Page 33 of The Promise
"That's a little harsh, Owen, even for you. I know you don't think much of the profession as a whole, but surely that doesn't mean you wish them all dead?"
"No, of course not. If I sounded harsh, I didn't mean to." He tilted his head to one side, curiosity lighting his face. "You never said what you were doing out by the cribs?"
"I was…ah…just walking, trying to digest the crap Striker was throwing out," he paused, meeting Owen's gaze, "you, too, for that matter."
"I wasn't agreeing or disagreeing with him. I was just trying to listen to the facts and draw conclusions accordingly."
"Well, you're certainly free to believe what you want."
Owen reached over to place a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't believe Michael killed your father, Patrick, and I didn't come out here to fight with you."
Patrick drew in a deep breath and stared at his boot tips. "I know."
"I'm here for you, son. Don't forget that."
Patrick nodded and looked up, his sense of hopelessness overwhelming.
"It's going to be all right. I swear it. You've just got to be patient."
"I know." He strove for an attained a calm he didn't feel. No sense in worrying Owen.
The older man studied him for a bit, and then smiled. "I best get back to town. You never know when Sam's going to take it in his head to provide drinks for the house."
Patrick smiled wryly. "You know as well as I do that Sam's even tighter than you. If that's possible."
Owen wrapped an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Walk with me back to the ranch."
"No. I need to think a bit and this is as good a place as any."
"All right, but I'll come back out in a couple of days to check on you."
"You don't need to do that, Owen. I'll be fine. I'm not a kid anymore."
"I know that. I just worry about you. You're the only family I have left." He pulled Patrick into a brief hug and then let him go. "You know where to find me."
"I do." Patrick watched Owen make his way down the hump back. Everything was so mixed up, he didn't know which way to turn. Every time he thought he was getting a handle on life, it dealt him another blow. And this time he didn't have anyone to shelter him from it.
Except Owen. Patrick shook his head at the train of his thoughts. He didn't want to need anyone. It hurt too damn much. But, at the same time, he wasn't sure what the hell he was going to do on his own.
If Michael was dead—and somehow, he'd actually come to the point where he believed that—then the ranch was his. But what the hell did he want with a ranch? Maybe he'd just give the damn thing to Owen. Or better yet to Pete.
But, at the same time, he couldn't. It was Michael's legacy. Surely he owed it to his brother to make his dream a reality? There were so many questions. What he needed was answers. Patrick ran his hands through his hair, his eye catching on his father's grave.
He walked over to it, looking down at the simple wooden cross. "I don't know what to do." His jaw tightened as he tried to stave off the despair threatening to swallow him whole. "I neverfigured on standing here, and I sure as hell didn't figure on doing it alone."
He knelt by the grave, running a hand through the loose rocks and dirt that covered his father's body. "Tell me what to do. They're saying Michael killed you. They're saying you struck it rich. I don't know what to believe. I don't know who to believe."
The wind whispered across the silent meadow, swirling bits of dust as it passed across the grave. Patrick blew out a breath and opened his eyes, drinking in the cool colors of the mountains, inhaling the pungent scent of freshly turned earth.
There were no answers here.
Patrick feltlike a buffalo in a china shop. He sat at the table across from Loralee, and cattycorner to her friend Ginny, balancing a porcelain cup on his knee. Who'd have thought he'd be having tea with a lady of the line and an Indian squaw, in a rundown old shack, just outside the red light district of a mining camp.
But then who'd have thought his life would have taken any of the turns it had recently.
He lifted the cup to his lips and tried not to slurp the hot liquid.
"Have some cake, Mr. Macpherson."
