Page 5 of The Promise
In the distance a horse nickered. Roscoe. Michael smiled in the dark. Somewhere below him, the killer cursed softly, and then Michael heard the welcome sound of horseshoes against rock. The man was leaving, following Roscoe.
Michael waited, letting the tree hold him upright, and then finally took a cautious step away from the spruce. The mine was waiting—its black opening yawning darkly against the sharprocks. His head was starting to spin, and he felt weak all over. He knew that time was running out. He needed shelter, and he needed it now.
With a last burst of energy, he pulled himself up the incline and into the mouth of the cave. The dark overpowered him, and he forced himself to crawl further into its waiting arms, knowing that it was a friend. A sanctuary.
Finally, deep in the tunnel, he allowed himself to slump against a wall, closing his eyes, and focusing on his memories. Memories of a night nine years ago—a magical night and a beautiful girl. Cara.
In his mind, he felt her there with him. Felt her body pressed against his. Felt her healing warmth. And with a sigh, he allowed himself to slide into his dreams.
Loralee stoodin the soft glow of the candlelight and looked in the mirror. Straight lank hair hung in two thin plaits on either side of her head, accentuating the thin angles of her tired face. She scrubbed at the rouge on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Every day she was more a whore and less the girl she'd once been.
Loralee wasn't her real name. Not that anyone out here knew that. She'd picked it because she'd seen it on a sign pasted on the saloon wall when she'd started working in Del Norte. She'd even made one of the gambling men read the whole poster to her.
It seemed this other Loralee was a traveling singer. She'd come from some far off place. Nacado…something. Anyway, the name sounded musical and it was a far sight better than Alice. Besides, nobody used their real names in this business. It just wasn't done. With a sigh, she turned from the mirror.
At least there didn't appear to be any more customers tonight. And Duncan, God bless him, had paid her enough to warrant turning out the red lantern in her front window. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, crossed to the door and slid the heavy bar into place. The irony of the situation didn't escape her. She was probably safer alone in her bed than she was with someone in it. Besides, the bolt was strong, but the door wasn't. A good swift kick would probably send the whole wall tumbling down.
She peered out the window at the eerie red glow coming from a dozen or so windows identical to hers. Lifting the globe with the edge of her shawl, she blew out the lantern. A soft whinny drew her attention.
A sorrel horse tied to a post out front tossed his head indignantly. Jack. What the heck was Jack doing here? Duncan had left hours ago. She arched her back, rubbing the hollow at her waist. At least it seemed like hours.
Most likely he was off to the saloons again. He'd been fairly well lit when he left her place, but it never ceased to amaze her how much a man could drink if he put his mind to it. And if ever a man was in a frame of mind to drink, it was Duncan Macpherson.
The shadows lengthened and she untied the thin cord that pulled back the tent canvas that passed for drapery. Turning her back to the window, she headed for the iron bedstead in the corner. The linen sheets were yellowed with age, the quilt patched and threadbare, but they were clean. She prided herself on that. Her momma had taught her that much.
Cleanliness was next to Godliness and, Lord help her, she could use all the help she could get in that direction. Smiling, she threw her wrapper on the spindly stool that served as a chair and jumped into the bed. The tin stove in the corner didn't put out enough heat to warm water, let alone an entire room.
Most times it wasn't a problem. Men seemed to generate their own heat. And it was her lot in life to get those fires a going. Well, most of them. Some, like Duncan, didn't want that kind of fire lit. They mostly came to talk. A bit of female companionship was all they were looking for. Not that she minded. No indeedy. They paid, same as everyone else. And all she had to do was listen, or pretend to listen.
But Duncan was different. He treated her real nice. Not like some of the boys. There were some who liked it rough. Real rough. But they weren't welcome here. She might be at the bottom of the barrel socially speaking, but she had rules all the same, and she expected her boys to abide by them. Not that she always had a choice. She shivered and settled back into the soft fluff of her pillow, tucking the quilt under her chin.
Yup. She'd take Duncan any day. He might be a bit long in the tooth, but he treated her like a lady. Or what she imagined a lady was treated like. And he talked to her about important things. Why, just tonight, he told her he'd found silver. Not that that was news exactly. Everybody around here was always boasting about finding silver, but Duncan had said it different. There'd been a light in his eyes. She had a feeling he'd found a strike, sure enough. A big one, too.
The only thing that puzzled her some was him talking about the Promise. How could he have found silver there? Everybody knew the Promise had played out years ago. Why, Duncan Macpherson ought to know it better than most. It was his mine after all. His and that 'don't get mud on my boots' Owen Prescott.
She placed a hand on the cool silver of the locket between her breasts. Whatever it was he was rambling on about, she'd keep his secret safe. He'd kept hers after all. She'd ask him about it tomorrow when he came back for Jack. One thing was sure as sunrise with Duncan Macpherson. He would never willinglyleave that sorrel behind. He loved that old horse, maybe more than his boys.
Heck, maybe more than his wife. Loralee sighed and snuggled deeper into the covers, sleep starting to overtake her. There was something sad about a man whose best friend was a horse. Yes, indeedy, it was a true tragedy.
Patrick Macpherson woke with a start.The stillness of the night surrounded him, and after a few moments, he relaxed slightly. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the rough log walls. Everything seemed peaceful, but something had awakened him.
With a groan, he swung out of bed, cringing when his bare feet hit the cold plank floor. Muttering an oath, he reached for his socks and pulled them on before padding across the room to the doorway. The fire in the main room had burned low, but its embers still cast a faint light across the room.
That, combined with the moonlight, made the room seem abnormally bright after the dim shadows of his bedroom. From his position in the doorway, he could see practically the whole cabin. The big iron stove cast a long black shadow across the floor. The clutter of dirty dinner dishes littered the plank table in the center of the room, testament to the lack of feminine influence at Clune.
His father's cot in the corner was empty, not that that was surprising. Duncan was usually somewhere up in the mountains looking for another strike, or down in town drinking himself into a stupor. Between the two, it seemed there wasn't much time for his sons.
Things had been different when his mother was around. But as Michael always said, there wasn't much sense in crying over spilt milk. Not that that made a lick of sense. He hated milk. Now if it had been a pint of whiskey—well, there was a good reason to cry.
The door to Michael's room stood ajar. Patrick couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Unlike his father, Michael was as predictable as a dog in heat. And he always, always, slept with his door shut.
Walking cautiously now, he crossed to his brother's room. A quick look inside confirmed what he already suspected. Michael wasn't there. Which meant something was indeed very wrong. A fellow could count on Michael to do pretty much exactly what he said he was going to do. Patrick glanced out the window at the moon, trying to remember what Michael had told him. He'd being heading for the high country to check on the herd, but he'd specifically said he'd be back by nightfall.
If Patrick hadn't spent the wee hours of the previous night playing cards in Owen's saloon, he might have known his brother hadn't come home as expected. Instead, he'd stumbled home mid-morning, listened to his brother's endless speech on responsibility, and then collapsed in his bed. Looks like he'd managed to sleep the day away, and a good portion of the night.
Damn.
Truth be told, he hadn't meant to waste a night in Silverthread. He really wasn't a gambler, and he sure as hell couldn't hold his liquor. But yesterday had been the anniversary of his mother's disappearance and, well, he'd just needed something to take the edge off the memory.
