Page 82 of The Promise
He tried to clear his mind of the awful images his imagination was dredging up, to concentrate instead on what to do next. They had to get closer, to get a better feel for the situation without anyone knowing they were there. His gaze fell on a stand of pine trees just below the ridge. Large boulders,the residue of a long ago landslide, dotted the slope between the aspens and the pines. "There." He pointed at the trees below them. "We go there."
She followed the line of his hand and stared at the trees. "And how exactly do you propose we get from here to there without being seen?"
"Those rocks will provide cover. And once we're in place, we should be close enough to make out who the…" He stopped, rage and anguish mixing inside him, filling him with hopelessness.
"Michael, it's not Patrick. You have to believe that."
He looked down into her eyes, trying to let her steady gaze comfort him, but the reality was too grim. "Well, somebody's dead down there, and I'm pretty damn certain it isn't Amos Striker. And if it isn't him…" He stopped, trying not to think the worst.
"My grandfather always said to believe in the best even when the worst is staring you in the face."
"Sounds reasonable." He tried to let her words buoy him, but his doubts continued to suck at him, pulling him deeper into the quagmire of his fear. If the newspaper article was right, he'd already lost a father, and now it looked like he was too late to save his brother. He shook his head, trying to shift his thoughts away from the macabre image of Patrick sprawled across the yard. "What else did your grandfather say?"
"That it's best to face your fears head on." She struggled to smile, but only managed a lopsided grimace. He blessed her for the effort.
"All right, then." He turned back to Clune. "Let's go." He started down the hill, his mind fervently praying that the body wasn't his brother's.
"How's he doing?"Patrick knelt beside Pete and Loralee, his gaze meeting hers.
"Not good." She ran a gentle hand along the old man's cheek.
Sweat beaded out across Pete's forehead and he moaned, his shoulders twitching in agitation. Patrick reached out to still him and was shocked as heat seared his hand. "He's burning up."
"I know. And it's just getting worse. I'm real worried."
"How long has he been asleep?"
"For at least an hour. I haven't been able to wake him up." She bit her lower lip, her face reflecting her fear. "Patrick, I don't think he can wait until sunset."
"All right, I'll go now. You cover me from the window." His Colt at the ready, he moved to the closed door and placed a hand on the doorknob. He watched as Loralee crawled across the floor to the window. She stopped about halfway, jerking up a hand, sucking on her palm. "You all right?"
"Fine. I just cut my hand a little." She tore a ruffle from her sleeve and tied it around her hand. "There's glass everywhere." She scooted the last few feet and settled in below the window, raising the Winchester so that the butt rested on her shoulder, the muzzle propped on the window sill.
"You ready?"
"I think so." Her gaze darted over to him and he read a thousand things in their luminous depths, none of them making it any easier to pull open the door, but Pete moaned and he knew it was time. Sucking in a breath, he yanked the door open, stepping onto the porch just as a rifle blast filled the air.
A bullet smashed into the transom a couple of inches from his head, and before he could even react, a second one splinteredthe wood of the doorjamb. He jumped back, swinging the door shut with enough force that the remaining window glass shook in its frame. The door clicked shut just as a third bullet hit it with a thwack.
He dropped down and scrambled to the window, already hearing the crack of the Winchester as Loralee tried to return fire. "Hang on. You're not going to hit anything and we need to preserve the bullets. He's just trying to draw our fire."
Loralee lowered the gun. "I just wish I could see him."
"I know, but he's not going to show himself now. Not when he's got us right where he wants us." He looked out the window, too, searching the barnyard for signs of the intruder. Loralee slid down to the floor, eyes closed, holding her injured hand in her lap. "You okay?"
Her eyes fluttered open and she held it out for him to see. The makeshift bandage was red with blood, but it was dark and already starting to dry. "It's just a cut."
"I promised I'd take care of you, Loralee, and now…well, it looks like I may not be able to keep that promise." He ran a hand down her cheek and she covered his fingers with hers, a spark of lightning shooting up his arm at the contact.
"It's all right, Patrick, promises ain't all they's cracked up to be anyway." She pulled her hand away, her eyes shifting to the window. "We're not going to get out of here are we?"
She already knew the answer. He could see it there in her eyes. Sugar coating things wasn't going to help one iota. Now was a time for honesty if ever there was one. "No, angel, I don't expect that we will."
"What the hell?"Michael stared at the house, listening as the last of the shots died away. One minute his brother had been outlined in the doorway, and the next, all hell had broken loose, bullets flying everywhere. Everything had happened so quickly there hadn't been time to react.
"Was that—" Cara stirred beside him, her eyes wide, her breathing audible.
"Patrick." Michael finished for her, his eyes still riveted on the ranch house. A gun barrel flashed in the setting sunlight as it was withdrawn from the window. That meant there were at least two people inside. Patrick and Pete? His eyes jerked back to the body in the yard, recognition dawning. Not Pete. Arless Hurley.
