Page 88 of The Promise
She wondered what he was doing here, then dismissed the thought. His kind could always be bought, and Amos Striker wasn't the kind to do his dirty work alone. She resisted the urge to kick the body, and instead stepped over him into the barn. Jack gave a baleful whinny, but, aside from that, the place was empty.
She frowned and stepped back into the barnyard, scanning the area for signs of life. Nothing here but the dead. Arless' body lay sprawled off to the left of the barn, looking for all the world as if he'd just stopped for a nap. Tears filled her eyes, as the old miner's voice filled her head—talk of griddle cakes and butter.
Arless Hurley had been a good man. Maybe not a sober one, but a damn fine one just the same. The least she could do was show him some respect. She stepped back over Joe and grabbed an old blanket hanging from a peg in the stable, then stepped back outside and walked over to her friend's body.
His eyes stared sightlessly up at the fading blue of the sky. She swallowed back tears, and bent to gently close them. Then, with reverent hands, she flipped the blanket out, letting it drift slowly downward, covering his battered body.
Kneeling beside him, she lowered her head, searching for the right words. "Lord, you know I ain't exactly on your list of holy folks, but I got an honest heart and this here was a good man. So you be sure and open those pearly gates for Arless. He's on his way. And if you got any whiskey, you better hide it, 'cause I suspect he'll be ready for more than a drop when he gets there."
She paused and studied the wool-covered mound, the pain of the moment nearly her undoing. "God's speed, Arless." She crossed herself, surprised that she remembered how. It had been a long time since she'd been in a church.
She stood up and surveyed the surrounding countryside, her eyes searching for any sign of Patrick. A slight movement from beyond the corral caught her attention and she let go a whoop when she recognized his tall figure emerging from a stand of pines.
There were two others with him. One man, bigger than Patrick, walked beside him, their dark heads bent together, obviously deep in conversation. The other figure was smaller, a woman dressed like a man.
She frowned, watching as the group drew closer, trying to puzzle out who the newcomers might be. Finally she shrugged. It didn't really matter. Whoever they were, Patrick seemed happy to see them. She glanced down at Arless and then over at Joe Ingersoll's body, shivering.
Lord knew they could use some friendly faces right about now.
Cara hungback a little as they walked toward the house, wanting to give the brothers time together. The resemblance was almost uncanny. The two dark heads, bent together in conversation were almost identical. There was no chance anyone could possibly miss the fact that they were brothers. She felt a little pang of jealousy. An only child, she'd never experienced the bond that siblings had, but looking at the two of them, she knew it must be something special.
In the aftermath of everything that had happened, Cara again felt terribly drained, as if all the emotion had simply been sucked out of her.
She swallowed back beginnings of tears. Now was definitely not the time for a melt-down. Amos Striker was out there somewhere, and they had to find him—to eliminate the threat to Michael. Then her job would be done, and it would be time to go back where she belonged.
If she could find her way.
As if he'd read her thoughts, Michael slowed his pace, waiting until she caught up, looping a casual arm around her shoulders, still deep in conversation with his brother. She could see the ranch house illuminated in the last fading rays of the sun. It looked so much smaller than it did in her time, but still the lines were familiar. Comforting in some intrinsic kind of way. Perhaps home was home no matter the time. She shook her head at her own silly musings.
She was a hell of a long way from The Meadows. This was Clune.
1888.
"Cara?" Patrick's voice pulled her from her troubled thoughts, and she was surprised to see that they'd arrived in the barnyard. "This is Loralee."
Cara looked over at the smiling brunette, trying to find the energy to return the gesture, but before she'd managed to move a single facial muscle, she froze, her eyes locked on the necklace around the other woman's neck.
The silver was intricately carved, flowers curving softly across its face. Cara gasped, her heart stutter-stepping to a stop.
Loralee was wearing her great-grandmother's locket.
25
"Idon't believe any of this. People simply do not go traveling through time. It's impossible." Patrick paced in front of the porch steps, his frown underscoring his disbelief.
Cara leaned back against the wall of the house, trying to think of something that would persuade them of the truth. Something that didn't sound like a Jules Verne story. She sighed, realizing that Jules Verne was probably alive and writing somewhere at this very moment.
"I know it's hard to believe, Patrick. I probably wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me, but it's the truth." Michael was leaning against a porch pillar, his relaxed position belying the tense line of his shoulders.
"What I don't understand is the part about you and me being related." Loralee looked over at Cara her eyes filled with a mixture of wonder, disbelief and most amazingly, hope.
"It's the truth. The locket proves it. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. She inherited it from her mother—your Mary."
Loralee's eyes widened and she wrapped her arms around herself. "But, my Mary doesn't have it.I do. And she's just a little girl."
"I know. But someday you'll give it to her." Although, who was to say how things would play out now? In coming here, Cara had changed everything. Who knew what would happen when she went back. Hopefully, there was a happy ending for Loralee. She smiled at the younger woman, pushing away her negative thoughts. "And then she'll pass it on to my mother and then to me."
"And then you'll come here and … " Loralee's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "It just don't make sense."
