Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't going to
share it now.
Amos, stubbed out the cigarillo. "Maybe he dumped
Roscoe for a horse nobody would recognize. You boys check your
other stock?"
Patrick couldn't believe the turn of the
conversation. "No. It never occurred to me to check."
"Well, what do you want to bet you find another horse
is missing? I'll bet Michael switched Roscoe for another one. Makes
a helluva lot more sense than that animal finding its way home
through the dark mountains."
Patrick bit back a profane retort. "If you're so sure
Michael is a murderer, maybe you could give me a reason why?" He
glared at the sheriff, his anger threatening to overcome him.
"Sit down, Patrick," Owen said. "There's no harm in
listening to what the man has to say."
"Why?" Patrick swung around to glare at Owen.
"Because even in the wildest conjecture there is
often an element of truth."
Patrick sat down, his mind spinning. "There isn't any
truth to Striker's conjectures. They're lies. Lies ."
"Patrick." There was a note of steel in Owen's voice,
and Patrick swallowed back further retort. He respected Owen—loved
him even. In a lot of ways, he been more of a father than Duncan
had ever been.
They waited while Amos lit another cheroot, a wisp of
smoke making his face momentarily hazy. Amos tilted back his chair,
resting it against the wall, booted feet propped up on the desk.
"Word around town is that you all are having money problems."
Patrick shrugged. "We get by."
"Yeah, well, according to Bergstrom over at the bank,
you're getting by on very little. And there is the matter of some
outstanding loans." Amos smiled, a tight lipped version that hinted
of malice.
Patrick tried to hold onto reason, things were
rapidly spiraling out of control. "What the hell does our financial
business have to do with Michael's disappearance?" He refused to
give voice to Amos' accusation.
"Maybe Michael was tired of living hand to mouth.
Maybe he saw an easy way out."
"By murdering my father?" Patrick stood up, leaning
over the desk, anger consuming him. "That doesn't make sense,
Striker."
"Doesn't it?" Amos leaned forward, steepling his
fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.
Owen placed a soothing hand on Patrick's shoulder. He
shook it off, dropping back into his chair. Maybe this was a
nightmare. Any minute he'd wake up at home, safe in his bed. Pete
still sat in silence, but Patrick could tell by the taut line of
his shoulders, that he, too, was incensed at the accusations. "All
right, Amos, if you're so certain Michael did this, you tell me
what he had to gain by killing my father."
Amos waited a beat before answering, obviously
enjoying the moment. "Silver."
"What?" Patrick sat forward, his attention focused on
the man in front of him.
"I said silver. Your father was in town last night.
Drunk, as usual. He was rambling on about finding silver, the
mother lode to hear him talk."
"That's ridiculous. Hell, my father was always
blethering on about finding silver. Except for the Promise, it
never amounted to anything."
"Well maybe this time it was different. Or maybe
Michael just believed it was."
Patrick shot a look at Owen, waiting for him to tell
the sheriff how crazy this all was. But Owen was silent, a frown
creasing his forehead.
"This is insane. Michael was up in the high country
all day yesterday."
Amos blew out a smoke ring. "You're certain of that?
You actually saw him?"
"Well, no. But he told me he was going up there."
"I see." The sheriff smiled, the look bordering on
smug.
"Pete, you know he was up there." Patrick met Pete's
gaze, begging him to intervene, to say something.
"You saw him, Pete?" Owen turned to look at the ranch
hand, his gaze narrowed.
"No. Cain't say that I did. But young Michael's as
honest as they come. If he told Patrick he was going into the
mountains, then that's where he was."
Amos shrugged. "All right, even if you allow for time
in the mountains, he still could have been in
share it now.
Amos, stubbed out the cigarillo. "Maybe he dumped
Roscoe for a horse nobody would recognize. You boys check your
other stock?"
Patrick couldn't believe the turn of the
conversation. "No. It never occurred to me to check."
"Well, what do you want to bet you find another horse
is missing? I'll bet Michael switched Roscoe for another one. Makes
a helluva lot more sense than that animal finding its way home
through the dark mountains."
Patrick bit back a profane retort. "If you're so sure
Michael is a murderer, maybe you could give me a reason why?" He
glared at the sheriff, his anger threatening to overcome him.
"Sit down, Patrick," Owen said. "There's no harm in
listening to what the man has to say."
"Why?" Patrick swung around to glare at Owen.
"Because even in the wildest conjecture there is
often an element of truth."
Patrick sat down, his mind spinning. "There isn't any
truth to Striker's conjectures. They're lies. Lies ."
"Patrick." There was a note of steel in Owen's voice,
and Patrick swallowed back further retort. He respected Owen—loved
him even. In a lot of ways, he been more of a father than Duncan
had ever been.
They waited while Amos lit another cheroot, a wisp of
smoke making his face momentarily hazy. Amos tilted back his chair,
resting it against the wall, booted feet propped up on the desk.
"Word around town is that you all are having money problems."
Patrick shrugged. "We get by."
"Yeah, well, according to Bergstrom over at the bank,
you're getting by on very little. And there is the matter of some
outstanding loans." Amos smiled, a tight lipped version that hinted
of malice.
Patrick tried to hold onto reason, things were
rapidly spiraling out of control. "What the hell does our financial
business have to do with Michael's disappearance?" He refused to
give voice to Amos' accusation.
"Maybe Michael was tired of living hand to mouth.
Maybe he saw an easy way out."
"By murdering my father?" Patrick stood up, leaning
over the desk, anger consuming him. "That doesn't make sense,
Striker."
"Doesn't it?" Amos leaned forward, steepling his
fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.
Owen placed a soothing hand on Patrick's shoulder. He
shook it off, dropping back into his chair. Maybe this was a
nightmare. Any minute he'd wake up at home, safe in his bed. Pete
still sat in silence, but Patrick could tell by the taut line of
his shoulders, that he, too, was incensed at the accusations. "All
right, Amos, if you're so certain Michael did this, you tell me
what he had to gain by killing my father."
Amos waited a beat before answering, obviously
enjoying the moment. "Silver."
"What?" Patrick sat forward, his attention focused on
the man in front of him.
"I said silver. Your father was in town last night.
Drunk, as usual. He was rambling on about finding silver, the
mother lode to hear him talk."
"That's ridiculous. Hell, my father was always
blethering on about finding silver. Except for the Promise, it
never amounted to anything."
"Well maybe this time it was different. Or maybe
Michael just believed it was."
Patrick shot a look at Owen, waiting for him to tell
the sheriff how crazy this all was. But Owen was silent, a frown
creasing his forehead.
"This is insane. Michael was up in the high country
all day yesterday."
Amos blew out a smoke ring. "You're certain of that?
You actually saw him?"
"Well, no. But he told me he was going up there."
"I see." The sheriff smiled, the look bordering on
smug.
"Pete, you know he was up there." Patrick met Pete's
gaze, begging him to intervene, to say something.
"You saw him, Pete?" Owen turned to look at the ranch
hand, his gaze narrowed.
"No. Cain't say that I did. But young Michael's as
honest as they come. If he told Patrick he was going into the
mountains, then that's where he was."
Amos shrugged. "All right, even if you allow for time
in the mountains, he still could have been in
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