by Dee Davis
He, in turn, pointed at the door. "I'm going outside for a minute," he yelled.
She signaled 'okay' and then wondered if he even knew what it meant. Shrugging, she turned back to the view from the open wall. It was magnificent. She looked down again. Compared to the top of the run, they were fairly close to the ground here. Probably only a couple hundred feet or so, but the rocks below looked deadly and the rushing stream did nothing to alleviate her fears.
She'd just have to tell him she couldn't do it. Simple as that. Behind her the door banged. "Michael." She turned around ready to confess. The words died on her lips.
The man in the doorway wasn't Michael. But she knew who he was—his resemblance to Nick was uncanny. Fear danced its way along her spine.
Amos Striker.
A slow delighted smile spread across his face. "Well, well, what do we have here." He took a step toward her and she took a step back. He took another step and she immediately moved back again, as if they were locked into some kind of macabre dance. He moved forward again, this time into a pool of light coming from the opening behind her. Her eyes still locked on him, she realized it was her move. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
"Cat got your tongue?"
She licked her lips and stepped back, only to realize she'd run out of floor.
Amos's mustache thinned as his smile grew broader. "And just where do you think you're going, darlin'?" he drawled.
She felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. She slid sideways behind the last tram car. She could feel the wind through the opening at her back, but even so, she felt more secure with the hunk of metal between her and the sheriff.
"Come here, angel." He gestured with a finger. "I won't hurt you."
Like hell. How stupid did he think she was? Stupid enough to wind up alone in the middle of another century with a murderer, her mind suggested. She watched as he took another step toward her. Help. She needed help. She opened her mouth, praying for a voice. "Michael?" Her call came out a muted squeak.
Amos was at the edge of the ore bucket now. She inched back until her heels rocked out over the edge of the platform. Startled, she reached for the ore car, gripping the edge with both hands.
"I wouldn't bother calling him, darlin'. I think he's past hearing you." He patted a Colt stuck in the waist of his pants.
Michael's gun.
She sucked in a ragged breath, and shoved hard against the bucket, but it didn't move.
Amos laughed. "Only goes one way, I'm afraid, and it'd be a shame to see a gal as pretty as you go over the edge." He nudged the bucket with his knee and it lurched forward, resting against her legs. Then, with a booted foot, he rocked it slowly, so that it rubbed provocatively against her. "Think of that as a little warm up, darlin'." His mouth still curled into a smile, but his eyes were like shards of ice. She felt their frigid touch as his gaze moved down her body.
There was a flicker of movement behind Amos, and with a war cry that made Braveheart seem tame, a bloodied Michael surged through the door, leaping at the sheriff. He tackled him from behind and the two men rolled to the floor, locked together, each struggling for the gun.
Cara watched in fascinated horror as they fought, her numb brain trying to get her to do something. She'd always hated heroines who stood and watched as the hero battled the bad guys. In theory, it had seemed easy to do something to help. In practice, it turned out, she was totally incapable of movement.
The men flipped over, Amos on the top. With a triumphant grin, he reached for the gun, but Michael was fast and slammed into the man's jaw with one fist. Thrown off balance, the two of them tumbled backward, ramming into the tram car. It swung forward, moving along the cable. Cara's brain sent out a frantic message to move, but it was too late.
She grabbed the rim of the bucket just as she felt her feet slide off the end of the platform. The car slid effortlessly into the air, taking her with it. She felt her arms jerk like a ski rope after takeoff and wondered briefly if arms could actually be pulled out of their sockets.
Holding on for dear life, she forced herself to look down and immediately wished she hadn't. Her feet dangled high above the narrow gorge. The rocks looked even more sinister from up here than they had from the platform. She bit her lip, willing all her strength into her arms. Surely all those pull-ups in sixth grade were good for something.
The bucket's forward momentum died, and it swung back and forth, almost as if it was trying to shake her off. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip. She'd be damned if she'd let an overgrown tin pail be the death of her.
From her dangling vantage point, she could still see the two men struggling. Amos had managed to draw the Colt and she watched with mounting terror as he turned the gun toward Michael's head.
She closed her eyes just as the sharp report came from the gun.
"Michael." She screamed his name, fighting to hang onto the undulating tram car.
CHAPTER 29
Cara forced herself to open her eyes, her fear for Michael momentarily distracting her from the searing pain in her arms. Michael was down, unmoving, and Striker teetered on the edge of the platform, arms windmilling wildly. Against the cacophony of the rushing water below, he lost his battle, his body tumbling down to smash against the river rocks.
Cara shuddered, reflexively tightening her grip, her eyes locked now on Michael. Willing him to move. Willing him to live. Slowly he struggled to his feet, and she exhaled slowly, relief flooding through her.
But it was short lived. A movement to her left caught her attention, a shadow cautiously detaching itself from the wall. A man carrying a rifle stepped into the light. She opened her mouth to call out a warning just as Michael spotted the man.
They stood for a second looking at each other, then Michael embraced him. Cara blew out a breath. A friend. The man was a friend. A minute later, shadow man was pointing at the oar car with his rifle and Michael was rushing to the edge of the platform, his face tight with worry. "Hang on, sweetheart," he yelled.
She bit back the desire to laugh. What exactly did he think she was going to do, free fall into a swan dive?
The bucket rocked and bucked as Michael swung out onto the cable. Hand over hand, he made his way toward her. The little tram car was rocking furiously now and she closed her eyes, swallowing back nausea. Her arms were beginning to weaken and she realized she couldn't feel the fingers of her left hand.
"I'm almost there. Just a few more feet."
She opened her eyes and her gaze met Michael's. She attempted a smile, but knew she'd failed miserably when the little muscle in his jaw started to jump as he worked to try and keep his face calm. He reached the edge of the bucket, but she was at the far end. Almost three feet away. In this position it seemed more like a million miles.
"Cara, sweetheart, you're going to have to inch your way around to this side of the bucket. Do you think you can do that?"
She gritted her teeth, and with a nod, forced the fingers of her left hand to move. For an agonizing second her entire weight was supported by her right arm, and then she felt her left hand close again around the lip of the ore car. Inch by agonizing inch, she moved along the bucket, stopping only when the swinging got too wild. Her eyes remained locked on Michael's as she tried to ignore the searing pain in her arms.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she reached Michael's side of the ore car. He was close enough to touch—not that she dared give in to the desire.
"Good girl."
She felt absurdly pleased with the compliment. No one could say she wasn't a trooper. Feeling light-headed and a little giddy, she wondered briefly if she was going to lose consciousness. She felt her eyes closing, darkness creeping around the edge of her vision.
"Cara, don't give up. We're almost there."
She forced her eyes back open, her gaze again locking with his. "What do I do now?" Her voice came out a cracked whisper and she wasn't sure he could hear her over the roar of the water below.
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"I want you to swing up and grab me around the neck. Do you think you can do that?"
She looked down at the rushing water below and thought briefly about an act she'd seen once in a circus. They'd had a net.
"I'll catch you, don't worry."
Taking a deep breath, she rocked the car, swinging back and forth, getting used to the motion, then when the bucket arched upward and she was more or less level with Michael, she let go with her left hand, reaching for him as she let go with her right.
Alley oop…
She was flying. For one glorious second she was free, the horrible pressure on her arms relieved. Then, with a satisfying thunk, she collided with Michael, his arm circling her waist. They hung for a moment like that, suspended over the canyon. Then she twisted, locking first one arm and then the other around his neck, gripping her left wrist with her right hand.
"You all right?" he grunted, both hands back on the cable.
Again, she felt the urge to laugh. What a ridiculous question. But she didn't have any further time to worry about it. Michael started to move back across the wire, muscles straining with their combined weight.
Again their progress seemed agonizingly slow. She saw the worried face of shadow man. He was standing at the opening, hands out ready to help. About damn time somebody came to help them.
They reached the platform and shadow man reached up to grab her legs. She slid into his arms, her whole body suddenly feeling like rubber. The stranger's arms were replaced by Michael's as he dropped down onto the platform. She nestled against him, drawing comfort from his nearness. She felt his lips moving against her temple and pressed closer, not sure whether she had the strength to stand on her own.
"That was a near miss." The voice was cultured, with the trace of an English accent. It seemed somehow out of place in the Wild West—and she had personal experience with the Wild part of the moniker.
Michael was answering. She could feel the vibrations of his words through his shirt. It was strangely comforting. "It would have been a hell of a lot closer if you hadn't come along."
"Well." Cara could hear the smile in shadow man's voice. "My timing has always been impeccable. I should like to hear what exactly the two of you were doing up here with," he paused and Cara imagined he was looking down at Amos' body, "riff-raff like that."
She smiled into Michael's shirt. He sounded so pompously English. "But," he went on, "I should think the first thing to do is get this young lady a cup of coffee. Hardly civilized to go on with explanations and leave the poor thing hanging onto you for dear life."
Cara was beginning to like this shadowy character. She pulled away from Michael, relieved to find that her feet were capable of supporting her. She winced as she straightened her arm. "Take me to the coffee." Her voice had even returned to some semblance of normal. She took a shaky step forward, linking arms with both men.
"My kind of girl," the man said, patting her hand paternally.
"Mine, too, Owen, mine too." Michael added, his hand covering hers with a gentle squeeze as he led them across the platform toward the beckoning doorway.
Owen. She turned the name over in her mind, matching it to the man. So this was Owen Prescott. They moved toward the door, Michael laughing at something Owen said. It was good to hear the sound.
Maybe the nightmare was finally over.
*****
Owen's office was empty. And from the looks of it, it had been empty for a day or so. Patrick leaned back in Owen's chair and ran a finger through the light coating of dust that covered everything. Owen was nothing if not fastidious. There could only be one reason everything was this dusty.
Owen was gone.
Patrick frowned, wondering why Owen would have left with everything in such turmoil. Granted, he didn't know about Striker, or about Michael's return. But still, he knew what Striker had been saying, and he knew how much pain Patrick was in. It wasn't like Owen to desert him. He'd always been there when Patrick needed him—the one person in this world Patrick knew he could count on.
It had been Owen who'd told him about his mother and Zach. He'd been out to the ranch even before Michael and his father had come down off the mountain. Why, it had been Owen who'd figured out about the stage coach.
Patrick drew in a sharp breath. Owen. Oh God, it couldn't be. Not Owen. But the very things that had comforted him at the time, mocked him now. Owen had been there. Always there. His heart rebelled at the direction his thoughts were taking, but the evidence continued to mount. His father had found something in the mountains. Something involving silver. And he'd come into town to tell Owen. His friend. His confidant.
His murderer.
It all fit. And yet, he still couldn't make himself believe it. Why would Owen have taken the silver? It had already been partially his. Patrick frowned, pushing the horrible notion away. There had to be another explanation, someone else that could be behind everything. It couldn't be Owen. It just couldn't.
"Patrick?" Loralee's soft voice pulled him from the horror of his thoughts.
"Is Pete all right?"
She nodded, her hands clenched at her side. "Doc says he's gonna be fine. Ginny is with him."
"Is there something else?"
She nodded again, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other, her eyes darting around the office. "Where's Owen?"
"He's not here."
She relaxed a little. "There's something you've got to know."
Patrick walked over to her, his hands reaching for hers. "Whatever it is, just say it."
She drew in a deep breath. "Ginny overheard Owen talking to the sheriff yesterday morning. She was working at the hotel. She cooks there to bring in some extra money. Anyway, he, Owen, I mean, was telling the sheriff that he believed you were responsible for Corabeth's death."
"Me?" The word exploded from his mouth, his fears resurfacing in full force.
"Yes. And there's more. He told Amos that he'd best get on out to Clune and arrest you, before you hurt someone else. He told him I was missing and that he thought maybe you'd taken it in your head to kill me, too."
"My God. You don't believe…" He trailed off, his eyes locking with hers.
"Of course not." Her hands tightened around his. "But don't you see, if Owen is saying things like that then that means—"
"He's behind all of this," he cut her off. His heart plummeting. He'd placed his faith in the wrong person, and because of it, he'd failed to see who the real enemy was.
"But I don't understand why, Patrick." Loralee looked up at him, confusion playing across her pretty face.
"I don't either, but I intend to find out." He spun around intent on finding something in the office that explained what the hell was going on. Once again his whole world had turned upside down, but this time Patrick wasn't going to just hide from it. No sir. He was going to face it head on.
He yanked open a drawer on one side of Owen's desk. It was full of ledgers, neatly organized by date. He pulled one out and quickly discarded it, already reaching for another. Account books for the Irish Rose. Frustrated, he slammed the drawer shut and pulled open the bottom drawer.
This one was less tidy than the other. His eyes locked on a black rectangular object, the gold embossing hauntingly familiar. Reaching for it with a shaking hand, his fingers closed around the cool ebony union case, confirming what his eyes already knew.
"What is it?" He felt the soft whisper of Loralee's hair against his shoulder as she bent over to see what he held in his hand.
Slowly he opened the little case, his heart pounding as horrifying thoughts poured through his head. His eyes focused on the image in the frame. The woman in the picture smiled up at him, and he felt tears pricking the back of his eyes.
Loralee's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Patrick, what's wrong. Who is that?"
Wrenching his gaze away from the daguerreotype, he looked up at her.
"It's my mother."
*****
"Rose?"
Loralee looked up at Patrick and then back at the smiling face in the union case. The woman was pretty, in an elfin sort of way. Dark hair and flawless pale skin. The eyes were Patrick's—emerald green. Irish eyes. It seemed Patrick resembled his mother even more than his father.
"My mother," Patrick repeated in confirmation, his face locked into a mask of disbelief.
"Patrick?" She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I don't understand."
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his voice full of anxiety. "This belonged to my mother. There used to be a picture of my father, here." He pointed to the inside of the lid of the case. Sure enough, there were little yellowed bits in the corners as if something had been torn out. "They had their pictures made right after they were married. There was a photographer." He paused, lost in his own thoughts.
"Where?" Loralee urged gently.
"Some fair out by the seashore. My mother said it was a remembrance of a perfect day. She always carried it with her." He turned the case over. "See? There's a pin here. She wore it fastened to the inside of her shirtwaist. So that she wouldn't lose it." He looked up at her, his eyes full of pain. "She'd never willingly let anyone have this, Loralee, never."
"Of course not." She knew the words were inadequate, but she wanted so much to comfort him.
Sparks shot from his eyes. "It was Owen, Loralee. It was all Owen. He killed my mother. That's the only way he could possibly have this."
She met his gaze, her anger echoing his. If what Patrick was saying was true, then he'd killed Zach, too. "But why?"
Patrick stood up, tucking the union case into his shirt pocket. "I don't know for certain."
Loralee met his gaze, understanding dawning. "You think he's gone for the silver."
"I'd bet my life on it."
A new thought occurred to her, terror rising in its wake. "But Michael and Cara—"
