Page 12 of The Promise
Pete shot a stream of tobacco at a bush. Getting him to say what he was thinking could be a painful experience. Patrick had learned that it was best to just wait it out. Pete would talk when he was good and ready. They rode for a while in silence.
"Didn't say that. Just think it bears thinking about."
Patrick slowed as they reached the cut off. The narrow wagon ruts continued on toward Silverthread. The perpendicular trail to the ranch was barely discernible in the high grass. Off to the left something red shown through the waving weeds. Patrick reined in the stallion, and signaled Pete. Whatever it was, it wasn't supposed to be there.
He slid off the horse's back, his heart pounding a rhythm against his chest. Pete stayed in the saddle, rifle drawn to cover his back. Out here a man simply couldn't take a chance. As he moved forward the red thing began to take on a shape, a cotton encased arm extended from a clump of grass, the hand open, beckoning. Pushing through the knee high plants, Patrick searched for signs of life.
"Michael? Is that you?" Nothing moved except the meadow grass swaying in the wind. He dropped down on his knees beside the body. Black hair spilled out from under the broad brim of a hat. With a shaking hand, he gently rolled the body over, his heart accelerating to a staccato tempo that echoed through his brain.
"Is it Michael?"
Pete's voice sounded far away. Patrick fought to pull in his breath. The bloodied dead man before him was not his brother. But the craggy features were still familiar. Achingly familiar. His stomach rolled and he swallowed convulsively, trying to keep the bile down.
"Patrick?" Pete dropped into the grass beside him, pulling him back so that he could see. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, it's your father."
4
"But they told me…they said…I mean…you're not real." Cara knew she was talking gibberish, but her mind simply couldn't grasp the fact that Michael Macpherson,herMichael Macpherson, was walking right beside her.
She shifted, locking her arm around his waist, supporting his weight with her body. Michael groaned as she stumbled. "Believe me, I'm flesh and blood, and right now, I feel like it's mainly blood." He sagged backward, his breathing coming in irregular gasps.
Cara tightened her hold, whispering in his ear. "You've got to hold on. I can't do this by myself. Come on, we've gotten this far. Just hang on a little while longer. Please."
His muscles bunched and tightened, as he pulled himself upright, but he kept walking. "How… much… farther?"
"Not much more. Just around the next bend." Keep him talking, her mind asserted. Keep him awake and keep him talking. "I looked for you, you know. After you disappeared."
"I looked for you, too." His voice was rough, colored with pain.
"Then I don't see…" She stopped, not knowing how to continue.
"How we missed each other? Me either. But just at the moment I think there are more important things to deal with."
"You're right. I'm sorry." There was just so much she wanted to ask him. So much she needed to know. But not now. He slumped forward again, his shoulders relaxing. She tightened her grip. "Michael, you've got to stay with me. I can't keep you up here on my own."
He jerked his head upward, pulling himself back to consciousness. "I'm here."
"Good." She stared at the side of his head, concentrating on the way the dark hair curled against his collar, trying to find something of the boy she remembered in the man he'd become. "Just keep talking to me, okay? Tell me what happened to you."
He nodded, shifting a little, leaning into the curve of her body. She could feel the heat from his fever. His shirt was damp with sweat. "I...don't know. Snuck…up on me…shot me. Lucky to escape."
"Someone shot you?" She tried to make sense of the insensible. "Was it a hunter do you think?"
"Man hunter maybe." He groaned, tensing with pain as they hit a rough spot.
"You mean you think someone shot you on purpose?"
"Seems likely." His words were a bit disjointed, but if she was following the conversation, he was talking about murder. Or attempted murder.
"My God, Michael, are you saying someone tried to kill you?"
"And did a damn fine job of it." He drew in a ragged breath and she felt his body slide forward.
"Hang on," she ordered. They stopped and she automatically turned toward him, supporting his weight. "We're here."
The warmth of his body surrounded her as he braced himself against her. She closed her eyes, feeling his heart beating beneath her hand. The tangy smell of male enveloped her and somewhere deep inside her, despite the odor of blood and injury, she responded to the memory. She knew this man, knew his scent, knew the feel of his arms. And no matter what anyone had told her, he was real.Real.
The feel of something sticky against her fingers pulled her from her thoughts. "Oh God, you're bleeding again."
