Page 85 of The Promise
"It's hard to tell," Patrick said, his eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "I think there's something on the ground by the barn door, but I can't say for certain."
"I can't see anything either, but I definitely heard gunshots." She chewed on her lower lip, nervously.
Patrick tightened his grip on the rifle. "Me, too. From the direction of the barn."
"Any possibility help has arrived?" She turned to look at him, hope surfacing, swelling through her.
"Maybe. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if we knew exactly who was in there doing the shooting." He scooted towards the door.
"All right. Give me the rifle. I'll cover you."
He paused, and their eyes locked, something hanging between them that she wasn't ready to recognize, let alone accept. With a faint smile, he tossed her the rifle, and drew his Colt.
He inched the door open. Loralee held her breath, waiting for the resulting gunfire.
Nothing happened.
He opened the door wider, this time sticking his hat out. Again nothing.
He swung the door all the way open and stepped out onto the porch. Loralee bit her lip, keeping the rifle trained on the barn.
Silence. The porch creaked under his weight. She tightened her grip on the rifle.
"It seems to be clear." He moved toward the window, stepping into her line of vision. "I'm going to try the barn. Wish me luck."
"You won't need it."
Brave words. Now if only they proved true.
Cara leaned back against a stall,eyes closed, drained of all emotion and energy. The strain of the last few days was taking its toll. She had no idea when she'd last slept. In fact, she had no idea what day it was. She let out a strangled little laugh. In truth, she wasn't even certain whatyearit was.
Somewhere deep inside, she was worried for Michael, but her body had had enough, checking out of active duty. She couldn't even find the energy to lift a hand and scratch the old horse. He'd obviously accepted the fact, but bless him, he still stood guard, his head hanging out over the stall, just above hers, protecting her in his own equine way. She felt absurdly grateful.
"Move an inch and you're a dead." The voice came from the shadows of the stall to her right.
Cara felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. She couldn't move an inch even if he had ordered it.
"Drop the rifle and raise your hands."
She tried to force herself to let go of the rifle clutched in her right hand. No go. The hand had taken personal leave along with the rest of her body. She struggled for her voice, surprised when it came out sounding fairly normal. "I can't move." The horse nickered in agreement, bending his neck to nuzzle her head.
The voice disentangled itself from the shadows, taking the form of a fierce green-eyed devil. Cara winced as the horsenipped at her ear. "Cut it out." She slapped at the sorrel, delighted to see that her mobility had returned.
The man was eyeing her as though she had flown in on a space ship. Which actually wasn't too far off from reality now that she thought about it. She realized she ought to be afraid, but found that she simply didn't have the energy.
Dropping the rifle, she looked up into the man's face, surprised to see that she recognized it. Or at least parts of it. The dark hair fell forward in a familiar way, and the jut of the chin reminded her of another that was just as stubborn. This man was a stranger, and yet she knew him. "Patrick." The word came out on a sigh. She recognized the relief in her voice, and was pleased to note that she still had some emotion left.
"Who the hell are you?" The green eyes flashed with anger and she recognized the turn of his mouth.
Now there was a good question. Let's see, she was Michael's lover who just happened to be from the future. That ought to be a winner. And, in a brilliant imitation of television'sThe Rifleman, she'd had the very great pleasure of pumping a nineteenth century sheriff full of lead, not to mention the fact that she'd done a fair imitation of indestructible, surviving a fire, an assault and a cave-in.
She leaned back against the stall again, ignoring the sorrel's love nudges. Oh yes, she'd almost forgotten, she was also the newest paramour of an over-the-hill equine. She decided on simplicity. "Cara. I'm Cara."
The rifle lowered and Patrick's look of anger changed to one of disbelief. "Michael's Cara?"
She'd have bowed if she'd been standing, instead she tipped her head, a weak imitation of royalty. Or at least what she assumed would be considered the regal nod. "One and the same."
"But…" Now Patrick looked totally confused.
