Page 18 of The Promise
Pete let out a string of expletives that would curl the toes of a three penny whore.
Patrick felt his hackles rise. He opened his mouth to respond, but Owen beat him to the punch. "Now, Amos, if you think about it, you'll realize there's no way Michael could have killed Duncan." Everyone turned to look at Owen. He smiledreassuringly at Patrick and then leaned back in his chair. "What time was it when you found Roscoe?"
"I don't know exactly, a couple hours before sun-up." Patrick glanced over at Pete, who nodded in confirmation.
"Right, so that would indicate that Michael was injured well before dawn."
"You're just speculating that he was hurt. Maybe the blood on the saddle was Duncan's, not Michael's." Amos paused dramatically.
For a moment Patrick felt sick at his stomach. Then almost as quickly the feeling was gone. Michael would never kill his father. Never. He looked over at Pete. The old hand was staring intently at Owen, waiting for his reaction.
Owen scratched the side of his jaw absently. "Well, I suppose your theory is possible, but hardly likely. Besides, how would you explain the fact that Duncan's body appeared by the road after Pete and Patrick left to try and find Michael?"
"It was barely daylight when they left. They could've easily missed the body."
"Now, look here," Patrick felt his voice rising, "my brother isn't a killer. He isn't. Besides, there's still the horses. Even if what you're saying is true, and I don't believe it, you can hardly expect Michael to make a getaway on Jack." He glanced frantically over at Pete.
The old man spit out the open window, his grizzled old face shuttered. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't going to share it now.
Amos, stubbed out the cigarillo. "Maybe he dumped Roscoe for a horse nobody would recognize. You boys check your other stock?"
Patrick couldn't believe the turn of the conversation. "No. It never occurred to me to check."
"Well, what do you want to bet you find another horse is missing? I'll bet Michael switched Roscoe for another one. Makes a helluva lot more sense than that animal finding its way home through the dark mountains."
Patrick bit back a profane retort. "If you're so sure Michael is a murderer, maybe you could give me a reason why?" He glared at the sheriff, his anger threatening to overcome him.
"Sit down, Patrick," Owen said. "There's no harm in listening to what the man has to say."
"Why?" Patrick swung around to glare at Owen.
"Because even in the wildest conjecture there is often an element of truth."
Patrick sat down, his mind spinning. "There isn't any truth to Striker's conjectures. They're lies.Lies."
"Patrick." There was a note of steel in Owen's voice, and Patrick swallowed back further retort. He respected Owen—loved him even. In a lot of ways, he been more of a father than Duncan had ever been.
They waited while Amos lit another cheroot, a wisp of smoke making his face momentarily hazy. Amos tilted back his chair, resting it against the wall, booted feet propped up on the desk. "Word around town is that you all are having money problems."
Patrick shrugged. "We get by."
"Yeah, well, according to Bergstrom over at the bank, you're getting by on very little. And there is the matter of some outstanding loans." Amos smiled, a tight lipped version that hinted of malice.
Patrick tried to hold onto reason, things were rapidly spiraling out of control. "What the hell does our financial business have to do with Michael's disappearance?" He refused to give voice to Amos' accusation.
"Maybe Michael was tired of living hand to mouth. Maybe he saw an easy way out."
"By murdering my father?" Patrick stood up, leaning over the desk, anger consuming him. "That doesn't make sense, Striker."
"Doesn't it?" Amos leaned forward, steepling his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.
Owen placed a soothing hand on Patrick's shoulder. He shook it off, dropping back into his chair. Maybe this was a nightmare. Any minute he'd wake up at home, safe in his bed. Pete still sat in silence, but Patrick could tell by the taut line of his shoulders, that he, too, was incensed at the accusations. "All right, Amos, if you're so certain Michael did this, you tell me what he had to gain by killing my father."
Amos waited a beat before answering, obviously enjoying the moment. "Silver."
"What?" Patrick sat forward, his attention focused on the man in front of him.
"I said silver. Your father was in town last night. Drunk, as usual. He was rambling on about finding silver, the mother lode to hear him talk."
