Holt's Gamble

by Barbara Ankrum

  "Seems the two of 'em ran into a fella named Talbot back at the Independence who didn't cotton to Clay beatin' him at cards," Jacob told him.

  A hard look crossed Kelly's face. He shook his head, and turned questioning eyes on Jacob. "It's not like Clay to let himself get caught off guard like that."

  Kierin's mind flew to the moment when Holt had offered her his shirt last night, dropping his guard momentarily. She looked off into the distant horizon, glad to have something other than Kelly's questioning gaze to focus on.

  Why should she feel guilty? After all, Holt had dragged her into this, not the other way around. So why couldn't she shake the miserable feeling that she was responsible for the condition of the man lying in the back of the wagon?

  "Done is done," Jacob concluded with eloquent simplicity. "Ain't no help for it now but the healin'." Jacob flicked his whip near the ears of the lead pair of oxen and added, "That, an' avoidin' these blasted ruts."

  Kierin glanced anxiously back into the dim interior of the wagon as it lurched over a deep furrow. "It's not going to do him any good to be traveling like this. I'd better go back and check on him." She stood and balanced precariously in the rocking wagon.

  Kelly touched the brim of his hat again as his horse danced sideways, anxious to move at a faster pace. "We got a late start today. That'll cut our traveling time down some. You just do what you can for him. I'll take care of the rest."

  "Thank you, Mr. Ke-" She stopped herself. "Jim."

  He turned a grateful smile on her. "It's a pure pleasure, ma'am. If I know Clay, that pretty face of yours will be all the inspiration he needs to get him up and on his feet again." Kelly nudged his horse and sprinted away up the line, leaving her blushing in the wake of his unexpected compliment.

  Jacob eyed her with a sideways grin and then clucked to the team and flicked the long bullwhip above their backs. "H'yaw!" he called, with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Kierin pretended not to notice and climbed ungracefully over the benched seat, then over the crated supplies in the front part of the wagon. It was fortunate that their wagon was not loaded down with heavy furniture and heirlooms which weighed down many of the pioneers' conveyances. Holt and Jacob had packed only the necessities: primarily staples such as flour, salt pork, coffee, and dried beans and fruit.

  Earlier, she had also discovered eggs—ingeniously suspended in the flour sacks—molasses for sweetening, tinned milk, along with sugar, rice, and salt. There were other crates she-had yet to explore, but they seemed well equipped for the long journey ahead of them.

  Kierin climbed over the last gunnysack of flour and knelt down next to Holt. The fever was still stubbornly there and she turned to wring out the cloth in the tepid water. When she turned back to him, she found his blue eyes watching her.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked, laying the cloth across his brow.

  "You really need to ask?" His voice was roughened by sleep and fever.

  "No," she answered, "I'm just trying to keep you awake long enough to take some water. It'll help bring that fever down."

  Holt let his gaze travel across the fine, ivory planes of her face to the long wisps of auburn hair that had escaped the knot at the back of her head. He watched her fill a tin cup with fresh water, wondering if the coppery highlights in her hair were only a trick of lighting in the dim wagon. Without thinking, he reached up and caught a strand, rolling it gently between his fingers, savoring its feel at last. Kierin jumped back at his unexpected touch, pulling her hair from his grasp.

  Holt swallowed, his arm poised in midair for a moment before he let it drop back tiredly to the blanket. Kierin sat on her heels, inches from his reach, yet very aware of the safety in that span of space.

  "I've been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you " he told her as they sat sharing the stuffy, sun-warmed air. "I didn't... mean to scare you."

  "You didn't. Just... startled me, is all."

  "Ah-h..." he murmured as if he didn't believe her. "You have beautiful hair, you know."

  Her fingers leapt unconsciously to her hair, trying to smooth the unruly wisps into submission. "You must be feeling better than you look," she said, gracing him with a shy smile.

  His breath caught at that smile; the first he had seen from her. It changed her face entirely and revealed a small, appealing dimple in her left cheek. A shiver ran through him and he couldn't be sure if it was the fever or her nearness that made him tremble.

  "Actually... I doubt that." His weak grin belied the burning ache which seemed to have settled permanently in the upper left side of his body. He shifted his weight on the pallet, but comfort was a useless pursuit. With a whispered curse, Holt turned finally onto his good side, facing her. He closed his eyes, tired from even that small effort. It was a defeating weakness that assaulted his usually strong body. Invasively hot, it compelled him to sleep. The sound of her voice called him back from that alluring threshold.

  "Drink this before you fall asleep again," she insisted, sliding a cool hand beneath his head and guiding the cup to his mouth. Holt complied and drank greedily, heedless of the tiny rivulets from the overflow tracing a path down his chin. She released him and he sank back, swiping carelessly at the moisture with the back of his hand.

  The gesture seemed to unsettle her and she turned away from him, busying herself with some unnecessary tidying.

  "Kierin." His hoarse voice cut through the steady creak and groan of the wagon's movement. She turned to find him watching her again. A crooked smile curved his lips.

  "That's your name, isn't it? Kierin." He slurred the word slightly as he said it, rolling it off his tongue as if tasting the sound of it.

  "Yes," she answered, though for a moment, she forgot that he had asked her a question.

  "Must be the fever.... I've been lying here trying to remember what it was. But... I kept thinking... it was Princess. Isn't that odd?"

  She stiffened ever so slightly at the name. "I think it's odd you would call me that, considering—"

  "What?" he interrupted with a wary grin. "That my knight-in-shining-armor attempt was a bit tarnished?"

  "Oh, is that what it was?" Her voice tinged with sarcasm. "I thought it was a simple wager."

  Her cutting reply silenced him as surely as if she'd struck him. He'd deserved that, he knew, but somehow he hadn't been prepared to hear her say the words. He closed his eyes and took a deep, strained breath.

  "Not a simple wager," he answered finally. A muscle jumped in the hardened set of his jaw. "Not simple at all."

  The wagon lurched just then, jarring Clay on the thin pallet. He gasped from the sudden stab of pain and clutched his injured shoulder. A low groan escaped his lips and he swallowed convulsively, fighting for control over the nausea that rippled through him.

  A hissing oath was torn from between his clenched teeth with a rush of air, like steam rising off a hot griddle. Pain, hot and overpowering, shot through his chest. It was through that haze that he felt Kierin lay her hand tentatively, soothingly on the tight corded muscles of his arm. Waves of heat mingled with the softness of her touch, making it difficult to discern one from the other.

  When the pain eased finally, he opened his eyes. She sat watching him, her expression a curious mixture of fear and concern. He wondered then why she had saved him. Why she hadn't just left him back on the floor of the smith shop and taken her chance at freedom. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had. God knew, he had tempted fate often enough to deserve such an end—even welcome it. He had considered his own death many times in the past, embracing the idea as a drowning man finally would the cold water as it swept over him.

  But as he looked up at her now, he was unreasonably glad she hadn't left him there... glad for her touch on his arm; glad he was still alive enough to feel it.

  "I think I saw some laudanum in Jacob's medicine kit." She moved to turn from him but he caught her hand before it could completely leave his arm.

  "No.
" The word held an urgency which, even to his own ears, had a pleading, desperate quality. He'd seen dozens of men become hopelessly addicted to the drug after Churubusco and he'd sworn never to use it. Still, he knew it had as much to do with his fear of that mind-deadening drug as with the fear of being alone right now. Bereft of her touch.

  Chagrined, he let go of her arm as she turned a surprised look his way. His hand fell back against his shoulder. What the hell's the matter with you, he chided himself silently, rolling his head away from her questioning stare. Get a grip, man. warned the inner voice that had kept him aloof, protected all these years. Aloof, protected, and safely alone.

  "My... brain is already muddled enough with this damn fever." He muttered the half-truth, disgusted not only with his traitorous body, but with the need he knew she had heard in his voice. The need for company. Comfort. The word itself had lost its meaning over the last few years. It was strange, he thought, pondering it. Until now, he hadn't felt the lack. Not for years. Aside from the decidedly carnal touches he'd received from whores he'd bedded, no woman since Amanda had touched him the way Kierin just had. Freely—without strings.

  The sound of her voice brought his gaze back to her face and he realized his mind had been wandering.

  "...traveling's not going to get any smoother today, Mr. Holt," she was saying. "If Jacob doesn't have any, I'm sure someone..."

  Her voice drifted away from him again as he wiped at the sweat that trickled into his eyes. It was damned hard to concentrate on what she was saying when it took so much effort simply to lie still. His stomach rebelled at the thought of another five hours in this wagon. As if to prove Kierin's argument, the wagon rumbled across another series of small ruts.

  "...and you need to sleep," she concluded, with a frown that puckered her eyebrows. Her voice had taken on a no-nonsense edge and held the hint of a challenge.

  He fixed a bleary gaze on her which he hoped would make it perfectly clear these were his last words on the subject.

  "No laudanum."

  "All right, Mr. Holt," she said, backing down. "If that's the way you want it. But I—"

  "It is."

  "Are you sure you're all right then?"

  He nodded, eyes closed, not at all sure that he was. Holt pressed back against the pallet, fighting the wave of nausea that swept over him again. Oh God, don't let me be sick now. he prayed fervently to the same God he had earlier blasphemed. His hand moved from his shoulder to his gut, in an effort to contain the roiling there. Maybe if he could just lie perfectly still for a moment—

  "Oh! Mr. Holt," Kierin gasped, drawing his startled glance. "You're bleeding again."

  A quick look at his shoulder revealed a bright red stain of blood seeping through the bandage there. The wagon rocked like a ship at sea with the steady gait of the oxen. Not jarringly—just with a sickening persistence. He pushed her hand away as she started to inspect the bandage.

  "I'm afraid that's not the worst of it," he told her weakly, suddenly certain his prayers would not be answered. "Get me a bucket—I'm gonna be sick."

  Kierin sat frozen for a moment, her lips drawn apart in surprise. She blinked—her huge green eyes finally registering what her mind had been slow to grasp.

  "Oh. Oh, dear." She flew into action, searching the barrel behind her for an appropriate container.

  Holt groaned and she snatched a pot noisily from beneath a muffin form. She slid it in front of him just as he lurched forward and retched, emptying the contents of his stomach into the receptacle. All the while, he felt the soothing touch of her hand touching the back of his neck. He repeated the process several more times before he slumped back, exhausted, to the bed.

  He lay panting, with one arm flung over his eyes, feeling as if the wagon had just rolled over him. He heard her slosh some water into the pot and spill the contents out the back of the wagon.

  "The nausea will pass," she told him, wiping a cool damp cloth over his face. "You lost quite a lot of blood last night, you know. That's why you're so weak. Are... are you feeling any better now?"

  Holt just groaned in return. He had never felt so god-awful in his life. His shoulder throbbed and he could feel the warmth of his own blood as it trickled down past the bandage toward his armpit.

  Without asking his permission this time, Kierin started to work on his shoulder, easing the bandage off and pressing a clean cloth to the jagged, oozing wound. He gritted his teeth until she finished, glad for even that distraction from the wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Kierin sat back on her heels, eyeing her handiwork.

  "There," she said. "I've got the bleeding stopped but what you really need is a bed that stays still long enough to give that shoulder a chance to heal. When we stop for the nooning, I'll make you some chamomile tea from Jacob's herb bag to settle your stomach."

  "I'm sorry you had to see that," Holt told her. Hell. It laid a man's pride nearly flat to have a woman hold his head while he puked his guts out. He couldn't remember ever having another woman do that for him since his mother, when he was a boy.

  "It's nothing," Kierin told him gently, dismissing his apology with a tug on the quilts beneath his arms. "You need to rest now."

  As if what had just happened was the most natural thing in the world for a woman like her, he thought. One minute slicing him up with her tongue and the next soothing him with a touch.

  "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep," she continued without pause as he watched her, heavy-lidded.

  Sleep? Yes, sleep, he agreed mutely, unable to find cause to argue against it any longer. Get your mind off her, Holt. It's just the fever making something out of nothing. But as his eyes slid shut, his last thought was of the feel of her fingers on his neck. Touching him.

  * * *

  "Clay?"

  The familiar male voice broke into that part of Holt's consciousness which hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The sudden stilling of the wagon's motion had roused him sometime before. Becalmed and adrift, he resisted the voice and lay savoring the quiet with his eyes closed.

  There was a woman with him in his half-dream. She hovered over him silhouetted by the halo of sunlight behind her. Her gentle fingers brushed his face, beckoning him to come with her. Her loose, flowing hair glimmered like spun fire in the sun as she backed away from him. He rose to follow still unable to make out her features. Reaching out, he caught her by the waist and drew her to him. She laughed and pressed herself tantalizingly against his taut body. Cupping the siren's breast in the palm of his hand, Clay drew her closer still. She was soft and pliant beneath his touch, offering herself to him wordlessly. Her sweet, familiar scent poured through him, filling his senses.

  "Amanda?" he whispered against her silken hair, already knowing—as one does in the certainty of dreams—that it wasn't her.

  "Clay, are you awake?"

  Wrenched again from his dream by the persistent voice, Clay grudgingly opened his eyes and blinked in the half-light. He bit back the curse he was about to hurl at the source of his irritation when he realized who it was.

  "I am now," Clay answered in a voice roughened with sleep.

  Jim Kelly smiled crookedly at him in the dim light.

  A swatch of blond hair fell across Kelly's brow and he swept it back with his hand.

  "Sorry, Clay... Jacob told me you'd be awake. He said you'd had a rough time of it this morning. How are you doing?"

  "Better—I think," Clay answered groggily, still disturbed by his dream. "Where are we?"

  "Near the junction of the Kansas," Kelly replied. "We've covered about eight miles since this morning. We're pulled up for the nooning, but the train'll be moving out again soon."

  "No sign of the posse?"

  Kelly shook his head with a laugh. "Hell no. They're probably halfway to the Arkansas border by now."

  "Thanks for that, Jim," Clay said. "I owe you one."

  "Yeah. Don't worry, I'll collect. You just concentrate on getting bet
ter," Kelly told him. "You feel like talking about it now?"

  "The truth?" Clay asked. "No."

  "All right," Kelly conceded, accepting the delay. "But we will talk."

  Clay took a deep breath and nodded to his old friend. He'd have a lot of explaining to do, but right now he was too tired. He knew his mind was too fuzzy to get all the facts straight. He hadn't even straightened them out for himself yet. Sleep beckoned him again as Kelly rose and stood in the cramped wagon.

  "By the way, Clay," Kelly added before turning to leave, "you can tell me it's none of my business, but if she were my wife, I'd be thinking about putting down roots, raising a family. Not dragging her into the middle of some gunfight. She deserves better than that, you lucky son of a bitch."

  Kelly swung out of the wagon, leaving Clay staring after him, in slack-jawed bewilderment. What the hell was he talking about? Wife? Roots? Had he missed something in that conversation, Clay wondered, or had Jim Kelly lost his marbles?

  Clay frowned as his thoughts turned of their own accord to Kierin. Smudged and tired as she had looked earlier, her face still captured his imagination—delicate, wary, but somehow achingly vulnerable. He closed his eyes, trying to shut her out of his heart, to keep her at a safe distance. But in the recesses of his mind as he fell back asleep, her image mingled unsettlingly with the red-headed temptress of his dreams.

  Chapter 5

  "Darn it all," Kierin muttered when the evening breeze snuffed out the flame of yet another sulphur-tipped match. She tossed the cursed thing into the neatly arranged firewood and pulled a fourth match from the oilcloth pouch. She wet her index finger and stuck it up in the air to test the fickle current of air that seemed to move wherever she did. Angling her body against the breeze once more, she struck another match. The flame flickered threateningly, but caught at last on a bit of dry tinder beneath her carefully stacked cook fire.

  She blew on her tiny fire and waved her hand furiously. She knew she must look ridiculous—on her hands and knees, breathing life into an obstinate tongue of flame which seemed to have a contrary mind of its own. She was covered with dirt smudges and her hair had escaped all its confines save a pin or two. But frankly, she was too tired to care.