Page 87 of The Promise
Michael lowered the gun and stood up, anger and relief rocketing through him. "Patrick, what the hell are you doing? I damn near shot you."
Patrick lowered his hands, the expression on his face mirroring Michael's feelings exactly. "Me? I should be asking you that. You're the one who's been missing for three days. What the hell do you thinkyou'redoing?"
"Rescuing you."
Patrick frowned, his eyes narrowing. "And just what made you think I needed rescuing?"
"You didn't look to be doing so good from where I was standing, little brother."
"Well, it was just a matter of time. I had things under control." He shifted, emotions playing across his face. "Father's dead." The words hung between them, anger evaporating. "And then I thought you were dead, too…" The words trailed off, anguish playing across Patrick's face.
Michael closed the distance between them in two strides, pulling his brother into a bear hug, grateful for the warm solid nineteenth century feel of his own flesh and blood.
"Michael?"Cara.
He released Patrick, his eyes meeting hers. Uncertainty dominated her expression, her eyes wide, her teeth pulling at her lower lip. He was home. But she… she was marooned here in a time that was far less civilized than the one she'd come from. He felt a flash of guilt. But before he could think of the right words to say, the look vanished, replaced by determination. Cara was a fighter.
"Did you find any sign of Amos?" Her question broke the silence. Bringing all three of them firmly back to the present—and the issue of Amos Striker.
Patrick's face hardened. "Was he here? Cara said there was a second shooter."
Michael raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Obviously there'd been introductions, and there'd come a time for explanations. Explanations that made absolutely no sense. But this wasn't the place. He pulled his thoughts back to Patrick's question, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette butts.
"He was here."
Patrick eyed the tobacco remains. "Shouldn't we go after him?"
Michael shook his head. "It'll be dark soon. Best we wait until the morning. He won't get far tonight."
"You sound like, Pete." Patrick grimaced. "Son of a…" He paused, shooting an embarrassed look at Cara. "I forgot Pete." He turned his gaze to Michael. "He was shot."
"Is he all right?" Fresh concern washed through Michael. Amos Striker's sins were racking up, and Michael fully intended to see him pay.
"He's alive, but he's in bad shape. Loralee's with him."
"Loralee?"
"She's ah… well she's a…" He stumbled over the words, a dark red flush appearing under his tan. "She's a friend. She's been helping me with Father's death."
"A friend?"
"Not like that." The blush deepened. "She knew Father. Was with him right before he was killed. It all started when Amos tried to tell us that you killed Father." Patrick frowned at the memory. "Owen said he was just doing his job. But I didn't believe him. Not after Loralee told me about Corabeth, and then Amos tried to kill her, and I was protecting her… Ah hell. "
Michael leveled a look on his brother. "Looks like I'm not the only one with some explaining to do."
Loralee stood on the porch,her hand raised to shade her eyes from the last of the setting sun. It would be dark in just a little while and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Patrick Macpherson since he'd headed for the barn more than an hour ago. There was only so much a girl could handle, and frankly, she was at the end of her rope.
She glanced over her shoulder through the open door of the cabin. Pete was settled on the cot in the corner, sleeping. His fever was down a little, but she still didn't like his color. With a sigh, she focused her attention back on the barnyard. Best just get on with it. Bolstering her courage, she stepped down onto the rocky ground, the grass brushing against her dress.
She held the rifle ready. At least it evened the odds a bit. Besides everything was quiet. Most likely Patrick had gone out the back of the barn. There hadn't been anymore shots, so hopefully he was fine. Just thoughtless. Leaving them waiting like that without so much as a word.
But then, that's what she got for depending on a man. Seems she still hadn't learned her lesson. And it was such a simple one: Men can't be trusted. They'll leave you crying every time.She grimaced, wondering when it was exactly that she'd come to care about Patrick Macpherson anyway. He was just a pup, still wet behind the ears. Wasn't any room in her life for personal involvement. She was a working girl, pure and simple. She didn't need anybody to take care of her. She was doing just fine on her own.
She started for the barn, the tall grass was waving in the wind. Reaching the building she looked in and caught a glimpse of color. Her stomach clenched and her heart started to pound. There was a body here—a man sprawled on the ground in the center of the hay.
She gripped the rifle tighter and edged up to him, nudging him gingerly with her toe. Dead. He was dead. And he wasn't Patrick. She released her breath on a whoosh, and pulled her skirts back to step around him, intent on finding Patrick. But the dead man's features were burned into her brain and she stopped short, realizing she recognized him.
Even death couldn't remove the cruel twist of his mouth and the harsh angle of his jaw. Joe Ingersoll. Probably wanted in a dozen counties. She couldn't say she was sorry he was dead. Word had it he had roughed up several of the girls over in Tintown.
