They stopped for a moment at the top of the rise, Cara shifting to more comfortably support his weight. The afternoon sun caught him in its light, his haggard features illuminated. His face clearly visible for the first time. Her breath stuttered to a stop, her heart following suit.
She knew this face. She'd memorized it in her dreams.
"Your name?" The words came out on a whisper as she fought for air, for control.
"Michael. Michael Macpherson." Blue eyes snapped opened, his gaze colliding with hers. She could see the recognition there. Feel it.
She swallowed, a wave of dizziness washing through her.
Her heart rejoiced.
Her mind rebelled.
Michael Macpherson didn't exist.
3
Patrick stopped at the top of the rise, reining in his black stallion. From this vantage point, a man could see most of the valley below. The Rio Grande twisted and turned in the distance, a wide silver band carved into the blues and greens of the surrounding countryside. Nestled into a horseshoe shaped curve, he could see Clune.
The framing of the new barn shone white against a backdrop of brownish green meadow grass, dwarfing the older structures. The clouds hung low, almost hiding the mountains. Later, the sun would burn them off, but for now the somber sky mirrored his thoughts.
He'd been riding since sunrise, impatiently exploring the gulches and hollows of the mountains, but there was no sign of his brother. Rationally, he knew it was hopeless. He could look in a thousand places and there'd still be a couple thousand more. It was too easy for a person to get lost up here. Between unpredictable weather and predators, an injured man didn't stand much of a chance.
The sound of hooves against the rocks filtered into his thoughts, pulling his attention away from the valley. With narrowed eyes, he watched the approaching horse, trying to identify the rider. It wasn't Pete. He'd be on the other side of the ridge, searching the higher ground. They'd agreed to meet later at the road.
Patrick laid a hand on his rifle, just in case. The horseman drew closer, raising an arm in greeting. Patrick nodded as he recognized the man, wondering what in the hell Amos Striker was doing this far out of town.
"Mornin', Patrick." Amos reined in his horse, stopping a few feet away.
"Amos." Patrick studied the younger man's face. With his curly hair and whisker-free face, he resembled a choirboy more than a gunman, but Patrick knew his looks were deceptive. He couldn't really say why, but there was something about the sheriff he just didn't like. "What brings you out this way so early?"
"Mrs. Hurley. She seems to have lost Arless again."
Patrick smiled, despite himself. Lena Hurley was a bear of woman with a voice to match her stature. Her husband, Arless, periodically took respite from her constant bellowing by up and disappearing. Not content to let her husband roam around on his own, Lena usually waited a few days and then sent for the sheriff. "You think he's up there somewhere?" Patrick nodded toward the peaks behind him.
Amos fingered the brim of his hat. "Well, he's been known to use that line shack of yours. Thought it was worth a look see."
"Any luck?"
"Nah, he ain't there. Ran into Pete, though. He told me about Michael. Thought maybe you could use some help."
Patrick felt the moment of lightness slip away. He had more important things to think about than Mrs. Hurley's runaway husband. "Much obliged. I've searched the gulches west of Shallow Creek and Pete is covering the area north of here."
"Fine, I'll head east. There's a couple of places a man could shelter up in Grenard Gulch. First thing I'd do if I were shot is head for shelter, and Grenard is the closest canyon to the road."
Patrick glanced sharply at Amos. "What makes you think Michael was shot?"
Amos frowned, studying the reins in his hand. "Don't know really. Pete said you boys found blood on Roscoe's saddle. I just figured most likely thing out here to draw blood is a gunshot. 'Sides, you know as well as I do, we've been having trouble with road agents."
Patrick pushed his hat back, his gaze leveled on the sheriff. "Yeah, but most of that's been up towards Antelope Springs."
Amos grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well now, never did know an outlaw who was much interested in boundaries."
"True enough." Patrick swallowed his sense of uneasiness. "Guess we'd best get to it. Right now, the most important thing is to find my brother."
"Right. I'll signal with this," Amos patted his Winchester, "if I find him."
"Same here. I'll meet you at the turn off to Clune in a couple of hours."
Amos nodded and wheeled his horse around. Patrick watched as they galloped away, a slow moving cloud of dust spreading in their wake. With a sigh, Patrick turned the stallion, easing him into a smooth canter, heading for the slopes to the south, his eyes scanning the terrain for some sign of his brother.
"I tell you, Loralee, I heard you last night and I know he said something about silver."
Loralee grabbed the wad of soggy linen and rubbed it vigorously against a rock in the creek behind the cribs. Corabeth always had her nose in everyone else's business, but, besides being a busy body, she'd been a good friend, and in her line of work, true friends were a rare thing.
"Loralee, you're not listening to me. I want to know if Duncan really did hit it big."
She turned to look at the girl sitting on the rock, shading her eyes against the early morning sun. Corabeth was a tiny thing, her head crowned with a swirl of henna dyed curls. At the moment, like Loralee, she was clad in little more than bloomers and a wrapper. Not much sense in getting dressed. The cribs weren't one of those elegant parlor houses where the customers behaved like gentlemen and the whores acted like fancy ladies. No sir, the cribs were the poor man's version and the niceties were few and far between.
"I don't know, Corabeth. Honestly. Duncan wasn't making a lot of sense last night. He'd been hitting the whiskey pretty hard, and you know as well as I do that he's always bragging about striking it big, but it never amounts to anything." She wrung the water out of the chemise she'd been scrubbing and dropped it into a basket.
"Well, I don't understand why you let the old geezer see you anyway. He's old enough to be your father." She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Loralee shuddered. "Believe me, he's nothing like my father." Finished with the wash, she stood and bent to pick up the laundry basket. "He's harmless enough. And he always pays me. Which is more than I can say for some of the men you see. Besides, we get on."
Corabeth followed Loralee back to her door. "Well, I didn't mean nothing by it. Heavens, sugar, it ain't up to me who you see and don't see." Her usually perky mouth settled into a pointed pout.
Loralee smiled. It was just too hard to keep secrets from Corabeth. Surely, she could share a little of what Duncan said. There couldn't be any harm in that, could there? Stepping back, she motioned the other girl inside. Corabeth sat down on the bed, bouncing experimentally. Loralee dropped the basket in the corner. She'd hang them out to dry later.
"I still don't see why you do your own wash. The Chinese laundry behind the livery stable does a fine job and it ain't even expensive."
Loralee dropped onto the stool with a sigh. "You know I have to save everything I make. I can't afford to let any of it go for luxuries like laundry."
Her friend reached out to grasp her hand. "I know, honey, and I think it's right nice of you to send all that money to your Mary. But I don't think using a few cents a week for laundry is gonna hurt that child one bit."
Loralee brushed a tired hand through her hair. "You're probably right, but the money's all I got to give her. I know it isn't the same as havin' a mama, but it's the best I can do." She felt her head tighten as the tears threatened. With a groan, she pulled her hand away, automatically reaching up to touch her locket.
Corabeth's eyes settled on the necklace. "I see you got it back."
Loralee nodded. "Got it back last night. Duncan fixed it, good as n
ew. Can't even see where the chain was broke." She held it out in demonstration.
"Mary knows you love her, Loralee." Corabeth's words were gentle.
Loralee bit back her tears, determined to change the subject. "So, do you want to know about the silver, or don't you?"
Corabeth bounced excitedly on the bed, her brown eyes dancing with delight. "Do tell."
"Well, there really isn't that much. Duncan was pretty far gone last night, but he kept rambling on about finding the silver and how it was going to change everything. Honestly, Corabeth, I've never seen him so excited."
"Not even when…"
Loralee blushed, surprised that she could still do so. "We don't do that. He just comes to talk."
"Corabeth? You in here, darlin'?" Arless Hurley poked his head in the doorway. "If I have to wait a second more, I swear I'll bust a gut."
"Or something." Corabeth whispered as she rose from the bed. "Why, Arless, you big stud, how'd you ever get away from that monster you call a wife."
Loralee watched as the two of them sashayed out the door. Walking to the window, she pulled back the drape. Jack was still there. His baleful look made her want to laugh. The horse had definitely seen better days.
"Listen sweetie," she crooned through the open window, "if Duncan doesn't come get you soon, we'll find you something to eat around here. All right?"
The horse bobbed his head, nodding almost as if he'd understood her. She turned at the sound of a knock, the door shaking beneath an impatient hand. With a sigh, she went to open it, mentally preparing herself for another day.
Patrick approached the road. Well, road was actually a pretty fancy title for the two muddy ruts that passed as the only wagon trail connecting the ranches scattered along the Rio Grande. Fellow named Mears up around Silverton was supposed to have built a fine road. Word was he actually charged travelers a toll to use it. Maybe one of these days someone would do the same around here.
There was no sign of Pete or Amos, but he was a little early and it was a ways yet to the cut off to Clune. He was tired down to his bones and the day wasn't yet half gone. There was still no sign of Michael. Nothing. It was as if he'd simply vanished. Of course people didn't just go disappearing into thin air.
No, he had to face reality. Odds were more than good that his brother was in trouble—or worse. The fact that Roscoe had come back alone, didn't bode well. A man couldn't last long out here without a horse. And if Michael weren't badly injured, he'd have made it back by now.
"Patrick? That you, boy?" Pete rode down from the small ridge he'd just crested, allowing his horse to ride abreast of Patrick's. "Any luck?"
"No. Nothing. I even checked the ranch house again. He's just disappeared."
"Maybe he's laid up somewheres," Pete said, his voice gruff with emotion.
"No. He wouldn't do that. Michael's first thought would be for me and you. He wouldn't want to worry us. If he were able, he'd be back here."
"Maybe. Maybe not. You cain't go losing hope. Ain't been long enough for us to know anything."
Pete was right, but Patrick was finding it mighty hard to hold onto his hope. "Maybe Amos found something."
"Amos?"
"Yeah, I ran into him on Bald Man's ridge. He said he'd heard about Michael from you and offered to help. I figured we could use all the eyes we could get."
"Guess so." Pete spit tobacco out the side of his mouth, the gesture somehow punctuating his feelings about Amos. "If you ask me though, I'm still a wonderin' what in tarnation brought our fair-haired sheriff up here this morning."
"He told me he was looking for Arless."
"So he said." They rode on for a bit in silence. Then Pete picked up where he'd left off as if there'd never been any lapse in the conversation at all. "But then again, you ever hear of Arless using the line shack for one of his escapes?"
Patrick looked at the old ranch hand. "No. Not firsthand anyway. But you've got to admit, it's as good a place as any to hole up for a while."
"Maybe."
"So you think Amos was lying?"
Pete shot a stream of tobacco at a bush. Getting him to say what he was thinking could be a painful experience. Patrick had learned that it was best to just wait it out. Pete would talk when he was good and ready. They rode for a while in silence.
"Didn't say that. Just think it bears thinking about."
Patrick slowed as they reached the cut off. The narrow wagon ruts continued on toward Silverthread. The perpendicular trail to the ranch was barely discernible in the high grass. Off to the left something red shown through the waving weeds. Patrick reined in the stallion, and signaled Pete. Whatever it was, it wasn't supposed to be there.
He slid off the horse's back, his heart pounding a rhythm against his chest. Pete stayed in the saddle, rifle drawn to cover his back. Out here a man simply couldn't take a chance. As he moved forward the red thing began to take on a shape, a cotton encased arm extended from a clump of grass, the hand open, beckoning. Pushing through the knee high plants, Patrick searched for signs of life.
"Michael? Is that you?" Nothing moved except the meadow grass swaying in the wind. He dropped down on his knees beside the body. Black hair spilled out from under the broad brim of a hat. With a shaking hand, he gently rolled the body over, his heart accelerating to a staccato tempo that echoed through his brain.
"Is it Michael?"
Pete's voice sounded far away. Patrick fought to pull in his breath. The bloodied dead man before him was not his brother. But the craggy features were still familiar. Achingly familiar. His stomach rolled and he swallowed convulsively, trying to keep the bile down.
"Patrick?" Pete dropped into the grass beside him, pulling him back so that he could see. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, it's your father."
4
"But they told me…they said…I mean…you're not real." Cara knew she was talking gibberish, but her mind simply couldn't grasp the fact that Michael Macpherson, her Michael Macpherson, was walking right beside her.
She shifted, locking her arm around his waist, supporting his weight with her body. Michael groaned as she stumbled. "Believe me, I'm flesh and blood, and right now, I feel like it's mainly blood." He sagged backward, his breathing coming in irregular gasps.
Cara tightened her hold, whispering in his ear. "You've got to hold on. I can't do this by myself. Come on, we've gotten this far. Just hang on a little while longer. Please."
His muscles bunched and tightened, as he pulled himself upright, but he kept walking. "How… much… farther?"
"Not much more. Just around the next bend." Keep him talking, her mind asserted. Keep him awake and keep him talking. "I looked for you, you know. After you disappeared."
"I looked for you, too." His voice was rough, colored with pain.
"Then I don't see…" She stopped, not knowing how to continue.
"How we missed each other? Me either. But just at the moment I think there are more important things to deal with."
"You're right. I'm sorry." There was just so much she wanted to ask him. So much she needed to know. But not now. He slumped forward again, his shoulders relaxing. She tightened her grip. "Michael, you've got to stay with me. I can't keep you up here on my own."
He jerked his head upward, pulling himself back to consciousness. "I'm here."
"Good." She stared at the side of his head, concentrating on the way the dark hair curled against his collar, trying to find something of the boy she remembered in the man he'd become. "Just keep talking to me, okay? Tell me what happened to you."
He nodded, shifting a little, leaning into the curve of her body. She could feel the heat from his fever. His shirt was damp with sweat. "I...don't know. Snuck…up on me…shot me. Lucky to escape."
"Someone shot you?" She tried to make sense of the insensible. "Was it a hunter do you think?"
"Man hunter maybe." He groaned, tensing with pain as they hit a rough spot.
"You mean you think someone shot you on purpose?"
> "Seems likely." His words were a bit disjointed, but if she was following the conversation, he was talking about murder. Or attempted murder.
"My God, Michael, are you saying someone tried to kill you?"
"And did a damn fine job of it." He drew in a ragged breath and she felt his body slide forward.
"Hang on," she ordered. They stopped and she automatically turned toward him, supporting his weight. "We're here."
The warmth of his body surrounded her as he braced himself against her. She closed her eyes, feeling his heart beating beneath her hand. The tangy smell of male enveloped her and somewhere deep inside her, despite the odor of blood and injury, she responded to the memory. She knew this man, knew his scent, knew the feel of his arms. And no matter what anyone had told her, he was real. Real.
The feel of something sticky against her fingers pulled her from her thoughts. "Oh God, you're bleeding again."
He touched the stain on his shirt. "Yeah, I think the walk opened the wound."
"Look, Michael, we've got to call a doctor."
"No time." Their eyes met and she saw the certainty in his gaze. "The bullet has to come out now."
She helped him into the house and across the living room, for once thankful that the cabin was small. Reaching the door to the bedroom, she paused, summoning the last of her strength. "We're almost there." She wasn't certain who she was talking to, Michael or herself. She steered him across the room to the bed. With an exhausted sigh, he dropped down on it, his eyes closed, his lashes dark against the ashen pallor of his skin.
"Come on, we've made it this far. You've got to stay with me."
Blue eyes flickered open. The pain reflected there made her gasp. With steely determination, he struggled to sit up, leaning back against the pillows. "Have you ever removed a bullet?" He spoke slowly, as if each word were an effort.
"It's not something I list on my resume." He frowned. "I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't dealt with anything like this before." Her voice trembled. What if she lost him?
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 68