"Is he one of ours?" Cara's voice was soft, reverent.
"Yeah. A friend." Michael ground his teeth together, his eyes locked on Arless' body. Amos Striker had a lot to answer for.
Cara laid an soothing hand on his arm. "The shooting came from there." She jerked her head in the direction of the stable.
Michael frowned, turning to view the building. "Where?"
She nodded. "Up there." She pointed to the loft.
"You're sure?"
"Positive. When the shooting started, the door up there swung open a little wider and I'd swear I saw the barrel of a gun."
He studied the upper story of the stable, visualizing the inside. It was nothing but a crude storage platform for hay. It ran along the west side of the stable, opening out onto the stalls below. There was a door in the wall they used to get hay bales in and out. At the moment, that door stood about halfway open.
He looked up at the shadowy opening. He had to admit it was an ideal set-up. A man could pretty much hit anything that moved in the ranch yard from that vantage point. Anyone pinned in the house wouldn't have a prayer of escaping as long as the assailant didn't run out of ammunition. All he had to do was wait. Sooner or later, they'd have to make a break for it. And when they did…
"I'm going to try and get to the back of the barn."
Cara looked up at him, her eyes wide. "You're going in there?"
"I don't see any other way. Besides, the odds are in my favor. He won't be expecting me. So, with a little luck, I'll manage to sneak up on him, and goodbye Amos Striker." He smiled at her, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
"But, what if he sees you and picks you off before you get the chance to surprise him?"
"Well, my sweet little crack shot, that's where you come in."
Her eyebrows arched upward. "And…"
"You need to create a diversion. Keep his attention focused on the ranch yard."
She nodded, her hand tightening around her rifle. "I think I can manage that."
"Listen to me, Cara, draw his fire if necessary, but don't take any chances."
"I'll handle it." She tipped back her head, her eyes lit with determination.
He leaned forward and gave her a hard kiss, the contact making him long to pull her closer, lose himself in her sweetness. He ruthlessly pushed the thoughts aside.
It was time for Amos Striker to pay for his sins.
Cara watched and waited. Surely he'd had enough time to get into place, but there was no signal. She strained her ears, listening for his whistle.
Nothing.
She fingered the trigger of the rifle. It had sounded easy in principle, but now she wondered if she was truly up to the task. The little door was only a couple hundred feet away. She'd certainly hit a lot smaller targets, from a lot farther distances, but there'd never been as much at stake.
She shook her head and worked to bolster her confidence. This was a piece of cake, a walk in the park. Oh God, who was she kidding, it was a life and death situation. She steadied her arm and gave one last cursory survey of the area. Everything was so quiet. So peaceful. A stand of pines, just behind the corral, danced in the wind. The breeze was picking up and she could feel its cool touch against her face and hands. It would change the trajectory slightly.
Her mind had automatically started to make the adjustments when her eyes froze, sending a frantic signal to her brain. A sparkle in the trees grabbed her attention. More than a sparkle really, a bright flash.
Light against metal. Sunlight bouncing off a gun barrel.
Her blood ran cold.
There was someone out there. Someone else.
There were two of them.
She frantically tried to assimilate the information, to decide what to do. If she shot at the barn, she'd alert the other man to her presence, most likely drawing his fire. But if she stayed quiet, the other man was far more likely to notice Michael. And even if Michael successfully got Amos, he'd have no way of knowing about the second man.
Her stomach churned. Of course, there were the people in the house, but she had no idea what condition they were in. Besides, they'd be sitting ducks if they so much as opened the door.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to make a decision—the right decision.
Grabbing the rifle, she sprang to her feet using the tall pines for cover. She had to get to Michael. If she hurried, maybe she could stop him in time. Warn him. Then they could rethink their position.
She sprinted to the edge of the trees, her heart beating a staccato rhythm high in her throat as she kept her eyes on the stand of pines. From this angle, she ought to be protected from view. Ought to be. That was the operative phrase.
She sucked in a breath and then blew it out forcefully. It was now or never. Tightening her hold on the Winchester, she began to run.
23
The contrast between the light of day and the shadows of the barn was dramatic. Cara stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust, the pungent smell of hay and animals filling her nose. It seemed that barns smelled like barns in any century. The thought was somehow reassuring. She combed the shadows looking for some sign of Michael, but in the gloom it was hard to see anything clearly.
Something hard rammed into her back. She spun around, heart pounding, rifle at the ready. A pair of baleful brown eyes met hers, and she relaxed, biting back a nervous laugh. A dilapidated looking old horse hung his head over the wooden crossbar of his stall, butting against her for attention.
She pushed him away, turning back to the stable, searching the darkness for a sign of Michael or the gunman. Nothing moved. Everything was quiet except for the soft sound of horses shifting in their stalls.
She took a hesitant step forward, followed by another, careful to stay low and silent, certain her tympanic heartbeat could be heard from every corner of the barn. A soft noise filtered through the silence, so faint she almost thought she'd imagined it. She froze, her back pressed against the hard post of a stall, her eyes straining into the gloom. There, in the darkness, a shadow moved, stepping forward into a weak shaft of sunlight coming from the loft.
Michael.
She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and started for the front of the barn, her heart resuming a more modulated rhythm. Michael had stepped into the shadows again, but she could see him now that she knew where to look. He was examining a ladder that led to the loft. She picked up her pace, not daring to call out to him.
The old horse evidently had other plans. With a loud neigh, he announced her presence. Michael turned to look toward his stall just as another shape detached itself from the shadows in the loft above. Cara's heart caught in her throat. The shadow took on human form. A man with a gun—a gun pointed at Michael's back.
Reacting on instinct, she pulled her rifle into position and fired. The sound was deafening. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael drop to the ground and she realized a second shot had been fired. Rage and adrenaline pumped through her. She lifted the rifle again, intent on killing the son of a bitch who'd started all this.
The man spun around, looking for the source of the gunfire. She inched forward. He crouched, peering into the dark—still looking for her. Michael moved and the gunman pivoted, bringing his rifle to bear.
Cara stepped out into the open, eyes narrowed, her weapon already sighted. "Wrong way, you bastard."
He turned and she fired.
This time the impact knocked him off his feet, throwing him backward out of the loft. His body landed with an audible thud, in the center of the barn. Still enraged, she pumped another bullet into him, watching dispassionately as he jerked once and was still.
"That one was for Michael." Her whispered words swirled through the air and faded into silence. Her rage vanished as quickly as it had come, instantly replaced by fear. Michael. She had to get to Michael. She stepped forward, but her legs had turned to butter and with a squeak of protest, she slid to the ground still clutching the rifle.<
br />
"Cara?" Michael's voice was like an infusion of energy. She struggled to her feet just as he rounded the corner, apparently unharmed. The relief almost made her collapse again and she leaned against the Winchester for support.
His arms closed around her as he reached her side and she buried her face in the familiar warmth of his chest, trying to get control of her rollercoastering emotions. They stood like that for a moment, locked together in silent communion. Then Michael pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, his eyes smoldering. "What in hell were you doing in here?"
Cara felt a flash of resentment. "Saving your ass. If I'm not mistaken, that gentleman," she gestured towards the body in the doorway, "was about to blow you away."
The anger faded from his eyes and with a groan he pulled her to him, his mouth closing over hers, his hands holding her tightly against him. The kiss was quick and hard and thorough. She stared over Michael's shoulder at the fallen man, clarity returning. "There's someone else out there."
"Where?" Michael was instantly alert.
"In the stand of pines by the corral. I saw his gun barrel. I came to warn you."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"All right. I'll check it out. You," he tipped her head back so that he could see her eyes, "stay here."
"Can you see what's happening?" Loralee peered out the window, trying to see what had caused all the commotion.
"It's hard to tell," Patrick said, his eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "I think there's something on the ground by the barn door, but I can't say for certain."
"I can't see anything either, but I definitely heard gunshots." She chewed on her lower lip, nervously.
Patrick tightened his grip on the rifle. "Me, too. From the direction of the barn."
"Any possibility help has arrived?" She turned to look at him, hope surfacing, swelling through her.
"Maybe. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if we knew exactly who was in there doing the shooting." He scooted towards the door.
"All right. Give me the rifle. I'll cover you."
He paused, and their eyes locked, something hanging between them that she wasn't ready to recognize, let alone accept. With a faint smile, he tossed her the rifle, and drew his Colt.
He inched the door open. Loralee held her breath, waiting for the resulting gunfire.
Nothing happened.
He opened the door wider, this time sticking his hat out. Again nothing.
He swung the door all the way open and stepped out onto the porch. Loralee bit her lip, keeping the rifle trained on the barn.
Silence. The porch creaked under his weight. She tightened her grip on the rifle.
"It seems to be clear." He moved toward the window, stepping into her line of vision. "I'm going to try the barn. Wish me luck."
"You won't need it."
Brave words. Now if only they proved true.
Cara leaned back against a stall, eyes closed, drained of all emotion and energy. The strain of the last few days was taking its toll. She had no idea when she'd last slept. In fact, she had no idea what day it was. She let out a strangled little laugh. In truth, she wasn't even certain what year it was.
Somewhere deep inside, she was worried for Michael, but her body had had enough, checking out of active duty. She couldn't even find the energy to lift a hand and scratch the old horse. He'd obviously accepted the fact, but bless him, he still stood guard, his head hanging out over the stall, just above hers, protecting her in his own equine way. She felt absurdly grateful.
"Move an inch and you're a dead." The voice came from the shadows of the stall to her right.
Cara felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. She couldn't move an inch even if he had ordered it.
"Drop the rifle and raise your hands."
She tried to force herself to let go of the rifle clutched in her right hand. No go. The hand had taken personal leave along with the rest of her body. She struggled for her voice, surprised when it came out sounding fairly normal. "I can't move." The horse nickered in agreement, bending his neck to nuzzle her head.
The voice disentangled itself from the shadows, taking the form of a fierce green-eyed devil. Cara winced as the horse nipped at her ear. "Cut it out." She slapped at the sorrel, delighted to see that her mobility had returned.
The man was eyeing her as though she had flown in on a space ship. Which actually wasn't too far off from reality now that she thought about it. She realized she ought to be afraid, but found that she simply didn't have the energy.
Dropping the rifle, she looked up into the man's face, surprised to see that she recognized it. Or at least parts of it. The dark hair fell forward in a familiar way, and the jut of the chin reminded her of another that was just as stubborn. This man was a stranger, and yet she knew him. "Patrick." The word came out on a sigh. She recognized the relief in her voice, and was pleased to note that she still had some emotion left.
"Who the hell are you?" The green eyes flashed with anger and she recognized the turn of his mouth.
Now there was a good question. Let's see, she was Michael's lover who just happened to be from the future. That ought to be a winner. And, in a brilliant imitation of television's The Rifleman, she'd had the very great pleasure of pumping a nineteenth century sheriff full of lead, not to mention the fact that she'd done a fair imitation of indestructible, surviving a fire, an assault and a cave-in.
She leaned back against the stall again, ignoring the sorrel's love nudges. Oh yes, she'd almost forgotten, she was also the newest paramour of an over-the-hill equine. She decided on simplicity. "Cara. I'm Cara."
The rifle lowered and Patrick's look of anger changed to one of disbelief. "Michael's Cara?"
She'd have bowed if she'd been standing, instead she tipped her head, a weak imitation of royalty. Or at least what she assumed would be considered the regal nod. "One and the same."
"But…" Now Patrick looked totally confused.
She took pity on him. It wasn't his fault she'd just been through more crises than a Die Hard movie. It wasn't fair to take it out on him. "I came with your brother."
Instantly hope flared in his eyes. It was eerie how much he reminded her of Michael. "He's alive?"
"Yes." She struggled to stand, relieved when he reached out to help her. Once on her feet, she felt more stable. "He's out looking for the other man."
"What other man?" Patrick asked, supporting her as they walked.
"There were two of them. Amos over there." She motioned toward the booted feet of the dead man. "And someone else."
They reached the body and Cara steeled herself to take a look.
"Did Michael kill him?"
Cara wrenched her gaze away. "No, I did."
"You?"
She felt a surge of indignation, the emotion refreshing her. "Yes, me. He was trying to kill Michael."
Patrick nudged the man with his toe, and Cara was relieved when nothing moved. "This isn't Amos Striker."
It was Cara's turn to be confused. "What?"
"You said this was Striker. It's not. I've never seen this man in my life."
Cara sucked in a breath, one hand clutching at Patrick's arm. "If this isn't Amos Striker, then he's probably out there right now—with Michael."
Patrick placed both hands on her shoulders, the intensity of his gaze feeding her panic. "Which way did he go?"
"Toward the stand of pines behind the corral."
"How long ago?"
"I don't know. Not long. Maybe a quarter of an hour."
"All right, you stay here. I'm going after him."
Cara ran back to Jack's stall, surprised at how quickly she could move. Grabbing the rifle, she sprinted after Patrick, catching him at the edge of the corral. "I'm coming with you."
After everything they'd been through, she wasn't about to let Amos Striker win.
24
Michael stood in the shelter of the towering pines holding back a curse. Striker, if
he'd ever actually been there, was long gone. Probably hit the trail as soon as the shooting broke out. He blew out a breath and knelt in the pine needles beside a small sapling.
From here, the vantage point was perfect. He could see the ranch house, and the barn. He studied the area, searching for signs that someone had been here. Something to prove Cara's theory that there had indeed been a second shooter.
There were soft indentations in the ground, and some of the needles had been disturbed, but that wasn't enough. He needed solid proof. He shifted, his eyes scanning the ground. With a sharp intake of breath, his gaze froze on a spot at the foot of a large pine.
Cigarette butts.
His mind's eye obediently hauled out an image of Amos Striker, a thin cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. Cara was right. The son of a bitch had been here. Michael scooped up the remains of the cigarillos, glancing up at the sky. It was almost twilight. Not much sense in trying to track Striker tonight.
What he needed to do now was talk to Patrick. See if the two of them could make sense of what was happening. A fresh wave of grief washed through him. If the things he'd learned in Cara's time were right, his father was dead, and by God, the least he could to was bring the man who did it to justice . He dropped the cigarillo butts into his shirt pocket. Unless he missed his guess he knew exactly where he'd find the bastard.
A twig snapped somewhere off to his right, and he pulled his gun, pivoting in the direction of the sound.
"Wait. Don't shoot." Patrick stepped into the shelter of the pines, hands held up in placation. "It's me."
Michael lowered the gun and stood up, anger and relief rocketing through him. "Patrick, what the hell are you doing? I damn near shot you."
Patrick lowered his hands, the expression on his face mirroring Michael's feelings exactly. "Me? I should be asking you that. You're the one who's been missing for three days. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Rescuing you."
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 87
