Page 105 of The Promise
"He's behind all of this," he cut her off. His heart plummeting. He'd placed his faith in the wrong person, and because of it, he'd failed to see who the real enemy was.
"But I don't understand why, Patrick." Loralee looked up at him, confusion playing across her pretty face.
"I don't either, but I intend to find out." He spun around intent on finding something in the office that explained what the hell was going on. Once again his whole world had turned upside down, but this time Patrick wasn't going to just hide from it. No sir. He was going to face it head on.
He yanked open a drawer on one side of Owen's desk. It was full of ledgers, neatly organized by date. He pulled one out and quickly discarded it, already reaching for another. Account books for the Irish Rose. Frustrated, he slammed the drawer shut and pulled open the bottom drawer.
This one was less tidy than the other. His eyes locked on a black rectangular object, the gold embossing hauntingly familiar. Reaching for it with a shaking hand, his fingers closed around the cool ebony union case, confirming what his eyes already knew.
"What is it?" He felt the soft whisper of Loralee's hair against his shoulder as she bent over to see what he held in his hand.
Slowly he opened the little case, his heart pounding as horrifying thoughts poured through his head. His eyes focused on the image in the frame. The woman in the picture smiled up at him, and he felt tears pricking the back of his eyes.
Loralee's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Patrick, what's wrong. Who is that?"
Wrenching his gaze away from the daguerreotype, he looked up at her.
"It's my mother."
"Rose?"Loralee looked up at Patrick and then back at the smiling face in the union case. The woman was pretty, in an elfin sort of way. Dark hair and flawless pale skin. The eyes were Patrick's—emerald green. Irish eyes. It seemed Patrick resembled his mother even more than his father.
"My mother," Patrick repeated in confirmation, his face locked into a mask of disbelief.
"Patrick?" She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I don't understand."
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his voice full of anxiety. "This belonged to my mother. There used to be a picture of my father, here." He pointed to the inside of the lid of the case. Sure enough, there were little yellowed bits in the corners as if something had been torn out. "They had their pictures made right after they were married. There was a photographer." He paused, lost in his own thoughts.
"Where?" Loralee urged gently.
"Some fair out by the seashore. My mother said it was a remembrance of a perfect day. She always carried it with her." He turned the case over. "See? There's a pin here. She wore it fastened to the inside of her shirtwaist. So that she wouldn't lose it." He looked up at her, his eyes full of pain. "She'd never willingly let anyone have this, Loralee, never."
"Of course not." She knew the words were inadequate, but she wanted so much to comfort him.
Sparks shot from his eyes. "It was Owen, Loralee. It was all Owen. He killed my mother. That's the only way he could possibly have this."
She met his gaze, her anger echoing his. If what Patrick was saying was true, then he'd killed Zach, too. "But why?"
Patrick stood up, tucking the union case into his shirt pocket. "I don't know for certain."
Loralee met his gaze, understanding dawning. "You think he's gone for the silver."
"I'd bet my life on it."
A new thought occurred to her, terror rising in its wake. "But Michael and Cara?—"
He nodded grimly. "Are riding into a death trap."
30
"So, Amos Striker was behind the whole thing." Owen sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
"It seems the most logical explanation." Michael methodically broke off pieces of a stick, throwing them into the fire.
Cara leaned back against a rock, allowing the conversation to flow around her, watching Michael's surrogate father. They'd filled Owen in on almost everything. At least everything relevant to Amos and the silver. The rest, Loralee and Zach, and the fact that half the story had taken place a little over a hundred and ten years in the future, would only have provided needless confusion.
"The question, my boy, is why did he do it?" Owen tilted his head quizzically and Cara forced her wandering mind back to the conversation.
"Greed, most likely. I guess we'll never know for sure now."
