The Promise (43 page)

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—w
ouldn'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 building 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.

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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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.