Jack curled back his upper lip and refused to move, his stubborn stance worthy of any miner's burro. Loralee wearily pushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair off her face, and stared at the woeful looking horse. "Serve you right if I just left you here." She had better things to do with her time than to try to coerce a washed out old horse across a pile of shifting lumber.
A crack and roar echoed down the canyon. Jack lifted his head and, with a snort of pure fear, raced across the makeshift bridge. Loralee ran gratefully behind. The sorrel stopped just on the other side, relaxing now that the noise had faded.
"It was only the men at the mine. You should be used to blasting by now. Some miner's horse you are." Jack only shook his head reproachfully. She laughed, letting the tension of the past few hours ebb away.
Around the next bend, a makeshift cabin stood smack-dab against the sheer cliff. Loralee knew from experience that it actually extended cave-like into the rock, a dugout of sorts. Next to the shack was a rickety lean-to, its flimsy boards, whitewashed from exposure, fading into the side of the mountain. The perfect hide-away.
"Come on, Jack. We're almost there." She pulled the horse behind her, leading him by the reins. The door to the shanty opened a crack and the muzzle of a rifle glistened in the sunlight.
"Loralee, that you?"
"It's me, Ginny. I need some help."
The door inched farther open, and a short, sun-weathered figure emerged onto the listing planks that served as a porch.
"What can I do?" The woman pulled a colorful blanket tighter around her shoulders, her question hesitant.
"I need to leave my horse here."
Ginny eyed the sorrel and snorted. "Not much of a horse."
"He belonged to a friend." Loralee felt the tears rising.
The woman hopped off the porch, her gait belying her wrinkled appearance. "He'll be safe with me."
Loralee handed her the reins. "Thank you, Ginny. Jack's a good horse. Just a little long in the tooth."
Ginny smiled, her slow grin contagious. "We'll have a lot in common then, he and I."
Loralee bit her lip, trying to decide how much to say.
Ginny laid a time-weathered hand on Loralee's arm. "I don't need to know."
Again, Loralee felt the tears rising. She fumbled in her pocket, reaching for the coins she'd brought. She offered them to Ginny.
The woman folded Loralee's open hand over the coins. "I've no need for your money, girl. Now go quickly, before someone sees you."
She hugged the old woman, who gruffly pushed her away.
"Go on with you."
Loralee turned and hurried down the road. At least Jack was safe. No one ever went to Ginny's. She was Ute, and even a town like Silverthread had its untouchables.
She frowned, making her way across the bridge. She really didn't have much to go on. All she really knew for certain was that Duncan was dead. That and the fact that he'd left Jack behind. Not exactly evidence of anything, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. She rounded another bend and caught sight of the line of cribs.
She needed Corabeth. Her friend would know what to do.
"I don't know what happened. I only know that my father is dead and Michael is missing." Patrick ran a hand through his hair and paced restlessly around the sheriff's office, his mind still reeling from the shock. "There's got to be some kind of connection."
Amos leaned back in his chair, his booted feet propped up on his desk. "Best I can tell your father was robbed."
"His pocket watch was gone." Patrick frowned at the sheriff. "But I doubt he had anything else of value on him."
"I've seen men killed for a whole lot less than a watch, Patrick. And everyone knew he carried it. Hell, wouldn't let the damn thing out of his sight."
"My mother gave it to him. It was all he had left." Patrick tried but couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Ain't no way round it, Patrick. Robbery's the most logical explanation."
"Maybe, but that still doesn't explain Michael's absence. And then there's the horses."
Amos leaned forward, dropping his feet to the floor, his brows drawn together in consternation. "What are you talking about?"
Patrick sat on the spindle back chair in front of the desk. "Well, doesn't it seem a little odd to you that my father was found on the road without his horse, and that Roscoe came home, as pretty as you please, only without Michael?"
Amos waved a hand in dismissal. "Jack probably wandered off somewhere."
Patrick frowned. "Not a chance. That horse can smell fresh hay five miles away. And the ranch was in view. If Jack was there, he'd be at home in his stall right now filling his belly."
"Maybe the fellow who robbed Duncan stole him."
Patrick smiled, despite himself. "Only if the thief was addle-brained. Jack isn't exactly prize horseflesh. In fact, sometimes I wonder how he manages to make it from one day to the next." He sobered, his mind returning to grim reality. "Something here doesn't add up, Amos. I can feel it in my bones."
"Look, I know it ain't what you want to hear, but as I see it, the facts simply don't support a connection. It's just a lousy coincidence."
Patrick glared at the sheriff. The two events simply had to be connected somehow. In one fell swoop he'd lost an entire family, and he had trouble swallowing the idea that it was only a lousy coincidence. But Amos wasn't listening. He'd already made up his mind. So there was no use in ranting on about it.
"Fine, I'll let it go for now." He stood up and the sheriff followed suit. "But my brother is still missing, and until he's found, I've no intention of letting the matter rest completely."
"Let what rest?"
Patrick turned as Owen Prescott strode into the spartan office, his face worn and haggard. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Owen was his father's best friend—a second father. He'd sort through all of this.
"I came as soon as I heard." He clasped Patrick's hand and pulled him into a quick embrace. "I'm so sorry, son."
Patrick nodded, trying desperately to hold onto his emotions. He suddenly felt like a kid again. Seeing Owen, hearing the sympathy in his voice, somehow lent a cruel reality to the tragic events of the morning. He sucked in a breath and quelled the urge to give in to tears. He was a man after all, and men didn't cry.
"What aren't you going to let rest, Patrick?"
He struggled to follow the gist of Owen's question, focusing on the concern in the older man's face. "I was just telling Amos that it's reasonable to think that there's some sort of connection between Michael's disappearance and my father's death."
"Amen to that." Pete ambled into the office, perching himself on the windowsill, his shrewd glance sizing up the others in the room.
Owen looked over at Amos, who was seated again, concentrating on lighting a cigarillo. "Amos, what do you think?" He pulled up a second chair and sat, facing the desk.
The sheriff looked up, the thin cigar, dangling from the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of bluish smoke curling toward the ceiling. Patrick couldn't help but think how discordant the picture was, an angel indulging in a devilish habit.
Amos blew a ring of smoke. "I'm guessing that Duncan's death was part of a highway robbery, nothing more."
Owen frowned and looked at Patrick. "But you have more questions?"
"Damn right I do. I have a little trouble accepting the fact that my father was murdered on the very same night my brother up and disappears."
Amos narrowed his gaze. "Now there's a thought. Michael getting along with Duncan all right these days?"
Pete let out a string of expletives that would curl the toes of a three penny whore.
Patrick felt his hackles rise. He opened his mouth to respond, but Owen beat him to the punch. "Now, Amos, if you think about it, you'll realize there's no way Michael could have killed Duncan." Everyone turned to look at Owen. He smiled reassuringly at Patrick and then leaned back in his chair. "What time was it when you found Roscoe?"
/>
"I don't know exactly, a couple hours before sun-up." Patrick glanced over at Pete, who nodded in confirmation.
"Right, so that would indicate that Michael was injured well before dawn."
"You're just speculating that he was hurt. Maybe the blood on the saddle was Duncan's, not Michael's." Amos paused dramatically.
For a moment Patrick felt sick at his stomach. Then almost as quickly the feeling was gone. Michael would never kill his father. Never. He looked over at Pete. The old hand was staring intently at Owen, waiting for his reaction.
Owen scratched the side of his jaw absently. "Well, I suppose your theory is possible, but hardly likely. Besides, how would you explain the fact that Duncan's body appeared by the road after Pete and Patrick left to try and find Michael?"
"It was barely daylight when they left. They could've easily missed the body."
"Now, look here," Patrick felt his voice rising, "my brother isn't a killer. He isn't. Besides, there's still the horses. Even if what you're saying is true, and I don't believe it, you can hardly expect Michael to make a getaway on Jack." He glanced frantically over at Pete.
The old man spit out the open window, his grizzled old face shuttered. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't going to share it now.
Amos, stubbed out the cigarillo. "Maybe he dumped Roscoe for a horse nobody would recognize. You boys check your other stock?"
Patrick couldn't believe the turn of the conversation. "No. It never occurred to me to check."
"Well, what do you want to bet you find another horse is missing? I'll bet Michael switched Roscoe for another one. Makes a helluva lot more sense than that animal finding its way home through the dark mountains."
Patrick bit back a profane retort. "If you're so sure Michael is a murderer, maybe you could give me a reason why?" He glared at the sheriff, his anger threatening to overcome him.
"Sit down, Patrick," Owen said. "There's no harm in listening to what the man has to say."
"Why?" Patrick swung around to glare at Owen.
"Because even in the wildest conjecture there is often an element of truth."
Patrick sat down, his mind spinning. "There isn't any truth to Striker's conjectures. They're lies. Lies."
"Patrick." There was a note of steel in Owen's voice, and Patrick swallowed back further retort. He respected Owen—loved him even. In a lot of ways, he been more of a father than Duncan had ever been.
They waited while Amos lit another cheroot, a wisp of smoke making his face momentarily hazy. Amos tilted back his chair, resting it against the wall, booted feet propped up on the desk. "Word around town is that you all are having money problems."
Patrick shrugged. "We get by."
"Yeah, well, according to Bergstrom over at the bank, you're getting by on very little. And there is the matter of some outstanding loans." Amos smiled, a tight lipped version that hinted of malice.
Patrick tried to hold onto reason, things were rapidly spiraling out of control. "What the hell does our financial business have to do with Michael's disappearance?" He refused to give voice to Amos' accusation.
"Maybe Michael was tired of living hand to mouth. Maybe he saw an easy way out."
"By murdering my father?" Patrick stood up, leaning over the desk, anger consuming him. "That doesn't make sense, Striker."
"Doesn't it?" Amos leaned forward, steepling his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.
Owen placed a soothing hand on Patrick's shoulder. He shook it off, dropping back into his chair. Maybe this was a nightmare. Any minute he'd wake up at home, safe in his bed. Pete still sat in silence, but Patrick could tell by the taut line of his shoulders, that he, too, was incensed at the accusations. "All right, Amos, if you're so certain Michael did this, you tell me what he had to gain by killing my father."
Amos waited a beat before answering, obviously enjoying the moment. "Silver."
"What?" Patrick sat forward, his attention focused on the man in front of him.
"I said silver. Your father was in town last night. Drunk, as usual. He was rambling on about finding silver, the mother lode to hear him talk."
"That's ridiculous. Hell, my father was always blethering on about finding silver. Except for the Promise, it never amounted to anything."
"Well maybe this time it was different. Or maybe Michael just believed it was."
Patrick shot a look at Owen, waiting for him to tell the sheriff how crazy this all was. But Owen was silent, a frown creasing his forehead.
"This is insane. Michael was up in the high country all day yesterday."
Amos blew out a smoke ring. "You're certain of that? You actually saw him?"
"Well, no. But he told me he was going up there."
"I see." The sheriff smiled, the look bordering on smug.
"Pete, you know he was up there." Patrick met Pete's gaze, begging him to intervene, to say something.
"You saw him, Pete?" Owen turned to look at the ranch hand, his gaze narrowed.
"No. Cain't say that I did. But young Michael's as honest as they come. If he told Patrick he was going into the mountains, then that's where he was."
Amos shrugged. "All right, even if you allow for time in the mountains, he still could have been in Silverthread by nightfall."
"Someone would have seen him." This from Owen, who at last seemed to be getting with the program. Patrick sucked in a breath of relief.
"Not necessarily, and besides, Duncan could have run into him on the mountain. Maybe Michael already knew. Maybe he was waiting for him to come home."
"Ambushed his own father? Michael would sooner poke out his eye." Patrick stood up, his hands clenched in rage. "This is outrageous. And even if were true. Even if my father had found the mother lode and told Michael about it. Why would Michael kill him?"
"Well now, that's the big question isn't it?" Amos' mouth curved at the corners, the beginning of a grin. The bastard was enjoying this. "Way I heard it, betrayal isn't exactly an unusual occurrence in your family, is it?"
Patrick sprang over the desk in one smooth leap, his hand closing around the sheriff's collar. "You take that back, you son of a bitch." He arched his right arm backwards, tensing, his fist tight for the punch.
"Whoa, there, boy. No need to be smacking the sheriff. Ain't his fault any of this happened." Pete planted a beefy hand around Patrick's neck, the gentle pressure enough to force Patrick to release Amos.
"But he….I mean, he…" Patrick sputtered.
"Easy, Patrick, the sheriff didn't mean any offense. Did you, Striker?" The steel was back in Owen's voice.
"No." Amos rubbed his neck and glared at Patrick, his look belying his words.
"Seems to me, we'd all be better off sticking with the facts and not going off making wild accusations." Pete eyed the sheriff.
"It wasn't an accusation. Everyone knows that Patrick's mother ran off and left them for a pile of silver."
Patrick made another move for Amos. Pete tightened his grip. "Fact is, we don't know for sure what happened to Rose. Guess we never will."
Amos smiled faintly, as if the knowledge amused him.
Owen nodded. "And, Patrick, you've got to admit that we may never know what happened to your brother either."
"Well he didn't kill my father." Patrick's words sounded petulant even to his own ears.
"Look, I think the thing for you to do now is go back to Clune. I'm sure Amos will look into this some more." Owen leveled a look at the sheriff. Amos nodded. "And, Patrick, I'll look into it myself. All right?"
Patrick mumbled his agreement under his breath.
"You just go on home. I'll take care of this." Owen looked over to Pete, who had settled back on the window sill. "You'll stay with him?
"Reckon I will."
"Good. Have you buried Duncan, yet?"
"Up on the ridge, by the river. Did it first thing."
Owen turned back to Patrick. "You go with Pete, and I'll be out to pay my respects in the mor
ning."
Patrick nodded. He trusted Owen, even if he didn't trust the shifty-eyed sheriff as far as he could throw him.
Besides, he had some questions of his own to ask.
6
Michael stood in the doorway watching her. Her hair was damp, curling wildly around her shoulders. The satin robe she wore hugged the curves of her small frame, enhancing the smooth porcelain of her skin. He quelled the urge to stride across the room and press her hard against him. It had been a long time since he'd wanted a woman.
She must have sensed his presence because she turned around, her eyes narrowed in concern. "You shouldn't be up."
He pulled himself from his thoughts and stepped into the room. "I'm fine, only a little sore." He rotated his shoulder in demonstration. "The stuff you gave me really packed a wallop. I feel like I've been sleeping for a week."
She smiled, her wide-eyed gaze meeting his. He felt his stomach do a quick flip. "Not quite two days."
He frowned. That meant he'd been away from Clune almost three. His brother would be worried, frantic probably. And there was still the issue of who'd shot him. Not that any of that really mattered if the date on the painting in the bedroom was a reality. His mind balked at the idea. It was a mistake. Had to be.
"Michael, are you sure you're all right?" She was standing in front of him, so close that he could smell the sweet scent surrounding her. The word 'seductive' ran through his brain.
"I saw the painting."
Her expression changed from concern to puzzlement and finally embarrassment. A slight flush stained her cheeks. "I painted it years ago, before…" Her voice trailed off.
"Are we the figures in the painting, Cara?"
She nodded mutely.
Suddenly the questions he'd intended to ask seemed unimportant. His hand moved of its own accord, gently cupping her chin and lifting her face. She licked her lips nervously, the small pink tip of her tongue fanning the flames already leaping inside him. He had to taste her. Just one small sip of those sweet moist lips.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 70