Page 86 of The Promise
She took pity on him. It wasn't his fault she'd just been through more crises than aDie Hardmovie. It wasn't fair to take it out on him. "I came with your brother."
Instantly hope flared in his eyes. It was eerie how much he reminded her of Michael. "He's alive?"
"Yes." She struggled to stand, relieved when he reached out to help her. Once on her feet, she felt more stable. "He's out looking for the other man."
"What other man?" Patrick asked, supporting her as they walked.
"There were two of them. Amos over there." She motioned toward the booted feet of the dead man. "And someone else."
They reached the body and Cara steeled herself to take a look.
"Did Michael kill him?"
Cara wrenched her gaze away. "No, I did."
"You?"
She felt a surge of indignation, the emotion refreshing her. "Yes,me. He was trying to kill Michael."
Patrick nudged the man with his toe, and Cara was relieved when nothing moved. "This isn't Amos Striker."
It was Cara's turn to be confused. "What?"
"You said this was Striker. It's not. I've never seen this man in my life."
Cara sucked in a breath, one hand clutching at Patrick's arm. "If this isn't Amos Striker, then he's probably out there right now—with Michael."
Patrick placed both hands on her shoulders, the intensity of his gaze feeding her panic. "Which way did he go?"
"Toward the stand of pines behind the corral."
"How long ago?"
"I don't know. Not long. Maybe a quarter of an hour."
"All right, you stay here. I'm going after him."
Cara ran back to Jack's stall, surprised at how quickly she could move. Grabbing the rifle, she sprinted after Patrick, catching him at the edge of the corral. "I'm coming with you."
After everything they'd been through, she wasn't about to let Amos Striker win.
24
Michael stood in the shelter of the towering pines holding back a curse. Striker, if he'd ever actually been there, was long gone. Probably hit the trail as soon as the shooting broke out. He blew out a breath and knelt in the pine needles beside a small sapling.
From here, the vantage point was perfect. He could see the ranch house, and the barn. He studied the area, searching for signs that someone had been here. Something to prove Cara's theory that there had indeed been a second shooter.
There were soft indentations in the ground, and some of the needles had been disturbed, but that wasn't enough. He needed solid proof. He shifted, his eyes scanning the ground. With a sharp intake of breath, his gaze froze on a spot at the foot of a large pine.
Cigarette butts.
His mind's eye obediently hauled out an image of Amos Striker, a thin cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. Cara was right. The son of a bitch had been here. Michael scooped up the remains of the cigarillos, glancing up at the sky. It was almost twilight. Not much sense in trying to track Striker tonight.
What he needed to do now was talk to Patrick. See if the two of them could make sense of what was happening. A fresh wave of grief washed through him. If the things he'd learned in Cara's time were right, his father was dead, and by God, the least he could to was bring the man who did it to justice . He dropped the cigarillo butts into his shirt pocket. Unless he missed his guess he knew exactly where he'd find the bastard.
A twig snapped somewhere off to his right, and he pulled his gun, pivoting in the direction of the sound.
"Wait. Don't shoot." Patrick stepped into the shelter of the pines, hands held up in placation. "It's me."
