by Dee Davis
"But you could do that here."
She sighed, tipping her head back to meet his solemn gaze. "Folks here know who I am, what I was, and no one is likely to ever let me forget it. I want more than that, Patrick. For her, if not for me."
He drew in a deep breath, his mouth settling into a thin line, but he didn't say anything.
She licked her lips nervously, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "You could come with me." She wasn't sure why she'd asked him. There wasn't anything between them. Only the promise of things that would probably never be.
He released the breath on a sigh. "You know I can't do that."
She nodded, the plume of her hat bobbing in front of her face. "I suppose I do."
"Loralee, my brother has spent all of his life trying to make a home for our family. And, now, I'm the only one he has left."
"He's got Cara." She heard the pleading in her voice and was ashamed. The right thing to do was to let him go. She'd always known there was no chance for them. Silly to wish for things she couldn't have.
"It's not the same and you know it. He built Clune for me, Loralee. I can't just run off and leave him here on his own. We're partners. Hell, it's more than that. We're brothers. And I belong here, with him."
"And I belong with my Mary." Which left them right where they'd started. She bit her bottom lip, trying to prevent the threatening tears.
"Thank God, you're still here. I was afraid we'd missed you." Cara rushed up the platform steps, taking them two at a time.
Loralee smiled. Her great-granddaughter wasn't fond of nineteenth century clothing. At the moment she was wearing men's jeans with one of Michael's flannel shirts, the tails knotted carelessly at her waist. The only concession she'd made to the century was her boots, and she constantly complained about that, saying that there simply wasn't anything that could compare with a good pair of Nikes. Whatever those were. "I'm glad you came."
Cara swept her into an exuberant hug. "We would have been here sooner, but Pete wanted Michael to take a look at one of the horses. Something with his foot, I think. Anyway, Michael said the trains always run late."
"And I was right." He draped an arm around his bride of three weeks, pulling her close to his side.
Cara laughed. "Listen to me, running on. Have you got everything you need?"
"More than that. I can't get over all this frippery." She gestured to the blue satin morning dress and matching hat. In all her born days she'd never worn such beautiful clothes.
"You have to look your best when you get to Richmond." Cara reached out to tuck a strand of hair back into the new chignon Loralee wore. They'd copied it out of the Sears catalog.
"It's more like I'm play-acting."
"You look beautiful." The tenderness in Patrick's voice, made her knees feel like taffy on a hot summer day.
"There's the conductor," Michael said.
"I guess it's time." Loralee smiled at the three people who'd come to mean so much to her, but couldn't quite make herself meet Patrick's gaze.
Cara hugged her again, pressing a small white envelope into her hand. "This is for you and Mary."
Loralee could feel the bills inside. "I can't, I mean…"
"It's not much, just our share of the money from the silver. We want you to have it."
Loralee felt the tears threatening again. "Thank you," she whispered, kissing Cara's cheek.
Cara pulled back, her cheeks wet with tears. "That's what family is for."
Loralee looked at Michael. "Thanks for all of this. The clothes, the luggage, all of it."
"I think Zach more than earned it, Loralee." He gave her a quick hug and then stepped back, pulling Cara with him. "You know you have a home here any time you want it."
She nodded, afraid to try and say anything else. They meant so much to her. She'd never had real family before. Except Mary. Everything always came back to Mary.
She turned to face Patrick. His look was guarded, as if he had already put distance between them. She tried not to feel hurt. After all, they were just friends. It was best if they got on with their own lives and forgot about each other. She just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
"It's time." He held out his arm and she placed a hand on his elbow. Just like a real lady. A respectable lady.
They stopped at the train steps and stood for a moment simply looking at each other. She tried to memorize each little detail of his face. The way his hair fell forward into his eyes. The way his mouth curled a little higher on one side than the other.
The whistle blew a warning, and Patrick lifted her up to the bottom step. This was it then. Time for goodbye. He kissed her once, hard, and then turned away, walking back to Cara and Michael. Back to where he belonged.
She sighed and stepped into the train. A new life awaited her in Virginia. A better life. Best to close doors and move on. She'd managed just fine without Patrick Macpherson. And she'd just have to keep right on doing it. Squaring her shoulders, she settled into the high-backed velvet seat.
But, Lordy, it was going to be hard.
*****
Patrick stood stone-faced watching a few last minute passengers scurry to board the train. This was it. She was really going. Up until this minute he'd kept the hope that she'd change her mind. He should have told her how he felt. Should have stood up for himself and his feelings.
"You okay?"
He looked down into the worried eyes of his sister-in-law. "Yes. No. Hell, I don't know. I guess I thought maybe she'd stay."
"She can't, Patrick."
"Why the hell not?" His eyes moved back to the train.
"Because here she'd never be anything but a whore. And she deserves a whole lot more than that."
"I know." He said the words with conviction. That was the one thing he was certain of. Loralee deserved the world. It was just that somewhere deep inside, he'd hoped he'd be the one to give it to her. But that was impossible. She belonged in Virginia and he belonged here—at Clune.
In a way, he envied Loralee. She was getting a clean slate—a chance to start over. The events of the past few days had changed him forever, forced him to face himself, to grow up. He stared at the train. It taunted him. Just a few short steps and he could find his own way, be whoever he wanted to be, but that would mean turning his back on his responsibilities, and he couldn't—wouldn't— do that.
"You've got to live your own life, Patrick." Michael's words were uncannily accurate, as if he'd read his mind. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the train.
"But my life is here, with you."
"Only if you want it to be, Patrick. You'll always belong here, but that doesn't mean you have to stay."
"But I…" he trailed off, still looking at the train. He wanted to go, needed to go, but he also needed his brother. Or did he? Maybe he was falling right back into the same old patterns, Michael taking the lead. He turned to look at his brother. Their eyes met and held—a lifetime of emotions reflected there.
"Go." There was finality in his brother's voice—and freedom.
The train began to inch forward.
"Hurry." Cara's soft plea roused him to action.
Patrick ran across the platform toward the moving cars and leapt for the steps, grabbing the handrail, swinging up onto the train. Balanced precariously on the top step, he turned for a last look. They stood together, waving, arms looped around each other. Michael and Cara. Patrick smiled. His brother would be all right. Owen was dead. The evil that had been a part of their lives for so long was gone. Vanquished.
It was a time for new beginnings.
He raised his hand in final farewell, and then turned to go into the railcar, one life behind him, and another about to start.
*****
Cara stepped back, looking at the painting with a critical eye. Not bad. Maybe a little more gray in the mountains. She bit her bottom lip, looking from subject to easel, then back again. The ranch lay spread out below her. The bright summer sun outlining each bu
ilding with streaks of white. Wildflowers ran rampant, up here on the bluff, and down in the meadow below. Monet would have had a field day.
She smiled, tucking an impudent strand of hair behind her ear, her mind focusing back on the painting. A wooden cross provided a focal point for the picture. It occupied the left corner of the canvas, looking as if it, too, was viewing the valley below. Duncan Macpherson surveying his kingdom.
Her gaze moved to the real marker, trying to gauge accuracy. Perhaps a little darker shadow or more red…
Jack's bridle jingled as he munched wildflowers. He was worse than a goat. If they ever needed anything mowed, he was certainly the horse for the job. As if aware of her thoughts, he raised his shaggy head, ears twitching, listening to a sound only he could hear. Cara followed the line of his sight. A lone rider appeared, making his way across the bluff.
Cara reached for her rifle, but stopped when the old horse whinnied a welcome. A second later she recognized the silhouette.
Michael.
Shading her eyes with one hand, she watched her husband approach. He sat easily in the saddle, his dark hair blowing in the breeze. They'd been married almost a month now and still just the sight of him sent her heart pounding.
"I thought I'd find you here." He smiled down at her, the warmth radiating outward, making her knees turn to jelly. "Can I see?" He swung down from the saddle and walked toward the painting.
"It isn't finished, yet." She followed him, her critical eye already finding fault with the painting.
Michael stood back, arms crossed, studying the canvas. She held her breath, staring at the crimson roses climbing the weather worn cross, hoping that he would like what he saw, understand what she had been trying to portray.
"The roses," he pointed to the flowers twining around the pine, "they're my mother, aren't they? She's found him again. In death, if not in life, she's finally come home."
Cara slipped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against the broad expanse of his shoulder. "I'm the one who's finally come home."
"No regrets?" His eyes held more than the question.
She smiled up at him. "None at all. I belong here, Michael, with you. And nothing could make me happier."
"Not even painting?" He nodded at the canvas.
She turned to face him, her gaze locking on his. "Not even that."
He smiled slowly, then bent his head, his lips taking possession of hers, his hands stroking the contours of her hips and back. The painting was forgotten as he lifted her into his arms and laid her carefully on a bed of wildflowers, his need for her etched across his face.
With skillful hands, he stroked her body, buttons yielding to a master touch. Naked, she smiled and opened herself to him, knowing she already belonged to him body and soul. Braced on his arms, their bodies joined, he looked down at her, his heart reflected in the cobalt of his eyes. "I love you, Cara Macpherson."
"No more than I love you," she whispered in answer.
And there on the mountain, among flowers and grasses, rocks and pines, they made love. The only witnesses, a white wooden cross and a wild red rose.
EPILOGUE
Silverthread, Colorado—Present Day
"This is amazing." Margaret Wagner stood in front of the painting, her eyes riveted on the canvas in front of her. "Is it for sale?" She pulled away from the powerful brushstrokes to focus her attention on the vivacious blonde who ran the gallery.
"No." Carrie Macpherson came to stand beside her. "That one belongs to me. My great-great grandmother painted it."
"You're kidding?" Margaret frowned, her gaze returning to haunting imagery of the dilapidated mine, stark against the wild beauty of the mountains. "When?"
"In 1891. The mine belonged to her father-in-law—my great-great-great grandfather." Carrie smiled, her green eyes lighting with the gesture. "The money they made was used to build my family's ranch."
"Well it's fabulous. If it were for sale, I'd buy it in an instant."
"You're not the first one to say that, but I'm afraid I could never part with it. It's a legacy of sorts."
Margaret nodded, fighting against disappointment. "There's just something about it that calls to me. It's almost as if there's a secret there—a story embedded somehow in paint and brushwork."
"There's always a story, isn't there? At the end of the day that's what gives life meaning." Carrie's gaze met hers, her face inscrutable, and Margaret had the distinct feeling that the gallery owner was talking about more than just the painting.
"Do you have more of her work?"
"Some. Not nearly as many as I'd like."
"I'm only asking because I saw a similar painting in New York once. It was the most marvelous thing I'd ever seen. And this," she gestured to the painting, "is almost identical in style."
It was Carrie's turn to nod. "I've had other people mistake her painting for modern ones."
"Well I can see why. There's certainly a timeless quality about them. Something almost magical." Margaret sighed. "Anyway, I guess I'm destined to see but never own. The other painting wasn't for sale either. I looked for more work by the artist, but never found any. I suppose she just stopped painting."
"Maybe." Carrie said, smiling up at her great-great grandmother's canvas. "Or perhaps she simply had other promises to keep."
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Sneak Peek at Everything In Its Time
And Now A Sneak Peek at Everything In Its Time,
the first novel in Dee Davis’s
Time Travel Trilogy!
DUNCREAG, SCOTLAND
KATHERINE STRUGGLED TO consciousness with a sigh. The room was dark except for a soft orange glow emanating from the fireplace. Coals, she thought sleepily. Stretching, she listened for a noise, something that might have awakened her. The room was quiet.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she surveyed her hotel room. It was fairly large, nice in an antiquated sort of way. It had been late when she'd arrived. So late, in fact, that she had hardly noticed her surroundings. Bed had been her first priority. Now awake, she sat up, pulling the covers with her.
Pale moonlight spilled in through the window's archway, making its small diamond panes glitter. The room was certainly charming by moonlight. The beams danced along the walls creating intricate patterns of light and dark, complimented by the glow coming from the fireplace. She frowned. Surely there hadn't been a fireplace? Instead, she remembered there being a rusty-looking radiator in the corner. Of course, she had been exhausted when she'd arrived. Maybe she'd just imagined it.
What she needed right now was a glass of water. Cautiously, she stuck a foot out of the pile of blankets. The room was cold. She glanced at the fireplace and wondered if poking it would revive the dying fire. She'd been a Girl Scout, but that was years ago and besides, she had never really mastered the art of fire making.
With a groan, she left the warm comfort of the bed. The stone floor felt icy under her bare feet. Odd—she would have sworn there was carpeting. Padding over to the fireplace, she grabbed what looked to be a poker and prodded randomly at the glowing coals. They scattered and dimmed slightly. Okay, so she wasn't a fire builder. Giving up, she dropped the poker
with a clatter. Where was the bathroom?
There was a large ornately carved door on the adjacent wall that obviously served as the entrance. Rejecting it, Katherine spotted a second door next to the fireplace. It was set into the wall under a stone archway that echoed the style of the larger arch over the window.
With a sleepy yawn, she stepped into the recess, waiting a minute for her eyes to adjust to the deeper shadows of the alcove. She squinted at the door. It was made of heavy wooden planks with iron hinges, a hammered metal ring serving as a doorknob. All in all, it was a heck of a door, especially for a bathroom.
Katherine's sleep-clouded mind struggled again with the vague sense that the room was different from what she remembered. She certainly hadn't noticed this door or its accompanying stone archway. In fact, now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure she remembered the window's being set into an arch either. She frowned. Obviously her exhaustion had dimmed her powers of perception. With a mental shrug, she pushed the heavy door open.
The room beyond was darker than her room. Moonlight seeped around the corners of some sort of drapery hanging from a window. The dim light kept the room from being pitch black, but still relegated its contents to deep shadow. She took a hesitant step into the room. There was carpeting here, at least. Her toes curled into the warmth. She tried to figure out where she was. She wasn't in the hallway or the bathroom. Biting her lower lip, she ran her fingers through her long hair, absently combing out the tangles. Confused and uncertain, she wondered if she was dreaming.
Slowly, cautiously, she stepped farther into the room. If this was indeed a dream, she was safe from harm; and, dream or not, her curiosity was aroused. She made out the shape of a bed within the shadows. A bedroom. In her hurry to sleep, she must have overlooked the connecting door last night. With cautious steps, she crossed to the foot of the big bed. She reached out to touch a bedpost, stopping in mid-motion when she heard a noise. Heart pounding, she looked into the blackness of the bed itself. Was someone there? It was simply too dark to see. She strained into the darkness, listening intently. Silence surrounded her.
