"Very well, but don't say I didn't give you every chance. I have a feeling you're going to regret your decision."
"I doubt it. Good night."
"Good night, darling. And Cara?"
"Yes, Nick?"
"Enjoy your boy toy." There was a click and the line went dead.
Michael had crossed to her side. "What did he want?"
Cara smiled, not willing to ruin their evening by repeating Nick's snide remarks. "Nothing really. Just trying to get me to change my mind about the paintings."
Michael nodded, accepting her answer. He picked up the phone's receiver and listened to the hum of the dial tone. "This is a telephone isn't it?" He held it out to her.
Cara nodded, placing the receiver back in its cradle.
"I read about it. A guy named Bell invented it a few years back. I never dreamed it would really amount to anything."
"Oh, it's amounted to something all right." At the moment, she was wishing Alexander Graham Bell had never been born. Out of self preservation, she scooped the madras shirt from the floor by the bathroom, flipping it at him with an underhanded lob. "If we're going out for dinner, I think you'll probably want to wear this."
He caught it and slipped his arms into the sleeves. It was a little tight across the shoulders, but otherwise fit fine. She gulped as he started to button it. Even the simple action of his fingers sliding the buttons through each hole excited her. Oh Lord, she had it bad.
He sat on the couch and began pulling on his boots. "How long will it take us to get into town?"
"Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes."
He frowned. "On horseback?"
"No, we'll go in my Jeep."
"Jeep?"
She grinned. " A kind of automobile. You're gonna love it." There wasn't a guy alive who didn't love going fast. Not even one from the 19th century.
Jeeps were incredible. Not that he was really sure what one was, exactly. He'd heard about combustion engines, but this surpassed his wildest dreams. They'd careened down the mountain in record time. And the road. Well, the road was amazing, too. No ruts, no mud, just an endless lane of something called asphalt. Not bad.
They slowed as they entered the main street of Silverthread and Michael jerked his head around, staring at the buildings on either side of him. The store fronts were different and the names had all changed, but most of the buildings were the same.
The shanties and clapboard were all gone. The bank building was there, though, housing something called CompuStore. And across the street, Bilker's meat market was still carved into the stone edifice of its brick building, although a sign underneath proudly proclaimed the best bagels in town. Whatever bagels were.
The dark cliffs of the mountains loomed ominously on either side, narrowing until they almost seemed to touch, framing Silverthread with their rocky crevices. The mountains, at least, had changed very little.
He could hear the soothing rush of Willow Creek, behind the buildings on the right. Somehow the noise was comforting. The boardwalks were gone, replaced by sidewalks made of the some material similar to asphalt but smoother. The street was dotted with automobiles and warm light spilled out from doorways and windows.
They'd passed the new electric plant on the way into town. Only now it was nothing more than a dilapidated old building. The mill across the way, was almost totally gone. Nothing left except a tailings pile and a section of sluice leaning drunkenly over the stream. He felt a deep sense of loss, everything familiar to him was long gone and forgotten.
The town itself was smaller, certainly, and of course, modernized. But the myriad of twinkling lights above indicated that the Flats were still the preferred place to live. At least some things never changed.
Everything was different. Everything was the same. Cara pulled the Jeep into a yellow striped space in front of what had once been an assayer's office. The awning covered windows now housed an artfully arrayed selection of paintings, each nestled on white velvet and framed in carved gilt. He didn't have to look for the sign. He recognized the work. "This is your gallery."
Cara nodded. "Want to come inside?"
"I have to finish getting these paintings ready for shipping. They're being picked up tomorrow."
He nodded absently, intent on studying a painting hung in a small alcove on one wall. "Where was this painted?" He kept his voice mild, even though the blood pounded in his ears.
She stopped and turned back, glancing at the painting in front of him. "That's my grandfather's ranch. We passed it on the way in, but it was too dark to see it."
She started to turn away and he reached out to stop her. "That's Clune."
She froze, staring at the canvas. "Your ranch?"
"Yeah, only it doesn't look like this—yet." It was like looking at his dreams coming alive under brush and paint. The barn was there, finished and painted a dark green, just as he'd envisioned it. And the new ranch house, barely more than a plan in his head, sat exactly as he'd intended to build it, nestled in the curve of the creek, shaded by willows and pines.
The old hands' quarters still stood across the way, its walls and roof looking just as dilapidated as they did in his time. Pete's haven. The old man wouldn't hear of any improvements, no matter how much Michael argued that he needed them. He almost expected Pete to be in the painting.
The corral, the out buildings, all of it. Clune.
"When did your grandfather buy it?"
"I don't know for sure. I think his father bought it actually, sometime in the '20's. The 1920's," she added sheepishly.
"Do you know whose it was before that?"
"Not really. It belonged to one of the founders of the town, I think. Someone named Preston."
"Prescott?" Michael felt the hair on his arms start to rise.
"Yeah. That's it. The library's named after him." She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "I don't think he was the original owner, though. I think some Scottish fellow homesteaded it." She met his gaze. "I'm sorry, I…" Recognition dawned. Her eyes dropped to the sgian dubh fastened to his belt. "You're Scottish. Macpherson. My grandfather's ranch is yours?"
He nodded. "Clune."
"Oh my God."
"Do you still own it?"
"Yes, but I lease it to some people who've turned it into a retreat for fishermen. That's why I live up at the cabin."
His head was spinning. How had Owen wound up with his ranch? Had Patrick sold it to him? The boy was never interested in ranching. Another more sobering thought occurred to him. Maybe something had happened to Patrick. Patrick and Owen had always been close. Especially after his mother left. If anything happened to Patrick, his brother would definitely leave the ranch to Owen.
Not that Owen would have any particular interest in it. But Owen was a sentimental man. He'd keep it just to remember. Michael ran a hand through his hair, alarm racing through him. What the hell had happened? Unanswered questions rattled around in his brain. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to run, to try and get home.
He felt a hand on his arm and looked down into clear green eyes.
"I know this is hard for you. I wish I knew what to do to help."
Get me the hell out of here. He shook his head, dispelling his panic and pulled her close, inhaling her soft scent, letting her warmth soothe his soul. Tomorrow he'd find out what he could and then head back to the tunnel. But right now he wanted to be here, with Cara.
"Can I see The Promise?"
Cara tipped back her head, trying to focus on his words not his body. "Of course. It's the only one still not crated." She led the way to the back, a work area separated from the gallery by screens. Her head still reeled with the knowledge that her grandfather's ranch—her ranch now—had actually belonged to Michael.
"We call it the Meadows."
"What?" Michael's breath was warm on her neck as he stopped behind her.
She turned, looking up into the deep blue velvet of his eyes. "The ranch, it's known as the Meadows now."
Michael smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She resisted the urge to capture his strong fingers in hers. "Clune is Gaelic, Cara. In English, it means meadow."
"I just can't believe I grew up in your house. That somehow, my home is—"
"My home. It seems we're attached in more ways than we even imagined." He traced the curve of her lip with his thumb.
She sucked in a breath and tried for a lighter note. "The Promise is behind you."
She watched as he turned slowly around, his shoulders tightening as he took in the scene depicted in the painting. She wanted to rub the tension out of his shoulders, to soothe the worry away, but she couldn't find the courage to move. This was so far beyond anything she had ever experienced. And if she felt overwhelmed, she could only imagine what Michael was feeling.
"There's nothing left."
At first she was confused, but then she realized he was talking about the painting. "No. It's almost gone. I'm surprised I even found it."
"Maybe you were supposed to find it. You said you felt drawn to it, maybe it wasn't just a feeling."
A shiver ran up her spine and she suddenly felt chilled. "Is it your father's mine?"
"Yes. This is the upper entrance. There's another one below here." He pointed to the cliff edge. "On the side of the mountain. My father spent most of his life looking for the mother lode. The Promise was supposed to be his dream come true. It assayed out at hundred ounces of silver per ton. Even for Silverthread that was rich."
She moved to stand beside him, entranced by the painting, lost in his memories. "Why did he name it the Promise?"
A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "For my mother. She'd been after him for years to settle down. And he kept promising he would as soon as he hit it big."
"So it was his promise to her." She studied the painting. "What happened?"
"The mine played out. And my mother ran away with the profits."
Cara flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
"She was always the center of our family, my mother. Rose O'Malley. We all adored her. But no one could have loved her like my father." He reached for her hand, holding it tightly, his eyes still locked on the painting. "My father had two partners. Owen Prescott, an old family friend and a man named Zachariah Bowen. Zach was a muleskinner."
"Muleskinner?" The name did not conjure a pretty picture.
Michael smiled. "He drove a wagon for one of the freight companies in town. They call them muleskinners because to get down the mountain in one piece the driver had to be pretty handy with his whip. Using it to control the team of horses—"
"Or mules." She finished for him.
"Right. Anyway, Zach was young and a hard worker, so my father was glad to have the help. Since the mine was isolated, they did most of the work by hand. It was too expensive to carry the ore out of the mountains, so my father built a crude smelter on site."
"I don't understand."
"Silver is mixed with loads of other minerals. So the oar often weighs tons. Getting it out of there would have cost almost more than the silver was worth. Especially after the mine played out. Anyway, the idea was to smelt the ore at the mine, and reduce the size of the load to be shipped."
"Wasn't it dangerous to keep the silver at the mine?"
"Safer than a bank actually. You've been up there. It was hard to find, and even harder to reach. Even Owen never went up there."
"But I thought he was a partner."
"Silent partner, mainly. He bankrolled my father. I don't think he ever spent any real time up at the mine." He squeezed her hand, but Cara could see that he didn't really even remember she was there. "Anyway, once the mine played out, it was time to sell the silver."
"Was there a lot?"
"Not really. We'd sold some already. To makes ends meet. And to continue working. There was enough left to fill the wagon."
"But the stories make it sound like there was more—a treasure."
"Even when the mine was new there were stories like that." He smiled, caught up in the memories. "And my father didn't help. He loved to spin a story. To hear him tell it, the Promise was going to be the new El Dorado."
"Except silver instead of gold."
"Right. Anyway, there wasn't anything close to a fortune. But there was enough to have gotten by for a long time."
"So the last of the ore was smelted?" Cara said, picking up the story again.
"Yes. Each one stamped with a rose."
"For your mother?"
He nodded. "My father's tribute. It was a surprise. He didn't tell a soul, not even Owen. Just unveiled it there on the mountain for her." He smiled with the memory. "She was so pleased. My father's dreams—our family's dreams—finally coming true. I can still see them standing there, arms locked around one another. It was a magic moment, Cara."
"Then how can you believe—" She met his eyes, shaken by the pain she saw reflected there.
"I had no choice." He stood there, staring at the painting again, lost in the past, and she thought for a moment that he wasn't going to continue, but then he drew a deep breath, his shoulders tightening. "We crated the silver, and then Zach and I loaded the crates onto the wagon. He was going to drive it down the mountain to the railroad station."
"Where was Owen?" It didn't really matter, but she wanted to reach Michael somehow, remind him that he wasn't alone with his memories.
His gaze met hers, some of the pain easing from his face. He turned back to the painting. "He was meeting us at the station. Even at the end, he didn't have time to come up the mountain." Cara felt tears well up in her eyes. His voice was so bitter.
"Mother asked Zach if she could ride along as far as Silverthread. She kissed my father, gave me a hug, then hopped up on the wagon and blew kisses at us until they were out of sight." He paused, wiping a hand angrily across his face. "I never saw her again."
Cara waited for more, but the silence hung between them as heavy as a wet blanket. Finally, she asked the question, not knowing for sure if she wanted to hear the answer. "What happened?"
"She ran off with Zach Bowen and took the silver with her."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." His voice was harsh. "I didn't believe it at first, wouldn't believe it. But the evidence was there. First Owen saw it and then my father. Finally, I had no choice but to accept it."
She ran a hand along his cheek. "I know a little about that. What it's like to refuse to believe something and have people keep pounding it into your head, insisting that their version of reality is the truth."
He covered her hand, drawing it to his lips for a kiss, his eyes gentle again. "But in your case, they were wrong."
"Maybe your mother—"
"No. The evidence was real. She deserted us for a comely man and a wagonload of silver bars." He dropped her hand and shrugged. "It was a long time ago." She watched as the absolute truth of what he'd just said sank in. "A hell of a long time ago."
Cara exhaled slowly, her heart breaking for him. "Can you help me get this into the crate?" She kept her voice matter of fact.
Together they eased the painting into its wooden box. When it was finally lodged safely inside, the air in the room seemed to brighten and the somber mood dissipated, as though the painting itself had evoked the memories and accompanying emotions.
"Come on, let's go get something to eat." Maybe discovering pizza would help keep his mind off the past, at least for a while.
"If you liked pizza, just wait until you try Ben and Jerry's chocolate fudge brownie ice cream." Cara swung their joined hands between them, a satisfied smile on her face.
Again, he had the feeling that this was life as it was supposed to be, the most pressing issue what to eat for dessert. But he had a life elsewhere, responsibilities, and Cara had a life here. As if to punctuate the thought, Nick Vargas stepped out of a sleek automobile parked by the curb a few feet in front of them.
"Cara, darling." Nick strode toward them, a
smile breaking across his face. Michael noticed that it failed to reach his eyes. "How wonderful to see you here." He ran his hungry gaze over Cara. Michael tightened his hold on her hand, feeling suddenly proprietary. "Why don't you and your friend join me for a drink? It'll be my treat. An apology for this afternoon."
"It's a lovely thought, Nick. But we can't. I'm determined to introduce Michael to ice cream."
"Introduce?"
Michael jumped in, trying to cover Cara's blunder and avoid further questions. "Yes, Cara tells me that Belle's has particularly good ice cream. Something called Ben and Jerry's?" The irony of the fact that Belle's was a prosperous bordello in his time, did not escape him. It seemed the building was predestined for confections of one kind or another.
"Pity. I could have showed Michael the bar."
Michael frowned, and looked at Cara in askance.
"Nick owns the Blue Spruce. It's the only bar in town." She pointed behind them at a building across the street. Michael felt the hairs on his arm rise. It was the Irish Rose.
Everything different. Everything the same.
He felt suddenly like he had fallen deep into a nightmare and couldn't wake up. As if sensing his feelings Cara squeezed his hand. "Maybe another time, Nick. But it's late. I think it's ice cream and then home for me."
"All right. I'll let you off this time." Nick smiled at Cara, his expression relaxing. It was almost as if they'd passed some kind of test. "But next time you're in town, the drinks are on me, Cara mia." Nick's words caressed her, and Michael fought the urge to slug him.
Perhaps sensing his animosity, the man shifted his icy gaze to Michael, sizing him up. "You said your name's Macpherson, didn't you? I think there used to be a family around here by that name. Any relation?"
"No." No sense in giving the man ammunition against Cara. Besides it was none of his damn business.
"Hmm…" Nick pulled out a silver pocket watch and checked the time. "Well, much as I've enjoyed our little chat, I'm afraid I've got to run. I'm expecting some friends at the bar, and it would be rude not to be there to greet them. I'll call you later, darling." He tipped an imaginary hat at Cara and was gone, disappearing into the night.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 75