Holt's Gamble (9 page)

He nodded, feeling suddenly tired beyond words. Kierin slid several sips of the broth between his lips before he sank back into the mattress, unable to take more. He stiffened as she changed the dressing on his shoulder. His limbs felt weighted down; flushed with an abnormal, achy heat. The gentle touch of her hands on him sparked a fleeting memory of something more and his eyes fastened, with a fevered man's fascination, on the sweet curve of her breasts again. No matter that he was in no position to act on the urges those breasts inspired, or that her sweet scent drifted down to him—some heady combination of summer wind and the honeysuckle bushes he'd hidden under as a boy. His eyes feasted on her like a starving man clinging to his last crumb of food, then slid shut with the weight of uninvited sleep.

Kierin sat watching Holt long after he had fallen asleep. That he was a strong man, Kierin had no doubt, for she had only to remember the feel of his powerful body against her own to remind her of that. But looking at him now, vulnerable and unguarded with sleep, she realized that his ability to survive an injury like this required another kind of strength, one which ran deeper than what she could see.

His desperate plea for Amanda's forgiveness still haunted her and she wondered what personal demons he battled from his past. Whatever had happened between Holt and this woman remained a powerful force in his life. Powerful enough, she wondered, to give him the will to live? Although her usual level-headed reason told her that it was none of her affair, she found herself curious about the woman he'd called for. What was she like? Was she beautiful? Did they love each other?

Wearily, Kierin dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes. She was right the first time. It
was
none of her affair. It was best for all concerned if she kept it that way.

Kierin quickly changed into a rumpled green calico dress from her bag, and put Holt's buckskin shirt aside until she could wash the blood from it. She looked at her red dress one last time before stuffing it into a corner. With a disgusted frown, she decided to dispose of it as soon as she could.

Outside the wagon, she found Jacob backing a pair of yoked oxen up to the wagon.

"How is he?" Jacob asked from his place between the two animals.

"Better. He woke up and took some broth. That's a good sign, I think."

Jacob nodded silently with a relieved grin on his face and ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

"Don't 'spect I could'a done any better by him myself. I'm obliged to you for stayin' with him last night—not runnin' off when you had the chance."

Strangely, Kierin realized that the thought of leaving Holt alone last night had been the farthest thing from her mind. In fact, it hadn't even occurred to her. Jacob's words simply served to remind her of the harsh reality of her situation—that Holt owned her. Once they left Independence, she faced the prospect of years of indenture to him. That fact was now hopelessly entangled with the ragged emotions that warred within her—the ones she had never meant to let loose, the ones that had allowed her to come to care for him.

Kierin laid a hand on the oxen's smooth meaty haunch and bent to thread the trace through the yoke as Jacob was doing on the other side. She kept her gaze directed down at her work, but could feel Jacob's eyes on her. Finally, she looked up to find that he had stopped his task and leaned one arm across the animal's rump. With the other, he was wiping the back of his neck with a bandanna. But his eyes were no longer on her. They were fixed on some distant point behind her and he straightened suddenly as if he'd been burned.

"Oh Lord," he murmured, climbing up behind the team onto the wagon's tongue. He reached into the jockey box below the benched wooden seat and pulled out his rifle.

Her heart jumped to her throat. "What is it, Jacob? What's wrong?"

Jacob's fluid motion never stopped as he jumped down from the wagon, catching her arm and propelling her to the back of the wagon before she could protest.

"Posse," was the only word he uttered before he pushed her toward the tailgate and left her there.

Kierin heard the thundering of hoof beats before she spotted the cloud of dust kicked up by their horses as the sheriff and his posse galloped up to the train's encampment.

Chapter 4

Kierin's pulse echoed the thunderous rumble of hoof beats as the posse approached the lead wagon. She'd recognized the sheriff and at least two of Talbot's men before she had scrambled up into the safety of Holt's wagon. She cautiously lifted the canvas cover and peeked out as the cloud of dust settled around the riders, whose horses pranced nervously at the abrupt stop.

From her hiding place, Kierin watched as a tall, strongly built man stepped out from behind the team of oxen at the lead wagon and spoke to the sheriff. The tall man swept his hat casually from his head, swiped at his brow with the back of his sleeve, and replaced the hat again, covering his sun-bleached hair. His stance gave him an air of authority and Kierin guessed he must be the train's leader. A chill ran through her as she waited for him to turn and point in her direction, knowing full well the sheriff had secured Holt's name from Talbot's men.

Seconds ticked by. She forgot to breathe as she clutched the smooth planked side of the wagon. The men were too far away for her to hear the words that passed between them, but after interminable moments, the blond man finally shook his head, turned, and pointed downriver.

The sheriff yanked his mount around and galloped away from the encampment with the others. The clods of dirt kicked up from beneath the hooves of the posse's horses pelted the standing wagons and scattered the curious onlookers who had ventured from their own work to see what had caused the stir. Had she looked away, Kierin might have missed the glance the blond man stole back at Holt's wagon before ducking back between the harnessed team of oxen.

Kierin sagged against the crate she was leaning on, confused and shaken by what she'd just witnessed. Why had that man sent the posse off in another direction when he had most certainly known Holt was part of this train? The man's look toward their wagon had confirmed that for her. His complicity in hiding Holt was surely enough to jeopardize his position with the train if he were found out. It didn't make sense.

Beside her, Kierin heard the click of a gun's hammer being carefully uncocked and she spun around to see Holt, his face pale and tight, slide the revolver beneath the covers. Though she hadn't known he was awake, it didn't surprise her to learn he'd had been prepared to fight even when they both knew the absurd odds they would have faced. His azure eyes glittered again with fever as he stared at her.

"Are they gone?"

She nodded. "The man in the lead wagon sent them downriver, toward Westport."

"Blond guy? Tall?"

"That's him," she said. "Who is he and why did he send them away? He looked directly at your wagon after the posse rode off. He must know who you are."

Holt's eyes slid shut again. "He knows."

Before she could get any more out of him, he was asleep. With an impatient sigh, she tugged the quilts up under Holt's chin.

His persistent fever worried her. Unchecked, it alone could kill him and the ride ahead of them could only serve to worsen it.

Kierin wrung out a wet cloth and sponged Holt's dry face. She pulled aside the covers, and trailed the cloth down his neck and across the broad expanse of his chest. How odd, she thought, that in such a short time, she had become so intimate with a strange man's body. In fact, she knew
it
far better than she knew the man himself. The well-muscled contours and the firm leanness of his limbs spoke of a life lived hard and unsparingly.

What made a man become so reckless with his own life, she wondered, as Jacob's words suddenly echoed in her ears.
Sometimes, Clay ain't as careful as he oughta be. That boy got's a wild streak in him.

What Holt had done last night
was
reckless and, no doubt, impulsive. It was probably only one in a long string of gambles that he had entered into on a whim, she realized, swallowing back the anger that rose at the thought. But this time Holt's gamble had cost
her
dearly; she had been forced to kill a man and now had a posse scouring the countryside for her. And though she fought to save his life, Holt would
own
hers if he lived.

She glanced down at the sleeping man, her hands clenched into fists. "You'll live, Mr. Holt. You're probably too stubborn to die. Besides, I won't let you. God knows, I owe you that much. But I swear you won't hold me to those papers. No man ever will again."

Outside the wagon, she heard the preparations for leaving being made. Children laughed and squealed with excitement and oxen bellowed in complaint as they were hitched to wagons. She knew the train would move out soon—leaving behind the only life she had ever known. She didn't regret leaving any of it; there was no one left here for her.

Kierin tugged the blankets up around Holt, pushing aside her thoughts. She would go and find Jacob.

Maybe he could answer the questions that had nagged her since the posse had ridden away.

* * *

"His name's Kelly. Jim Kelly," Jacob told her. "Beaker hired him on as wagon master 'cause he be the best one for the job. Been criss-crossin' this here country since 'forty-five, an' knows more 'bout the land 'tween here and California than most folks will ever forget." Jacob bent again to finish greasing the wheel's axle with the tar and tallow mixture from his bucket.

Kierin's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "But why would he send the posse away?" she pressed.

Jacob reached toward an awkward spot under the wagon. "Clay an' Jim have know'd each other since Churubusco, in 'forty-seven."

"Churubusco? You mean the war with Mexico?" She didn't try to hide the surprise in her voice.

"Yes'm. I reckon as how Clay's saved Jim's skin once or twice over the years. It was Jim asked Clay an' me to hook up with this train full o' greenhorns. Don't reckon as how Clay would'a done it for nobody else."

"Is Mr. Holt working for Kelly then?"

Jacob appeared thoughtful for a moment. "No, but with all the Indian troubles brewin' in the Plains tribes, I guess Jim figured it made sense to travel with somebody who knows his way around a hostile campfire."

"And Holt does?"

Jacob swung the grease bucket back up on its hook beneath the wagon. "I 'spect he does at that, ma'am."

It seemed the more she found out about Clay Holt, the more the mystery around him deepened. She was beginning to see that he was a complex man—much more than simply the gambler she had thought him to be at first.

Kierin had lived long enough on the edge of the frontier to guess what Jacob had left unsaid about Jim Kelly's actions this morning. In the wilderness, lives often depended on the unquestioning trust of one's friends. Kelly hadn't doubted Holt's innocence when the posse came for him and that spoke of the respect he had for the man and Kelly's unflagging belief in Holt's integrity.

She thought back to Holt's reaction when she had told him that Kelly had sent the posse away. She remembered he hadn't been surprised by it at all. It was no less than he expected from Kelly. She guessed if the situation were reversed, he would have done the same.

* * *

The shimmering mist which had earlier blanketed the Missouri River lifted, giving way to the spectacle of a perfect spring morning as the train lumbered out of Independence. More than fifty wagons of emigrants made up this westward-bound caravan. A fair share of wagons were aimed at the thinning California gold fields, she guessed, but from the Oregon or bust banners that draped many of the vehicles, most seemed headed there. The Willamette Valley, nestled in the heart of the Oregon territory, held some of the most fertile farmland known to man. It was a place rich not only in soil, but in timber and game too, she had heard. The promise it held drew Easterners like steel to a magnet. They were headed there, Jacob told her, to a place called Willamette Falls, which had recently been given the grander name of Oregon City.

"Pull up those oxen!" shouted a voice from ahead of them, interrupting her thoughts. "Keep 'em tight back there!"

Kierin saw Jim Kelly galloping up and down the lines of the strung-out train, shouting orders at the inexperienced wagoners. He cracked a bullwhip near the ear of a particularly stubborn ox whose lagging pace was holding up the whole line of wagons. From her perch on the bench seat beside Jacob, Kierin couldn't help admiring the way Kelly handled himself on the piebald gelding. He looked as if he'd been born to ride a horse and the two moved fluidly together across the trampled meadow that ran alongside the Missouri. After tightening the ranks of the train, Kelly rode up alongside their wagon and nodded a greeting to her.