With the blacksmith out of the way, Talbot turned confidently to Holt and smiled. "There'll be no help coming from that quarter, I'm afraid, if that was your hope." Talbot fairly swaggered as he continued, "Now, down to the business at hand. I feel you cheated me tonight, Mr. Holt, and that I simply can't abide."
"Why don't you just admit you can't abide losing a fair game of cards, Talbot?"
"Fair?" Talbot snorted. "Well, fair or not, I have no intention of losing a nice piece like Kierin to a yokel like you."
Kierin twisted angrily in Jessup's grip, but he wrenched her arm up painfully behind her, making her cry out in pain.
Holt's his eyes darkened with fury. "This is between you and me, Talbot. Tell your lackey to leave her out of this."
"She's right where you put her, Mr. Holt," Talbot said.
"You won't get away with this, you low-life snake!" Kierin spat at Talbot.
Talbot shot Kierin an icy look.
"Shut up, you bitch!" he swore, and took a step toward her.
It was the opening Holt had waited for. With an effort, he bent and pulled a knife from inside his boot. Kierin yanked herself from the arms of Jessup as Holt's knife whizzed through the air. Kyle Jessup could do little more than gasp before the blade embedded itself to the hilt in his chest. The man crumpled to the ground. Talbot wheeled around to face Holt, a look of disbelief on his face.
"No!" Talbot bellowed, rushing headlong at Holt.
Holt swayed and managed to evade the deadly swipe of Talbot's extended knife, sending Talbot crashing into the wall of iron tools behind Holt. The tools clattered noisily to the floor around Talbot, but he struggled to his feet. He rose like an angry bull, punishing Holt's injured shoulder with a brutal blow which sent Holt crashing against the cluttered workbench. Before Talbot could hit him again, Holt grabbed an iron rod and brought it down hard against Talbot's upper arm.
Talbot moaned in pain, clutched his arm, and staggered backward against the handle of the bellows.
In the shadows against the far wall, Kierin had wasted precious moments trying desperately to pry Kyle Jessup's gun from beneath him, but he was far too heavy for her to move. Her eyes searched the darkened room frantically for a weapon as Holt and Talbot fought. Then, she spotted the end of an iron poker sticking out of the glowing fire. If she could only get to it...
Holt leaned against the wall, his face the color of chalk. The room swayed and darkened in crazy patches as he fought the blackness closing in on him. He stumbled toward the girl in a last-ditch effort to protect her; his last conscious thought was that he had failed her.
Horrified, Kierin watched him sway on his feet and stumble toward her, then pitch forward, landing facedown on the floor in the center of the small room.
"Oh, no..." Kierin breathed. "No."
John Talbot grinned and pushed away from the fire pit, crossing the distance to Holt's body in three easy strides. He knelt beside Holt and pushed the unconscious man over on his back.
"All these years..." Talbot murmured with a satisfied look on his face. "All for nothing now, Holt. You lose." Talbot raised his knife high in the air over Holt, his features twisted with rage. But just as he began his downward thrust, he heard Kierin scream and caught her movement out of his left eye. She flung herself at him, brandishing the red-hot-tipped iron, and before he could protect himself, she swung the hot metal at his face, striking it with violent force. A single cry escaped his lips as his cheekbone shattered beneath the impact of the blow which sent him crashing like a toppled tree to the floor.
The odor of his burned flesh assailed Kierin and her stomach roiled as she looked at Talbot's ruined, bloodied face. There had been no choice, she told herself. No choice at all between his life and Holt's. An odd sensation formed like a knot in her chest as she remembered how Holt had fought for her.
Holt.
Kierin knelt beside him and desperately searched for a heartbeat at the side of his throat. She was rewarded with a weak pulse, and she let out a long sigh of relief. He was alive. His wound was still bleeding and his skin felt cool and clammy to the touch. Her limited knowledge of medicine told her that he would die of shock if she couldn't stop the bleeding and get him warm. Ripping the red silk of her dress, she tore a strip and pressed the cloth against his wound firmly to stanch the flow. With her free hand she rubbed vigorously up and down his arm, trying desperately to warm him.
Holt's eyes flickered open at her touch and she could see that he was struggling to focus on her face. His eyes rolled closed again momentarily as he fought the pain that engulfed him.
"Mr. Holt?" she whispered, touching his face, willing him to stay conscious.
"Where—where's Talbot?" His voice was a croaking whisper.
"I think I killed him," she said, looking back at Talbot's still form. "We've got to get out of here. Can you help me? I can't get you up alone."
Holt blinked his eyes, fighting the blackness that threatened to descend again. "I don't know. I'll try."
Kierin helped him sit up, supporting him with her arm behind his back. He stopped there for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
"Can you make it?"
"Listen to me," Holt said, his words slurring slightly as he spoke. "If I can't, you get yourself out of here—"
"No-"
"Go without me," he told her. "Go to the wagon train camped just outside of town.... It's the Kelly train." He paused, catching his breath. "Find a man named Jacob. He's a friend of mine. He'll help you."
Kierin wrapped his good arm around her neck and stubbornly pulled him to his feet.
"I... won't... leave you here to... die, Mr. Holt," she told him, struggling to balance beneath his weight. "But don't you go falling on me. I don't think I could get you up again."
"Wait." Holt stopped her as they started across the small room. "My gun. Where's my gun?"
Kierin's eyes frantically searched the room until she found the weapon near Talbot's body.
"It's there," she told him. "Can you stand by yourself?"
He nodded. "Get it," he told her. A tremor passed through him as she released her hold on him, but he didn't fall.
Kierin retrieved the gun quickly and returned to him. She slipped her arm around Holt and held the heavy gun up with a trembling hand.
Holt shook his head. "Can you shoot a gun?"
Kierin hesitated. She had never shot one in her life. The most she'd ever done was hold her father's old hunting rifle. "No."
Holt blew out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. "Can you hold the damn thing straight?"
Kierin swallowed hard and nodded. "I think so. But what if-"
"Bluff."
Heaven help us both, she thought, pulling him upright.
The pair struggled to the door and Kierin fought back the tears that threatened to blur her vision. Truly, she didn't know if she could simply leave him if he fell again to die of his own wounds, or worse, at the end of a hangman's noose. He had tried to save her life and nearly given his own in doing so. No. She knew she would not leave him to die alone.
Holt and Kierin staggered out onto the darkened street, moving slowly and trying to stay in the sheltering shadows of the poplars. His weight was almost too much for her small frame, but she stubbornly refused to give in to her need to rest. He leaned more heavily against her with each passing moment.
From behind them, the sound of hoof beats on the dusty street stopped Kierin's heart cold. She was afraid to look; afraid to move. Her heart sank along with her hopes of escape. Talbot's men had found them.
Beside her she heard Holt's soft curse as he turned to look back at the shadowed rider who slid from his horse and hurried toward them. Fear like she'd never known welled in her throat, choking back the knot of tears that formed there. It couldn't end like this. Not after all they'd already been through.
Kierin raised the gun with a wobbly hand and pointed it at the approaching man.
"Don't come any closer," she warned in a
low, shaky voice. "I'll shoot."
Chapter 3
"Miss Kierin?"
The deep, gentle voice came from the shadowy figure approaching them. Hope surged through Kierin. That voice... she knew it.
"It's all right, ma'am," the man told her, moonlight finally touching his craggy features. "It's me... Scudder Brown." Kierin didn't know whether to laugh or cry, for the urge to do both was equally strong. Trembling with relief, she lowered the gun.
"Mr. Brown!" Her words came out with a rush of air. "Thank God, it's you. I was sure you were one of Talbot's men."
Brown dropped the reins of his two horses and caught Holt as he slumped toward Kierin. She staggered when Holt's weight was lifted from her. The blacksmith slung Holt easily over his beefy shoulders.
"But—why? Why would you risk coming back?" she asked as Brown pulled her down an alleyway beside the Mercantile, out of sight from the street.
"I don't reckon I could'a lived with myself if I hadn't come back for the two of ya. There's some things a man has to do so's he can wake up and live with himself in the mornin'," Brown explained simply. "Where's Talbot?"
Kierin swallowed the lump that formed in her throat at the memory. "He's dead, I think."
"You think?"
"There wasn't time to be certain. We left him in your shop."
Brown nodded. "Let's get out of here. Can you sit a horse? This one here is your friend's." He patted the neck of the Appaloosa stallion.
"Yes. I'm a good rider," she answered truthfully. She quickly explained about the Kelly train and Holt's friend Jacob. "Holt needs a doctor, but it's too dangerous to try to get him to Doc Taylor's."
Brown agreed and shifted Holt's weight across his shoulder. He stripped a rolled blanket from behind his saddle, then tossed it over Holt's naked back.
"I know the wagon. I'll take you there. I just hope your friend is still alive when we get there."
Brown's words sent a chill through her, though she knew there was every chance he was right. Holt's color had worsened and he was shivering uncontrollably. If only they could make it to the wagon, maybe there was a chance.
"You're gonna have to ride with him, ma'am. Well make better time that way."
The blacksmith slid the semiconscious man onto one of the horses, propping him up until Kierin had mounted behind him. She wrapped one arm around Holt's chest, tightening the blanket around him, then grabbed the reins with the other hand. Brown mounted his own horse and spurred him forward. Kierin did the same, and though she kept a watchful eye on the street behind them, no one followed.
In minutes, they reached the sheltering cover of the tall cottonwoods that lined the banks of the sprawling Missouri River. Holt's head fell against her shoulder as he slipped in and out of consciousness. His soft moans told her the jostling ride was causing him a good deal of pain, but there was no help for it. They would have to move fast to escape the ever-widening arc of Talbot's men searching the town for them.
The April moon hung high in the cloud-swept sky by the time they reached the wagon train encampment, little more than a mile from town. The canvas-topped wagons sprouted like giant mushrooms in the darkness along the lush banks of the great river. Kierin's arms ached with her effort to hold the tall man upright.
The encampment was quiet. Only the snapping of an occasional burning twig in a campfire or the gentle lapping of the water intruded the night's stillness. Brown slowed his horse as they approached a wagon standing slightly off by itself, parked beneath a huge cottonwood. Brown nodded toward it.
"This here is the wagon," he told her quietly, dismounting. He helped Kierin down and then balanced Holt across his shoulder again.
A knot of fear twisted her stomach as she approached the wagon. How would she ever explain what had happened to Holt? What if he died? Would Jacob blame her? Certainly, he could blame her no less than she already did herself. Though logic told her that she could not have changed what happened tonight, she could not help feeling partly responsible for Holt's condition. Now two men were dead and Holt was barely alive—all because of some ridiculous bet over her. Kierin swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders with resolve. There was nothing to be done for it now. All she could do was try to get Holt help as quickly as possible and put the consequences out of her mind.
She stepped out of the shadows and lifted her fist to rap on the side of the planked wagon, but the sound of a cocking gun stilled her movement. She froze with her hand still poised above the wood. In the darkness beneath the wagon, she caught the glint of steel and knew the barrel of a gun was pointed directly at her. Behind that she could see the whites of a man's eyes, but no more. She opened her mouth to speak, but her traitorous voice failed her.
"What you be wantin' here 'round my wagon?" came a deep voice from the shadows.
"A—are you... Jacob?"
"That be the name my mama give me. Who's axin'?"
She glanced back nervously at Brown. "My name is Kierin McKendry. It's about your friend, Mr. Holt."
"Clay?" A burly black man rolled out from beneath the wagon, his face etched with concern.
"Yes, he—he's been hurt—"
"What? Where is he?" Jacob demanded. He followed her gaze back to Brown and rushed to Holt's side. Laying a hand almost tenderly on Holt's back, he lifted the blanket to get a better look at him. Then, he wheeled angrily on Brown and Kierin.
"What happened to him?"
Brown spoke first. "He was knifed by a low-down snake named John Talbot back in Independence. The girl 'n' me was only tryin' to help him. But your friend here ain't got the time for us to worry about who did what to who. He's lost a lot of blood and he's losin' more as we're sittin' here jawin'." Brown's gaze was steady on the black man and Jacob's anger seemed to dissipate with the blacksmith's explanation.
"Sorry," Jacob replied, running his fingers over his short-cropped hair. "It's just—can you help me git him into the wagon? I can tend him better in there."
Jacob lowered the tailgate on the wagon and swept back the canvas flap. Together, the men lifted Holt onto the thin straw-filled mattress that filled one side of the narrow wagon's dark interior. Jacob struck a match and lit the oil lamp which hung from one of the hickory bows supporting the canvas cover. A soft, yellow light filled the enclosure.
As the men worked over Holt, Kierin stood outside and tried to collect her thoughts. A powerful tremor coursed through her body, not from the cold but from the tumultuous emotions that battled within her. For reasons that she couldn't explain—even to herself—she wanted Holt to live. He was a complete stranger to her; a gambler who considered her his property. By rights, she should hate him.
But she didn't.
Tonight they had depended on each other for their very lives and Holt had nearly lost his—and still might—protecting her. Kierin let out a long sigh. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to care about anyone. A long time since anyone had cared about her.
Her head hurt and she was weary beyond words. Tears welled behind her tired burning eyes, but she refused to cry, refused herself the relief tears would bring her. Instead she reached for the pile of neatly stacked kindling and began to build up the banked fire. After it sputtered back to life, she fetched an iron pot that hung nearby and filled it with water from the large barrel lashed to the side of the wagon. She set it over the fire to heat, knowing that Jacob would have need of it soon.
The blaze was warm and soothing and she stared at the flames, willing them to heat the water quickly. For the first time she looked at her hands. They were covered with blood, as was the front of the shirt Holt had given her to wear.
She stood stiffly and walked to the river's edge. The narrow path twined through hedges of wild grapes, heavy with the promise of a summer harvest. Moonlight spilled across the water, mixing eerily with the tendrils of fog that lay like a winter's breath upon the river. Kierin bent and washed her hands and face in the frigid water. Shivering, she hurried back up the path to th
e campsite.
Brown met her at the fire when she returned.
"How is he?" she asked.
"Still unconscious. But that feller's got the constitution of an ox. If anybody can pull through somethin' like this, I reckon it'll be him. You known him long?"
Kierin was struck by the irony of his question.
Long? She'd only known the man for a few hours, but right now it felt more like years.
"No. Not long."
Scudder nodded, scooting his eyes away from hers. "Jacob asked me to get some water boilin' but I see you already got that taken care of."
"Yes, it's nearly hot enough," she replied, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.
"Well, I reckon I better get a'goin', ma'am. You be all right here?" he asked.
"Yes, I—I'll be fine," she told him with more conviction than she felt. "Mr. Brown, I want you to know how much I—that is, how much we both appreciate your help. If you hadn't come back—"
"Like I said before, it was somethin' I had to do."
"But what if there's trouble? I mean, it all happened in your shop..."
"If Talbot's dead, like ya say, there ain't gonna be no more trouble than I can handle. If not... well, Talbot'll never have to know it was me that helped you." Brown looked thoughtful for a moment and then continued. "And the law will never hear about you two from me. Be sure on that account. I reckon my family an' me may just pull up stakes one of these days an' head west. Independence is gettin' a might too crowded for my tastes anyway. I reckon there'd be a call for a good smithy out West, too."
Kierin smiled at him. "I'm sure there'll be a place for you wherever you choose to go, Mr. Brown. You're a good man."
Brown lowered his gaze from hers and twirled the brim of his hat in his big hands.
"Good luck to you, ma'am."
"And you, Mr. Brown."
He gathered the reins of his sorrel gelding and swung easily up into the saddle. Brown turned one last time and nodded to Kierin before nudging his horse into an easy lope in the direction of town.
Holt's Gamble Page 4