by Dee Davis
After everything they'd been through, she wasn't about to let Amos Striker win.
CHAPTER 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."
Patrick frowned, his eyes narrowing. "And just what made you think I needed rescuing?"
"You didn't look to be doing so good from where I was standing, little brother."
"Well, it was just a matter of time. I had things under control." He shifted, emotions playing across his face. "Father's dead." The words hung between them, anger evaporating. "And then I thought you were dead, too…" The words trailed off, anguish playing across Patrick's face.
Michael closed the distance between them in two strides, pulling his brother into a bear hug, grateful for the warm solid nineteenth century feel of his own flesh and blood.
"Michael?" Cara.
He released Patrick, his eyes meeting hers. Uncertainty dominated her expression, her eyes wide, her teeth pulling at her lower lip. He was home. But she… she was marooned here in a time that was far less civilized than the one she'd come from. He felt a flash of guilt. But before he could think of the right words to say, the look vanished, replaced by determination. Cara was a fighter.
"Did you find any sign of Amos?" Her question broke the silence. Bringing all three of them firmly back to the present—and the issue of Amos Striker.
Patrick's face hardened. "Was he here? Cara said there was a second shooter."
Michael raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Obviously there'd been introductions, and there'd come a time for explanations. Explanations that made absolutely no sense. But this wasn't the place. He pulled his thoughts back to Patrick's question, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette butts.
"He was here."
Patrick eyed the tobacco remains. "Shouldn't we go after him?"
Michael shook his head. "It'll be dark soon. Best we wait until the morning. He won't get far tonight."
"You sound like, Pete." Patrick grimaced. "Son of a…" He paused, shooting an embarrassed look at Cara. "I forgot Pete." He turned his gaze to Michael. "He was shot."
"Is he all right?" Fresh concern washed through Michael. Amos Striker's sins were racking up, and Michael fully intended to see him pay.
"He's alive, but he's in bad shape. Loralee's with him."
"Loralee?"
"She's ah… well she's a…" He stumbled over the words, a dark red flush appearing under his tan. "She's a friend. She's been helping me with Father's death."
"A friend?"
"Not like that." The blush deepened. "She knew Father. Was with him right before he was killed. It all started when Amos tried to tell us that you killed Father." Patrick frowned at the memory. "Owen said he was just doing his job. But I didn't believe him. Not after Loralee told me about Corabeth, and then Amos tried to kill her, and I was protecting her… Ah hell. "
Michael leveled a look on his brother. "Looks like I'm not the only one with some explaining to do."
*****
Loralee stood on the porch, her hand raised to shade her eyes from the last of the setting sun. It would be dark in just a little while and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Patrick Macpherson since he'd headed for the barn more than an hour ago. There was only so much a girl could handle, and frankly, she was at the end of her rope.
She glanced over her shoulder through the open door of the cabin. Pete was settled on the cot in the corner, sleeping. His fever was down a little, but she still didn't like his color. With a sigh, she focused her attention back on the barnyard. Best just get on with it. Bolstering her courage, she stepped down onto the rocky ground, the grass brushing against her dress.
She held the rifle ready. At least it evened the odds a bit. Besides everything was quiet. Most likely Patrick had gone out the back of the barn. There hadn't been anymore shots, so hopefully he was fine. Just thoughtless. Leaving them waiting like that without so much as a word.
But then, that's what she got for depending on a man. Seems she still hadn't learned her lesson. And it was such a simple one: Men can't be trusted. They'll leave you crying every time. She grimaced, wondering when it was exactly that she'd come to care about Patrick Macpherson anyway. He was just a pup, still wet behind the ears. Wasn't any room in her life for personal involvement. She was a working girl, pure and simple. She didn't need anybody to take care of her. She was doing just fine on her own.
She started for the barn, the tall grass was waving in the wind. Reaching the building she looked in and caught a glimpse of color. Her stomach clenched and her heart started to pound. There was a body here—a man sprawled on the ground in the center of the hay.
She gripped the rifle tighter and edged up to him, nudging him gingerly with her toe. Dead. He was dead. And he wasn't Patrick. She released her breath on a whoosh, and pulled her skirts back to step around him, intent on finding Patrick. But the dead man's features were burned into her brain and she stopped short, realizing she recognized him.
Even death couldn't remove the cruel twist of his mouth and the harsh angle of his jaw. Joe Ingersoll. Probably wanted in a dozen counties. She couldn't say she was sorry he was dead. Word had it he had roughed up several of the girls over in Tintown.
She wondered what he was doing here, then dismissed the thought. His kind could always be bought, and Amos Striker wasn't the kind to do his dirty work alone. She resisted the urge to kick the body, and instead stepped over him into the barn. Jack gave a baleful whinny, but, aside from that, the place was empty.
She frowned and stepped back into the barnyard, scanning the area for signs of life. Nothing here but the dead. Arless' body lay sprawled off to the left of the barn, looking for all the world as if he'd just stopped for a nap. Tears filled her eyes, as the old miner's voice filled her head—talk of griddle cakes and butter.
Arless Hurley had been a good man. Maybe not a sober one, but a damn fine one just the same. The least she could do was show him some respect. She stepped back over Joe and grabbed an old blanket hanging f
rom a peg in the stable, then stepped back outside and walked over to her friend's body.
His eyes stared sightlessly up at the fading blue of the sky. She swallowed back tears, and bent to gently close them. Then, with reverent hands, she flipped the blanket out, letting it drift slowly downward, covering his battered body.
Kneeling beside him, she lowered her head, searching for the right words. "Lord, you know I ain't exactly on your list of holy folks, but I got an honest heart and this here was a good man. So you be sure and open those pearly gates for Arless. He's on his way. And if you got any whiskey, you better hide it, 'cause I suspect he'll be ready for more than a drop when he gets there."
She paused and studied the wool-covered mound, the pain of the moment nearly her undoing. "God's speed, Arless." She crossed herself, surprised that she remembered how. It had been a long time since she'd been in a church.
She stood up and surveyed the surrounding countryside, her eyes searching for any sign of Patrick. A slight movement from beyond the corral caught her attention and she let go a whoop when she recognized his tall figure emerging from a stand of pines.
There were two others with him. One man, bigger than Patrick, walked beside him, their dark heads bent together, obviously deep in conversation. The other figure was smaller, a woman dressed like a man.
She frowned, watching as the group drew closer, trying to puzzle out who the newcomers might be. Finally she shrugged. It didn't really matter. Whoever they were, Patrick seemed happy to see them. She glanced down at Arless and then over at Joe Ingersoll's body, shivering.
Lord knew they could use some friendly faces right about now.
*****
Cara hung back a little as they walked toward the house, wanting to give the brothers time together. The resemblance was almost uncanny. The two dark heads, bent together in conversation were almost identical. There was no chance anyone could possibly miss the fact that they were brothers. She felt a little pang of jealousy. An only child, she'd never experienced the bond that siblings had, but looking at the two of them, she knew it must be something special.
In the aftermath of everything that had happened, Cara again felt terribly drained, as if all the emotion had simply been sucked out of her.
She swallowed back beginnings of tears. Now was definitely not the time for a melt-down. Amos Striker was out there somewhere, and they had to find him—to eliminate the threat to Michael. Then her job would be done, and it would be time to go back where she belonged.
If she could find her way.
As if he'd read her thoughts, Michael slowed his pace, waiting until she caught up, looping a casual arm around her shoulders, still deep in conversation with his brother. She could see the ranch house illuminated in the last fading rays of the sun. It looked so much smaller than it did in her time, but still the lines were familiar. Comforting in some intrinsic kind of way. Perhaps home was home no matter the time. She shook her head at her own silly musings.
She was a hell of a long way from The Meadows. This was Clune.
1888.
"Cara?" Patrick's voice pulled her from her troubled thoughts, and she was surprised to see that they'd arrived in the barnyard. "This is Loralee."
Cara looked over at the smiling brunette, trying to find the energy to return the gesture, but before she'd managed to move a single facial muscle, she froze, her eyes locked on the necklace around the other woman's neck.
The silver was intricately carved, flowers curving softly across its face. Cara gasped, her heart stutter-stepping to a stop.
Loralee was wearing her great-grandmother's locket.
CHAPTER 25
"I don't believe any of this. People simply do not go traveling through time. It's impossible." Patrick paced in front of the porch steps, his frown underscoring his disbelief.
Cara leaned back against the wall of the house, trying to think of something that would persuade them of the truth. Something that didn't sound like a Jules Verne story. She sighed, realizing that Jules Verne was probably alive and writing somewhere at this very moment.
"I know it's hard to believe, Patrick. I probably wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me, but it's the truth." Michael was leaning against a porch pillar, his relaxed position belying the tense line of his shoulders.
"What I don't understand is the part about you and me being related." Loralee looked over at Cara her eyes filled with a mixture of wonder, disbelief and most amazingly, hope.
"It's the truth. The locket proves it. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. She inherited it from her mother—your Mary."
Loralee's eyes widened and she wrapped her arms around herself. "But, my Mary doesn't have it. I do. And she's just a little girl."
"I know. But someday you'll give it to her." Although, who was to say how things would play out now? In coming here, Cara had changed everything. Who knew what would happen when she went back. Hopefully, there was a happy ending for Loralee. She smiled at the younger woman, pushing away her negative thoughts. "And then she'll pass it on to my mother and then to me."
"And then you'll come here and … " Loralee's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "It just don't make sense."
"None of it does." Michael's words were firm, his expression grim. "But the fact is it's all true. Nine years ago, I found Cara in the snow."
"And if he hadn't been there, I would have died," Cara said picking up the story. "But once the crisis passed, and my grandfather came for me, we got separated again."
"Until I got shot." Michael moved to stand by Cara.
"And then she rescued you," Loralee finished with a faint smile. Patrick shot her a look. "Well, I like that part." She stuck her chin out. "A woman saving a man. Seems to me there's something kinda nice about a time where women and men are treated as equals."
"Maybe so." Patrick shrugged. "But that only makes the story more nonsensical."
"Patrick. We've been over this and over this." Michael ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And nothing I can say is going to make it easier to accept. You'll just have to take my word about what happened. The important thing now is to deal with Amos Striker."
A loud groan issued from somewhere inside the house, followed by a string of extremely colorful oaths, some of which Cara had never heard before. Loralee stood up, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Before we take on Amos Striker, sounds to me like we'd better see to Pete."
*****
"I don't want any more." Pete closed his mouth with a click, his teeth locking firmly together. "Tastes like horse piss."
"It's willow bark tea." Loralee said. "Ginny says it helps with fever."
"The Ute woman? I ain't drinking no Indian tree potion."
"Come on, Pete, you don't mean to tell me that after all you've been through you're going to balk at a little tea?" Patrick lifted the old man's shoulders and Loralee held the cup up to his lips. He grumbled, but opened his mouth and obediently drained the cup.
"So what the hell happened out there?" He looked first at Michael and then at Patrick.
"We're not really sure. Cara killed the man in the barn. She thought it was Amos Striker." Michael blew out a breath and shrugged.
"And it wasn't?" Pete's brows pulled together in consternation.
Patrick shook his head, remembering the dead man's face. "Nope. It was some guy I've never seen before."
"I recognized him," Loralee added. "His name's Joe Ingersoll."
Pete stroked his moustache. "Bad hombre. Do anything for money." He looked over at Cara. "You telling me that little thing brought down Ingersoll?"
Cara's head shot up, her eyes flashing. "Why is it no one can believe I shot the man?"
Michael held up a hand. "Easy, honey, I saw you." He turned back to the old man. "Trust me, Pete, she's a whole lot tougher than she looks."
Pete grinned. "Just what you need, boy." He sobered. "Any sign of Striker at all?"
Michael reached into his pocket and pull
ed out the cigarillo butts. "Only these. Found them under one of the pine trees where Cara said she saw a rifle barrel."
Pete lifted his head for a look. "So he was out there."
"Someone was. Probably him. And I figure he high-tailed it once he saw that Ingersoll was dead." Michael dropped the butts onto the table.
"Amos never was one to go against the odds," Pete agreed.
"You mean he's a coward?" Cara eyed them all quizzically.
"Yellow as they come," Pete grunted, then looked up at Loralee, who was refilling his cup. "Any chance I could get some whiskey?"
She shook her head. "More tea."
"Hell." He jerked upward as a spell of coughing shook his entire body.
"I think it's time we get you to bed." She gave him a fierce look.
"I ain't going." Pete crossed his bony arms across his chest, wincing a little with the movement. "I want to talk to Michael some more."
"Later. Right now you need some sleep." Loralee's voice was gentle. Pete tried to look mutinous, but the effect was ruined when he yawned. "Patrick, you and Michael help me get him to his room."
Patrick reached down to help Michael lift the old man.
"Watch it, boy, I ain't no bale of hay."
Patrick grinned, adjusting his grip. "Sorry, Pete." Obviously the willow bark tea was working. He was as cantankerous as an old mule, and their mother had always said that when a sick person started to complain he was bound to be getting better.
"Come on, old man, let's get you out of here." Michael winked at Patrick and they started to move toward the door, careful not to jar him.
"Who you calling old? I reckon I can whup your skinny behind anytime I've a mind to."
Patrick smiled as they passed through the door into the cool night air. Yes sir, Pete was going to be just fine.
