Page 41 of The Promise
"Oh, hell." Cara was looking in the direction of her gallery. "I forgot to sign the manifest. If I do it now, it'll save me a trip into town tomorrow. It'll just take a minute. You don't mind, do you?"
"I'll go with you."
As they walked toward the gallery, Michael pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd bought at the restaurant. He'd always rolled his own, but Cara had explained that now days people bought them pre-rolled. He tapped the end against the packet and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. Not bad.
They reached the gallery and Cara unlocked the door. "You'll have to stay outside with that."
He looked down at the cigarette in confusion.
"My rule. No smoking in the building. There are propane heaters in there."
"Propane?" He fumbled with the word. Everything was so different here.
"It's a fuel. Like kerosene. It's used for cooking and heating. Unfortunately it's also a major fire hazard. Especially space heaters. One stray spark and kablooey."
The danger of fire was something he understood. Fire had devastated Silverthread on more than one occasion in his day. He drew on his cigarette, oddly comforted. Maybe things weren't that different after all.
"I really ought to have central heat installed," Cara continued, "but it's expensive. So until I can afford it, I just have to be really careful. No cigarettes." She smiled up at him. "I'll be right back."
The door shut and Michael took another pull on the cigarette. Across the street was a theatre of some kind, housed in what had been Timberman's Hotel. He walked across the road for acloser look, thinking about Nick Vargas. Something about their last encounter bothered him.
He replayed the conversation, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Still he couldn't shake the idea that there was something he should have picked up on. Something familiar. But whatever it was, it remained stubbornly out of reach. Maybe it was just that he didn't like the man, and judging from their conversation the feeling was mutual.
He stubbed the cigarette out against the wall of the theatre and was turning to look for Cara when the roar of an explosion split the night. Bright tongues of orange and red shot into the starry sky, eerily illuminating the gallery across the street.
Michael opened his mouth to yell for help, but nothing came out. Flames danced from the windows, licking at the cold mountain air, feeding greedily on the wooden store front.
Heart in his throat, Michael began to run toward the building.
Cara was still inside.
11
"Ibeg your pardon?" Patrick leaned forward in his chair, trying to follow the course of the conversation.
Ginny sat, unruffled, looking more like she was discussing a list of the day's chores than the death of her child. "I said that Amos Striker killed my girl."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking first at one woman and then the other. Loralee sat calmly sipping her tea. Obviously Ginny's revelation was not news to her.
"Ginny's daughter lived in Tintown."
Tintown was another mining camp. It had peaked a year or so back, but it was still a lively place, producing a fair amount of silver.
"She was a…in my line of work," Loralee continued. The tell tale blush was back.
Patrick found it entrancing. Hell, he found her entrancing. Not that he'd ever really considered the notion of hooking up with a prostitute. No siree. Owen would have a conniption fit. Still, the idea was suddenly mighty appealing. He felt his face grow hot, and pushed his thoughts aside. He had no businessthinking like that. With a sigh of regret, he turned his attention back to Ginny.
"Della was a pretty girl. Smart, too. But people don't have much use for girls with half Indian blood." Ginny's voice held no bitterness, no apology. "She was determined to make it on her own. So she took the only job she could find. At first I thought she was doing the wrong thing. To give yourself without love…"
She paused, her gaze locking with Loralee's. The younger woman touched her hand. With one gesture she conveyed her understanding. Ginny turned back to Patrick. "I came to accept it, though. She was happy. Or she seemed to be. Then she methim."
"Striker?"
Ginny nodded. "He was always coming 'round. Even here once. I could see he wasn't no good, but all Della could see were those blue eyes. Figured herself in love with him."
"Why didn't you do something about it?"
"You haven't got kids." It was a statement not a question.
