Page 4 of The Promise
Michael stood up,carefully capping his canteen. At least the worst of it was over. The sky was still a hazy white-gray, threatening snow. But the wind was gone, and the air dry. With any luck, they'd make it to the ranch before nightfall.
He carefully made his way up the slippery slope of the creek bank. The snow was deceptively thick in places and he knew that beneath the soft banks there was often ice. A broken leg, out here in this kind of weather, would most likely be the death of a man. And he had no intention of cashing it in now. Not after last night.
He reached the scattered tailings pile that marked the entrance to the mine. A small blue spruce stretched its frail limbs from the center of the loose rocks and debris. Michael smiled at the tenacity of the tree. Probably never make it, he thought, but it sure had courage to try.
A lot like the girl who slept in the tunnel. She had grit all right. And she was a beauty, too.
One woman for every man.His mother's voice filled his mind, and he smiled. Maybe. Just maybe, she was right. But right now there were more important things to think about. Like survival. He stepped into the mouth of the tunnel.
At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then, he thought he was going crazy. But, no, the facts were there, plain as the nose on his face. His gear was right where he'd left it. And the little fire burned cheerily in the stone ring he'd made.
But the blanket by the fire was gone, and with it, the girl he'd held through the night. His heart jumped and he felt panic rip through him. "Cara?" He called her name softly at first, then loud enough that the name echoed off the icy rock walls of the mine.
"Cara?"
1
SAN JUAN MOUNTAINS, COLORADO - 1888
Michael Macpherson reined in Roscoe, horse and rider stopping at the top of the rise. Below him, the lights of Clune twinkled in the distance, the little ranch resembling a fairyland.
Home.
He sighed, and began the descent down the mountainside. It had been a long day. But then that's what ranching life was all about. Long days, and in his case, even longer nights. He blew out a breath and then discarded his train of thought. No sense dwelling on what couldn't be. He'd chosen his path in life, and he'd do well to accept it.
Besides, there were people depending on him. Patrick, and old Pete. His father. Hell, even Owen depended on him some. No other way was he going to have prime steer to serve to the hungry miners that swarmed the Irish Rose twenty-four hours a day.
He bit back a smile. All in all, life might be a bit empty, but it was basically good.
A shot cracked through the stillness of the night, and Michael felt the familiar burning as bullet hit flesh.
Son of a bitch.
He wheeled his horse around, simultaneously reaching for his rifle. The movement sent fiery pain knifing through him, and his vision blurred, darkness threatening to overcome him. With a shake of his head, he cleared his brain. Passing out would mean death. And just at the moment he wasn't inclined to die.
He moved forward, riding as fast as he could on the downward slope. One stumble and they were as good as dead, but going too slowly would have the same result. A conundrum. He gritted his teeth and reached for the rifle again. Another shot whizzed past his ear. He abandoned the effort, slowing for a second, risking a look behind him.
Nothing.
Whoever was shooting was well hidden. He cursed again under his breath, his strength ebbing with his blood flow. He'd never make it to the ranch. Hell, in just a few more yards he'd be out in the open, a moving target. One that would be hard to miss.
With a quick jerk of the reins, he turned Roscoe, and together they moved back up the canyon toward a stand of trees in the distance. If he could just reach the spruce—the abandoned mine. Maybe he'd make it.
Another shot rang out. This one farther behind him. Good, he'd managed to gain a lead. With another twist, he cut into the pines. That ought to stop the bastard—at least for a minute or two. In the dark, he would be nearly invisible in the trees, the rocky tumble of the mountain reaching toward him from the left, providing further safety.
He stopped, listening. Everything was quiet. Just the soft whisper of the winds in the aspens. He slid to the ground, his head going fuzzy again. He touched his shoulder, not surprised to find that his shirt was wet with blood.
With a sharp intake of breath, he slapped Roscoe on the hindquarters, sending the horse off into the night. If someone was following him, that ought to provide a nice distraction.
Scrambling further into the trees, his eyes sought out the scraggly branches of the blue spruce. Despite the odds, the little tree had made it. Now over six feet, it still lacked girth, but it had grit. And just at the moment it was acting sentry for sanctuary.
Michael locked his eyes on the tree, fighting against the waves of dizziness that threatened to swamp him. All he had to do was make it a few more steps and he'd be safe. He sent a silent prayer to the luckless miner who started the tunnel and then abandoned it. The man's misfortune had created a hidden haven. First for Cara, and now for him.
The thought of her gave him a sudden surge of strength, and he barreled across the stream and up the rocky embankment to the tree. Leaning against its trunk for a moment, he fought against his pain. Just a few more steps. Rocks below him skittered down the creek bank.
Hell.
He froze in the shadow of the spruce, afraid even to breath. Any movement now would mean certain death. The night grew quiet. Whoever was down there was waiting, too. Listening. He strained through the dark to try and see his assailant's face, to know who it was hunting him. But the dark and the trees provided the killer with the same protection they afforded Michael.
