Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  "No, of course not. If I sounded harsh, I didn't mean to." He tilted his head to one side, curiosity lighting his face. "You never said what you were doing out by the cribs?"

  "I was…ah…just walking, trying to digest the crap Striker was throwing out," he paused, meeting Owen's gaze, "you, too, for that matter."

  "I wasn't agreeing or disagreeing with him. I was just trying to listen to the facts and draw conclusions accordingly."

  "Well, you're certainly free to believe what you want."

  Owen reached over to place a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't believe Michael killed your father, Patrick, and I didn't come out here to fight with you."

  Patrick drew in a deep breath and stared at his boot tips. "I know."

  "I'm here for you, son. Don't forget that."

  Patrick nodded and looked up, his sense of hopelessness overwhelming.

  "It's going to be all right. I swear it. You've just got to be patient."

  "I know." He strove for an attained a calm he didn't feel. No sense in worrying Owen.

  The older man studied him for a bit, and then smiled. "I best get back to town. You never know when Sam's going to take it in his head to provide drinks for the house."

  Patrick smiled wryly. "You know as well as I do that Sam's even tighter than you. If that's possible."

  Owen wrapped an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Walk with me back to the ranch."

  "No. I need to think a bit and this is as good a place as any."

  "All right, but I'll come back out in a couple of days to check on you."

  "You don't need to do that, Owen. I'll be fine. I'm not a kid anymore."

  "I know that. I just worry about you. You're the only family I have left." He pulled Patrick into a brief hug and then let him go. "You know where to find me."

  "I do." Patrick watched Owen make his way down the hump back. Everything was so mixed up, he didn't know which way to turn. Every time he thought he was getting a handle on life, it dealt him another blow. And this time he didn't have anyone to shelter him from it.

  Except Owen. Patrick shook his head at the train of his thoughts. He didn't want to need anyone. It hurt too damn much. But, at the same time, he wasn't sure what the hell he was going to do on his own.

  If Michael was dead—and somehow, he'd actually come to the point where he believed that—then the ranch was his. But what the hell did he want with a ranch? Maybe he'd just give the damn thing to Owen. Or better yet to Pete.

  But, at the same time, he couldn't. It was Michael's legacy. Surely he owed it to his brother to make his dream a reality? There were so many questions. What he needed was answers. Patrick ran his hands through his hair, his eye catching on his father's grave.

  He walked over to it, looking down at the simple wooden cross. "I don't know what to do." His jaw tightened as he tried to stave off the despair threatening to swallow him whole. "I never figured on standing here, and I sure as hell didn't figure on doing it alone."

  He knelt by the grave, running a hand through the loose rocks and dirt that covered his father's body. "Tell me what to do. They're saying Michael killed you. They're saying you struck it rich. I don't know what to believe. I don't know who to believe."

  The wind whispered across the silent meadow, swirling bits of dust as it passed across the grave. Patrick blew out a breath and opened his eyes, drinking in the cool colors of the mountains, inhaling the pungent scent of freshly turned earth.

  There were no answers here.

  Patrick felt like a buffalo in a china shop. He sat at the table across from Loralee, and cattycorner to her friend Ginny, balancing a porcelain cup on his knee. Who'd have thought he'd be having tea with a lady of the line and an Indian squaw, in a rundown old shack, just outside the red light district of a mining camp.

  But then who'd have thought his life would have taken any of the turns it had recently.

  He lifted the cup to his lips and tried not to slurp the hot liquid.

  "Have some cake, Mr. Macpherson."

  Jumping at the excuse to put the teacup down, he almost slammed it on the table, putting on the brakes at the last minute and managing to land it with little more than a clatter, only a small amount of tea sloshing into the saucer. His mother would be laughing out loud.

  "Thank you. Miz…" He stopped, uncertain how to continue. Folks in these parts, and especially these circumstances, usually didn't have last names, but the moment seemed to call for formality.

  "Ginny'll do." The Ute woman smiled at him and he was surprised at the way it lit up her face. Why, she was almost beautiful. Time, and no doubt life, had etched fine lines around her mouth and eyes, but the details only seemed to enhance her appeal. He imagined that she had once been a pretty woman.

  He bit into the cake, allowing the buttery flavor to slide into his mouth and down his throat. Heaven, pure heaven. He swallowed and blushed under the amused gaze of his two companions. "I, uh, don't get much cake at Clune," he managed by way of explanation.

  "Don't imagine you do." Loralee's smile was warm. It had sort of the same effect as the cake, filling him with warmth and goodness, making him want more. An angel in a hell hole. The words jumped out at him and he was surprised at the poetic turn of his thoughts.

  "More?" Ginny held out the plate again, meeting his gaze. From the look reflected there, he was certain that she was well aware of the direction his mind had been going. She smiled tolerantly as he took another slice of cake. "Loralee told me about your father and brother. I'm mighty sorry for your loss."

  "Did you know my father?"

  "Only in passing. But he was a good man."

  Patrick nodded, his mouth full of cake.

  "Is there any word on your brother?" Loralee leaned toward him, her warm brown eyes full of concern.

  "Nothing." The word sounded so hopeless, so final. "I think I'd have heard from him by now—if he was still alive."

  "I'm so sorry."

  He wanted to reach out and touch her, to let her know how much her words brought comfort.

  Ginny sighed. "Remember, Mr. Macpherson, things are rarely as they seem. One merely has to scratch the surface to see the true reflection."

  Patrick frowned. The woman made damn good cake, but she made absolutely no sense. Must be the Ute in her. Seems they were always speaking in riddles. Pete believed they had a direct line to the Almighty that white men couldn't even fathom. "Call me Patrick."

  The older woman nodded, managing to look wise and serene all at the same time. Patrick had a sudden longing to tell her all his fears, to unburden himself as if she could wave her hand, and somehow, make this whole nightmare go away.

  But he hadn't come here for absolution and he certainly hadn't come for tea and cake, no matter how good it was. He'd come here for answers. "I'm hoping Loralee here can help me get a better understanding of what happened to my father. According to Arless Hurley, you may have been the last person to see him alive." Loralee flinched as if he'd hit her. "Beg pardon, ma'am. I should've qualified that. I didn't mean to imply that you…well that you could have…" He hesitated, embarrassed by his blunder.

  Ginny reached over and patted Loralee's hand. "Come now, girl, he's not saying you killed the man. Tell him what you know."

  Loralee's face brightened. "There's not too much to tell. Duncan had become something of a regular." She ducked her head, her pale cheeks stained with a blush. It was another contradiction in Loralee. At times she seemed so young and innocent, hardly traits one expected in a soiled dove.

  Not that he really knew a whole lot about the subject first hand. Yet another area of his life he was living vicariously through others. He pulled away from his thoughts, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject at hand. "I need you to try and remember what my father said that last evening." He spoke gently and was rewarded with a nod of approval from Ginny. She leaned back in her chair, subtly withdrawing from the conversation.

  "We talked a lot. In fact, you should know that's
all we did. Your father just needed a friend, I think. He was so devastated when your mama run out." She paused for a minute, looking at Patrick.

  He smiled with what he hoped was encouragement. "Go on."

  "Well, that particular night he was in high spirits —"

  "You mean he was drunk," Patrick inserted.

  "No." She screwed up her eyes in thought. "It was more than that. I mean he was always a little tippled, but this time there was genuine excitement, too. He wasn't making complete sense." She shrugged. "The whiskey, I guess. He kept talking about finding something big."

  Patrick watched as she struggled to remember, her tiny little teeth worrying the bottom of her lip. "He spoke about finally finding the silver and how surprised you boys would be."

  "He talked about Michael and me?"

  She smiled. "All the time. He was so proud of the both of you."

  "Michael." Patrick mumbled his brother's name under his breath. "My father was proud of Michael."

  "He always said that Michael was the glue of the family. That he was determined to keep you together no matter what."

  It was true. Michael had spent practically his whole life creating a home for them all. A place they could call their own. In fact, now that he thought on it, Michael had never really shown any interest in things outside the family. Except for the winter he went a little crazy trying to find some girl named Cara.

  Loralee leaned forward, her eyes full of concern. "Your father was proud of you, too, Patrick. He always said you were the heart of the family."

  For something so simple, Patrick felt absurdly happy. He forced himself to concentrate on the topic at hand. "Did he say anything about where he found this silver?"

  Loralee shook her head. "No. I've tried to remember, but it was really just rambling. I do know he wanted to tell y'all."

  Patrick smiled at the trace of sweet southern drawl in her voice. It was almost as lyrical as his mother's Irish lilt had been. "Was he on his way home to do that, then?"

  Her face clouded. "No. At least I don't think so."

  Patrick leaned forward, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, maybe it's nothing. But your father loves Jack as much as he loves…" She dipped her head in embarrassment.

  "As much as he loves us." He finished the sentence for her. "It's all right. I think it might be true. Jack and my father were inseparable."

  "Well that's it exactly. If your father had truly been heading back to Clune, then he wouldn't have left Jack in front of my cr…house," she amended, color washing across her cheeks again.

  "He left Jack with you?" Patrick frowned, trying to find reason where there probably was none.

  "Not with me exactly. I think he was planning to come back. He knew Jack would be safe there."

  "Well, that certainly supports what I've said all along. Where is he now?"

  "I brought him here." She shot a pleading look at Ginny who immediately intervened.

  "Now don't go thinking Loralee was trying to make off with that horse. She brought him here because she figured he' be safe from prying eyes."

  Patrick ran a hand through his already frazzled hair. "I don't think anyone in their right mind would steal Jack, but you did the right thing. In fact, I think he should probably stay here, for now. At least until I can get hold of Amos Striker."

  Loralee and Ginny exchanged a look. "What's he got to do with this?"

  Patrick considered Ginny's question. "Well to start with, he's the sheriff."

  The woman shrugged slightly as if to say, so what? "I wouldn't go runnin' my mouth off to the sheriff just yet."

  "Well, I can't say that I disagree with your opinion of our erstwhile lawman, but I'd like to point out to him that it's highly unlikely that my father left town alive. Jack's presence proves that."

  "Ah, but does it really prove anything? Where your father was killed is far less important than why the man died. And until you know the answer to that question, I'd be careful who I trust."

  "I don't trust Striker farther than I can throw him. But he's the law around here. That has to mean something."

  "Or nothing." The older woman's face closed, as if she had turned her spirit inward.

  Patrick looked in askance at Loralee. "Does she know something I don't?"

  Ginny opened her eyes, her attention once more focused on Patrick. "Amos Striker is a killer, a cold blooded killer."

  Patrick shrugged. "Most lawmen are."

  "But this one murdered my daughter."

  10

  Michael let the steamy, hot spray beat down on his back. He hadn't experienced much of this new century, but if showers were any indication, he thought he just might like it. Not that he could stay. No one was going to accuse him of being like his mother, he thought bitterly. He wasn't about to desert his family. They depended on him.

  He turned, closing his eyes and letting the water slide down his face. A vision of creamy skin and alabaster breasts filled his mind, its alluring presence sending distinct messages to a much lower portion of his anatomy. Cara. He groaned. She was everything she'd been nine years ago and more. She was entrancing, and he wanted her. Wanted all of her, body and soul.

  He leaned back, letting the water pound into him, washing away his need. He couldn't have her. He belonged in another time. He had responsibilities. And unlike his mother, he wasn't going to allow unbridled emotion let him forget about them.

  "Are you going to stay in there all night? I'm starving."

  He smiled at the sound of her voice. Just listening to her talk made him hard. So much for resolve. He closed his eyes, pretending that they were just an ordinary couple on an ordinary night. God, how he loved ordinary. He sighed and turned off the spigots and reached for the towel she'd left him. Just two ordinary people—from two different centuries. He ran a hand through his wet hair, trying to gain control of his tangled thoughts.

  Maybe ordinary was over-rated.

  The door squeaked as it swung open. A slender hand snuck through the opening with a stack of clothing. "I think these will fit."

  He grabbed the clothes, tempted to drag the woman attached to the arm along with them. "I'll be out in a minute."

  She mumbled something and closed the door. He stood for a moment dripping on the floor, staring at the space where her hand had been. Lord, how he wanted her.

  Cara leaned back against the door, trying to catch her breath. She hadn't even seen him and she felt as though she were going to explode. Desire ripped through her like a level five tornado. He was the most amazing man she'd ever known—or not known as the case might be.

  Desire battled with common sense. He wouldn't stay, couldn't stay. She had to hold onto her emotions. If she lost her heart to him and he went back, she'd never survive losing him again. Unfortunately, her body had its own ideas. She ran her hands over her breasts, remembering his touch, his searing kisses. She was separated from him by two inches of wood.

  Wood with hinges.

  With a will of its own her hand reached behind her for the knob. Before she could shift her weight away from the door, it began to swing open. Thrown off balance, she careened backward, colliding with damp, sinewy muscle. Michael. She sucked in a breath and attempted to right herself, but he was quicker, encircling her with hard, sun-bronzed arms.

  "I've got you." His whispered words tickled her ear, gently lifting the hair framing her face. Desire, hot and insistent, spread through her belly, reaching lower, quivering, waiting.

  He bent his head, nuzzling the soft skin of her neck. She shivered in anticipation. With soft dry kisses, he traced the line of her neck and shoulder, stopping along the way to explore with his tongue. She closed her eyes, allowing sensation to wash over her. His hands massaged her stomach, making slow, languorous circles, inching upward with each pass.

  She arched into him, willing his hands to move faster, higher. His lips were at her ear now, causing shivers of pure ecstasy to run up and dow
n her spine as he tugged and licked, exploring every tender crevice. Something deep inside of her began to pulse in response to his tender ministrations.

  His hands found her breasts, his strong fingers curving around them, cupping them almost reverently. She arched against him, wanting more than tender touches. His thumbs began to rub and circle relentlessly, until she was rubbing against him like a crazed cat, her body begging for more.

  "Tell, me what you want, Cara."

  She tipped her head back, leaning it against his shoulder. You. I want you. She tried to form the words, but his hands were robbing her of speech.

  With an ear splitting trill, the phone shattered the silence. Michael jumped back. His face tightening.

  "It's all right. It's just the phone." She placed a hand on his arm reassuringly. He relaxed, but still looked puzzled. She grabbed the shrieking instrument, unsure whether its shrill interference was a welcome relief or an abhorrent interruption.

  "Hello." She put a hand to her breast, trying to still her heart manually. Michael, leaned against the door jamb, looking nothing short of magnificent in her grandfather's faded jeans. They hugged his hips, sliding against…she sucked in a sharp breath, trying to concentrate on the telephone conversation.

  "Cara, darling, are you listening?" There was a pause and Cara's lust-filled brain finally registered that it was Nick on the other end. A bucket of cold water couldn't have worked better.

  "Fine, Nick, I'm fine." At the sound of the name, Michael's lazy grin disappeared. His eyes narrowed as he listened to her end of the conversation.

  "Cara, what are you doing? You're not listening to a word I'm saying."

  "Yes, I am, Nick, it's just that I was busy." Michael's smile reappeared and she felt her body tighten in response.

  "All right, then, I'll get to the point." Nick's voice bordered on a petulant whine. "I wanted to give you a last chance to sell me the paintings."

  "Nick, I told you when you were here. I've already sold the paintings and I have absolutely no interest in reneging on the bargain I made."