Page 119 of The Promise

She smiled, tucking an impudent strand of hair behind her ear, her mind focusing back on the painting. A wooden crossprovided 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 ifthere'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."