Page 32 of The Promise
The sympathy in his eyes was hard to bear. "If we could only see the future, we'd all handle things differently."
She nodded, wiping angrily at her tears. "I'm okay. I don't know why I told you all of that. It's just that there isn't anyone in my life. It hurts too much when you lose them."
"Not everyone leaves, Cara." His gaze met hers, his eyes intense.
She looked away, glancing at the clock, trying to ignore the tangled emotions building inside her. "It's late. We've been talking for hours. I shouldn't have let you go this long without a rest and something to eat." She eyed him guiltily, knowing she was babbling.
"And we need to change your bandage. Maybe you could start with a shower." That always made her feel better when she was sick. Not that he was sick exactly. In fact, at the moment, he looked remarkably healthy. Oh, Lord. She stood up, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt.
He stood, too, catching her restless fingers between his palms as he pulled her closer. She wanted him so badly she couldactually feel it burning in her gut, but she was also aware that her batting average with men was zero. What if she let him down? Or worse, what if he only wanted her for now. She wasn't sure she could give herself to this man without knowing it was forever.
Her brain reiterated all these thoughts as her body melded to his. His heat seared through her and she thought she might not survive the sheer joy of touching him. She tipped back her head and met the question in his blue-black gaze.
With an almost super human effort, she pushed away, her head winning over her mutinous body by a nose. She shuddered as they separated, the ache inside shifting from her gut to her heart.
She pasted on what she hoped was a carefree smile and tried to ignore the flash of hurt in his eyes. "Come on, I'll show you how to work the shower."
She turned away, trying to keep her emotions in check.
Michael Macpherson wasn't forever—couldn't be forever.
9
"He would have liked it up here." Owen's voice was hushed, almost reverent, as he looked out across the valley.
Patrick followed his gaze. The grave was situated in a tiny meadow at the top of what Michael had always called the hump back, a high bumpy cliff hanging out over the river. From here the ranch was visible, spreading out across the valley floor, and more important really, the mountains swooped down to the ridge, inviting a person to climb higher, deeper, into their waiting purple majesty. His father had always been drawn to the mountains.
"He spent a good part of his life in these mountains, made and lost a fortune here. I thought it only right he be buried here." Patrick looked at the grave marker, his voice filled with sorrow and a trace of bitterness.
"He was a good man, and he wouldn't want you to waste time grieving."
Patrick shrugged. "It's hard, especially when Amos Striker seems to believe that my brother murdered my father for the plunder from some non-existent silver strike."
"Now, Patrick, you have to admit that from Amos' point of view the facts fit. He's just doing his job." Owen's words were meant to be comforting, but Patrick didn't feel a bit better.
"The only way I'll ever believe Michael murdered anyone is if he tells me so himself." Patrick held the older man's gaze, surprised when he turned away.
"I expect all the talk will come to nothing. With any luck, Michael will come riding in here with some wild story, and the whole thing will be over."
His eyes searched the valley floor, almost as if Owen's words could somehow conjure up his brother. "I hope so. But that won't change the fact that my father's dead."
"No. It won't." Owen straightened the brim of his hat, and sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't get out here sooner. I meant to, but things just got away from me. Seems there was a little excitement in town yesterday. Some whore decided life wasn't all it was cracked up to be."
"I know, I was there."
Owen frowned. "At the cribs? Jesus, Patrick, how many times have I told you about those places?"
Patrick let out a harsh laugh. "God, Owen, what do you take me for? I lose my father and brother in one fell swoop and then head off to the cribs for a little carnal merry-making? Sounds more like something Amos Striker would do."
"Why would you say that?" Owen queried, brows drawn together in confusion.
"I don't know. No solid reason, really. He just seems the type. Speaking of which, any idea where our fair-haired boy was yesterday? I tried to report the death, but he was nowhere to be found."
Owen shook his head. "I've absolutely no idea. The last time I saw him was with you."
Patrick shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Doc handled things. I just thought he ought to be informed about the death."
"Of a whore? Patrick, who cares if some two bit floozy uses laudanum to buy herself a ticket straight to hell? I say we're better off without her."
