Page 102 of The Promise
"Oh?" A sense of inevitability hit her.
"Yeah, there's a horse winch, too."
"A horse winch?" She knew she sounded like a parrot.
"Yeah." He gestured out the window. "It's out there. Sort of a horse drawn pulley."
She schooled her features into what she hoped was her calm, sensible look. "But the horses are tired."
Michael actually laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm fairly certain we won't need the horses."
She frowned at him and turned away, walking to the far edge of the platform. The opening here was large, almost the entire side of the building. And what little wallboard there was looked like it would disintegrate with a small tap. The first ore bucket in line sat only a few feet from the edge, ready to leap out into the air.
Her stomach dropped. The whole thing reminded her of a rinky-dink version of the aerial tram at Disney World, and she'd refused to ride it, too.
She looked down at the rushing water. The noise from the stream below was deafening. Perfect white noise. She grinned, thinking of how much people paid to emulate a sound like that. "I…go…ng…ut...ide." She swung around to look at Michael. His mouth was moving, but she couldn't understand the words. She pointed at her ear.
He, in turn, pointed at the door. "I'm going outside for a minute," he yelled.
She signaled 'okay' and then wondered if he even knew what it meant. Shrugging, she turned back to the view from the open wall. It was magnificent. She looked down again. Compared to the top of the run, they were fairly close to the ground here. Probably only a couple hundred feet or so, but the rocks below looked deadly and the rushing stream did nothing to alleviate her fears.
She'd just have to tell him she couldn't do it. Simple as that. Behind her the door banged. "Michael." She turned around ready to confess. The words died on her lips.
The man in the doorway wasn't Michael. But she knew who he was—his resemblance to Nick was uncanny. Fear danced its way along her spine.
Amos Striker.
A slow delighted smile spread across his face. "Well, well, what do we have here." He took a step toward her and she tooka step back. He took another step and she immediately moved back again, as if they were locked into some kind of macabre dance. He moved forward again, this time into a pool of light coming from the opening behind her. Her eyes still locked on him, she realized it was her move. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
"Cat got your tongue?"
She licked her lips and stepped back, only to realize she'd run out of floor.
Amos's mustache thinned as his smile grew broader. "And just where do you think you're going, darlin'?" he drawled.
She felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. She slid sideways behind the last tram car. She could feel the wind through the opening at her back, but even so, she felt more secure with the hunk of metal between her and the sheriff.
"Come here, angel." He gestured with a finger. "I won't hurt you."
Like hell. How stupid did he think she was? Stupid enough to wind up alone in the middle of another century with a murderer, her mind suggested. She watched as he took another step toward her. Help. She needed help. She opened her mouth, praying for a voice. "Michael?" Her call came out a muted squeak.
Amos was at the edge of the ore bucket now. She inched back until her heels rocked out over the edge of the platform. Startled, she reached for the ore car, gripping the edge with both hands.
"I wouldn't bother calling him, darlin'. I think he's past hearing you." He patted a Colt stuck in the waist of his pants.
Michael's gun.
She sucked in a ragged breath, and shoved hard against the bucket, but it didn't move.
Amos laughed. "Only goes one way, I'm afraid, and it'd be a shame to see a gal as pretty as you go over the edge." He nudged the bucket with his knee and it lurched forward, resting againsther legs. Then, with a booted foot, he rocked it slowly, so that it rubbed provocatively against her. "Think of that as a little warm up, darlin'." His mouth still curled into a smile, but his eyes were like shards of ice. She felt their frigid touch as his gaze moved down her body.
There was a flicker of movement behind Amos, and with a war cry that made Braveheart seem tame, a bloodied Michael surged through the door, leaping at the sheriff. He tackled him from behind and the two men rolled to the floor, locked together, each struggling for the gun.
Cara watched in fascinated horror as they fought, her numb brain trying to get her to do something. She'd always hated heroines who stood and watched as the hero battled the bad guys. In theory, it had seemed easy to do something to help. In practice, it turned out, she was totally incapable of movement.
The men flipped over, Amos on the top. With a triumphant grin, he reached for the gun, but Michael was fast and slammed into the man's jaw with one fist. Thrown off balance, the two of them tumbled backward, ramming into the tram car. It swung forward, moving along the cable. Cara's brain sent out a frantic message to move, but it was too late.
She grabbed the rim of the bucket just as she felt her feet slide off the end of the platform. The car slid effortlessly into the air, taking her with it. She felt her arms jerk like a ski rope after takeoff and wondered briefly if arms could actually be pulled out of their sockets.
