by Dee Davis
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.
"False alarm." The Irishman's grin broadened when he saw Patrick's relative state of undress. "She was just in the privy."
Loralee's face appeared in the space above Arless's shoulder, her angelic smile, belying the wicked twinkle in her eye. "Mornin' Patrick. I see you're up and dressed." The head disappeared, but he could hear giggling.
"What are you staring at, Arless?" He scowled at the man. "Haven't you seen a man in his underwear before?"
"Sure have, Patrick. Just never seen anyone turn that color afore. And you ain't even been drinkin'." Arless backed away from the door, leaving it standing open.
Patrick reached for his pants, his dignity hanging on by a thread. "Would somebody please shut the damn door?"
*****
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom, boots in hand. Loralee was dropping batter onto the griddle, the picture of domestic tranquility. His heart quickened at the sight. Ah, sweet Loralee. The whore, the little voice in his head sternly reminded. And he wasn't surprised at all that the voice sounded an awful lot like Owen's.
"Glad to see you're finally up and dressed." She shot him a crooked smile then turned back to her cooking.
Arless was sitting at the table, lost in his own kind of bliss. "She's making griddle cakes."
Patrick pulled on his boots and straddled a chair. "I kinda figured that."
The other man, inhaled deeply and sighed.
"Arless, doesn't Lena cook for you?"
"Not like that she don't." He gestured to a sizzling pan of sausage.
Patrick's mouth watered. "Well, it does smell good." He was rewarded with another of Loralee's smiles. "Where's Pete?"
"Said he was going to feed the stock." Arless' eyes never left the stove.
Patrick was enjoying the view himself, although he was far more interested in the cook than the fare. Loralee expertly flipped the griddle cakes. "If one of you boys will go get him, I think breakfast is about ready."
Arless stood up. "I'll go. Might as well do something to earn my keep."
He ambled toward the door, shooting a last loving look in the direction of the food. "Don't you go eatin' it all while I'm gone, Patrick."
"Don't worry, Arless, I'll leave some for you."
Satisfied, the man opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
A shot rang out, its report echoing through the house.
Patrick jumped out of his chair, already reaching for his rifle. "Get down."
Loralee dropped to the floor, her face ashen. "What is it?"
"Probably nothing. Stay here. I'll go see." Crouching below window height, he ran across the room, slowing as he reached the open door. Carefully he edged into the doorway, his gaze darting around the barnyard, trying to locate the source of the noise.
"Arless? You out there?" He waited, holding his breath, silence permeating the air. When nothing moved, he took a cautious step out onto the porch, the floor creaking beneath him.
A low moan broke the stillness. "Stay back, Loralee." He tossed the words over his shoulder, his gaze moving along the ground in front of him, trying to locate the source of the cry. A crimson stained mound about halfway between the porch and the corral shifted. Arless. The old miner lay in the grass, clutching his middle, his shirt red with blood.
Patrick had just started to step off the porch when Pete burst from the confines of the stable, his Colt drawn, motioning Patrick to stay put. Reaching Arless, he knelt beside him, one hand assessing the damage while the other held the gun ready.
It was quiet again. Almost too quiet. A shiver of dread ran up Patrick's spine. Pete slowly stood up, pulling Arless with him. The other man was dead weight and it took him a minute to find his balance.
Patrick scanned the trees that surrounded the place, but if anyone was out there, he was well hidden. Pete took a step forward, Arless draped against him. Another shot rang out. Pete's eyes widened and he dropped Arless as he fell backward. Patrick had never felt so helpless.
"Loralee, get out here." She was beside him in an instant. "Can you shoot this thing?" He held out the rifle.
"I can manage." She took the gun.
He nodded, relieved she wasn't the swoon-in-a-crisis type. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going out there—"
"No." Her hand shot out and she clamped her fingers around his arm.
He ignored her panic, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I want you to cover me. I've got to try and get them back to the house."
She released his arm. "All right. But how will I know where to shoot?"
"You won't. Just keep moving the barrel each time you fire. Hopefully, that'll keep whoever's out there busy enough to buy me some time." She squared her shoulders, lifting the rifle. "Don't fire unless he does. There's a small chance he's gone. And we don't want to waste bullets." If he was right, they were going to need all the bullets they could get.
"Patrick?" He met her frightened gaze. "Be careful."
He grinned with a bravado he didn't feel. "All right. I'm going." He crouched as low as he could and scrambled across the yard, running in zigzags toward Pete and Arless. Bullets shattered the dust at his feet. Answering shots rang out from the porch.
Reaching the fallen men, he dropped to his knees. Arless was on his back, sightless eyes staring at the clouds above him, his gut torn open from the impact of the shot. Pete was face down in the dirt.
Patrick shifted over, flinching as another shot rang out. He couldn't tell if it came from their assailant or Loralee. A deep red stain had blossomed across the back of Pete's thigh. Gingerly, Patrick rolled him over, relieved to see the even rise and fall of the man's chest.
"Pete, can you hear me?" Pete wasn't a small man. Without his help, Patrick wasn't sure he could manage.
The older man groaned and opened his eyes. "What the hell happened?"
"Don't know for sure. Someone's shooting at us."
Pete nodded. "Arless?"
"Dead."
Pete closed his eyes, regret tightening his face. "Damn it to hell."
As if in echo of his sentiment, another shot stirred the dust of the yard, this one only a few feet away. Answering gunfire echoed from the porch. God bless her. "Come on, old man. It's now or never. You got to help me get you to the house."
Patrick struggled to his feet, Pete pushing up beside him. Wrapping his arm around the ranch hand's waist, Patrick braced himself and the tw
o of them began to stagger back toward the porch. Pete groaned as another bullet struck him in the arm, blood burgeoning across his sleeve. He sank, dead weight against Patrick.
"Come on, just three more steps. You can do it."
Gritting his teeth, Pete rallied and together they made it across the last few feet of ground and up the steps, bullets raining all around them. Loralee lowered the rifle, her face pinched with fear. Grabbing Pete from the other side, she helped Patrick get him in the house. Behind them, a bullet ricocheted onto the porch, imbedding itself in the floor where they'd been standing.
*****
"How many do you think there are?" Pete was propped up against the back wall, arm extended while Loralee cleaned it. She tried to hang onto her control, concentrating on the injury and not the situation.
"I don't know. Maybe only one." Patrick was crouched under the window, his back to them, watching the barnyard.
She dipped a rag in a basin, then carefully sponged away more of Pete's blood. "Do you think it's Amos?"
"Maybe. Hell, probably." Patrick answered without looking back at them.
"Well, whoever the son of a bitch is, he has us pinned." Pete grimaced as she probed the wound.
"I'm sorry." She glanced up at his face and saw that his eyes were closed. Wringing the rag out, she dipped it in the now red water.
"How's Pete?" Patrick asked.
"I ain't dead, ya know. I can speak for myself."
"I know. I meant your injuries."
Pete shifted, trying to find a comfortable place to sit. "The arm's not bad. The bullet passed clean through."
"And the leg?"
"Not so good. I think the bullet's lodged next to the bone."
Loralee bit back an exclamation. What they didn't need right now was an hysterical female. She placed a compress against both sides of Pete's wound and bound his arm with a strip of linen torn from a sheet. "There, that ought to help with the bleeding."
"Much obliged, ma'am." Pete tried for a smile, but missed by a long shot. "See anything out there?"
Loralee looked over at Patrick. Tension tightened the lines of his shoulders. "Not a damn thing."
"Can't we just crawl out the windows or something?" She hated the tremor in her voice.
Patrick crossed the room in a crouch, settling in beside them. "Wouldn't do us any good. There's just these two." He indicated the windows fronting the porch. "And the ones in the bedrooms. They all face the same way. Michael's idea. He thought it would help keep the house warm."
"But surely there's some way out of this?" She saw the two men exchange a look and her fear increased, threatening to explode into full blown panic.
"'Fraid not, Miss Loralee," Pete said. "Unless he gets tired and heads for home."
"Or help arrives." She knew she was clutching at straws. "What about your friend, Owen?" She might not like the man, but she'd happily cook him meals for a week if he'd get them out of this.
"Not a chance. He doesn't know anything about this. I didn't have time to tell him. I was so intent on getting you out here." Patrick met her gaze, his face clouded with guilt. "Loralee, I'm so sorry."
"Oh fiddle sticks, there's no way you could have known Amos would do this. You did what you thought was right." She reached over and squeezed his arm. "Right now, you have to help me do something about Pete's leg. I don't know much about this sort of thing, but I do know the bullet ought to come out."
Pete groaned. "I think I'd rather we just leave it be."
She rolled up her sleeves. "Well, Mr. Reeder, I don't think I'm giving you a choice."
*****
"See anything?"
Patrick felt her come up behind him, her soft scent filling his nose. What had he done? He had promised she'd be safe and now look at the mess they were in. "Nothing. How's Pete?"
"He's asleep. He drained what was left of Arless' whiskey."
"You get the bullet?"
"Yes, but I don't know what kind of damage I did to his leg. It was real deep."
He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sure you did just fine."
She held out a plate. "I brought you something to eat. It's cold, but I figured it was better than nothing."
He looked down at the griddle cakes, the food making him think of Arless. His stomach turned. He took the plate, but set it down beside him. "Thanks, I'll eat in a bit. You go on and tend to Pete."
He stared out the window, trying to decide what to do. He could probably make it to the stable. And then, with a little luck, he could outride the gun fire and go for help. Problem was he'd be leaving Loralee and Pete unprotected. Pete wasn't any good to anybody right now, and Loralee had spirit, but she couldn't hold off a gunman forever.
Fact was he couldn't leave them. They'd be sitting ducks for Striker.
The yard looked painfully normal. From here he couldn't even see Arless' body. He looked at the sun, trying to figure out how long they'd been pinned in here. Maybe Amos had given up. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to know.
"Throw me that blanket, Loralee."
She grabbed one of the blankets she'd wrapped around Pete, lobbing it to him from across the room. The glass in the window above him shattered, the sound of Amos' shot reverberating through the room. The blanket hit the floor with a soft thud. It could just as easily have been one of them.
"Well, that wasn't what I had in mind, but it answered my question just the same."
"He's still out there." Her voice trembled.
"Yup. And he's closer."
CHAPTER 20
It was dark. So dark Cara couldn't even see her hand in front of her face. She sat up, disoriented, trying to remember what had happened. Her head hurt. She probed her scalp gingerly, relieved to find only a small lump. She rubbed her throat, surprised at how tender it was.
Nick.
Memory came crashing in, her mind replaying the moment when he'd shoved her forward, the sound of his shots reverberating off the walls. A cave-in. She drew in a breath, choking on the dust that filled the tunnel. Nick had caused a cave-in.
"Michael?"
The silence echoed back at her, mocking her with its emptiness. She swallowed, wondering if the sudden dryness in her throat was caused by the dust or her rising fear.
"Michael? Can you hear me?"
The tunnel remained silent. She closed her mouth, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. The dark was overwhelming, pressing in on her, threatening to consume what little courage she had left. She had to find Michael. He was here somewhere. All she had to do was to stay calm and search. She stared into the darkness, trying to see something, anything.
There was no light at all, nothing to distinguish a wall from a shadow, the front of the tunnel from the back. She forced herself to picture the tunnel. In her mind's eye, she saw the entrance, and using her memory, traced a path all the way to the rear. She could do this. She just had to rely on her sense of touch.
Rocking up onto her knees, she crawled forward, one hand extended in front of her, sweeping through the endless blackness, searching for him. After only a few feet, her hand met rock, solid, impenetrable rock.
Standing, she stretched her arms out to both sides and swung them slowly up and down. Nothing. Feeling again for the wall in front of her, she moved along it until she felt the junction of wall meeting wall.
A corner.
Progress.
There were only a couple of corners. She ought to be able to orient herself. She ran a hand along the two adjacent walls. One was smooth in comparison to the other. She sucked in a breath, almost choking on the dust. She had found the slide. Following the path of the cave-in, her trembling fingers searched for a hole, some portal for escape. A stone wobbled under her touch.
With pounding heart, she carefully tried to pry it away from the blockage. It fell heavily into her hands, but the resulting hail of loose stone filled its place almost immediately. Reaching higher, she grabbed another protruding rock and yanked it fr
ee. Again, stones and dirt rained down on her. A rumble filled the tunnel, and she dropped to the floor, covering her head with her hands as large chunks of the ceiling crashed to the floor around her.
She scrambled away, tripping, falling to her knees, gulping for breath, the dust again filling her lungs. Reaching out, she tried to find the wall, afraid that somehow in her panic, she had disoriented herself. Her hand groped through the dark, closing around something cold and pliant. She retched and jerked back, recoiling as her senses registered the feel of a human hand.
"Michael?" she shrieked.
Nothing moved, and another thought entered her head.
"Nick? Is that you, Nick?"
Again, nothing.
Fighting her fear, she stretched her hand out again, steeling herself against the feel of cold flesh. Slowly, she closed her fingers over the hand's digits, noting that there was no reaction, not even a quiver of movement. The skin was cold and soft. Soft. She released a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Not Michael's work-worn hand, Nick's I-never-work-when-I-can-pay-someone-else-to-do-it hand.
She sent a prayer heavenward.
She followed the hand until she felt the adjoining wrist and arm. Tracing her way up his arm, she felt the solid barrier of rock before she'd even reached the elbow. He'd been crushed. She shuddered with revulsion, tears filling her eyes. Not even Nick deserved to die like that.
A harsh hacking sound filtered through her terror-numbed mind. She whirled around. "Michael? Is that you?" The coughing grew louder as she groped her way through the darkness toward the sound. "Michael?"
"I'm here, Cara."
The tears began to fall in earnest, the dam threatening to break. She struggled for control, stumbling as she ran forward, rocks rattling as she fought to regain her balance.
