Page 34 of The Promise
Jumping at the excuse to put the teacup down, he almost slammed it on the table, putting on the brakes at the last minute and managing to land it with little more than a clatter, only a small amount of tea sloshing into the saucer. His mother would be laughing out loud.
"Thank you. Miz…" He stopped, uncertain how to continue. Folks in these parts, and especially these circumstances, usually didn't have last names, but the moment seemed to call for formality.
"Ginny'll do." The Ute woman smiled at him and he was surprised at the way it lit up her face. Why, she was almost beautiful. Time, and no doubt life, had etched fine lines around her mouth and eyes, but the details only seemed to enhance her appeal. He imagined that she had once been a pretty woman.
He bit into the cake, allowing the buttery flavor to slide into his mouth and down his throat. Heaven, pure heaven. He swallowed and blushed under the amused gaze of his two companions. "I, uh, don't get much cake at Clune," he managed by way of explanation.
"Don't imagine you do." Loralee's smile was warm. It had sort of the same effect as the cake, filling him with warmth and goodness, making him want more. An angel in a hell hole. The words jumped out at him and he was surprised at the poetic turn of his thoughts.
"More?" Ginny held out the plate again, meeting his gaze. From the look reflected there, he was certain that she was well aware of the direction his mind had been going. She smiled tolerantly as he took another slice of cake. "Loralee told me about your father and brother. I'm mighty sorry for your loss."
"Did you know my father?"
"Only in passing. But he was a good man."
Patrick nodded, his mouth full of cake.
"Is there any word on your brother?" Loralee leaned toward him, her warm brown eyes full of concern.
"Nothing." The word sounded so hopeless, so final. "I think I'd have heard from him by now—if he was still alive."
"I'm so sorry."
He wanted to reach out and touch her, to let her know how much her words brought comfort.
Ginny sighed. "Remember, Mr. Macpherson, things are rarely as they seem. One merely has to scratch the surface to see the true reflection."
Patrick frowned. The woman made damn good cake, but she made absolutely no sense. Must be the Ute in her. Seems they were always speaking in riddles. Pete believed they had a direct line to the Almighty that white men couldn't even fathom. "Call me Patrick."
The older woman nodded, managing to look wise and serene all at the same time. Patrick had a sudden longing to tell her all his fears, to unburden himself as if she could wave her hand, and somehow, make this whole nightmare go away.
But he hadn't come here for absolution and he certainly hadn't come for tea and cake, no matter how good it was. He'd come here for answers. "I'm hoping Loralee here can help me get a better understanding of what happened to my father. According to Arless Hurley, you may have been the last person to see him alive." Loralee flinched as if he'd hit her. "Beg pardon, ma'am. I should've qualified that. I didn't mean to imply that you…well that you could have…" He hesitated, embarrassed by his blunder.
Ginny reached over and patted Loralee's hand. "Come now, girl, he's not saying you killed the man. Tell him what you know."
Loralee's face brightened. "There's not too much to tell. Duncan had become something of a regular." She ducked her head, her pale cheeks stained with a blush. It was another contradiction in Loralee. At times she seemed so young and innocent, hardly traits one expected in a soiled dove.
Not that he really knew a whole lot about the subject first hand. Yet another area of his life he was living vicariously through others. He pulled away from his thoughts, forcinghimself to concentrate on the subject at hand. "I need you to try and remember what my father said that last evening." He spoke gently and was rewarded with a nod of approval from Ginny. She leaned back in her chair, subtly withdrawing from the conversation.
"We talked a lot. In fact, you should know that's all we did. Your father just needed a friend, I think. He was so devastated when your mama run out." She paused for a minute, looking at Patrick.
He smiled with what he hoped was encouragement. "Go on."
"Well, that particular night he was in high spirits —"
"You mean he was drunk," Patrick inserted.
"No." She screwed up her eyes in thought. "It was more than that. I mean he was always a little tippled, but this time there was genuine excitement, too. He wasn't making complete sense." She shrugged. "The whiskey, I guess. He kept talking about finding something big."
Patrick watched as she struggled to remember, her tiny little teeth worrying the bottom of her lip. "He spoke about finally finding the silver and how surprised you boys would be."
"He talked about Michael and me?"
She smiled. "All the time. He was so proud of the both of you."
"Michael." Patrick mumbled his brother's name under his breath. "My father was proud of Michael."
"He always said that Michael was the glue of the family. That he was determined to keep you together no matter what."
