Page 99 of The Promise
She tipped her head up and smiled at him, then turned to Cara, holding out something in her hand. "Take this. It's as much yours as mine, and it seems to have brought us both luck. I like the idea that it'll be there if you need it."
The locket. Michael felt a shiver of dread. The locket had the power to send Cara back. He tried to push the thought away as Cara took it and fastened it around her neck. As if somehow in doing so he could postpone the inevitable.
"I'll take good care of it, Loralee." Cara's voice was low, choked with emotion.
"You just take good care of yourself." The two women clasped hands, their eyes locked on one another.
"I will."
Michael pulled his attention away from Cara and Loralee, glancing up at the sun. It was already beginning to climb in thesky. It was time to go. He looked down at his brother, meeting his solemn gaze. "Watch out for yourself."
"It's not me riding into danger," Patrick said. "You keep your eyes open. I'd just as soon not have to bury you twice."
Michael rubbed his injured shoulder. "My sentiments exactly. So you get your ass to Silverthread and then up to the Promise. I'm counting on you to watch my back."
Patrick nodded, the trace of a grin relieving the tension etched on his face. He raised a hand in farewell. "Good hunting."
Patrick kepta tight rein on the horses, trying to keep the wagon from bouncing too much on the rutted street. Loralee was in back, Pete's head on her lap. His face was still pale, but his fever seemed to have broken. Arless' body was back there, too, underneath a blanket, silent testimony to everything that had happened.
The noise of the town was almost deafening. Men lined the streets, about half of them staggering their way home for a few winks before their next shifts started, the other half heading for the saloons, ready for some action now that their shifts were over.
None of the more respectable people of Silverthread were to be seen on Gin Avenue, as it had most suitably been named. All told there were about thirty-five drinking establishments open along the street and that wasn't even counting the tents that consisted of nothing more than a whiskey barrel with a plank that served as a bar.
But that's where Doc kept his office—closer to the action no doubt. Although lots of injuries occurred up at the mines, a more impressive number happened right here in the middle of all thetaverns, drink tending to make a man a little less cautious and often times a hell of a lot more foolish.
The occasional cat-call or whistle marked their passing, but for the most part they might as well have been invisible. People in Silverthread tended to mind their own business. He pulled the wagon to a halt in front of Doc's office and jumped down. "How's he doing?" He shot a worried look at the old ranch hand.
"Better I think. Although the bouncing broke open the wound. He'd bleeding again." Loralee kept her eyes on Pete. They'd hardly spoken since Michael and Cara left. Each lost in their own thoughts.
"Quit talkin' about me as if I was dead already. I ain't." Pete's opened his eyes, and struggled to a sitting position. "'Course if you take me in there," he jerked his head at the office behind him, "my chances of kicking the bucket before my time go up considerably."
"You hush, now, Pete." Loralee ran a soothing hand across the old man's cheek. "Doc needs to see to that leg of yours, and no backtalk is going to change my mind."
Pete frowned, and Patrick bit back a smile. "Come on old man, let's get this over with."
"I ain't old. And I don't need no help." Pete scooted off the wagon, but almost toppled over when he tried to stand on his injured leg.
Patrick quickly flanked him on one side, an arm going around his waist for support.
Pete grinned weakly. "Well, maybe a little help wouldn't be out of line."
Doc Whatley appeared on his other side, lending more support. "Looks like you ran into a little trouble, Pete." They started to walk slowly toward the office door.
"Nothing I couldn't handle. Just didn't want to worry these young folks none." Despite his brave words, Pete's breath was coming in little gasps. "Arless is back there."
"He need help?" Doc shot a concerned look back at the wagon.
Patrick shook his head, his eyes meeting the doctor's.
"Well, why don't you let me have a look at you first, Pete, then we'll see to Arless." They managed to get him into the office and up onto an examining table, Pete grumbling the whole time. "You all wait out there, and I'll see what I can do for Pete." Doc motioned to the waiting area they'd just come through.
"You go on and find Owen, Patrick. I'll be fine. If Doc gives me any trouble, I'll just wallop him." Pete grinned and then lay back, closing his eyes.
"He'll be fine." Doc nodded at them, and then turned to his patient.
"Come on." Loralee pulled Patrick into the waiting room. "I'll stay here and watch out for him. You need to tell Owen what's going on. Michael and Cara are counting on you."
Patrick nodded, his gaze meeting hers. "Thank you, Loralee—for everything." There really wasn't anything else to say, or if there was, he hadn't earned the right to say it.
