Page 89 of The Promise
"None of it does." Michael's words were firm, his expression grim. "But the fact is it's all true. Nine years ago, I found Cara in the snow."
"And if he hadn't been there, I would have died," Cara said picking up the story. "But once the crisis passed, and my grandfather came for me, we got separated again."
"Until I got shot." Michael moved to stand by Cara.
"And then she rescued you," Loralee finished with a faint smile. Patrick shot her a look. "Well, I like that part." She stuck her chin out. "A woman saving a man. Seems to me there's something kinda nice about a time where women and men are treated as equals."
"Maybe so." Patrick shrugged. "But that only makes the story more nonsensical."
"Patrick. We've been over this and over this." Michael ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And nothing I can say is going to make it easier to accept. You'll just have to take my word about what happened. The important thing now is to deal with Amos Striker."
A loud groan issued from somewhere inside the house, followed by a string of extremely colorful oaths, some of whichCara had never heard before. Loralee stood up, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Before we take on Amos Striker, sounds to me like we'd better see to Pete."
"I don't want any more."Pete closed his mouth with a click, his teeth locking firmly together. "Tastes like horse piss."
"It's willow bark tea." Loralee said. "Ginny says it helps with fever."
"The Ute woman? I ain't drinking no Indian tree potion."
"Come on, Pete, you don't mean to tell me that after all you've been through you're going to balk at a little tea?" Patrick lifted the old man's shoulders and Loralee held the cup up to his lips. He grumbled, but opened his mouth and obediently drained the cup.
"So what the hell happened out there?" He looked first at Michael and then at Patrick.
"We're not really sure. Cara killed the man in the barn. She thought it was Amos Striker." Michael blew out a breath and shrugged.
"And it wasn't?" Pete's brows pulled together in consternation.
Patrick shook his head, remembering the dead man's face. "Nope. It was some guy I've never seen before."
"I recognized him," Loralee added. "His name's Joe Ingersoll."
Pete stroked his moustache. "Bad hombre. Do anything for money." He looked over at Cara. "You telling me that little thing brought down Ingersoll?"
Cara's head shot up, her eyes flashing. "Why is it no one can believe I shot the man?"
Michael held up a hand. "Easy, honey, I saw you." He turned back to the old man. "Trust me, Pete, she's a whole lot tougher than she looks."
Pete grinned. "Just what you need, boy." He sobered. "Any sign of Striker at all?"
Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the cigarillo butts. "Only these. Found them under one of the pine trees where Cara said she saw a rifle barrel."
Pete lifted his head for a look. "So hewasout there."
"Someone was. Probably him. And I figure he high-tailed it once he saw that Ingersoll was dead." Michael dropped the butts onto the table.
"Amos never was one to go against the odds," Pete agreed.
"You mean he's a coward?" Cara eyed them all quizzically.
"Yellow as they come," Pete grunted, then looked up at Loralee, who was refilling his cup. "Any chance I could get some whiskey?"
She shook her head. "More tea."
"Hell." He jerked upward as a spell of coughing shook his entire body.
"I think it's time we get you to bed." She gave him a fierce look.
"I ain't going." Pete crossed his bony arms across his chest, wincing a little with the movement. "I want to talk to Michael some more."
