The Promise Read online

  "So where are we, exactly?" He could almost feel her words, as if they were communicating body to body.

  "An abandoned mine tunnel. It was the closest shelter I could find."

  "How did you know it was here?"

  "This is my land," he said simply. "I know every inch of it."

  Again they lay in silence. He listened to the sound of her breathing. It slowed and then deepened. Sleep would do her good. He closed his own eyes, but couldn't stop thinking. He kept seeing her lying there in the snow. If he hadn't found her. He shivered at the thought.

  But he had. And now, despite all she'd been through, she'd be all right. He'd make certain of it.

  "Michael?" She rolled over to face him, her voice hesitant, her eyes wide. "If someone was out there. In the storm, I mean. Could they—could they live through it?"

  She suddenly sounded so young and lost, he thought his heart might break. He tightened his arms around her. "Anything is possible, Cara."

  "And if they're dead…" She trailed off, leaving the question unfinished.

  "Then I'll take care of you." He looked deep into her eyes, and before he had time to think better of it, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers, the contact sending lightening flashing through him. He pulled back, breathless from the depth of his emotion, his gaze still locked with hers. "I promise."

  *****

  Cara woke with a start. The tunnel was filled with half-light. Morning had obviously arrived. She sat up gingerly, her eyes scanning the cave for Michael. She sighed with disappointment, except for a horse, the mine shaft was empty. But a fire burned merrily in the stone fire ring. Surely evidence that'd he be right back. All she had to do was wait.

  She explored the injured side of her head carefully, satisfied to note that the bandage felt dry. At least the bleeding had stopped. Which was more than she could say for the pounding. Still, all in all, she seemed to have survived.

  Pain wracked through her at the thought. How could she be so casual with her thoughts? When her parents might be out there this very moment, injured or worse. She sucked in a ragged breath and fought against the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Michael would help her. He'd promised. She had to hang onto her hope.

  Using the side of the cave to brace herself, she pulled up to a standing position, still clutching Michael's blanket around her. The world tilted lopsidedly and then slowly, slowly righted itself again.

  "Cara?"

  Michael. She smiled despite herself and took a wobbly step forward. He called her name again, and it was a moment before it registered that the voice was not Michael's. It was her grandfather's. Joy welled up inside her. Michael had obviously gone for help. Sucking in a fortifying breath, she began to make her way out of the cave. Certain that somehow, between Michael and her grandfather, everything would be all right.

  *****

  Michael stood up, carefully capping his canteen. At least the worst of it was over. The sky was still a hazy white-gray, threatening snow. But the wind was gone, and the air dry. With any luck, they'd make it to the ranch before nightfall.

  He carefully made his way up the slippery slope of the creek bank. The snow was deceptively thick in places and he knew that beneath the soft banks there was often ice. A broken leg, out here in this kind of weather, would most likely be the death of a man. And he had no intention of cashing it in now. Not after last night.

  He reached the scattered tailings pile that marked the entrance to the mine. A small blue spruce stretched its frail limbs from the center of the loose rocks and debris. Michael smiled at the tenacity of the tree. Probably never make it, he thought, but it sure had courage to try.

  A lot like the girl who slept in the tunnel. She had grit all right. And she was a beauty, too.

  One woman for every man. His mother's voice filled his mind, and he smiled. Maybe. Just maybe, she was right. But right now there were more important things to think about. Like survival. He stepped into the mouth of the tunnel.

  At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then, he thought he was going crazy. But, no, the facts were there, plain as the nose on his face. His gear was right where he'd left it. And the little fire burned cheerily in the stone ring he'd made.

  But the blanket by the fire was gone, and with it, the girl he'd held through the night. His heart jumped and he felt panic rip through him. "Cara?" He called her name softly at first, then loud enough that the name echoed off the icy rock walls of the mine.

  "Cara?"

  CHAPTER 1

  San Juan Mountains, Colorado - 1888

  Michael Macpherson reined in Roscoe, horse and rider stopping at the top of the rise. Below him, the lights of Clune twinkled in the distance, the little ranch resembling a fairyland.

  Home.

  He sighed, and began the descent down the mountainside. It had been a long day. But then that's what ranching life was all about. Long days, and in his case, even longer nights. He blew out a breath and then discarded his train of thought. No sense dwelling on what couldn't be. He'd chosen his path in life, and he'd do well to accept it.

  Besides, there were people depending on him. Patrick, and old Pete. His father. Hell, even Owen depended on him some. No other way was he going to have prime steer to serve to the hungry miners that swarmed the Irish Rose twenty-four hours a day.

  He bit back a smile. All in all, life might be a bit empty, but it was basically good.

  A shot cracked through the stillness of the night, and Michael felt the familiar burning as bullet hit flesh.

  Son of a bitch.

  He wheeled his horse around, simultaneously reaching for his rifle. The movement sent fiery pain knifing through him, and his vision blurred, darkness threatening to overcome him. With a shake of his head, he cleared his brain. Passing out would mean death. And just at the moment he wasn't inclined to die.

  He moved forward, riding as fast as he could on the downward slope. One stumble and they were as good as dead, but going too slowly would have the same result. A conundrum. He gritted his teeth and reached for the rifle again. Another shot whizzed past his ear. He abandoned the effort, slowing for a second, risking a look behind him.

  Nothing.

  Whoever was shooting was well hidden. He cursed again under his breath, his strength ebbing with his blood flow. He'd never make it to the ranch. Hell, in just a few more yards he'd be out in the open, a moving target. One that would be hard to miss.

  With a quick jerk of the reins, he turned Roscoe, and together they moved back up the canyon toward a stand of trees in the distance. If he could just reach the spruce—the abandoned mine. Maybe he'd make it.

  Another shot rang out. This one farther behind him. Good, he'd managed to gain a lead. With another twist, he cut into the pines. That ought to stop the bastard—at least for a minute or two. In the dark, he would be nearly invisible in the trees, the rocky tumble of the mountain reaching toward him from the left, providing further safety.

  He stopped, listening. Everything was quiet. Just the soft whisper of the winds in the aspens. He slid to the ground, his head going fuzzy again. He touched his shoulder, not surprised to find that his shirt was wet with blood.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he slapped Roscoe on the hindquarters, sending the horse off into the night. If someone was following him, that ought to provide a nice distraction.

  Scrambling further into the trees, his eyes sought out the scraggly branches of the blue spruce. Despite the odds, the little tree had made it. Now over six feet, it still lacked girth, but it had grit. And just at the moment it was acting sentry for sanctuary.

  Michael locked his eyes on the tree, fighting against the waves of dizziness that threatened to swamp him. All he had to do was make it a few more steps and he'd be safe. He sent a silent prayer to the luckless miner who started the tunnel and then abandoned it. The man's misfortune had created a hidden haven. First for Cara, and now for him.

  The thought of her gave him a sudden s
urge of strength, and he barreled across the stream and up the rocky embankment to the tree. Leaning against its trunk for a moment, he fought against his pain. Just a few more steps. Rocks below him skittered down the creek bank.

  Hell.

  He froze in the shadow of the spruce, afraid even to breath. Any movement now would mean certain death. The night grew quiet. Whoever was down there was waiting, too. Listening. He strained through the dark to try and see his assailant's face, to know who it was hunting him. But the dark and the trees provided the killer with the same protection they afforded Michael.

  In the distance a horse nickered. Roscoe. Michael smiled in the dark. Somewhere below him, the killer cursed softly, and then Michael heard the welcome sound of horseshoes against rock. The man was leaving, following Roscoe.

  Michael waited, letting the tree hold him upright, and then finally took a cautious step away from the spruce. The mine was waiting—its black opening yawning darkly against the sharp rocks. His head was starting to spin, and he felt weak all over. He knew that time was running out. He needed shelter, and he needed it now.

  With a last burst of energy, he pulled himself up the incline and into the mouth of the cave. The dark overpowered him, and he forced himself to crawl further into its waiting arms, knowing that it was a friend. A sanctuary.

  Finally, deep in the tunnel, he allowed himself to slump against a wall, closing his eyes, and focusing on his memories. Memories of a night nine years ago—a magical night and a beautiful girl. Cara.

  In his mind, he felt her there with him. Felt her body pressed against his. Felt her healing warmth. And with a sigh, he allowed himself to slide into his dreams.

  *****

  Loralee stood in the soft glow of the candlelight and looked in the mirror. Straight lank hair hung in two thin plaits on either side of her head, accentuating the thin angles of her tired face. She scrubbed at the rouge on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Every day she was more a whore and less the girl she'd once been.

  Loralee wasn't her real name. Not that anyone out here knew that. She'd picked it because she'd seen it on a sign pasted on the saloon wall when she'd started working in Del Norte. She'd even made one of the gambling men read the whole poster to her.

  It seemed this other Loralee was a traveling singer. She'd come from some far off place. Nacado…something. Anyway, the name sounded musical and it was a far sight better than Alice. Besides, nobody used their real names in this business. It just wasn't done. With a sigh, she turned from the mirror.

  At least there didn't appear to be any more customers tonight. And Duncan, God bless him, had paid her enough to warrant turning out the red lantern in her front window. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, crossed to the door and slid the heavy bar into place. The irony of the situation didn't escape her. She was probably safer alone in her bed than she was with someone in it. Besides, the bolt was strong, but the door wasn't. A good swift kick would probably send the whole wall tumbling down.

  She peered out the window at the eerie red glow coming from a dozen or so windows identical to hers. Lifting the globe with the edge of her shawl, she blew out the lantern. A soft whinny drew her attention.

  A sorrel horse tied to a post out front tossed his head indignantly. Jack. What the heck was Jack doing here? Duncan had left hours ago. She arched her back, rubbing the hollow at her waist. At least it seemed like hours.

  Most likely he was off to the saloons again. He'd been fairly well lit when he left her place, but it never ceased to amaze her how much a man could drink if he put his mind to it. And if ever a man was in a frame of mind to drink, it was Duncan Macpherson.

  The shadows lengthened and she untied the thin cord that pulled back the tent canvas that passed for drapery. Turning her back to the window, she headed for the iron bedstead in the corner. The linen sheets were yellowed with age, the quilt patched and threadbare, but they were clean. She prided herself on that. Her momma had taught her that much.

  Cleanliness was next to Godliness and, Lord help her, she could use all the help she could get in that direction. Smiling, she threw her wrapper on the spindly stool that served as a chair and jumped into the bed. The tin stove in the corner didn't put out enough heat to warm water, let alone an entire room.

  Most times it wasn't a problem. Men seemed to generate their own heat. And it was her lot in life to get those fires a going. Well, most of them. Some, like Duncan, didn't want that kind of fire lit. They mostly came to talk. A bit of female companionship was all they were looking for. Not that she minded. No indeedy. They paid, same as everyone else. And all she had to do was listen, or pretend to listen.

  But Duncan was different. He treated her real nice. Not like some of the boys. There were some who liked it rough. Real rough. But they weren't welcome here. She might be at the bottom of the barrel socially speaking, but she had rules all the same, and she expected her boys to abide by them. Not that she always had a choice. She shivered and settled back into the soft fluff of her pillow, tucking the quilt under her chin.

  Yup. She'd take Duncan any day. He might be a bit long in the tooth, but he treated her like a lady. Or what she imagined a lady was treated like. And he talked to her about important things. Why, just tonight, he told her he'd found silver. Not that that was news exactly. Everybody around here was always boasting about finding silver, but Duncan had said it different. There'd been a light in his eyes. She had a feeling he'd found a strike, sure enough. A big one, too.

  The only thing that puzzled her some was him talking about the Promise. How could he have found silver there? Everybody knew the Promise had played out years ago. Why, Duncan Macpherson ought to know it better than most. It was his mine after all. His and that 'don't get mud on my boots' Owen Prescott.

  She placed a hand on the cool silver of the locket between her breasts. Whatever it was he was rambling on about, she'd keep his secret safe. He'd kept hers after all. She'd ask him about it tomorrow when he came back for Jack. One thing was sure as sunrise with Duncan Macpherson. He would never willingly leave that sorrel behind. He loved that old horse, maybe more than his boys.

  Heck, maybe more than his wife. Loralee sighed and snuggled deeper into the covers, sleep starting to overtake her. There was something sad about a man whose best friend was a horse. Yes, indeedy, it was a true tragedy.

  *****

  Patrick Macpherson woke with a start. The stillness of the night surrounded him, and after a few moments, he relaxed slightly. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the rough log walls. Everything seemed peaceful, but something had awakened him.

  With a groan, he swung out of bed, cringing when his bare feet hit the cold plank floor. Muttering an oath, he reached for his socks and pulled them on before padding across the room to the doorway. The fire in the main room had burned low, but its embers still cast a faint light across the room.

  That, combined with the moonlight, made the room seem abnormally bright after the dim shadows of his bedroom. From his position in the doorway, he could see practically the whole cabin. The big iron stove cast a long black shadow across the floor. The clutter of dirty dinner dishes littered the plank table in the center of the room, testament to the lack of feminine influence at Clune.

  His father's cot in the corner was empty, not that that was surprising. Duncan was usually somewhere up in the mountains looking for another strike, or down in town drinking himself into a stupor. Between the two, it seemed there wasn't much time for his sons.

  Things had been different when his mother was around. But as Michael always said, there wasn't much sense in crying over spilt milk. Not that that made a lick of sense. He hated milk. Now if it had been a pint of whiskey—well, there was a good reason to cry.

  The door to Michael's room stood ajar. Patrick couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Unlike his father, Michael was as predictable as a dog in heat. And he always, always, slept with his door shut.

 
Walking cautiously now, he crossed to his brother's room. A quick look inside confirmed what he already suspected. Michael wasn't there. Which meant something was indeed very wrong. A fellow could count on Michael to do pretty much exactly what he said he was going to do. Patrick glanced out the window at the moon, trying to remember what Michael had told him. He'd being heading for the high country to check on the herd, but he'd specifically said he'd be back by nightfall.

  If Patrick hadn't spent the wee hours of the previous night playing cards in Owen's saloon, he might have known his brother hadn't come home as expected. Instead, he'd stumbled home mid-morning, listened to his brother's endless speech on responsibility, and then collapsed in his bed. Looks like he'd managed to sleep the day away, and a good portion of the night.

  Damn.

  Truth be told, he hadn't meant to waste a night in Silverthread. He really wasn't a gambler, and he sure as hell couldn't hold his liquor. But yesterday had been the anniversary of his mother's disappearance and, well, he'd just needed something to take the edge off the memory.

  Michael wouldn't talk about it. He never talked about it. Truth was, he never talked about anything. Anyway, Patrick had let one moment of self pity turn into a night of whiskey and gaming, when he should have been here helping his brother. Which meant he was no better than his father. And, somehow, that made him feel worse than he already did.

  A soft nickering sound filtered in through the window, snapping him out of his reverie. Patrick slid into the shadows, automatically reaching for his Winchester. With an audible click, he cocked the rifle and stepped over to the cabin door. The nicker sounded again, this time followed by the thud of a hoof. Taking a deep breath, Patrick sprang into action, throwing open the door and stepping into the night air, the gun barrel leading the way.