Page 15 of The Promise
He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "No."
With a shrug, she dropped it in a nearby trashcan then quickly cleaned the wound. Using the gauze and Neosporin, she formed a pad of sorts which she bound in place with tape and strips torn from the pillow case. Not the best bandage ever made, but certainly one that would do for now.
Michael appeared to have passed out, or at least was sleeping. She cleaned up some of the mess, leaving most of the medicine on the bedside table, then carefully removed his boots, and covered him with a blanket.
Exhausted, Cara crawled up onto the bed, ignoring the fact that she was essentially sleeping with a stranger. Well, maybe not a stranger. She'd certainly slept with him before. It was too much for her tired mind to try and work out, and besides, there was only one bed, and her bedmate was in no condition to take advantage of the situation.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift, comforted by the fact that she could feel him breathing. It was probably her imagination, but he already seemed cooler. Just as sleepthreatened to overtake her, she felt him move. She turned to look at him, meeting his steady cobalt gaze, shivering at the intensity of his stare.
"Thank you…Cara." He briefly caressed her cheek, his touch soft like the gentle kiss of a butterfly. Then his hand dropped and his eyes closed as he slipped back into the healing arms of Morpheus.
"You're welcome." The whispered words were wasted, but her heart sang at the sound of her name. He knew her. Hewasreal. The explanations could come later.
She dropped her hand into his, reveling in the feel of his warmth, knowing that life coursed through his veins. By reflex, or intention, his fingers tightened around hers. With a smile, she let herself slide into sleep.
Sunlight filteredthrough the closed curtains, making a cheerful pattern on the quilt. Michael stretched, trying to remember where he was. A dull pain radiated from his shoulder. He frowned as memory flooded back. The gunshot, the mine tunnel—Cara. He turned to look at the pillow next to him. Empty.
She was gone.Again.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. He remembered Cara removing the bullet and then things were a little hazy. Mainly he'd slept, but he also had recollections of her lying beside him, warm and alive. He felt his body respond to his thoughts, a sure sign he was on the road to recovery. Something he obviously owed to Cara and her medicine.
She'd woken him several times, insisting that he take more of the little tablets. He glanced at the array of medicine on theside table. The bottles were odd, made of a substance he didn't recognize. He touched the big brown one. Hard, yet pliable. Certainly strange, but no doubt there was an explanation. Besides, who was he to argue with success? He wondered briefly what it was she'd given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working.
He sat up and rotated his shoulder cautiously. The wound was tender, but his head was clear and he was certain the infection was gone. He looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. The furnishings were simple with bright spots of color here and there. Definitely a feminine touch.
There were vases of flowers everywhere. And stacks of books. He picked one up from the bedside table.This Rough Magic. The title seemed to mirror the situation. Magic was about the only thing he could think of to explain the fact that she'd appeared in the mine tunnel just when he'd needed her most.
He put the book down, shaking his head at the wild turn of his thoughts. There was certainly no such thing as magic. Rough or otherwise. He turned his attention back to the room, more than a little curious about the woman who owned it.
The focal point of the room was a magnificent watercolor. He didn't know much about art, but the painting was good, a landscape, painted somewhere in the mountains. The silvery line of a stream marked the edge of a small clearing. He could almost smell the tangy scent of pine and feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The colors were muted, giving the entire scene a dreamy feel. He smiled to himself. He'd actually almost used the word romantic.
The center of the canvas was dominated by a huge blue spruce, its massive branches bending low, almost touching the ground. The scene was somehow familiar. He studied it through narrowed eyes, and, when understanding came, felt a surprising sense of elation.
It was the mine tunnel.
Just behind the great spruce, in the shadows of its limbs, he could see the opening. And in the mottled browns and blacks of the tunnel, he could just make out the image of two figures intertwined. With energy he was surprised he possessed, he got out of the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of the painting. He stared at the couple. The brush strokes were strong, emotions laid bare. In barely six inches of space the artist had captured both longing and passion. It reached out from the canvas, surrounding him.
In the corner, faint but discernible was the artist's signature.Cara Reynolds. A shiver ran down his spine.
She hadn't forgotten.
A small, tarnished brass plaque at the bottom of the frame caught his attention. He read the words and then, with his heart pounding, read them again. Lovers' Reunion. He suddenly felt absurdly happy. Bending closer, he tried to make out the date underneath the title. As he read it, his joy changed to confusion—confusion to shock. He sat down on the end of the bed with a thud. According to the plaque, the painting had been completed in January of 1993. He sucked in a ragged breath. Nineteen ninety-three?
Cara's watercolor had been painted just over a hundred and thirty years after he was born.
5
Duncan Macpherson was dead. Loralee bit her lip, surprised at the swell of emotion. She'd certainly cared for the old man, but in her business it didn't pay to make attachments.
"Are you sure?" she asked, fastening the last of the buttons on her bodice.
The burly miner pulled up his pants, popping one suspender into place on his shoulder. "Heard it up at the mine. They found him on the road to Clune. Figure word's spread all over town by now." He pulled the other suspender into place and buttoned his fly with a satisfied grin. "Mighty fine time, Loralee." He reached into his pocket and threw a coin down on the bed. "I'll be back next payday." With a jaunty salute, he strode out the door, slamming it behind him.
Loralee sank to the bed, reaching automatically for the coin. Duncan was dead. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to make sense of it, wondering what had possessed him to head for home without Jack.
Jack.
She rushed to the window, her heart pounding. The sway-backed sorrel was still tied to the post outside. He lifted baleful brown eyes and whinnied softly.
