"

Amos frowned, studying the reins in his hand. "Don't
know really. Pete said you boys found blood on Roscoe's saddle. I
just figured most likely thing out here to draw blood is a gunshot.
'Sides, you know as well as I do, we've been having trouble with
road agents."

Patrick pushed his hat back, his gaze leveled on the
sheriff. "Yeah, but most of that's been up towards Antelope
Springs."

Amos grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Well now, never did know an outlaw who was much interested in
boundaries."

"True enough." Patrick swallowed his sense of
uneasiness. "Guess we'd best get to it. Right now, the most
important thing is to find my brother."

"Right. I'll signal with this," Amos patted his
Winchester, "if I find him."

"Same here. I'll meet you at the turn off to Clune in
a couple of hours."

Amos nodded and wheeled his horse around. Patrick
watched as they galloped away, a slow moving cloud of dust
spreading in their wake. With a sigh, Patrick turned the stallion,
easing him into a smooth canter, heading for the slopes to the
south, his eyes scanning the terrain for some sign of his
brother.

*****

"I tell you, Loralee, I heard you last night
and I know he said something about silver."

Loralee grabbed the wad of soggy linen and rubbed it
vigorously against a rock in the creek behind the cribs. Corabeth
always had her nose in everyone else's business, but, besides being
a busy body, she'd been a good friend, and in her line of work,
true friends were a rare thing.

"Loralee, you're not listening to me. I want to know
if Duncan really did hit it big."

She turned to look at the girl sitting on the rock,
shading her eyes against the early morning sun. Corabeth was a tiny
thing, her head crowned with a swirl of henna dyed curls. At the
moment, like Loralee, she was clad in little more than bloomers and
a wrapper. Not much sense in getting dressed. The cribs weren't one
of those elegant parlor houses where the customers behaved like
gentlemen and the whores acted like fancy ladies. No sir, the cribs
were the poor man's version and the niceties were few and far
between.

"I don't know, Corabeth. Honestly. Duncan wasn't
making a lot of sense last night. He'd been hitting the whiskey
pretty hard, and you know as well as I do that he's always bragging
about striking it big, but it never amounts to anything." She wrung
the water out of the chemise she'd been scrubbing and dropped it
into a basket.

"Well, I don't understand why you let the old geezer
see you anyway. He's old enough to be your father." She wrinkled
her nose in disgust.

Loralee shuddered. "Believe me, he's nothing like my
father." Finished with the wash, she stood and bent to pick up the
laundry basket. "He's harmless enough. And he always pays me. Which
is more than I can say for some of the men you see. Besides, we get
on."

Corabeth followed Loralee back to her door. "Well, I
didn't mean nothing by it. Heavens, sugar, it ain't up to me who
you see and don't see." Her usually perky mouth settled into a
pointed pout.

Loralee smiled. It was just too hard to keep secrets
from Corabeth. Surely, she could share a little of what Duncan
said. There couldn't be any harm in that, could there? Stepping
back, she motioned the other girl inside. Corabeth sat down on the
bed, bouncing experimentally. Loralee dropped the basket in the
corner. She'd hang them out to dry later.

"I still don't see why you do your own wash. The
Chinese laundry behind the livery stable does a fine job and it
ain't even expensive."

Loralee dropped onto the stool with a sigh. "You know
I have to save everything I make. I can't afford to let any of it
go for luxuries like laundry."

Her friend reached out to grasp her hand. "I know,
honey, and I think it's right nice of you to send all that money to
your Mary. But I don't think using a few cents a week for laundry
is gonna hurt that child one bit."

Loralee brushed a tired hand through her hair.
"You're probably right, but the money's all I got to give her. I
know it isn't the same as havin' a mama, but it's the best I can
do." She felt her head tighten as the tears threatened. With a
groan, she pulled her hand away, automatically reaching up to touch
her locket.

Corabeth's eyes settled on the necklace. "I see you
got it back."

Loralee nodded. "Got it back last night. Duncan fixed
it, good as new. Can't even see where the chain was broke." She
held it out in demonstration.

"Mary knows you love her, Loralee." Corabeth's words
were gentle.

Loralee bit back her tears, determined to change the
subject. "So, do you want to know about the silver, or don't
you?"

Corabeth bounced excitedly on the bed, her brown eyes
dancing with delight. "Do tell."

"Well, there really isn't that much. Duncan was
pretty far gone last night, but he kept rambling on about finding
the silver and how it was going to change everything. Honestly,
Corabeth, I've never seen him so excited."

"Not even when…"

Loralee blushed, surprised that she could still do
so. "We don't do that. He just comes to talk."

"Corabeth? You in here, darlin'?" Arless Hurley poked
his head in the doorway. "If I have to wait a second more, I swear
I'll bust a gut."

"Or something." Corabeth whispered as she rose from
the bed. "Why, Arless, you big stud, how'd you ever get away from
that monster you call a wife."

Loralee watched as the two of them sashayed out the
door. Walking to the window, she pulled back the drape. Jack was
still there. His baleful look made her want to laugh. The horse had
definitely seen better days.

"Listen sweetie," she crooned through the open
window, "if Duncan doesn't come get you soon, we'll find you
something to eat around here. All right?"

The horse bobbed his head, nodding almost as if he'd
understood her. She turned at the sound of a knock, the door
shaking beneath an impatient hand. With a sigh, she went to open
it, mentally preparing herself for another day.

*****

Patrick approached the road. Well, road was
actually a pretty fancy title for the two muddy ruts that passed as
the only wagon trail connecting the ranches scattered along the Rio
Grande. Fellow named Mears up around Silverton was supposed to have
built a fine road. Word was he actually charged travelers a toll to
use it. Maybe one of these days someone would do the same around
here.

There was no sign of Pete or Amos, but he was a
little early and it was a ways yet to the cut off to Clune. He was
tired down to his bones and the day wasn't yet half gone. There was
still no sign of Michael. Nothing. It was as if he'd simply
vanished. Of course people didn't just go disappearing into thin
air.

No, he had to face reality. Odds were more than good
that his brother was in trouble—or worse. The fact that Roscoe had
come back alone, didn't bode well. A man couldn't last long out
here without a horse. And if Michael weren't badly injured, he'd
have made it back by now.

"Patrick? That you, boy?" Pete rode down from the
small ridge he'd just crested, allowing his horse to ride abreast
of Patrick's. "Any luck?"

"No. Nothing. I even checked the ranch house again.
He's just disappeared."

"Maybe he's laid up somewheres," Pete said, his voice
gruff with emotion.

"No. He wouldn't do that. Michael's first thought
would be for me and you. He wouldn't want to worry us. If he were
able, he'd be back here."

"Maybe. Maybe not. You cain't go losing hope. Ain't
been long enough for us to know anything."

Pete was right, but Patrick was finding it mighty
hard to hold onto his hope. "Maybe Amos found something."

"Amos?"

"Yeah, I ran into him on Bald Man's ridge. He said
he'd heard about Michael from you and offered to help. I figured we
could use all the eyes we could get."

"Guess so." Pete spit tobacco out the side of his
mouth, the gesture somehow punctuating his feelings about Amos. "If
you ask me though, I'm still a wonderin' what in tarnation brought
our fair-haired sheriff up here this morning."