"Anyway, I managed to climb up to a ridge of sorts, nestled in a valley, and there it was, perched on the top of the mountain, defying nature. There wasn't much left. Fallen timbers and a sink hole. The remnants of a shack of some kind—one window, unbroken, silhouetted against the sky. It seemed so lonely there, sort of lost in time. So I sketched it from various vantage points.
"Then a few months ago, I came across the sketches, and remembered the mine. I tried to find it again. I went to where I remembered it being. But it wasn't there. I guess it had been too long. Whatever had been there was gone. Anyway, for whatever reason, it still called to me. So I painted it. But I never could seem to get it right—to capture the magic. So I painted it again and then again. Each time using a different angle and different light. The result being the series of paintings Nick was talking about."
"One of the paintings is called the Promise?"
"Yes, that's the only one Nick's actually ever seen."
"So why did you call it that?" His voice tight, almost tense.
"My grandfather used to talk about a silver mine named the Promise. It was lost, too. Like my mine. Made me think of all the hopes and dreams that died in those mountains." She shrugged. "So I named the painting after it. It just seemed right somehow. Why do you ask?"
"Because," his gaze met hers, his eyes full of pain, "my father owned the Promise."
7
"I feel like the whole world has turned upside down." Patrick twirled the shot glass with his fingers, the amber liquid swirling along with it.
"Ain't surprisin'." Pete swallowed his whiskey with a single gulp and picked up the bottle for more.
Patrick glanced around Owen's saloon. Dust danced in the sunbeam streaming through the open door. The Irish Rose never closed, and the place was always packed. With the mines working day and night, there was always a steady stream of men either just getting off their shifts or just going on. And it seemed a man wanted a shot to start the job, and then a few more to hold him over until he was up the mountain again. Just at the moment Patrick was inclined to agree. He turned back to Pete, fighting the sick feeling in his gut. "Michael didn't kill our father."
"You know that and I know that, it's just that Amos Striker seems to have missed out on the fact."
"Amos Striker's no better than a — "
"True enough, but ain't no good yellin' it out for the world to hear." Pete jerked his head in the direction of the other patrons of the saloon.
Patrick felt himself go hot, a combination of anger, alcohol and embarrassment.
Pete lifted his glass, pondering his whiskey for a moment, obviously choosing his words. "On the positive side, Owen promised to ride shotgun on the man. You heard him."
"Yeah, for all the good that'll do." Patrick knew he sounded sullen, but he felt like he was hamstrung. Everybody telling him how to think, how to feel.
Pete raised his bushy eyebrows, his steady gaze meeting Patrick's—waiting.
"It's just that it seems to me that Owen could have stood up more for Michael."
Pete contemplated his glass again. "Well, now, Owen likes to sit on the fence until he knows which way the wind's a blowin'. That's how he's made a success of himself."
"But we're talking about Michael."
"Don't make no difference. Patrick, I know you and Owen are close, but you've got to see the truth of it. He ain't got the family loyalty you think he does."
"That's ridiculous, Pete. He and my father have been together almost since they came to this country. He traipsed all over the California gold fields with us bankrolling my father so that he could discover the next mother lode. Hell, Owen was the one who raised us."
"Rose was the one who raised you. Never forget that, boy."
Patrick felt his face grow hot. "You know I didn't mean any disrespect to Mother. But Owen's always been there for me." He met Pete's steady gaze. "He was there for me after Mother left. Father sure as hell wasn't." He downed the liquor in the shot glass, a shudder rippling across his shoulders. It was still hard to talk about his mother's desertion.
"You see what you want to see." Pete shrugged and filled both their glasses.
"Mornin' boys. Did I hear talk o' the mother lode?" Arless Hurley sidled up to the bar, his cheeks already showing the rosy glow of a bit too much alcohol. "Sorry to hear about yer Da, Patrick."
"Thanks, Arless."
Pete signaled the barman, who set a glass in front of the miner. Arless filled it to the rim and swallowed the contents with a single gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ah, that'll bring a man to his senses all right." He cocked his head to one side, and eyed Patrick speculatively. "Any word on where exactly Duncan found the silver?"
"What do you know about it?"
Arless grinned good-naturedly. "No' much. I heard word 'round town, the night Duncan met his maker. He wasn't being none too quiet about it, if ya take my meanin', but I figured he was just bletherin'. So, I didn't give it another thought." He paused and poured another round, obviously enjoying himself.
He leaned forward conspiratorially. "But then, this mornin' I found meself in need o' a little female companionship." He burped. "So I headed over to Corabeth's. She don't charge a man his life's savings like them fancy girls over at Belle's. Why I remember—"
Pete held up a hand, cutting him off before he could wander off the subject. "Corabeth, Arless."
"Oh yes, fine girl. Knows how to make a man feel like a man." He grinned and downed the whiskey.
"What does Corabeth have to do with my father?" Patrick inserted.
"Right, well ya see when I got there, Corabeth was full o' the news that Duncan had struck it rich."
"You just said the news was all over town." Patrick shot a disgusted look at the old sot.
"Ah, but Corabeth was certain there was truth to the talk."
"Had she been with my father?" Duncan had taken to spending time at the cribs after his mother disappeared, but Patrick had no idea if he favored a particular girl.
"No, but she had her information straight from Loralee."
"Loralee?"
"Aye, she and your father were friends, don't ya know." Arless winked and poked Patrick in the ribs. "Seems Duncan was with her the night he died. God rest his soul." He crossed himself, but in his inebriated state, he only managed three of the four stations.
"And this Loralee, she works out of a crib?" Patrick felt his spirits rise. If the woman had been with his father, then maybe she'd be able to shed some light on what really happened.
"Aye, that she does, boy. And I'll be bettin' she knows more than a bit about this claim o' Duncan's."
Pete stroked his moustache, thoughtfully. "You been flappin' your gums to anyone else about this, Arless?"
He screwed up his face, concentrating on Pete's question. "Can't say that I did or didn't. I'm afraid my mind ain't what it used to be. The liquor helps me forget about Lena, but unfortunately it ain't particular. So I'm afraid I don't remember much o' anything at all."
He looked so remorseful that Patrick patted him on the shoulder. "Never mind, Arless. Have the rest of the bottle on us."
"Much obliged, boys." He tipped his hat and turned to the bottle, a look of befuddled joy coloring his expression.
Patrick drained the rest of his whiskey, slamming the empty glass down on the bar. "I need to find this girl, Pete."
"I'd say you do. Want me to come along?"
"No, this is something I'd like to handle on my own. I'll meet you back at Clune."
Pete nodded and Patrick turned to go. "Patrick?"
He looked back over his shoulder. Pete was standing where he left him, his eyes narrowed with concern.
"Be careful, son. I don't like the feel of this whole thing. There's more here than we're understanding." He paused and studied the toes of his boots, then looked up again to meet Patrick's gaze. "I don't want to lose you, too."
It was probably the longest speech Pete had ever made. Patrick swallowed ove
r the lump in his throat. "I'll be careful. I promise."
Loralee leaned back against the closed door of her room, grateful to finally be alone. She'd had a busy morning. Not that she wasn't grateful for the money. She needed all she could get to send to Mary.
Of course, her sister, Faye, could more than afford to take care of the child, but Loralee wanted her daughter to know that her mother loved her. It had taken every ounce of self control she'd had to send her away like that, but the cribs were no place for a child, especially one as lovely as Mary. She patted the locket between her breasts. Her baby was safe.
Her sister had done well for herself. A fine, fancy parsonage in Richmond and a handsome young husband to boot. At least when Corabeth had read her the letters it had sounded that way.
Corabeth.
Loralee frowned. She'd not seen hide nor hair of her friend all day. Of course it had been a rather hectic morning. First the wild dash to get Jack safely to Ginny's and then three rambunctious cowboys in town for a good time. She ran a tired hand through her hair. It was a wonder she could function at all.
The door rattled as someone pounded on it. Loralee sighed, wishing she'd barred it closed.
She drew in a sharp breath and dropped down onto the end of the bed, her heart fluttering in her throat, a sudden thought pushing itself front and center in her brain, making her forget all about the customer at the door. She stared in fascination at the bar hanging beside the door.
When it was in place, the door was locked. From the inside. Otherwise the door was open. There was no other way to lock it. None at all.
All the cribs had bars like hers. Including Corabeth's. And Corabeth's door was locked. Which meant that she couldn't be away. Loralee shivered and rubbed her arms, suddenly certain that something was wrong with her friend.
The pounding on the door grew more insistent. Frustration welled inside her. She didn't have time for a randy miner right now. "Go away, I'm not open for business."
Her thoughts returned to Corabeth, her heart pounding against her ribs as fear began to blossom. She struggled to get control of herself. Corabeth was probably just taking a day off. Getting some much needed sleep. Her mind accepted the information, but her heart refused to go back to its mundane beating.
The pounding on the door stopped, and she looked up in time to see the doorknob turn. She didn't have time for this, but obviously, the man on the other side wasn't going to take no for an answer. She sighed and stood up, ready to do what it took to get rid of him. Corabeth needed her. She could feel it.
The door swung open revealing the man on the boardwalk. He was a stranger, which in and of itself wasn't all that unusual, but he didn't have the look of the men who frequented the cribs. In fact, he really didn't look like the type who needed to hire a woman at all, but it wasn't her place to judge.
He stepped into the room, hat in hand. Well that was a first. Her empty excuses died on her lips. "Are you Loralee?"
Something in the timbre of his voice tugged at her subconscious. She knew that voice. Or at least she thought she did.
"Yeah, but I'm not open for business right now. I've got things need tendin' to."
The man actually blushed, and she bit back a desire to reassure him.
"I didn't come here for…" His face turned even more crimson.
She frowned. Now that he was standing in the light from the window, she recognized him. Or at least she recognized his features. There was no mistaking that inky hair. "You're one of Duncan's boys."
The man nodded. "Patrick."
She moved past him, the smell of leather and lye soap filling her nose. Closing the door, she turned around to face him. "I'm so sorry about your father. He was a good man."
His cool green gaze searched her face, looking for answers she couldn't give him. "You were with him last night." It was a statement not a question.
"I was. And I want to talk to you about it."
He raised his eyebrows. "But?"
He must have seen it in her face. "But, I need to check on a friend. I think she might be in trouble."
His look changed to concern. "Can I help?"
She nodded gratefully. Duncan's son was a lot like his father. A good man at heart. She led him out the door onto the misshapen boardwalk. "It's just down here." She pounded on the rickety door. "Corabeth? Are you in there?" Silence. "It's me, Loralee." Still no one answered.
"Maybe she's out."
Loralee looked up at the tall man beside her. "That's what I thought, too. But the door's locked." She met his puzzled gaze. "From the inside."
In an instant his expression changed. The confusion was gone. In its place, Loralee saw a competence that she knew she could rely on. "How long as it been locked?"
"Most the day." She looked down at her feet. "I only just realized—about the bar, I mean." She felt guilt welling up inside her.
He touched her arm, the simple gesture absolving her of any wrongdoing. "Is there a back door?"
"No. Corabeth has one of the smaller rooms. There's only the one door."
"All right then, stand back."
She stood aside, watching as he leaned slightly forward, leading with a shoulder and ran toward the door, ramming into the thin planks of wood. There was a sickly thud as muscle met board. The door cracked off the hinges and fell forward into the room.
The room was ominously quiet.
"Let me go first." He stepped gingerly over the splintered door, reaching back to help her step around it. The room was heavily shadowed, the curtain tightly drawn, the oil lamp unlit.
Loralee pushed past Patrick, her heart thudding in her chest. "Corabeth? Honey, are you in here?"
The bedstead was in the far corner, turned so that the foot faced the window. Corabeth always said she liked to see the sun first thing when she woke. A wash of sunlight from the now permanently open door illuminated the girl on the bed.
"Corabeth." The name came out more a shriek than a word. Loralee swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. She rushed to the side of the bed, almost tripping over an empty bottle, and knelt beside her friend. Corabeth's soft brown eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Her half-clothed body lay askew on the bed, like a rag doll abandoned and forgotten.
Loralee, frantically rubbed one cold hand between both of hers, willing her own body's heat into Corabeth's, tears streaming down her face. She anxiously watched Corabeth's face, still holding fast to her hand, waiting for a smile, for some sign that this was nothing more than a twisted prank. But Corabeth didn't move, couldn't move.
Corabeth was dead.
8
"Okay, I'm confused." Cara blew out a breath. "How can your father be the owner of an old mine in the middle of a national forest?"
Michael leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Cara had the distinct feeling that whatever he was going to say next, she didn't want to hear. "When did you paint The Promise, Cara?"
"A year ago or so." She tried to figure out what exactly this had to do with his father owning the mine.
"I meant what was the date?"
"I'm not sure of the day."
"The year, Cara?" His intensity was beginning to make her nervous.
"1998 or '99, I guess."
He released a deep breath, almost a sigh. "And when did you paint Lovers' Reunion?"
This was getting surreal. "I told you."
"The year." He reached for her hand.
"1993. The year after you disappeared." She tried, but couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He stroked her hand lightly with his thumb. "When were you born, Cara?"
"1976, but I don't see what any of this has to do with —"
"I was born in 1860."
"Excuse me?" She tried to think, to make his words make sense. Surely, she'd misunderstood.
"My father discovered the Promise in 1880, the year after I found you in the snow."
"That's impossible." She stared at him, letting the significance of his words wa
sh over her, thinking that any minute he'd suddenly laugh and say it a was all a joke. But he didn't. His face was deadly serious, and the look in his eyes told her that he was as overwhelmed as she.
"Two days ago I would have agreed with you, but now…" He let go of her hand, leaning back in the chair, a parade of emotions chasing across his face. "Hell, I don't know."
"But you're saying..." She broke off, unable to continue the thought. Somehow they'd gone from a miraculous reunion to an episode of the twilight zone.
"Cara, listen to me." He reached for her hand again, his eyes intense. "The truth is here somewhere. We just have to find it. Tell me what you remember about the morning after your accident."
She nodded, her trust instinctive. "I woke up in the tunnel and you were gone. I figured you'd left to find help."
"I was getting water."
She let her mind slip back to that morning in the cave. "It was cold, and my head hurt, the world was still all wobbly. But I wanted to get up. To…to find out what happened."
"Your parents."
She nodded. "They were dead. My grandfather identified the bodies, but they couldn't find me."
"The explosion killed them?"
"That—or the car wreck."
"Train car?"
"Automobile." She answered without thinking, her thoughts on her parents.
"Automobile?" If the situation hadn't been so dire, his expression would have been comical. "I've read about them, but never seen one. There aren't any in Silverthread..." He stopped, the impact of his comment hitting home. "…in my time."
She knew she ought to be questioning his sanity. Or at least his story. But all she could think about was the fact that he hadn't deserted her. At least not by choice. Somehow, if he was to be believed, she had crossed into his world or the other way around. For one night they had occupied the same temporal plane. And then somehow, they had been separated again.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 72
