Page 9 of The Promise
"This is going to hurt." She looked up, trying to see his eyes, but the shadows were too deep.
"Just do it." His voice was taut, and she could feel his muscles bunching in preparation.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled the blood soaked cloth away with a quick tug. She felt him flinch. "Sorry." His skin was raw and covered with blood, some of it dried and crusty. This wasn't a new wound. "How long have you been here?"
"Don't know, really." He closed his eyes, his voice fading.
"Come on. Stay with me."
He nodded, rallying a bit. "You can use my shirt for a bandage."
She eyed the dirty remnants, shaking her head. "I'll use mine. It's cleaner."
"You'll freeze."
"I'll be fine." She slipped out of the shirt. "I've got a tee shirt on underneath." With a forced breath, she turned back to the task at hand. After ripping the bottom of the shirt into makeshift bandages, she tore a sleeve off to use for padding, then, gingerly, bound the wound with the strips she had torn.
Satisfied that she had at least staunched the bleeding, she sat back on her heels. He was breathing rapidly and even in the shadows she could see that he was deathly white. Alarmed, she ran a hand across his cheek. His skin was on fire. "You've got a fever. We've got to get you out of here. Now."
"I know." The words were incredibly weak, and she shivered at the thought of trying to get him out of the tunnel. He wasn't a small man.
She wrapped an arm around him, deliberately keeping her voice light, "First thing to do is to get you on your feet without reopening your injury."
Together they struggled to their feet, then, precariously balanced, tried a few steps forward. Sweat trickled down between her breasts as she supported his weight. At this rate, she'd need a miracle to get him home.
What had been a few easy steps for her was like an obstacle course with a man draped across her shoulders. There was no question of using the rocks to cross the stream. The man remained stoically silent, but she felt his muscles tense as they plunged into the frigid creek.
Icy water soaked through her tennis shoes. "Are you okay?"
The answer was more of a groan than a word, but she was grateful that he was still conscious. They struggled up the rocky embankment on the other side and she prayed that she had the strength to get him home.
They stopped for a moment at the top of the rise, Cara shifting to more comfortably support his weight. The afternoon sun caught him in its light, his haggard features illuminated. His face clearly visible for the first time. Her breath stuttered to a stop, her heart following suit.
She knew this face. She'd memorized it in her dreams.
"Your name?" The words came out on a whisper as she fought for air, for control.
"Michael. Michael Macpherson." Blue eyes snapped opened, his gaze colliding with hers. She could see the recognition there. Feel it.
She swallowed, a wave of dizziness washing through her.
Her heart rejoiced.
Her mind rebelled.
Michael Macpherson didn't exist.
3
Patrick stopped at the top of the rise, reining in his black stallion. From this vantage point, a man could see most of the valley below. The Rio Grande twisted and turned in the distance, a wide silver band carved into the blues and greens of the surrounding countryside. Nestled into a horseshoe shaped curve, he could see Clune.
The framing of the new barn shone white against a backdrop of brownish green meadow grass, dwarfing the older structures. The clouds hung low, almost hiding the mountains. Later, the sun would burn them off, but for now the somber sky mirrored his thoughts.
He'd been riding since sunrise, impatiently exploring the gulches and hollows of the mountains, but there was no sign of his brother. Rationally, he knew it was hopeless. He could look in a thousand places and there'd still be a couple thousand more. It was too easy for a person to get lost up here. Between unpredictable weather and predators, an injured man didn't stand much of a chance.
The sound of hooves against the rocks filtered into his thoughts, pulling his attention away from the valley. Withnarrowed eyes, he watched the approaching horse, trying to identify the rider. It wasn't Pete. He'd be on the other side of the ridge, searching the higher ground. They'd agreed to meet later at the road.
Patrick laid a hand on his rifle, just in case. The horseman drew closer, raising an arm in greeting. Patrick nodded as he recognized the man, wondering what in the hell Amos Striker was doing this far out of town.
