Page 6 of The Promise
Michael wouldn't talk about it. He never talked about it. Truth was, he never talked about anything. Anyway, Patrick had let one moment of self pity turn into a night of whiskey and gaming, when he should have been here helping his brother.Which meant he was no better than his father. And, somehow, that made him feel worse than he already did.
A soft nickering sound filtered in through the window, snapping him out of his reverie. Patrick slid into the shadows, automatically reaching for his Winchester. With an audible click, he cocked the rifle and stepped over to the cabin door. The nicker sounded again, this time followed by the thud of a hoof. Taking a deep breath, Patrick sprang into action, throwing open the door and stepping into the night air, the gun barrel leading the way.
Cool moonlight washed the dusty ground a pale silver. Patrick froze, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the source of the noise. A soft snort was accompanied by the whinny of a horse. A hungry horse. Patrick relaxed as the roan gelding stomped impatiently.
He'd left his warm bed for a damn horse. Laying the Winchester across the porch railing, he stepped gingerly off the wood platform onto the rocky ground, wishing belatedly that he would have had the good sense to put his boots on.
"What the hell you doing out of the barn, Roscoe?" Stupid name for a horse. Michael had read it in a book somewhere and thought it a fine name, but Patrick thought it was ridiculous. Although stupid horse names seemed to run in the family. His father's horse was named Jack.
He hobbled across the ground, the rocks biting into his feet. Reaching the gelding, he grabbed the reins and started to pull the horse toward the stable. "Michael better have a good reason for not keeping an eye on you." He looked back at the horse and stopped dead in his tracks. Roscoe was still fully outfitted. With a curse, he reached up behind the saddle. Michael's gear was still there, and more sobering, his rifle was still sheathed in its leather holster.
Patrick absently wiped at a wet splotch on the stirrup and was in the process of cleaning his hand on his leg when he realized what he was doing. Slowly he raised the hand. Moisture glistened black on his fingers in the starlight. The sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils.
"Patrick? That you?"
Patrick looked up as a weathered old cowboy stepped out onto the porch of an equally weathered shanty.
"Whatcha got there?" Pete Reeder slapped a dilapidated Stetson on his head and strode across the yard. Like Patrick, he was clad in long johns. Unlike Patrick, he'd had the sense to put his boots on.
"It's Roscoe." Patrick met the watery blue-eyed gaze of his foreman. "Seems he came back without Michael." He held out his bloody hand and nodded toward the stirrup.
Pete examined the stained leather. Looking back at Patrick, he frowned and spit, the resulting spittle landing somewhere out in the darkness. "Ain't no way that horse would leave Michael unless…"
Patrick felt a swell of panic rise inside him. "He's not dead, Pete. He's just had an accident. Maybe he sent Roscoe to us. To let us know he was hurt." He couldn't imagine what he'd do if something happened to his brother. Michael was the stable one. Without him, and his desire for a place they could call home, there wouldn't be a Clune. Hell, there probably wouldn't be a Patrick.
He shivered. "Michael's probably lying out there somewhere right now, hurt and bleeding. Or worse." He grabbed the reins and started to swing up into the saddle.
"Whoa there boy, where do ya think you're going?"
"I'm going to find my brother."
Pete clamped one big hand around Patrick' s arm, effectively stopping further motion. "In your drawers?"
Patrick glanced down and flushed. "No. I'll get my pants."
"And your boots."
Patrick shot a look of exasperation at the old man. "And my boots."
Pete stroked the long handles of his mustache, his leathery forehead wrinkled in thought. "Ain't no use going out there now. The moon's a settin' and you'll be blind as a posthole."
"Maybe. But I've got to do something. I can't leave him out there." Patrick strode toward the cabin, Pete following close behind.
"I ain't telling you to leave him. I'm just suggesting we wait a couple more hours until the sun's up. Can't tell a rock from a hole out there right now. You go off into the mountains like that and I'll be searching for two injured men, 'stead of just one."
They stopped on the porch and Patrick looked up at the sky. The moon had almost disappeared, leaving the last of the stars to light the night. Pete, as always, was right. "Fine, then we'll wait. Two hours. No more."
Pete settled a hand on Patrick's shoulder, his touch comforting. "I know you're worried about your brother. Can't say it sets well with me either, but we're gonna find him. We just gotta hold on for the light."
Patrick looked out towards the mountains that ringed the valley. They were little more than menacing shadows, blending into the dark sky. He wasn't much of a praying man, but he prayed now. Prayed that his brother was safe out there. Prayed that he could hang on until morning.
Prayed that he was still alive.
2
SAN JUAN MOUNTAINS, COLORADO - PRESENT DAY
Cara stood by the edge of the stream staring up at the blue spruce. It called to her mockingly, promising things that could never be. She chewed on the corner of her lip, hesitating, wondering what it was exactly she'd thought to accomplish by coming here.
