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the day wasn't yet half gone. There was
still no sign of Michael. Nothing. It was as if he'd simply
vanished. Of course people didn't just go disappearing into thin
air.
    No, he had to face reality. Odds were more than good
that his brother was in trouble—or worse. The fact that Roscoe had
come back alone, didn't bode well. A man couldn't last long out
here without a horse. And if Michael weren't badly injured, he'd
have made it back by now.
    "Patrick? That you, boy?" Pete rode down from the
small ridge he'd just crested, allowing his horse to ride abreast
of Patrick's. "Any luck?"
    "No. Nothing. I even checked the ranch house again.
He's just disappeared."
    "Maybe he's laid up somewheres," Pete said, his voice
gruff with emotion.
    "No. He wouldn't do that. Michael's first thought
would be for me and you. He wouldn't want to worry us. If he were
able, he'd be back here."
    "Maybe. Maybe not. You cain't go losing hope. Ain't
been long enough for us to know anything."
    Pete was right, but Patrick was finding it mighty
hard to hold onto his hope. "Maybe Amos found something."
    "Amos?"
    "Yeah, I ran into him on Bald Man's ridge. He said
he'd heard about Michael from you and offered to help. I figured we
could use all the eyes we could get."
    "Guess so." Pete spit tobacco out the side of his
mouth, the gesture somehow punctuating his feelings about Amos. "If
you ask me though, I'm still a wonderin' what in tarnation brought
our fair-haired sheriff up here this morning."
    "He told me he was looking for Arless."
    "So he said." They rode on for a bit in silence. Then
Pete picked up where he'd left off as if there'd never been any
lapse in the conversation at all. "But then again, you ever hear of
Arless using the line shack for one of his escapes?"
    Patrick looked at the old ranch hand. "No. Not
firsthand anyway. But you've got to admit, it's as good a place as
any to hole up for a while."
    "Maybe."
    "So you think Amos was lying?"
    Pete shot a stream of tobacco at a bush. Getting him
to say what he was thinking could be a painful experience. Patrick
had learned that it was best to just wait it out. Pete would talk
when he was good and ready. They rode for a while in silence.
    "Didn't say that. Just think it bears thinking
about."
    Patrick slowed as they reached the cut off. The
narrow wagon ruts continued on toward Silverthread. The
perpendicular trail to the ranch was barely discernible in the high
grass. Off to the left something red shown through the waving
weeds. Patrick reined in the stallion, and signaled Pete. Whatever
it was, it wasn't supposed to be there.
    He slid off the horse's back, his heart pounding a
rhythm against his chest. Pete stayed in the saddle, rifle drawn to
cover his back. Out here a man simply couldn't take a chance. As he
moved forward the red thing began to take on a shape, a cotton
encased arm extended from a clump of grass, the hand open,
beckoning. Pushing through the knee high plants, Patrick searched
for signs of life.
    "Michael? Is that you?" Nothing moved except the
meadow grass swaying in the wind. He dropped down on his knees
beside the body. Black hair spilled out from under the broad brim
of a hat. With a shaking hand, he gently rolled the body over, his
heart accelerating to a staccato tempo that echoed through his
brain.
    "Is it Michael?"
    Pete's voice sounded far away. Patrick fought to pull
in his breath. The bloodied dead man before him was not his
brother. But the craggy features were still familiar. Achingly
familiar. His stomach rolled and he swallowed convulsively, trying
to keep the bile down.
    "Patrick?" Pete dropped into the grass beside him,
pulling him back so that he could see. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, it's your
father."

CHAPTER 4
    "But they told me…they said…I mean…you're not
real." Cara knew she was talking gibberish, but her mind simply
couldn't grasp the fact that Michael Macpherson, her Michael
Macpherson, was walking right beside her.
    She shifted, locking her arm around