Page 52 of The Promise
She shook her head, still confused.
"Well somebody did." He gestured along the wall and sure enough she could make out several other places where the grass had been pressed flat. Footsteps. A shiver traced its way up her spine.
Patrick had moved ahead and was standing at the far corner of the shed. She hurried to his side.
"Take a deep breath."
She wrinkled her nose and eyed the converted outhouse. "I'd rather not. I've already had a nose full, believe?—"
"Breathe." He cut her off, leaving her nothing to do but obey.
"Kerosene." She smiled triumphantly. "I told you so." She paused, her momentary elation fading. "What happened to the fire?"
"Someone put it out. Look." He pushed aside the tall grass.
Loralee leaned over, her heart beating faster. There was a two foot expanse of bare earth. Charred bits of kindling and grass littered the ground. Several black stripes ran up the wall, fading into the weather-washed boards. Loralee knelt and placed a trembling hand on the ground, her gaze locking with Patrick's.
He nodded, his expression grim. "It's warm."
Loralee felt a wave of nausea and swallowed, trying to maintain control, the reality of the situation hitting her like a miner's blast.
Patrick released the grass, and the evidence disappeared, only the faint scent of kerosene lending credence to her tale.
She swallowed again, and stood up, her whole body trembling. "I could have?—"
Patrick reached for her hand. "Hush. You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."
Loralee sighed. The words sounded good. But they were just words. Her fingers automatically circled her locket. She had firsthand experience with promises, and she knew that despite the best intentions they meant absolutely nothing.
"Come on, we're getting out of here." Patrick tightened his grip on her hand, propelling her toward the lean-to.
"But Ginny will worry."
"Ginny will be fine. We can get word to her."
"But—"
He stopped, turning her to face him. "I'm not taking any more chances with your life, Loralee." His gaze locked on hers and she shivered at the look in his eyes—something deep inside her flickering to life, wanting to respond. But before she hadtime to sort through her jumbled emotions, he moved again, pulling her along behind him. "You ride Jack." Hearing his name, the horse raised his ears and snorted.
Patrick grabbed the saddle and threw it on the sorrel. Still bemused, Loralee tried to focus on what was happening. "Where are you taking me?"
He tightened the cinch, looping the girth into place. "Clune. You'll be safe there."
"But, Patrick…" He swung her up onto the horse, and then met her gaze, one eyebrow quirked inquiringly. "I don't want to get you involved in all of this." Her tone sounded mutinous even to her own ears.
"It seems to me you've got it backwards. It's my family that's gotten you involved. My father's ramblings seem to be the key to this whole thing, and until we figure out why, I want you somewhere safe." He adjusted the stirrup with a jerk, his black brows drawn into a fierce frown. Not a man to quibble with.
"Fine. Clune it is." She forced her voice to sound light, but she shivered as the vision of Corabeth's lifeless body filled her mind. Would she be next?
14
Michael sat in an armchair by the window watching Cara sleep. Even in repose she was beautiful. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating the glistening strands of her hair as they fanned out across the pillows. He clenched his fist, filled suddenly with the urge to touch her, to assure himself that she was real.
Making love had been a mistake. Instead of quelling his need for her, the act had intensified his desire. He wanted her now more than ever before. And the simple truth was that he couldn't have her. He didn't belong here. He belonged at Clune. He belonged in 1888.
He glanced down, running a hand over the white square of gauze on his chest. Almost healed. Rotating his shoulder, he was relieved to find that the motion caused him no pain.
It was time.
