Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  "Michael? Can you hear me?"

  It happened like before. One minute it was dark, and the next, the cavern was filled with light, the change occurring so quickly it made her dizzy. Michael swept her into his arms, the force of his embrace lifting her off the ground, cradling her against his chest. "We're going again. Hold on tight." His voice was strained with anxiety.

  "I can't."

  "Yes you can." His tone brooked no argument. "You just have to hold onto me. I won't let anything happen to you. Believe in me, Cara."

  She tried to push her doubts aside, wrapping her arms around his neck, comforted by the smell and feel of him. "Are you ready?" She nodded, afraid to say anything, feeling his muscles tighten and bunch as he prepared to run.

  The dark was almost overpowering this time. She could feel it all around her. The stones scraped her arms and legs, the weight of all the rock crushing down on her. She tried to focus her thoughts on Michael, to hold tightly to him, but she could no longer feel him, only the darkness. It ebbed and flowed around her. Cold. So cold. She tried to fight it, to hold on, to find Michael, but there was nothing but the icy darkness and the crushing weight of the rock. She knew she was dying, was certain of it somewhere deep inside, and with a soft sigh, she let go.

  "Cara, sweetheart, can you hear me?" Her hands felt like ice. He rubbed them between his own, willing her to open her eyes and look at him. Her breathing was shallow, but right now any movement was a positive sign.

  He closed his eyes, for a moment reliving the absolute terror of their exit from the tunnel. He'd actually felt her being ripped from his arms. He'd tightened his grip, his muscles twisting with pain as he'd struggled to maintain his hold.

  He shook his head. He'd taken a huge risk, literally dragging her into his time, but she was safe, and right now that was what mattered most. He opened his eyes and studied the porcelain texture of her face. Even asleep she was beautiful. His heart rate increased as he thought again how close he had come to losing her. Nothing was as important as keeping her alive. Nothing.

  She moaned, the small sound seeming to reverberate off of his soul. With a flicker, her eyes opened and she looked up at him. "Michael? Where are we?"

  He helped her sit up, keeping an arm around her. "Judging from the size of the spruce, I'd say we're back in my time."

  Fear flickered across her face, but almost as quickly it was gone, and she smiled hesitantly. "As long as we're out of that tunnel, I'm happy to be anywhere."

  He ran a gentle hand along the line of her jaw. "I thought for a minute there I was going to lose you."

  She shivered, lost in memory, then squared her shoulders meeting his gaze. "But you didn't."

  "I'm sorry about all this." He waved a hand in the direction of the spruce, the little tree signifying everything.

  "We've covered that ground before. You've saved me—again. Right now that's all that matters, that and finding your brother." She met his gaze squarely. "When the time comes, I'll find my way home."

  Michael winced. He couldn't, wouldn't think about losing Cara again. Not now. Maybe not ever. He'd just have to find a way to convince her to stay.

  But first he had to make things right. And to do that, he had to save his brother. "There's a line shack not far from here. I can leave you there until I find Patrick."

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. "No way, Michael. Until we resolve this, whatever we do, we do it together." She crossed her arms and squinted at him angrily, looking like a bizarre cross between an avenging angel and a street urchin.

  She stood up, wiping her hands against her jeans, all business now. "What do we do first?"

  A sense of pride welled up inside him, and something else, something powerful and possessive. She was the most amazing woman he had ever known. And he'd be damned if he'd let her willingly walk out of his life. He forced himself to focus on her question. There'd be time to examine his fragile new emotions later.

  "Can you handle a gun?"

  "Like a pro. My grandfather taught me to shoot about the same time he taught me to ride." She smiled up at him, determination glinting in her eyes. "But, Michael, where are we going to get weapons?"

  "There'll be some in the line shack. We'll go there, and then we'll head to Clune."

  "Can you see anything?" Loralee poked her nose above the windowsill, searching the yard for some sign of their tormentor.

  "Stay low." Patrick glanced over at her, then returned his gaze to the ranch yard.

  "I can't stand much more of this." Loralee kept her voice pitched to a whisper. Pete was sleeping and there was no sense waking the man. "It's like torture, Patrick. Waiting and waiting. If we're such sitting ducks, why doesn't he just kill us?"

  Patrick reached over and covered her hand with his, the contact comforting. "He's got a mind of his own, that's for sure. But he knows what he's doing. Any overt movement on our part, and he'll pick us off one by one."

  Loralee squared her shoulders, determined not to give in to her fear. This was by far the worst spot she'd been in over the years, but that didn't mean she hadn't had her share of trouble. And she'd survived it all. And truth be told, she wasn't planning on kicking the bucket just yet. "There's got to be something we can do." She glanced over her shoulder at Pete. "He's got a fever, Patrick. I don't know how much longer he can hold out."

  Patrick ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way. "I've been over it and over it, Loralee. There's just nothing to do but try and wait him out. Maybe he'll make a mistake."

  She stared out at the tall grass waving in the breeze, trying for courage. "You could make a run for it."

  "I'm not leaving you alone."

  "If leaving me alone saves our lives, it'd be more than worth it, don't you think? If you do get out, then you'd be able to bring back help. And I can hold the fort until you're gone." She shot him a determined smile.

  "No. Even if I could get out—and I'm not saying I could—I'm not about to leave you and Pete undefended."

  "Patrick, I've been taking care of myself as long as I can remember. I reckon I can handle it just a little bit longer."

  He ran the back of his hand along her cheek. "You're as brave as they come, but you're no match for whoever's out there. Hell, neither am I. That son of bitch is holding all the cards."

  "Don't mean nothing." They both turned to look at Pete, who had struggled to a sitting position.

  His face was ashen and Loralee marveled at the strength of his constitution. A lesser man would be dead to the world right now. Or just plain dead. "Pete, you shouldn't be up. You need rest."

  "If we don't do something real soon, I'll be doin' nothing but restin'. Figure now's as good a time as any to formulate us a plan." From Pete, it was a speech. Loralee crawled over to his side and dipped a square of linen in the pan of water. She reached to wipe it across his brow, but he pushed her hand away, his gaze never leaving Patrick. "So what you thinkin' of doin'?"

  Patrick crossed the room, staying low, settling on the floor beside them. "I was thinking that if you covered me, I might make it to the barn. From there I could try to ride for Silverthread."

  Pete closed his eyes, scrunching his face up in thought. "Might work."

  "Yeah, and it might not."

  "But it's worth a try." Loralee looked from one man to the other. "You said yourself, sooner or later, he's going to get us if we stay pinned like this. Seems to me a little chance is better than no chance at all."

  "Girl's got a head on her." Pete nodded with approval and Loralee felt her chest swelling with pride. Nobody had ever called her smart before.

  "I still don't like it. If I get shot, how are you all going to manage?"

  "If you don't try, we're gonna be in the same kettle. It's just a matter of time." Pete leaned back, all the words exhausting him.

  Loralee met Patrick's gaze, her own steady. She'd played poker before. Wasn't half bad at it actually. And she knew it was time to call the hand. "Pete's righ
t, and you know it."

  Patrick looked from one to the other and then out the window, his eyes narrowed. "All right. I'll do it, but not until it gets dark. It'll be safer then."

  Loralee blew out a breath and raised the damp cloth again, successfully wiping the old man's brow. "You get some sleep now. You'll need your strength later."

  Pete looked across the room at Patrick. "More likely we'll need a miracle."

  22

  Michael scanned the scene below him, searching for signs of life. The ranch yard was peaceful, almost serene, but in his estimation it was too quiet. There was nothing to indicate any activity at all. No horses in the corral, no smoke from the chimney, no gear lying about. Nothing.

  The place looked deserted, the skeleton of the new barn casting long shadows across the house and stable, giving them an almost sinister look. He shook his head, clearing his vision. Maybe it was just his mood.

  "Can you tell anything?" Cara lay next to him, her voice lowered to a whisper.

  The ridge was sparsely dotted with trees, but the little clump of aspen provided cover. Tucked in among the tall meadow grass, there was no way they could be seen. And from this vantage point, they could see the entire ranch. "No, but it just doesn't feel right."

  "Well, it looks calm enough."

  "Looks can be deceiving."

  "True." She narrowed her eyes, studying the scene below. "So what is it that seems off?"

  Michael focused on the ranch, trying to identify what was bothering him. The late afternoon sun shone on the front of the cabin, its rays sparkling off the windows. He blinked slowly, and refocused on the house. Nothing changed.

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to find the inconsistency. He knew it was there. He just had to find it. It was amazing really how the light reflected off the windows. They looked like rainbow-hued jewels, colors winking in the sun. He sucked in a breath, his mind finally identifying the anomaly. The window to the left of the door wasn't twinkling. Granted the porch provided some protection, but the glass ought to be reflecting at least a little of the sunlight.

  It wasn't.

  "There." He poked Cara and pointed toward the house. "The window glass is gone."

  She frowned and squinted at the cabin. "How can you tell from this far away?"

  He moved his head so that his mouth was just above her ear. "Look at the other ones."

  She studied them, and he watched as understanding washed across her face. "Okay, so what do you think it means?"

  "I don't know for sure, but I'd say someone either shot it or knocked the glass out." He clenched a fist, his gut churning at the thought of what might lie inside the house.

  "So you think we're too late?" Her whispered words held a trace of fear.

  "No point jumping to conclusions. There might not even be anyone in there. All the missing glass proves is that something is definitely wrong. That window didn't break itself."

  Cara nodded, her eyes still turned toward the ranch. Suddenly her hand closed around his wrist, her other arm extended, pointing at something. "Michael?"

  He jerked his head around, his eyes locked on the area she pointed to. The grass in the yard between the cabin and the corral rippled in the slight breeze. "What? I don't see anything."

  "Over there, by the big rock." She gestured, her chin and hand both jerking upward in an almost synchronized movement. "That spot of white. I think it's a—"

  "Body." He finished her thought, a band of steel tightening around his chest. White and blue shown through the waving grass.

  Cara's hand tightened on his arm. "Can you make out who it is?"

  Michael stared at the inert form lying in the yard, but the distance was too great. "No." He pulled out of her grasp, sliding back from the edge, his brain racing. It couldn't be Patrick. His mind simply wouldn't accept the possibility. "I've got to get down there. Now." He scrambled to his feet.

  He turned to go, halting only when he felt Cara's touch on his shoulder. "Michael, you can't just go running down there. You don't have any idea what you're going to find. Whoever did that," she gestured toward the ranch and the body, "might still be there. You could be walking into a trap."

  She was right. This wasn't the time for rash decisions. "All right."

  She sighed and dropped her hand. "So what do you want to do?"

  He tried to clear his mind of the awful images his imagination was dredging up, to concentrate instead on what to do next. They had to get closer, to get a better feel for the situation without anyone knowing they were there. His gaze fell on a stand of pine trees just below the ridge. Large boulders, the residue of a long ago landslide, dotted the slope between the aspens and the pines. "There." He pointed at the trees below them. "We go there."

  She followed the line of his hand and stared at the trees. "And how exactly do you propose we get from here to there without being seen?"

  "Those rocks will provide cover. And once we're in place, we should be close enough to make out who the…" He stopped, rage and anguish mixing inside him, filling him with hopelessness.

  "Michael, it's not Patrick. You have to believe that."

  He looked down into her eyes, trying to let her steady gaze comfort him, but the reality was too grim. "Well, somebody's dead down there, and I'm pretty damn certain it isn't Amos Striker. And if it isn't him…" He stopped, trying not to think the worst.

  "My grandfather always said to believe in the best even when the worst is staring you in the face."

  "Sounds reasonable." He tried to let her words buoy him, but his doubts continued to suck at him, pulling him deeper into the quagmire of his fear. If the newspaper article was right, he'd already lost a father, and now it looked like he was too late to save his brother. He shook his head, trying to shift his thoughts away from the macabre image of Patrick sprawled across the yard. "What else did your grandfather say?"

  "That it's best to face your fears head on." She struggled to smile, but only managed a lopsided grimace. He blessed her for the effort.

  "All right, then." He turned back to Clune. "Let's go." He started down the hill, his mind fervently praying that the body wasn't his brother's.

  "How's he doing?" Patrick knelt beside Pete and Loralee, his gaze meeting hers.

  "Not good." She ran a gentle hand along the old man's cheek.

  Sweat beaded out across Pete's forehead and he moaned, his shoulders twitching in agitation. Patrick reached out to still him and was shocked as heat seared his hand. "He's burning up."

  "I know. And it's just getting worse. I'm real worried."

  "How long has he been asleep?"

  "For at least an hour. I haven't been able to wake him up." She bit her lower lip, her face reflecting her fear. "Patrick, I don't think he can wait until sunset."

  "All right, I'll go now. You cover me from the window." His Colt at the ready, he moved to the closed door and placed a hand on the doorknob. He watched as Loralee crawled across the floor to the window. She stopped about halfway, jerking up a hand, sucking on her palm. "You all right?"

  "Fine. I just cut my hand a little." She tore a ruffle from her sleeve and tied it around her hand. "There's glass everywhere." She scooted the last few feet and settled in below the window, raising the Winchester so that the butt rested on her shoulder, the muzzle propped on the window sill.

  "You ready?"

  "I think so." Her gaze darted over to him and he read a thousand things in their luminous depths, none of them making it any easier to pull open the door, but Pete moaned and he knew it was time. Sucking in a breath, he yanked the door open, stepping onto the porch just as a rifle blast filled the air.

  A bullet smashed into the transom a couple of inches from his head, and before he could even react, a second one splintered the wood of the doorjamb. He jumped back, swinging the door shut with enough force that the remaining window glass shook in its frame. The door clicked shut just as a third bullet hit it with a thwack.

  He dropped down and scrambled to the window,
already hearing the crack of the Winchester as Loralee tried to return fire. "Hang on. You're not going to hit anything and we need to preserve the bullets. He's just trying to draw our fire."

  Loralee lowered the gun. "I just wish I could see him."

  "I know, but he's not going to show himself now. Not when he's got us right where he wants us." He looked out the window, too, searching the barnyard for signs of the intruder. Loralee slid down to the floor, eyes closed, holding her injured hand in her lap. "You okay?"

  Her eyes fluttered open and she held it out for him to see. The makeshift bandage was red with blood, but it was dark and already starting to dry. "It's just a cut."

  "I promised I'd take care of you, Loralee, and now…well, it looks like I may not be able to keep that promise." He ran a hand down her cheek and she covered his fingers with hers, a spark of lightning shooting up his arm at the contact.

  "It's all right, Patrick, promises ain't all they's cracked up to be anyway." She pulled her hand away, her eyes shifting to the window. "We're not going to get out of here are we?"

  She already knew the answer. He could see it there in her eyes. Sugar coating things wasn't going to help one iota. Now was a time for honesty if ever there was one. "No, angel, I don't expect that we will."

  "What the hell?" Michael stared at the house, listening as the last of the shots died away. One minute his brother had been outlined in the doorway, and the next, all hell had broken loose, bullets flying everywhere. Everything had happened so quickly there hadn't been time to react.

  "Was that—" Cara stirred beside him, her eyes wide, her breathing audible.

  "Patrick." Michael finished for her, his eyes still riveted on the ranch house. A gun barrel flashed in the setting sunlight as it was withdrawn from the window. That meant there were at least two people inside. Patrick and Pete? His eyes jerked back to the body in the yard, recognition dawning. Not Pete. Arless Hurley.