Holt's Gamble (35 page)

She let out a throaty chuckle and reached down for his fingers, bringing them up to her lips. "Shall we test out my theory now?"

Clay sighed. "Woman, you may not know this but a man has his limits. It's... too soon."

Kierin's fingers inched down his chest, then to his stomach, sending exquisite ripples of pleasure to the taut pectorals of his abdomen.

"You 're sure?" she queried with feigned innocence, her hand traveling lower. Her touch had an expanding effect on him and he let out a low growl.

"But you must be too tired," she teased.

"Mm-mm, exhausted."

"Mm-hm..." she agreed, stroking him slowly, maddeningly. "I should probably... let you... get some sleep."

His hand closed around her wrist, holding it in place. "Don't you dare," he warned, teasing one dusky peak with the tip of his tongue. He glanced up at her through a fringe of dark lashes, heavy lidded and languid with the pleasure of her touch. "As you can see, I'm not nearly as tired as I thought."

The next hour or so was spent in feverish verification of that fact, and when at last replete, they collapsed upon each other and slept.

A persistent knock on the door woke them. Clay sat up, startled and disoriented. "Who is it?"

"It's Sergeant Damon, Mr. Holt. Lieutenant Fleming sent me over to get you, sir. It's past three."

Clay ran a hand through his wild hair and cleared his throat. "Tell Fleming I'll be there directly, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir." They heard his footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

"Do you have to go?" Kierin asked.

"I told him I would." Clay threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his pants. "I won't be long." He poured some water from the pitcher into the bowl on the washstand, splashed it over his tired eyes, and ran his wet hands through his hair and across his chest.

She reached for her discarded clothes. "Let me come with you."

"It's not something I want you to hear, Kierin," he said, drying himself with a thin linen towel.

"It can't be worse than what my imagination conjured up last night," she protested.

Clay sent her a look as he shrugged on his deerskin shirt and belted it with his holster. "Yes, it can. This is business. It's better if you stay here."

She frowned at him as she slipped her camisole over her head. "That business almost got you killed." She looked at him stubbornly. "I'm not letting you out of my sight again, Mr. Holt."

He understood her need to be with him. He felt it, too. But he wanted to protect her from the ugliness of what had happened, and was determined to do it.

He bent down and kissed the top of her head. "I promise not to go anywhere this time. I'll leave you with Jacob and Dove if you don't want to stay here. Believe me, it's better this way. Fleming won't let you in on this anyway."

Kierin regarded him for a long moment before reaching up to pull his head down to hers and kissing him soundly so he wouldn't forget the promise he'd just made. "All right," she said resignedly. "But hurry. The sooner we're out of here, the better I'll feel."

Clay slipped his knife into its sheath, thinking he couldn't agree more.

Fleming had a double shot of whiskey in his hand as Clay entered his office. He tipped the glass toward Clay. "Like one?"

"No. I didn't come here to drink with you. What's on your mind?"

Fleming shrugged. "You don't mind if I do?" Without waiting for an answer, he tipped his head back and downed the drink. "I'm glad to see you made it back in one piece, Mr. Holt."

"I'm sorry the rest of your men didn't," Clay answered, glaring at him.

Fleming stared into his empty glass. "So am I. I'd like to know what the hell happened out there."

"Exactly what I told you would happen, Fleming. Your West Point lieutenant had about as much savvy about the Sioux as a tree stump has of the axe that's about to cut it down. He wouldn't listen to reason. He just kept pressing them. The Brule chief, Bear, parlayed with him—even offered to pay for the damn cow with two horses—but Grattan refused it. He insisted on taking High Forehead prisoner.

"From the start, your interpreter, Lucien Auguste, was drunk as a coot, flinging insults at the Sioux. The trader, Bordeau, and I tried to smooth their ruffled feathers, but Grattan kept at 'em, making it worse.

"Finally, one of his men jumped the gun and killed one of the braves." Clay shook his head with disgust. "At that point, nothing in hell would have stopped what was coming. When it broke loose, Bordeau and I and another of your soldiers managed to get out with our lives. Damn few others did."

Fleming sat down heavily in his chair, eyeing Clay warily. "Where are the Sioux now?"

"Gone. Packed up in the night. Lock, stock and tepee."

"Do you know where they went?"

Clay's expression hardened. "I wouldn't tell you if I knew, you bastard."

"No, I don't suppose you would," Fleming allowed. "Just what do you intend to do now?"

"I think you probably have a good idea."

"If you're considering implicating me in this, Mr. Holt, think again."

"And just how are you going to stop me?"

Fleming opened his desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Clay. "With this."

Clay looked down at the paper and felt the color drain from his face. It was a Wanted poster. His name was emblazoned across the top and it bore a crude likeness of him. There was a two-thousand-dollar reward on his head.

Chapter 18

"Where did you get this?" Clay demanded.

Fleming's mouth took on an unpleasant twist. "I received it in a supply shipment from Leavenworth a few days before you arrived," Fleming answered. "After you left yesterday, I remembered it. It says you killed a man in Independence."

With a sinking feeling, Clay realized the poster mentioned only one man, Kyle Jessup. Not John Talbot. I
should have known.
"It was self-defense," he replied flatly.

Fleming tipped his head, allowing for that possibility. "Nonetheless, you're a marked man, Mr. Holt, with quite a reward on your head. I could have you arrested right now if it suited me." He paused. "But as it happens, I have something else in mind."

Clay regarded the man as one would a coiled snake, while his mind raced with alternatives. "What do you want, Fleming?"

"First, your silence about what happened."

Clay's bark of laughter was humorless. "You actually believe you can keep this thing quiet? You're more of a fool than I thought. There are twenty-nine men out there whose families are going to ask questions."

A muscle tightened in Fleming's clean-shaven jaw. "Those men will be remembered as heroes, Mr. Holt. Your side of the story can only muddle things."

"The truth, you mean?"

Fleming gave Clay a warning look. "Do I have your word?"

Clay's expression was dangerously clouded. "What else?"

"I've heard you're friendly with the Dull Knife's band who summer up near the Wind River. I want you to go and have a parlay with them. No doubt they'll have heard of this by the time you reach them. I want you to send my reassurances that this was an isolated incident—that the army has no intentions of warring against them."

"You want me to lie to them," came Clay's bitter retort.

"No. Granted, the Army won't take what's happened lying down, you can be sure of that. The Sioux will pay for the lives they've taken here," Fleming answered. He braced his flattened palms on the top of his desk. "But we have no argument with the Cheyenne. If they should join forces against us with the Sioux, there will be considerable bloodshed. Avoidable bloodshed. Wouldn't you agree?"

Bloodshed
wouldn't begin to cover what Clay was sure would follow this little transgression. "Avoidable? You really don't get it, do you?" He leaned across the desk angrily. "Lieutenant, this incident has started something you won't be able to stop. Do you think it will end there? They kill a few of us... we kill a few of them? You broke the treaty with Grattan's little stunt. Not to mention gunning down the Brule's chief. This won't just affect the Sioux. It will mean blood spilled for every man with red skin, because that's all people like you see when you're staring down your sights."

Fleming slammed his hand down on the desk. "What's done is done. If it's a war they want, then they'll have it. Now, do you agree to my terms or not?"

Clay swung around and stalked to the window. For a long moment he was silent, considering how he could fight the murder charges from the cell of Fleming's stockade. "Yes, dammit, I'll talk to them," Clay answered at last, snatching his hat from the desk. "But not for your sake. For theirs. And for the rest of the unsuspecting settlers who believe men like you are protecting them."

Fleming's face reddened.

"And you can keep your damn poster. There are probably a hundred more just like it floating around. Yours won't make one bit of difference to my neck after I leave here."

"Make it soon," Fleming snarled, slamming the desk drawer shut.

"It'll be my pleasure, Lieutenant." Clay opened the door, but turned after fitting his hat on his head. A hard-bitten smile played across his mouth. "Oh, and better protect that pretty hair of yours, Fleming. I'd be willing to wager any Sioux warrior worth his salt would go to great lengths to hang it from the end of his lance." He stalked out of the office and left the door rattling in its frame.

His angry strides drove him past Kierin, who was waiting for him outside the office.

"Clay?" she called. "What's wrong? I heard shouting."

Clay's mood was black as pitch and he stalked past her.

"Clay. Stop—talk to me."

He spun around and took her by the shoulders. The look in his eyes was bleak and desperate. "Talbot's alive."

"Wh—?" Kierin's body stiffened in shock.

"He's got a two-thousand-dollar bounty out on my head."

"My God-"

"Do you understand what this means?"

Numb with fear, she could only stare at him.

"It means I'll never be safe," he told her, shaking her by the shoulders.
"We'll
never be safe until I clear my name. If I don't get my head blown off by some bounty-hunting scavenger, the law will find me sooner or later. Or men like Fleming will blackmail me with what they know."

"Fleming blackmailed you?"

"He threatened to put me away where I couldn't do him any damage." Clay raked both hands through his hair and told her the rest of it.

When he'd finished, Kierin pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples.
Would this nightmare never end?
She turned bleak eyes once more on Clay. "And after you talk with the Cheyenne? What then?"

Clay let out a long breath and bent his head. "I don't know. I... need some time to think."

A sudden choking fear curled around her throat. She knew what he was considering. "Clay—you're not thinking of going back to Independence, are you?"

Clay's mouth was set in a grim line and he refused to meet her eyes.

"Talbot will kill you," she said in a voice flattened with fear. "I know him. He owns half the town and certainly the sheriff. It won't do you any good—"

"Scudder Brown was a witness " he argued. "Maybe I can convince him to testify."

"He's got a family, Clay. And what if he's left Independence already? Please, think about this," she pleaded. "We can wait until we get out to Oregon. Write letters. They can't hang a man for defending himself. And
I'm
a witness. I'll swear to it."

"You think a bounty hunter will stop to ask for character references?" His huff of laughter was harsh and unforgiving. "For that kind of money they'd as soon bring me in over the back of a saddle as alive."

His stricken eyes burned into hers. "You won't be safe with me either. What kind of a husband can I be to you? What kind of security can I give you?" He saw his plans for the future crumbling before his eyes and he was helpless to stop it.

"I don't care about that. Clay, you wouldn't get within ten miles of Independence without someone recognizing you from that poster," she said. "Is that what you want?"