Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  It took everything she had to hold her ground. "I'm not coming anywhere near you."

  "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, darling." He was across the room before she could blink, his free hand closing around her wrist. She would never have guessed he was capable of moving so quickly. He pulled her close, the barrel on the gun digging into her ribs, his warm breath fanning across her face.

  "Back off, Nick." She gritted her teeth and tried to wrench her wrist free.

  "I hardly think you're in a position to be giving me orders." He twisted her arm behind her, pulling her even closer, her hand pinned against her back. He traced the tip of the gun along one breast, then used the barrel to work the buttons on her shirt free. "I've been waiting for this a long time."

  A scream split the air.

  Michael broke into a full run, leaping over the fence into the yard. His brain clicked into gear, just as he was starting to bound onto the porch. No sense in tipping his hand. He swerved to the side, bending low to the ground.

  The Jeep was parked at the side of the house. He moved to its far side, inching the door slowly open. The rifle was still hanging against the back window. Reaching for it, he prayed that whoever was inside wasn't looking out the window.

  His hand closed around the stock and he lifted it carefully out of the brackets. He had to admit, it felt good to have it in his hand. There was definitely something equalizing about carrying a weapon, no matter what century a man occupied.

  He slid along the side of the house, ducking under the window. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way up, until he could see into the room. He choked back a cry of rage. Vargas had Cara trapped, his gun at her… He clenched a fist. The bastard would pay.

  He ducked back down and slipped around the corner to the rear of the house. The bedroom window was cracked open slightly. He heaved a sigh of relief and shoved it higher. He tossed the rifle onto the bed and he threw a leg over the sill. Dropping onto the floor, he retrieved the gun and edged forward toward the open door.

  Cara closed her eyes, trying to think what to do. Nick's hand was firmly holding her captive, threatening to snap her wrist each time she tried to rebel against his ministrations. She squirmed against him as the hand with the gun dipped lower, tracing a path against the bare skin of her abdomen.

  "You didn't realize a weapon could be used with love, did you, Cara mia?"

  She heard the slide of her zipper and sucked in her stomach as cold, hard steel rubbed against soft skin. "What you're doing has nothing whatsoever to do with love, Nick."

  "You disappoint me, Cara, I thought you were more adventurous." He kissed her, forcing her mouth open and drilling into her with his tongue.

  Cara gagged and tried to wrench her head away. Yanking her free arm from between them, she dug her nails into his skin. He jerked back, a queer smile lighting his face, a trail of blood along his cheek. She sucked in a ragged breath, realizing she'd played right into his hands. The man got off on pain.

  "So the lady likes it rough." He jammed the gun upward, digging into her tender flesh. "Do you realize, darling, that if I were to pull the trigger now, you would be shattered inside and out?" He waited, watching her, wanting a reaction.

  She bit her lip and met his gaze full on, trying to keep her emotions in check. She'd be damned if she'd add to his pleasure.

  He frowned and moved the gun muzzle up to the tender skin under her chin. "But then, we don't want things to go too quickly, do we? After all we're still waiting for your man of the hour." He pushed the pistol into her neck, pressing it against her larynx. Then he slid around so that he was behind her, her body pressed against him, her arm trapped between them.

  "Let her go, Vargas."

  "Ah, Macpherson, right on time," Nick jeered. "I've been expecting you."

  "I said to let her go."

  Cara had never seen Michael look so angry. He held the rifle pointed at them, his stance stiff and unyielding. His eyes were narrowed into thin slits of cobalt, and if the old adage that looks could kill was true, then Nick Vargas was a dead man.

  The gun bit into her throat. "I hardly think you have the upper hand here, Macpherson. If you don't want to see Cara's brains splattered about this charming living room, I suggest you drop the Rambo imitation and the gun."

  Cara wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Michael didn't even know who Rambo was. She heard the click of the safety being removed and held her breath.

  Michael dropped the rifle, but kept his tense stance, looking a lot like a snake about to strike. "All right, I've dropped it, now let her go."

  "Well, now, that would be a mistake, wouldn't it? Just the edge you need." Nick's voice was even and pleasant as if they were attending a dinner party together. "Kick it over here."

  Michael kicked the rifle and it spun away to the left.

  Nick watched the rifle slide across the wooden floor. "Not very good at following orders, but it will have to do. I know who you are, Macpherson."

  Cara sucked in a breath and watched as Michael stiffened. How could Nick possibly know?

  "Did you think I wouldn't recognize the name? I had your family thoroughly investigated, but obviously the buffoon missed a branch. According to him, the only Macphersons left are in some godforsaken lake valley in Scotland."

  "Crannog Mhór."

  "Whatever." Nick waved the gun. "The point is I have no intention of sharing my find with you."

  "Find?" The words popped out before Cara could stop herself.

  Nick slammed the gun back into place at her neck. "Why yes, Cara, treasure beyond my wildest dreams."

  "What treasure?" Michael spat the words out.

  "Remember, Mr. Macpherson, curiosity killed the cat." Nick's eyes narrowed, his voice malevolent. "But then I suppose there's no harm in the telling. Dead cat's tell no tales after all." He tightened his hold on Cara, his breath hot against her temple.

  "It all began with the fact that little boys are great listeners. And doddering old men love to talk. One in particular." Nick sneered. "My grandfather. He spent his days in the bar. And I spent my days at his feet. Listening.

  "It seems his father, a cowboy named Amos, was obsessed with finding the silver from a lost mine. A fortune in silver to hear him tell it. Anyway, my grandfather inherited the obsession. Sadly, he died before he could find it." His voice held no remorse. "So the quest passed to me, along with his worldly goods. And until recently I was cursed with his bad luck.." Nick sighed. "you see, there's been the little problem of finding the mine."

  "The Promise."

  "A star for the boy toy."

  Michael frowned. "That's why you wanted Cara's paintings."

  "They were really just insurance." Nick relaxed his hold and Cara tried to struggle free. "Do hold still, darling." He twisted his hand, turning her wrist until she thought it would snap. An involuntary moan slipped between her clenched teeth. Michael's look turned murderous.

  "Insurance against what?" Michael growled.

  "Perhaps I should have said back-up. You see, Cara here is the real prize." Michael took a step forward. "I'd stop, if I were you." Michael held his ground. "Now, I know you have the hots for our little girl. Truth be told, so do I." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "But she is oh so much more important than that. You see Cara can take me to the Promise."

  "There's nothing to take you to, Vargas. There is no silver. It was stolen long ago."

  "That's what you'd like me to believe, isn't it? But I think your appearance here, is testament to the fact that there's something up there. And Cara here is going to show me the way."

  "She doesn't remember where it is," Michael said. "But I do."

  "Rubbish. But a good try, Macpherson. In fact, the truth is you have absolutely no value at all. So…" He slowly pointed the gun at Michael.

  Cara reacted instantaneously. She slammed her free hand into Nick's arm and bent back her leg, driving her foot into his groin with all the force she could muster. He grunted in p
ain and relaxed his grip. She wrenched free just as a shot rang out.

  She ran for the rifle as Michael dove for Vargas, Nick's shot ricocheting harmlessly off a wall. Circling Nick's gun hand with steely fingers, Michael shoved him backward. They struggled and the gun went off again, the bullet embedding itself in the ceiling. Cara scooped up the rifle, but realized that the two men were too tangled for her to get a clear shot.

  They continued to wrestle, each, from Cara's vantage point, seeming to hold his own ground. Somehow, Nick managed to twist their arms around so that the gun was between them, pointed at Michael. Cara froze, watching as an unholy smile lit Nick's face.

  "Michael." She screamed his name in warning. He reacted instantly, managing to turn Vargas' hand just as the gun exploded. The sound reverberated through the room. Nothing moved. Gripping the rifle, she inched forward, her heart beating a frantic cadence in her ears.

  One of the bodies moved, disentangling itself from the other. "Michael?" Her voice came out a croak. She seemed to be incapable of saying anything but his name. Dropping the rifle, she threw herself at the man standing before her.

  His arms locked around her, and she heard him murmuring her name over and over. She breathed his scent, feeling the press of tears now that the danger had passed. They stood locked together, for a minute, an eternity, content to simply feel the other breathe.

  Finally, she tipped back her head, meeting his blue-black gaze. Blood streaked his cheek and she reached to wipe it away with gentle fingers.

  "Is he dead?"

  "I think so." He pulled away and walked toward the body. Nick lay face down, blood staining the floor.

  Suddenly she felt sick. "Don't touch him. Let's just get out of here. Please." She felt the world start to spin. Michael caught her just as her knees gave way, swinging her into his arms. He started for the door. And she remembered their mission. "The pendant."

  He nodded and deposited her gently near the door to the mud room. "Stay here."

  She leaned against the wall and smiled weakly. "Don't worry."

  He dashed into the bathroom and was back in an instant, handing her the necklace. "Shouldn't we call the sheriff?" He jerked his head toward Nick's body.

  "Not now. There isn't time. It's already nearing sunset. And if we're right about time being the same then tomorrow is the day."

  Michael's face tightened. "All right. Let's go."

  "It's not working." Cara was exhausted, driven on only by her overriding need to help him get back to his brother.

  Michael looked as tired as she felt. "I've been in and out of this blasted tunnel in every conceivable way. I don't know what else to do." He sank down on a rock in the entrance, staring off at the orange rays of the sinking sun.

  There wasn't much time left and they didn't even have a flashlight. She rubbed her arm. It ached where Nick had twisted it, but, thank God, nothing was broken. "We've just got to try again. It has to work." She reached for the pendant, surprised when it wasn't there. "Michael, the necklace. It's not here."

  "What?"

  "It's not here." She met his gaze then dropped to the ground, frantically searching for the pendant. A sparkle beneath the rock caught her eye. She smiled and reached for it, surprised to see how much her hand trembled. She grabbed the chain, but somehow, between her shaking hand and the finely wrought silver, she managed to drop it.

  It clattered against the floor of the tunnel and rolled deeper into the mine. Cara watched it disappear, but her tired body was slow to respond.

  Michael moved faster, heading into the tunnel after the necklace. "Cara. Come here." The words were sharp, and pulled her immediately out of her lethargy. She stepped into the faint light of the tunnel. Michael was standing with the pendant in his hand. It had evidently split in the fall.

  Heartbroken, she met his gaze. "I broke it?" She'd meant the words as a statement, but they came out a plea. What had she done?

  "No." His whispered words were almost reverent. "It's a locket, Cara. The fall must have triggered the mechanism holding it closed."

  "A locket?" She felt stupid. All she seemed to be able to do was mumble questions.

  "Yes." He extended his hand and even in the growing shadows she could see that the broken pieces were in fact the two halves of the locket, still joined by a slender hinge.

  "Is anything in it?" She held her breath, not knowing what to expect. She'd never even realized the pendant was a locket.

  "Yes." Again his tone bordered on amazement.

  "What?" She snapped the word out impatiently. God, she needed sleep.

  "Well, there are two locks of hair. And a note."

  "There's a note?" She was back to repeating. She swallowed and tried to pull her brain online. "What does it say?"

  "I don't know. It looks like a code of some kind. But, Cara, I recognize the handwriting."

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as a chill splintered down her spine. "Whose writing is it?"

  "My father's."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could even formulate her thought, a strong arm wrapped around her throat and she felt the cold metal of a gun against her back. "I'll take that, Macpherson."

  Nick.

  She twisted her head around, trying to see him and wished she hadn't. His face was caked with blood, distorting his features. His mouth was swollen and twisted, making him seem almost inhuman.

  Michael took a step forward, his hand clenched in anger.

  "Oh please. Let's not go through this again." Nick shifted the gun to Cara's head. "Give me the locket or it's all over for your lovely girlfriend."

  Michael held out the necklace. Keeping the gun firmly against her temple, Nick released his hold on her throat and reached for the pendant. "The paper, too. What do you take me for, a fool?"

  Michael's mouth tightened into a grim line, but he held out the note. Nick snatched it and, with a hard shove, sent her sprawling toward Michael. Everything after that happened in an instant.

  Michael snarled and dove forward just as Nick shot twice at the ceiling. There was a loud rumble and then the entire earth seemed to move. Rocks and debris from the tunnel rained down on her.

  She huddled on the floor, trying ineffectually to cover her head, surprised to hear someone screaming. It was a moment before she realized the blood curdling sound came from her own throat.

  A solid chunk of rock crashed against the back of her head sending shards of white light dancing through her brain. She struggled to hold onto consciousness, but felt the encroaching blackness take control. As her vision dimmed and the darkness enveloped her, she whispered his name.

  "Michael."

  19

  Loralee yawned and curled closer into the warmth of the comforter. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a comfortable bed. Alone. It was downright sinful. A girl could get used to it. She stretched contentedly then let her eyes slowly flicker open.

  Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, dappling the bedclothes in soft light. Heaven. With a blissful sigh, she threw back the covers and sat up, marveling at the fact that the day was hers. Totally hers. Unless Amos Striker arrived. She shivered, her mind conjuring a picture of Corabeth's lifeless body. Not for the first time, she was grateful that Mary was safe with her sister.

  She slid out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser in the corner. A small mirror was the room's only adornment. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, then twirled the finished product into a ring around her head. A halo. She smiled at the thought, and fastened her hairpins into place. Almost passable. With a quick smile at the face in the mirror, she reached for her dress, skipping the corset in favor of breathing room. Slightly immodest, but it wasn't as if she had a reputation to ruin.

  Loralee laughed; the thought oddly freeing. Finishing the last of her buttons, she peeked under the bed, searching for her shoes, her mind turning to her evening with Patrick Macpherson. The man had no idea how char
ming he was. A real innocent. And that was a rarity in her line of business to be sure. Men like Patrick Macpherson simply didn't frequent the cribs. Loralee struggled into her boots, wishing she had a button hook.

  No, she'd done right to ignore Patrick's obvious interest. A fancy feat of acting if she did say so herself. The boy was smitten all righty. But she couldn't take the chance. Patrick wasn't a one night kinda man, and if she let him… Her hand drifted across her gingham-clad breast, then down across her abdomen, her eyes drifting shut as her imagination took control.

  Oh Lordy.

  She forced her eyes wide open. Yes siree, she was better off on her own. A man like Patrick Macpherson was the most dangerous kind. Wholly approachable, and completely unobtainable. If she ever had a taste of him, she'd only want more. And that was something she was determined to avoid at all costs. No sense in setting herself up for a fall. No sense at all.

  A rap on the door, brought Patrick to hazy consciousness. He opened one eye, the last of a very provocative dream bursting like a soap bubble. "Go away." He sighed and reached for a pillow. Maybe if he covered his head, the knocking would stop, and he could find his way back to dreamland and Loralee. Loralee. He smiled, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his imagination pulsing into high gear.

  The knocking continued and Patrick threw the pillow at the door. "Patrick." There was a definite whine in Arless' voice. "You seen Loralee? She promised me breakfast this morning."

  "She's sleeping in Michael's room, Arless, just hang onto your drawers. I'm sure she'll be there directly." He snuggled back down into his bed, closing his eyes, picturing Loralee's perfectly formed rear end. It was so soft. So sweet.

  "Patrick?" Arless again.

  "I told you —" Lord, couldn't a man be left to his own fantasies?

  "But, she ain't in there."

  He sat up, sleep vanishing in an instant. He ignored his pants, grabbing his rifle instead. If Loralee was in trouble there was no time for niceties. Hopping on one foot, trying to pull on a boot, he reached for the door, almost toppling over when Arless yanked it open.