by Dee Davis
Cool moonlight washed the dusty ground a pale silver. Patrick froze, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the source of the noise. A soft snort was accompanied by the whinny of a horse. A hungry horse. Patrick relaxed as the roan gelding stomped impatiently.
He'd left his warm bed for a damn horse. Laying the Winchester across the porch railing, he stepped gingerly off the wood platform onto the rocky ground, wishing belatedly that he would have had the good sense to put his boots on.
"What the hell you doing out of the barn, Roscoe?" Stupid name for a horse. Michael had read it in a book somewhere and thought it a fine name, but Patrick thought it was ridiculous. Although stupid horse names seemed to run in the family. His father's horse was named Jack.
He hobbled across the ground, the rocks biting into his feet. Reaching the gelding, he grabbed the reins and started to pull the horse toward the stable. "Michael better have a good reason for not keeping an eye on you." He looked back at the horse and stopped dead in his tracks. Roscoe was still fully outfitted. With a curse, he reached up behind the saddle. Michael's gear was still there, and more sobering, his rifle was still sheathed in its leather holster.
Patrick absently wiped at a wet splotch on the stirrup and was in the process of cleaning his hand on his leg when he realized what he was doing. Slowly he raised the hand. Moisture glistened black on his fingers in the starlight. The sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils.
"Patrick? That you?"
Patrick looked up as a weathered old cowboy stepped out onto the porch of an equally weathered shanty.
"Whatcha got there?" Pete Reeder slapped a dilapidated Stetson on his head and strode across the yard. Like Patrick, he was clad in long johns. Unlike Patrick, he'd had the sense to put his boots on.
"It's Roscoe." Patrick met the watery blue-eyed gaze of his foreman. "Seems he came back without Michael." He held out his bloody hand and nodded toward the stirrup.
Pete examined the stained leather. Looking back at Patrick, he frowned and spit, the resulting spittle landing somewhere out in the darkness. "Ain't no way that horse would leave Michael unless…"
Patrick felt a swell of panic rise inside him. "He's not dead, Pete. He's just had an accident. Maybe he sent Roscoe to us. To let us know he was hurt." He couldn't imagine what he'd do if something happened to his brother. Michael was the stable one. Without him, and his desire for a place they could call home, there wouldn't be a Clune. Hell, there probably wouldn't be a Patrick.
He shivered. "Michael's probably lying out there somewhere right now, hurt and bleeding. Or worse." He grabbed the reins and started to swing up into the saddle.
"Whoa there boy, where do ya think you're going?"
"I'm going to find my brother."
Pete clamped one big hand around Patrick' s arm, effectively stopping further motion. "In your drawers?"
Patrick glanced down and flushed. "No. I'll get my pants."
"And your boots."
Patrick shot a look of exasperation at the old man. "And my boots."
Pete stroked the long handles of his mustache, his leathery forehead wrinkled in thought. "Ain't no use going out there now. The moon's a settin' and you'll be blind as a posthole."
"Maybe. But I've got to do something. I can't leave him out there." Patrick strode toward the cabin, Pete following close behind.
"I ain't telling you to leave him. I'm just suggesting we wait a couple more hours until the sun's up. Can't tell a rock from a hole out there right now. You go off into the mountains like that and I'll be searching for two injured men, 'stead of just one."
They stopped on the porch and Patrick looked up at the sky. The moon had almost disappeared, leaving the last of the stars to light the night. Pete, as always, was right. "Fine, then we'll wait. Two hours. No more."
Pete settled a hand on Patrick's shoulder, his touch comforting. "I know you're worried about your brother. Can't say it sets well with me either, but we're gonna find him. We just gotta hold on for the light."
Patrick looked out towards the mountains that ringed the valley. They were little more than menacing shadows, blending into the dark sky. He wasn't much of a praying man, but he prayed now. Prayed that his brother was safe out there. Prayed that he could hang on until morning.
Prayed that he was still alive.
CHAPTER 2
San Juan Mountains, Colorado - Present Day
Cara stood by the edge of the stream staring up at the blue spruce. It called to her mockingly, promising things that could never be. She chewed on the corner of her lip, hesitating, wondering what it was exactly she'd thought to accomplish by coming here.
Drawing in a lungful of crisp mountain air, she let her eyes roam across the narrow valley. The beauty of the mountains was almost unbearable. Blues and greens mottled with the oranges and reds of Indian paintbrush and the yellow of coreopsis, the silver and brown of the jagged rocks protruding like broken and forgotten limbs through gentle rolling meadows.
This land was as familiar to her as breathing. And yet, angry and arrogant, she'd run away from it all. A part of her would regret that forever. But she was back now, determined to make a new start. And to do that she had to make peace with her past.
Starting with the mine.
With a sigh, she crossed the creek, stopping in front of the spruce, memories threatening to overwhelm her. Her parents' had been gone nine years, but the night of their death lived on in her mind, teasing her with might-have-beens. She remembered it all—the crash, the fire, the cold snow against her face. And Michael—she remembered Michael.
Only of course, she didn't. Like most things good in her life, Michael was only an illusion. The product of a mind tormented by tragedy. And so, here she was, standing before an overgrown tree, looking for a doorway to something forever lost.
She skirted the great tree, making her way through overgrown underbrush and saplings until she was flush against the outcropping of rock that marked the side of the mountain. She frowned at the solid rock in front of her. Maybe she had the wrong spruce. Or maybe she was just coming at it from the wrong angle.
Trying again, she edging her way closer to the tree, ducking under its overhanging branches. Immediately a gloomy hush descended as the tree limbs effectively blocked out light and sound. Holding onto the trunk and keeping her head low, she moved behind the tree. She could see a jumble of fallen rock at her feet.
With a surge of certainty, she pushed between fragrant branches, her vision blocked by the thickness of the tree's pinecone laden limbs. Determined, she fought her way forward, feeling a lot like Lucy passing through the wardrobe into Narnia. The tree of her memory had certainly been much smaller.
Ducking almost level with the ground, she finally emerged from underneath the spruce. There was a narrow, rock strewn opening between the tree and the abutting mountainside. She drew in a breath and took a small step forward, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the faint sunlight that filtered through the branches.
Looking up, she could just make out the black gap marking the entrance to the mine. It was barely visible between two large outcroppings of sharp-edged stone, rocky sentries guarding their long forgotten treasure.
With a smile of triumph, she bounded up the small incline. Standing at the mouth of the cave, she felt the years roll away. It hadn't changed much. The entrance still beckoned, its mouth shored up with timbers carefully hauled into place by some long forgotten miner.
She stepped inside, squinting to see in the dark gloom of the interior, wishing for a flashlight. The man-made walls were rough-edged and slick with moisture. The air was still and stale, a sharp change after the fragrant mountain breeze. She hadn't been here in years. Not since the last time she'd come back looking for Michael.
With a sigh, she felt the familiar surge of disappointment. The tunnel was empty. She'd hadn't expected to find anything. Not after all this time. But still, a part of her had hoped. She stepped farther inside the tunnel, reigning i
n her emotions. This was supposed to be about closure after all.
The passageway wasn't deep, only a hundred feet or so. Whoever had dug it had abandoned it almost before he'd started, the lead he'd no doubt been following petering out before it could point the way to any riches the mountain might hold.
The San Juans were riddled with mines. Some of them successful—mines like the Amethyst, Holy Moses and the Last Chance. Some of them legendary—like the fabled Promise. But mainly there were empty holes like this one, carved out of the side of the mountain and then abandoned. Dreams quashed before they'd even begun. Cara felt a rush of sadness for this unknown miner and hoped his dreams had found fruition elsewhere.
She stopped about twenty feet into the mine shaft, at the place where the weak light finally played out. Against the wall, she could just make out an old lantern. In her mind's eye, she could see Michael holding the very same lamp, its golden glow spreading through the tunnel, illuminating the walls, casting dancing shadows.
She sighed, looking down at the remains of the lantern. Far older than nine years, the globe was broken, the metal base rusted with age. Her memories were imagined. Reality bending in on itself, creating something of nothing.
Michael Macpherson was a figment of her imagination. Someone she'd conjured up to help her through the worst ordeal of her life. He wasn't real. Her doctors had told her. Her grandfather had told her. And, eventually, she'd believed them. Shaking her head, to clear her thoughts, she turned to go. There was nothing for her here. She'd been silly to come.
The faint light from the entrance was almost blinding after the complete darkness of the tunnel behind her. Dizzy, her head spun for a moment and she almost lost her balance. Reaching for the cold comfort of the rock wall, she leaned against it until the moment passed.
Steady again, she breathed deeply, suddenly needing to be outside in the fresh air again. Stories of mine gas and cave-ins crowded into her brain, vying for attention. Shutting the rampant thoughts out, she made her way back to the entrance, and was just about to step into the pine shadowed sunlight when something behind her, in the depths of the tunnel, shifted.
Rocks rattled against stone as they rolled across the floor. She froze, heart pounding, waiting for another noise. Curiosity battled with terror. When the mine remained silent, curiosity won and she took a hesitant step back into the passageway.
Squinting into the darkness, she tried to make out the source of the sound, the little voice in her head calmly listing off all the wild animals that could conceivably have made the tunnel their home. It was enough to make her step back toward the entrance again.
Then, just as she turned to leave, something groaned.
She stopped, took a deep breath and swung around again to face the darkness. The groan repeated itself, reaching out from the gloom like a disembodied spirit.
Someone was in pain.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed eerily off the walls. "Is someone there?"
She waited, but there was no answer, nothing at all except the hollow silence. Uncertain now, actually doubting herself, she squinted into the darkness. She had heard something, but without any further guidance, it would be impossible—and foolhardy, her mind whispered—to try to find the source.
She reached instinctively for the smooth disk of her pendant, the cool feel of its silver casing calming her. Another rustling sound filled the mine shaft and she released the necklace, taking a hesitant step forward. This time the noise was followed by a muffled curse.
She sucked in a breath. "Can you hear me?" Silence. "I want to help, but I can't find you in the dark without a little guidance." She waited, but everything remained quiet. Finally, giving up, she turned to go, moving up the slight slope toward the entrance.
"Wait." The single word echoed through the cavern, somewhere between a plea and a command.
Hairs rose on the back of her neck, but she turned around anyway, caution warring with compassion.
"I'm…over…here." The voice was louder now and decidedly male. Compassion won out by a nose.
She stepped over the line of light and moved around a bend into complete darkness. Groping for the wall, she tried to get her bearings. If she remembered correctly, the tunnel went on for forty feet or so, then turned again to go deeper into the mountain, before deadending into solid rock. Hopefully, the owner of the voice wasn't too far ahead.
"Can you hear me?" She waited, heart still pounding.
"I'm here." His voice was weak, but clear. "I don't suppose you have a light?"
"No such luck, I'm afraid."
"There's a lantern back there somewhere." His voice filled the darkness, warm and alive, but she could hear the underlying pain.
"I saw it. But it's beyond being useful. The glass is broken."
A sharp curse rang out through the darkness. Concern laced through her. "Are you all right?" She leaned against the wall, all her senses focused on listening.
"I've been better." A tiny thread of laughter lightened his voice.
"Can you move?"
There was another groan. "Not without help."
"Hang on, then. I'm coming." She inched forward slowly, keeping one hand out in front of her and the other pressed firmly to the wall.
"Stop." The word was a command. Even in a weakened state, in the dark, this man had presence. "I'm right in front of you."
"How in the world could you possibly know that?" she grumbled, dropping to her knees, both hands stretched in front of her.
"You haven't exactly been quiet." There was the laughter again.
"It wasn't my primary concern." Her hands met solid muscle, and he groaned. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." She felt something sticky under her fingers and recoiled. "You're bleeding."
"I know."
"Well, there isn't much I can do for you if I can't see you." She strove to keep her voice, calm, businesslike. "We'll just have to get you into the light."
A resigned sigh echoed through the tunnel. "All right."
"You can lean on me. I'll help you up." She wrapped her arm around his chest and felt his arm drape heavily across her shoulders. "You ready?" He groaned in answer and she felt him nod. "All right then, on three. One…two…" She shifted her weight to her inside leg and pushed up with the other one. "Three."
He was heavy and the smell of him enveloped her—raw male mixed with the sick, sweet smell of blood. He groaned again, but managed to pull himself to his feet. They stood for a minute, getting their balance, then slowly began to move forward.
Cara kept her hand against the wall, following it as the path wound its way upward. Finally, turning the bend, they stepped into the weak light of the entrance tunnel. The man stopped, eyeing the opening with concern. "This is far enough."
"But we need to get you to a doctor."
"No doctors." It was too dark to see his face, but she could sense his stubbornness.
Exasperation flooded through her. "Fine." She glared at him. "But we still need to get you out of here." They could argue about doctors later. "Look, my house is just down the creek a bit. It's an easy walk." Without a wounded man. But she had to stay positive. "Do you think you can make it?"
"I can try. But first you'll have to help me stop the bleeding." He motioned to the rapidly spreading stain on his shirt.
"Here?" She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. First aid wasn't a strong point.
He smiled weakly, the white of his teeth gleaming in the dark. "Don't think I have a choice."
"All right." She nodded, accepting the inevitable. Carefully, she lowered him to a sitting position, the strain making her muscles ache. He stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the rock wall. She gingerly pulled his shirt open, exposing a broad expanse of male chest covered with a light dusting of dark hair. The wound lay just to the right of his shoulder. His shirt had fused itself to the skin.
"This is going to hurt." She looked up, trying to see his eyes, but the shadows were too deep.
"Just do it."
His voice was taut, and she could feel his muscles bunching in preparation.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled the blood soaked cloth away with a quick tug. She felt him flinch. "Sorry." His skin was raw and covered with blood, some of it dried and crusty. This wasn't a new wound. "How long have you been here?"
"Don't know, really." He closed his eyes, his voice fading.
"Come on. Stay with me."
He nodded, rallying a bit. "You can use my shirt for a bandage."
She eyed the dirty remnants, shaking her head. "I'll use mine. It's cleaner."
"You'll freeze."
"I'll be fine." She slipped out of the shirt. "I've got a tee shirt on underneath." With a forced breath, she turned back to the task at hand. After ripping the bottom of the shirt into makeshift bandages, she tore a sleeve off to use for padding, then, gingerly, bound the wound with the strips she had torn.
Satisfied that she had at least staunched the bleeding, she sat back on her heels. He was breathing rapidly and even in the shadows she could see that he was deathly white. Alarmed, she ran a hand across his cheek. His skin was on fire. "You've got a fever. We've got to get you out of here. Now."
"I know." The words were incredibly weak, and she shivered at the thought of trying to get him out of the tunnel. He wasn't a small man.
She wrapped an arm around him, deliberately keeping her voice light, "First thing to do is to get you on your feet without reopening your injury."
Together they struggled to their feet, then, precariously balanced, tried a few steps forward. Sweat trickled down between her breasts as she supported his weight. At this rate, she'd need a miracle to get him home.
What had been a few easy steps for her was like an obstacle course with a man draped across her shoulders. There was no question of using the rocks to cross the stream. The man remained stoically silent, but she felt his muscles tense as they plunged into the frigid creek.
Icy water soaked through her tennis shoes. "Are you okay?"
The answer was more of a groan than a word, but she was grateful that he was still conscious. They struggled up the rocky embankment on the other side and she prayed that she had the strength to get him home.
