Michael stopped, too. "What are you talking about?"
"The pendant is the key."
He frowned down at her. "You think this whole thing was caused by a necklace?"
"No, but, I think it's part of the equation."
"Why?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Because I had it on when you found me. And again when I found you."
"So this is a special pendant?"
"Yeah, it belonged to my great-grandmother. My mother gave to me on my sixteenth birthday."
Understanding flashed in his eyes. "The night your parents' died."
She nodded miserably.
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." He pulled her into his arms. "No wonder it means so much to you."
She nestled there for a moment, then, swallowing her pain, she pushed back so that she could see his eyes. "It's the only thing I have of my mother's—of her family. When my great-grandmother Faye died, my mother went to Virginia to sell her house. In the attic she found a trunk. It had belonged to a woman named Alice Camden. Inside she found the pendant, and a packet of letters from Silverthread."
She leaned into him, her voice muffled against his chest. "The letters were all addressed to my grandmother Mary. They were short letters, without much news really. References here and there to life in Silverthread, but mainly they were filled with words of love. Words from a mother to a daughter."
"So Alice was really your great-grandmother?"
"Yeah. Faye was her sister. Anyway, mom tried to find out more about Alice, but there was nothing. It was almost like she'd never existed at all. Except that we had her pendant. So you see, it was a big deal when she gave it to me. It represented all we had of our true heritage." She bit her lip, trying not to cry. This wasn't the time.
"It's a lovely story, Cara, but it could just be coincidence."
Her gaze met his. "There's more. When they couldn't find you, when they told me I'd imagined you, I couldn't stand it. I'd lost everything. My parents, my life, and then you." She exhaled on a sigh, feeling his arms tighten around her. "I thought I was going to die, too, for a while. And then slowly, surely, I healed. But I couldn't bring myself to wear the necklace. It symbolized all I had lost. I gave it to my grandfather and told him to sell it."
"But he didn't."
"No, he didn't. He kept it in a drawer by his bed. One more thing he was right about." She fought to keep the pain from her voice. "It was silly to blame an inanimate object for all my troubles."
"But easier." As always Michael understood. Without the words even being spoken.
She drew in a deep breath. "Anyway, I found it when I was going through his things. I still couldn't bear to look at it, but I took it with me to the cabin. Then a few days ago, I saw it in my jewelry box and put it on. I can't explain why I did, it just felt right."
She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek. "It was the day I found you. I just didn't make the connection until now. It's the pendant, Michael. Alice's pendant."
"You think it's what pulled me through time?"
"I do. That and the connection between us. First, I needed you and then you needed me. Or maybe it was me who needed you. I don't know. It's confusing."
He brushed his lips against hers, even the slight contact making her ache for him. "I would have died if you hadn't found me in the tunnel."
"I know," she whispered. "But I would have died in the fire if you hadn't pulled me out." She shook her head. "Anyway, it's not important who saved whom. What's important is that we need the pendant to get back, and I don't have it." She tried to keep a brave face, but the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed her and she felt tears threatening. "I must have lost it."
"Shh." He placed a finger over her lips. "It's okay. The necklace is safe. It's in the bathroom by the sink. I took it from you the night of the fire."
She nodded, pushing aside memories of that night. She could remember later. When she was alone. "We need the pendant, Michael."
"So let's go get it." He was already turning back.
"No." The word came out harsher than she'd intended. He swung around to look at her, and she forced a smile. "It'll be faster if I go back for it on my own."
He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, his cobalt gaze meeting hers. "I'll wait for you at the tunnel."
Cara reached the porch that wrapped around her house in record time. Taking the three steps in one stride, she inserted her key and swung open the door, bursting through the little mud room almost before the door had closed behind her.
"Cara, darling, I was wondering when you'd show up."
She froze, her eyes riveted on the gun in Nick Vargas' lean hand.
17
Moonlight sifted through the gauzy curtain, spilling out across the bed. Patrick turned away from it, pounding his pillow into submission and wondering if sleep was ever going to come. His mind was a tangle of thoughts. Michael. His father. Amos. Loralee.
He closed his eyes concentrating on the oblivion of sleep. Nothing. With a sigh, he turned onto his back, linking his hands behind his head. Shadows on the ceiling made shifting lacy patterns of light and dark. He watched as they kaleidoscoped across the wooden planks, intricate lines leading into and away from each other.
He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow the events of the last few days were like the shadows. Overlapping, connecting. If only he could find the key. Michael had disappeared first. He still couldn't bring himself to think of his brother as dead. Was there something in his disappearance that had triggered the entire chain of events?
It just didn't make any sense. Michael hadn't known Loralee, and as far as Patrick knew, he'd never had a run-in with Amos Striker. His father had babbled on about some silver, but that, in and of itself, didn't really mean anything, despite what Pete said. Duncan was always certain he'd just struck it rich. No one really believed him. And even if they did, who the hell would kill a man for a strike? A producing claim maybe, but a strike? It just didn't make any sense.
And now to complicate things he'd gone and fallen for a crib whore. One who was still grieving for her dead husband. Oh yeah, things were just peachy.
In his mind's eye, he pictured Loralee's sweet face, her small pink tongue darting out to moisten her ripe, red lips. He smothered a groan and rolled over, pulling the pillow with him. Now, to top it all off, he'd gone and made himself hard. Great. Just what he needed to help him drift off to sleep.
Loralee sat up in bed, tired of fighting off dreams of Amos Striker's leering face. She pushed the hair out of her eyes, and got out of bed, crossing to the window, pulling the curtain back. Light flooded the room. Its presence calming. She was safe. Outside, a slight breeze ruffled the silver-washed grass, bending the blades in unison almost as if they were dancing a reel, following the commands of an unseen caller.
She wondered what it would feel like to dance with Patrick, his strong hands guiding her through the intricate steps. She pushed the thought away. It was highly unlikely that they'd ever be attending a dance together. The Macpherson's were well thought of in these parts. She rubbed her arms, a sudden chill chasing down her spine. No, they'd never be able to dance together.
Her thoughts turned to Mary. She wondered if her baby even remembered her. She'd heard somewhere that babies had no memory. The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she wondered what her life might have been like if… She bit back the thought. No sense in wasting time on 'what ifs.'
She turned from the window, no nearer to sleep than she'd been ten minutes ago. Maybe some pie would help. She made her way to the door of Michael's room, relieved that she hadn't made any noise. The last thing she wanted to do was wake everyone up.
She moved cautiously into the darkened room, jumping when a wheezing snore erupted from a dark corner. The noise repeated itself, and she relaxed, smiling. Arless.
A slice of moonlight cut across the floor, and she realized the front door was open. Since the door locked from the inside, that meant some
one had gone out. And since Pete was sleeping in his quarters and Arless was snoring in the corner, that meant Patrick.
Her heart fluttered at the thought, but she clamped down on the feelings. She'd had experience trying to cross over from her appointed place in life. It didn't work. And she wasn't about to go and set herself up for that kind of heartache again.
Still, it couldn't hurt to talk to the man. After all they were both awake. Without so much as a by your leave, her traitorous feet took steps toward the open door.
He was sitting on the steps, his head buried in his hands, the slump of his shoulders telling her his state of mind. So much had happened to him in such a short time. It would be hard for anyone to bear. But Duncan had always said Patrick was real sensitive.
He was a tall man, just past the bloom of boyhood really, and there was something compelling about him. Something that reached out to her. She shook her head. There was no sense in turning camaraderie into fantasy.
"Loralee? Is that you?"
Startled she stepped back a pace, stopping herself when she realized he'd turned to look at her. "I…I didn't mean to bother you. I was just…" She tried again. "I couldn't sleep." She shrugged helplessly, hoping she didn't sound as foolish as she felt.
"It's all right. I couldn't sleep either." He patted the space on the step next to him.
She frowned, telling herself the thing to do was head for high ground before she was in over her head. But the next thing she knew, she was settling in beside him like she'd been doing it all her life.
"You worried about Amos?" Patrick asked.
"Some. I can't help wondering if he's out there somewhere, waiting for me."
Patrick nodded, his big hand reaching for hers, enclosing it in his warmth. "You're safe here. I won't let that son of a bitch get anywhere near you. I promise."
She placed a finger across his lips, absorbing the jolt of electricity that sparked between them. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, his eyes searching hers. "I can take care of you, Loralee. If you'll let me."
Oh God, how she wanted to abandon herself to him. But another part of her, the part that still was thinking with her head, warned that nothing could come of it. Nothing at all.
She sat back and pasted on a cheerful smile. "Tell me about your family."
Patrick frowned, uncertain what had just happened. One minute there were sparks flying and the next she was asking him his life history without so much as a hint of what had happened in between. He sighed and leaned back against the post, realizing he really didn't know the slightest thing about women.
"I guess you could say we were vagabonds. My father was always certain there was a fortune to be had just over the next hill. That's why he came to America in the first place."
"From Scotland?"
He glanced over at her to see if she was truly interested. She was watching him with doe eyes and he fought the desire to pull her across his lap and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. "Yes. The Macpherson's have a place, sort of like a ranch I guess, called Crannog Mhór."
"Cran what?" She tried to say the name but failed.
"Crannog Mhór. It means lake dwelling. To hear my father talk about it, it must be the most beautiful place in the world. It's real remote. Up in a mountain valley somewhere."
"That would explain why he liked it here."
"I never thought about it one way or the other, but I imagine you're right."
"So what made him leave, if he loved it so much?"
"Well, like I said, there was the adventure of it. That, and the fact that he was the fourth son. His brother Calum was set to inherit." Patrick shrugged. "And there were two more in line after that. So he set off for America."
"And landed in New York. He told me a little of it."
"Yeah. That's where he hooked up with Owen. They were just boys really. Younger than me. But they hit it off. Complimented each other really. I mean Father has always had his dreams, but not really any focus, and Owen, he's always been the practical one. Their friendship just seemed a natural thing. And Owen, well, he's always been there for all of us. Many was the time when the money he made put a roof over our heads and food in our mouth."
"You're close to Owen, aren't you?"
He nodded. "Since my mother left us, Owen has been more a father to me than my own. For a while he was the only one I could talk to. Michael was too angry. And Father was too drunk." Bitterness rose in him, its sour taste almost physical.
"But he wasn't always like that."
Patrick smiled, remembering. "Oh, no. Once upon a time, Duncan Macpherson was a charmer. His smile could light a room, and he could make you believe anything was possible."
"Was New York where Duncan met your mother?"
Patrick smiled. "Yup. According to my father, she was the prettiest girl in the city. And I reckon it's a mighty big city."
"Her name was Rose?"
"Just like the flower. Hell, she even smelled like roses." He inhaled deeply, remembering the sweet scent that had marked his mother. "She was just off the boat herself, from Ireland, waiting tables at a place called Paddy's. That's who I'm named for."
"A bar?"
"No, the man who ran the place. My mother always said he was an angel."
"And that's where your father fell in love with your mother?"
"To hear him tell it, it was a magical thing. One look and he knew she was the woman for him. Owen says it wasn't quite as magical as my father would have us believe. According to his version of the story, it took quite a bit of wooing on my father's part."
"And what did your mother say?"
Patrick fought a wave of sadness. He'd loved his mother more than anyone in the world. "She'd always say that Duncan Macpherson was the finest gentleman in the whole world, and that she was the lucky one. I really believed she loved him, Loralee."
She squeezed his hand. "I imagine that she really did."
They sat together in the moonlight, listening to the whisper of the wind in the pines, and Patrick thought, just for a moment, that maybe she really had. Maybe she'd loved them all. His heart contracted in anguish. But if she'd loved them, then how could she have ever left them—left him?
"Were you born in New York?" Loralee asked, breaking the silence.
"No. Michael was. But tempers started flaring between the north and south. Owen and my father decided they didn't want to fight a war they had no stomach for, so they high-tailed it to the gold fields."
"California?" She shifted slightly, her hand still warm in his.
"Um hmm. I was born in a shanty in some long forgotten boomtown. We kicked around California for awhile, until the gold got scarce and folks started talking about Colorado."
"Silver." She said the word almost with reverence.
"Except, of course, we never seemed to be able to find any."
"Until the Promise."
"Yeah, fat lot of good it did us."
She looked up at him, her wide eyes filled with concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dredge up old memories."
"It's all right. They seem to have a way of coming up all by themselves anyway." Which brought them full circle.
If the Promise hadn't failed, maybe his mother would still be around. And if she were still here, then his father wouldn't have become a drunk. And he and Loralee would certainly never have hooked up. And then she wouldn't be in danger.
He blew out a sigh. Yup, everything always seemed to lead back to the Promise.
18
Michael reached the clearing and began methodically searching the far bank of Shallow Creek for the blue spruce. It wasn't particularly easy. There were plenty of the trees mixed in among the aspens. And the course of the stream was different than it had been in his time.
The changes seemed to mock him, pointing out with painful clarity the precariousness of his situation. Lost in time. It sounded like the name of a dime novel, not reality.
/> He blew out a breath and tried to concentrate on his search. One spruce in particular, kept catching his eye. It towered above the others, its limbs fanning down to the ground. Something about the rocks jutting out beside it rang a bell. The little scraggly tree of his memory had filled out majestically.
He started to cross the creek, then stopped short, his mind filled with a picture of Cara disappearing into the gallery minutes before it exploded. He let out a string of words fit for the crustiest miner. He was a fool. Letting her go alone had been a mistake. Especially with Nick Vargas out there.
He spun around and headed back toward the cabin. Hopefully, he was just making a mountain out of a mole hill. She'd come bursting through the brush any minute. Fifteen minutes later, he wasn't as sure. Cursing himself, he increased his pace, fear lancing through him. Oh God, he prayed, let her be all right.
"What are you doing here?" Cara tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, but only succeeded partially.
Nick smiled, a slow, lazy smile that never reached his eyes. "I think you already know that."
Cara felt the hairs on her arms rise. Why hadn't she seen the truth about him before? "You took my paintings." She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. It wasn't everyday she had a gun pointed in her face.
He sounded amused. "Well, I did try to buy them. I told you that honest heart of yours would get you in trouble. Where's the boy toy?"
"He's not here."
"This gets better and better, Cara mia. How delightful to have you all to myself." There was a caress in his voice that sent shivers of dread down her spine. He frowned. "Of course I'll still have to deal with Mr. Macpherson." He spat the name out like it was a curse. "But first, I'll have the pleasure of dealing with you." The lecherous look was back. "Come here, darling." He motioned her forward with the gun.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 82