"Ice cream then?" Cara tried for light-hearted and missed by a mile.
Still, it was nice to walk up the street with her. If he ignored the assortment of odd items displayed in the windows, he could almost believe he was walking down the street in his own time. Almost.
"Oh, hell." Cara was looking in the direction of her gallery. "I forgot to sign the manifest. If I do it now, it'll save me a trip into town tomorrow. It'll just take a minute. You don't mind, do you?"
"I'll go with you."
As they walked toward the gallery, Michael pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd bought at the restaurant. He'd always rolled his own, but Cara had explained that now days people bought them pre-rolled. He tapped the end against the packet and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. Not bad.
They reached the gallery and Cara unlocked the door. "You'll have to stay outside with that."
He looked down at the cigarette in confusion.
"My rule. No smoking in the building. There are propane heaters in there."
"Propane?" He fumbled with the word. Everything was so different here.
"It's a fuel. Like kerosene. It's used for cooking and heating. Unfortunately it's also a major fire hazard. Especially space heaters. One stray spark and kablooey."
The danger of fire was something he understood. Fire had devastated Silverthread on more than one occasion in his day. He drew on his cigarette, oddly comforted. Maybe things weren't that different after all.
"I really ought to have central heat installed," Cara continued, "but it's expensive. So until I can afford it, I just have to be really careful. No cigarettes." She smiled up at him. "I'll be right back."
The door shut and Michael took another pull on the cigarette. Across the street was a theatre of some kind, housed in what had been Timberman's Hotel. He walked across the road for a closer look, thinking about Nick Vargas. Something about their last encounter bothered him.
He replayed the conversation, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Still he couldn't shake the idea that there was something he should have picked up on. Something familiar. But whatever it was, it remained stubbornly out of reach. Maybe it was just that he didn't like the man, and judging from their conversation the feeling was mutual.
He stubbed the cigarette out against the wall of the theatre and was turning to look for Cara when the roar of an explosion split the night. Bright tongues of orange and red shot into the starry sky, eerily illuminating the gallery across the street.
Michael opened his mouth to yell for help, but nothing came out. Flames danced from the windows, licking at the cold mountain air, feeding greedily on the wooden store front.
Heart in his throat, Michael began to run toward the building.
Cara was still inside.
11
"I beg your pardon?" Patrick leaned forward in his chair, trying to follow the course of the conversation.
Ginny sat, unruffled, looking more like she was discussing a list of the day's chores than the death of her child. "I said that Amos Striker killed my girl."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking first at one woman and then the other. Loralee sat calmly sipping her tea. Obviously Ginny's revelation was not news to her.
"Ginny's daughter lived in Tintown."
Tintown was another mining camp. It had peaked a year or so back, but it was still a lively place, producing a fair amount of silver.
"She was a…in my line of work," Loralee continued. The tell tale blush was back.
Patrick found it entrancing. Hell, he found her entrancing. Not that he'd ever really considered the notion of hooking up with a prostitute. No siree. Owen would have a conniption fit. Still, the idea was suddenly mighty appealing. He felt his face grow hot, and pushed his thoughts aside. He had no business thinking like that. With a sigh of regret, he turned his attention back to Ginny.
"Della was a pretty girl. Smart, too. But people don't have much use for girls with half Indian blood." Ginny's voice held no bitterness, no apology. "She was determined to make it on her own. So she took the only job she could find. At first I thought she was doing the wrong thing. To give yourself without love…"
She paused, her gaze locking with Loralee's. The younger woman touched her hand. With one gesture she conveyed her understanding. Ginny turned back to Patrick. "I came to accept it, though. She was happy. Or she seemed to be. Then she met him."
"Striker?"
Ginny nodded. "He was always coming 'round. Even here once. I could see he wasn't no good, but all Della could see were those blue eyes. Figured herself in love with him."
"Why didn't you do something about it?"
"You haven't got kids." It was a statement not a question.
"No, I don't." He picked at the remainder of his cake, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.
"Well, let me tell you right now, once they're grown you can't tell them anything."
"So what happened."
"One week she didn't come home. I got worried. So I hitched up my mule and headed over to Tintown." She paused and took a sip from her cup, composing herself, the memory obviously still painful. "They told me she'd killed herself. Drank a load of whiskey on top of some fancy patent medicine."
"Laudanum." Loralee added.
Patrick felt a tingle of concern. This was starting to sound familiar. "But you said Amos killed her."
"He did. I just couldn't prove it."
"But I don't see —"
Loralee cut him off with a wave of her hand. "One of the other girls swore she saw him climbing out the window." She met his gaze, waiting for something.
With a startling clarity, it all fell into place. He let out a low whistle. "Her door was locked from the inside wasn't it?"
The women nodded.
"But I still don't understand. If someone saw him there, why didn't they arrest him?"
Loralee choked back a bitter laugh. "And just tell me what makes you think anyone would believe a whore over a lawman?"
"I see." He paused, trying to assimilate it all. He looked over at Loralee. "You knew about this?"
She shook her head. "Only since this morning. I had no idea when we found…" her eyes filled with tears, making them look even larger.
Patrick hadn't meant to upset her. He was just trying to understand the significance of Ginny's story. "So you're thinking that he's done it again?"
"I'm not thinking it. I'm sure of it." Ginny reached over and patted Loralee's hand.
The girl wiped the tears from her eyes and squared her shoulders. Patrick had to admit she had courage. "Corabeth hated laudanum. She said it made her lose control."
"Well, maybe she changed her mind."
"You don't understand. One of the miners got rough with her once, broke her arm in two places. It was twisted funny and must of hurt something fearsome, but she refused to take anything for it. Not even whiskey. She felt real strong about it. If she was going to kill herself — and I'm not saying she was — she'd a used a shotgun before drinking that stuff."
"So you think Amos Striker killed her." He was repeating himself, but after everything he'd just heard he was probably entitled to a little repeating.
Both women nodded. Patrick sighed. They'd obviously made up their minds. But even if he accepted their version of the truth, there was still a gaping hole in the story. "Loralee, when we were with Doc, you told him you were with Corabeth early that morning."
"Right, she kept me company while I did my laundry." She frowned, a puzzled expression pulling her brows together.
"That's means she died sometime after that. Now, I saw Amos early that morning up in the mountains above Clune."
She looked deflated, turning to Ginny for support.
The Indian woman leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. "Was he with you all the time?"
"No, but it's a good ride back to town and there's the small fact that I spent the better part of the afternoon with him, arguing about who killed my father."
>
"Seems to me that still leaves plenty of time for him to slip back into town and find Corabeth."
"Maybe, but even if you accept that. There's still no reason why he'd do such a thing."
Loralee nodded in agreement. "I know. That has us stumped, too."
"Who says he has to have a reason?" Ginny grumbled.
"There is one more thing." Loralee chewed on her lower lip, her eyes narrowed in thought.
"Oh?" Patrick sat back, waiting.
"Everybody knows Amos Striker thinks of himself as a lady's man. He's picky about his women. He's not the type that comes to the cribs. He prefers the women over at Belle's. Higher class whores, so to speak. Frankly, I've always been grateful for that." She ducked her head. "He's not known for being gentle."
Patrick looked over at Ginny. "And Della?"
"She worked in one of them fancy parlor houses. Started out doing their laundry, but she was young and pretty and ambitious." Ginny sighed, lost for a moment in the memory of her daughter.
"If he does have preferences, then that explains his interest in Della, but not his interest in Corabeth. Maybe they were seeing each other someplace away from the cribs?"
"Patrick, Corabeth was my friend. If she'd been seeing Amos, I'd have known it. Corabeth didn't have any kind of relationship with the sheriff. None at all. I'm certain of it."
"So, that would mean either Amos picked her by chance, or there's something here we're missing. And I don't think Amos Striker does anything without a reason." Both women shot him triumphant looks as if they'd just given him the missing piece of a complicated puzzle. "Look, ladies, even if everything you're saying is true, I don't see what any of it has to do with telling Striker about finding Jack."
The triumph faded some.
"We don't know either." Loralee leaned forward, both hands resting on the table. "But there's got to be a connection somewhere."
"All we're trying to say, Patrick, is that maybe you should think twice about telling the sheriff anything. At least until you've had time to sort this all out and make sure there isn't some kind of link between your pa's death and Corabeth's."
Patrick let out a long breath and held up his hands. "All right. You win. I'll wait."
Ginny beamed at him like a proud parent and held the platter under his nose. "Have some more cake."
Patrick pulled his jacket closer, urging his horse forward. It was colder than a witch's teat out here. He laughed to himself. One of Pete's favorite expressions. He wondered why anyone would actually want to feel a witch's teat, and once they did, whether they'd live to tell about it.
Smiling to himself, he tipped back his head and looked at the stars. They were beautiful, spilling through the night sky with careless abandon. Looking up there, a body would never suspect so much could be wrong with the world. Specifically, his world.
"Patrick? That you, boy?" Pete's worried voice came out of the shadows off to the left of the road.
"Yeah, Pete, I'm here."
The wrangler materialized out of the dark, guiding his horse alongside Patrick's. "I was getting worried."
"I'm fine. Just wound up staying in town a little longer than I'd planned."
His foreman nodded and they rode for awhile in companionable silence, Patrick replaying the conversation at the tea party in his head.
"Pete, you know a Ute woman by the name of Ginny?"
"Don't know her. Heard of her though." Pete pulled the collar of his frayed coat closer around him.
"Well, I met her today. Turns out she's a friend of Loralee's."
Pete nodded, but made no comment.
"Anyway, she had an interesting story to tell me, one that may relate to the dead woman I found yesterday."
"Corabeth?"
"Mmm hmm. Seems this Ginny had a daughter. You know about that?"
Pete nodded, his face grim.
Patrick shot him a look.
"It's a small town. Guess everyone knows everyone's business."
"Did you know she was murdered?"
"Heard tell of that too." This was going to be like pulling teeth.
"So you know she thinks Amos Striker did it?"
"A man would have to be deaf to have missed the fact. It was talk around town for quite awhile."
"I didn't know about it." Pete shrugged, and Patrick bristled. "I want to know if you agree with her."
"Ain't got nothing to go on. But I wouldn't put anything past him."
Patrick nodded, glad to know Pete shared his assessment of the man. "Seems, Loralee thinks that Striker might have had something to do with Corabeth's death, too."
"Wouldn't surprise me none." He turned his head, spitting out into the dark. Patrick wondered if the man slept with tobacco in his mouth. "There are certainly similarities."
"There seems to be one major difference, though."
They rode along in silence and it took a moment for Patrick to realize that Pete was waiting for him to elaborate. "According to Ginny, Striker had been hanging around her daughter for quite awhile. She says the girl fancied herself in love with him. Loralee says that Corabeth and Striker hadn't… I mean they didn't know each other…"
"In the biblical sense?" Pete's voice held a hint of laughter.
"Right." Patrick had to get over his inability to talk about sex. But truth was, he didn't have a whole lot of experience, and well, it was just hard to talk about. "The point is that if Corabeth didn't even know Striker, what the hell was he doing with her in the first place? According to Loralee, he's usually not interested in the girls on the line."
"Crib whores ain't his style, true enough." They took the path that snaked off the main road, heading for Clune. "You sure it was Striker and not just suicide?"
"I'm not sure of anything, Pete. But at the moment I'm inclined to believe Ginny and Loralee. Besides the set up at Corabeth's was the same. Right down to the laudanum."
"So then there's got to be a reason." The lights of Clune shone in the distance as they rode down the crest of the hill.
"Loralee and Ginny seem to think it's got something to do with my father's death."
Pete bent his head, a muscle working in his jaw, a sure sign he was thinking it all through. "Don't see how, unless it has something to do with Loralee."
"Loralee?"
"Yup. Arless said it was Loralee."
Patrick's patience was growing thin. "Pete, I've got no idea what you're talking about."
Pete let out an exasperated sigh. "In the Irish Rose, we were talking about Duncan, and Arless said he'd heard about it from Corabeth."
A light went on. "And Corabeth got it from Loralee."
"And here I was thinkin' you were slow." A crooked smile spread across his face, his teeth shining white in the darkness.
"Very funny." Patrick pulled his jacket tighter, shivering in the brisk night air. "I still don't see why any of that would interest Amos."
"Silver."
"What? You think that Amos killed my father because he claimed to have found silver?"
"Men have been killed for a helluva lot less. And Striker seemed to think that it was a good enough motive for Michael."
"He did, didn't he?" Patrick frowned. "But then how the hell do Corabeth and Loralee figure into it?"
"If Arless happened to run his mouth in front of the sheriff, then I'd say that would explain a whole lot."
"This is all a pretty big stretch, Pete." He stopped as a shard of fear pierced his gut. "But if there's any truth in this at all, then Loralee could be in real danger." Patrick swung his horse around.
"Whoa there, boy. Where ya goin'?"
"Back to town, I've got to warn her."
Pete leaned out and grabbed the reins. "Not tonight. Save your heroing for tomorrow. I told you before, ain't safe out here at night, especially for Macphersons."
Patrick clamped his jaw shut and glared at the older man.
"You told me yourself Striker's gone. So your Loralee will be safe until morning."
; "She's not my Loralee." He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could ask Michael what to do. God, how he needed his brother.
12
She couldn't breathe.
Cara opened her eyes, then blinked trying to clear her vision. The room was full of fog, orange fog, and it was choking her. She coughed violently, trying to clear her lungs, struggling to make sense of the swirling haze.
She couldn't move, something heavy was holding her down, partially blocking her vision.
Above her, she could see nothing but the fog. Light flickered through it, almost as if it were alive. She fought for another breath. It was hot. Really hot.
She tried to clear her mind, to remember what happened. Everything was eerily quiet, too quiet. The light continued to dance against the fog. Her brain scrambled to find logic where seemingly there was none. Suddenly it clicked.
Fire. The dancing light was fire. She sucked in a breath, the acrid stench of smoke filling her lungs and stinging her eyes. Oh God, the fog was smoke.
She tried to stay calm, to hold her panic at bay, but she could feel her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her chest. Closing her eyes, she forced her breathing to stay shallow and even, trying to remember what she was supposed to do.
Stop. Drop. Roll. Stop. Drop. Roll.
The words ran through her brain, a sing-song phrase, taunting her with the impossible. Stopping and dropping seemed to be fait d'accompli, but rolling was evidently out of the question. Unless someone could move whatever it was that was pinning her down. Where the hell was the bionic man when she needed him?
Hysteria welled inside her, threatening to take away the small thread of sanity she had left. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she fought to calm herself. She had to think. Think.
A sharp popping noise, followed by shattering glass broke the stillness. The light intensified, and with a low whoosh, flames shot out above her head, building quickly until a canopy of fire billowed across the ceiling. Fascinated, she stared as it spread, and then almost instantaneously vanished again.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 76