Holt's Gamble

by Barbara Ankrum

  "Having fun?" Clay shouted to Kierin above the music, his arms holding her firmly in his embrace.

  Her eyes sparkled with laughter and she nodded. "Where did you learn to dance like this? You're very good, Mr. Holt."

  "Why, thank you, Mrs. Holt," he retorted, and with a comical dip of his knees, twirled her off again.

  She giggled at his loose-limbed playfulness and allowed him to pull her closer. Her feet kept time with his and their bodies moved as one across the floor.

  "No, really," she insisted. "You are. You make it easy for me."

  "Ah," he argued, "I must return the compliment. A man is only as good as his partner."

  One fine eyebrow arched suspiciously. "That's not what you said before. You said it didn't matter if I could-"

  "That," he silenced her before she could finish, "was before I saw what a quick study you were. Confidence," he stated unequivocally. "That's the key."

  "And... if I hadn't caught on...?"

  Clay gave her a little squeeze. "That possibility never crossed my mind." He dipped his head down against her hair, letting its softness caress his cheek. She'd washed and given it a vinegar rinse earlier and he'd watched her dry it by the fire. Then, as now, his fingers had itched to touch it. He liked it when she wore her hair down like this—loose and flowing like a molten cascade. He reminded himself to tell her that.

  Someday.

  The music stopped and he released her reluctantly. He instantly regretted it. A scrawny-necked soldier with muddy blown hair and a smitten look in his eye tapped him on the shoulder, requesting the next dance with her. Clay lifted his eyebrows inquiringly at her, hoping she'd say no. But she smiled at the young soldier and gave him her hand. The kid tossed Clay a cocky chipped-toothed grin over his shoulder as he guided Kierin toward the center of the floor.

  Clay watched them go as the music began, and combed his fingers through his long dark hair. Shoving his hands in his back pockets, he ambled over to the refreshment table, ignoring the invitation in the eyes of several single women he passed.

  He told himself he needed a drink. But what he really wanted was to throttle that little whelp for putting his skinny hands on her. He suddenly hoped there was something in those punch bowls with more kick than punch.

  He was watching her dance, already on his third cup of a homemade brew from the men's punch bowl when Jacob found him.

  "Troubles?" Jacob asked, seeing the expression on Clay's face.

  Clay looked at his old friend with a wary smile. "Why do you ask?"

  "'Cause," Jacob chuckled, "you got the look of an animal wid his leg caught in a trap."

  Clay snorted disdainfully. "Funny you should put it that way..."

  Jacob shook his head and slid his mouth harp into his pocket. "My mama used to say traps o' the heart—they's the most dangerous kind."

  For all the time they'd known each other, Jacob's uncanny perception still surprised Clay. "Your mama was a smart woman."

  "She done her share o' trap settin', I expect. Take my Bess. She had me snared 'fore I know'd what she be up to." Jacob's dark eyes took on a faraway look. "But then, she be the right woman, wid the right trap." He paused, glancing at Clay. "See what I mean?"

  Clay tossed back another gulp of the fiery punch. "I guess I do." His eyes scanned the crowd for Kierin but he couldn't spot her. Ben and Dove walked up behind them. She shadowed the trapper, looking as if she'd rather be anywhere else but at a shindig full of white folks. Though none of the white women on the train had been overtly unkind to Dove, all but Kierin had kept their distance from her.

  Clay saw Dove wince and rest her palm over the buff colored deer-hide dress where it pulled tight across her stomach.

  Beside Clay, Jacob stiffened and asked, "You all right, Dove?"

  Her dark eyes met his with a wry smile and she patted her taut belly. "The young one will be a strong runner."

  Jacob's eyes searched hers. "Maybe he wants to dance. You dance, Dove?"

  She tipped her head proudly. "The women of the Sioux are all dancers, Jay-cob, but I do not know the dance of the Wasicun."

  A smile played at the edge of Jacob's generous mouth. "Care to try?"

  Tempted, Dove swallowed and looked briefly at Ben. He nodded his encouragement to her. "Go on," he said. "Give that young'un somethin' to kick about."

  Jacob's hand rested lightly on the small of her back as he led her to the dance floor. Ben watched them go, with the resigned look of a man who had suddenly glimpsed the future. He gave himself a shake and clapped Clay on the back. "What're you doing over here, boy? You should be out there with that pretty little gal."

  "Yeah." Clay mused grumpily, scanning the crowd. "If I could get near her."

  Ben raised a bushy eyebrow. "I ain't so old I don't remember what it was like, ya know."

  Clay slid a glance toward the old man. "What what's like?"

  Ben chuckled. "You two are like a couple of lovesick buffalo, dancin' around the bold-face truth."

  Clay rubbed his face hard. He'd told Ben everything about Kierin and her brother, about his need to find Amanda's killers. Stated unemotionally, his reasons for staying uninvolved had made perfect sense. But Ben was right about one thing. It was becoming harder and harder to separate that logic from the gut-twisting sensations he felt every time he got near her.

  Ben's gaze settled on Henri and Joey, dancing out on the floor near them. "The Clay I know never waited around fer somethin' to be give to him. That's a quality I always admired about you, boy. You always took what you wanted out of life."

  Clay met Ben's steady gaze with his own. "It's knowing what you want..." Clay absently squeezed the empty tin cup in his hands. "That's the problem."

  Ben's fingers tightened for a moment on Clay's shoulder—his tone suddenly serious. "Ya know, it's possible fer a man to think his way plumb outta happiness, son," he said. "It's my fondest hope that don't happen to you."

  Ben smoothed both hands down the front of his buckskin shirt. "I'm gonna go find Joey and snag her fer a dance. I don't think Henri will mind..." Then he added with a wink, "Too much."

  Twilight had given way to darkness. Ben's dark shape disappeared along the shadowy edge of the circle. Clay retrieved his parfleche and replaced his cup inside. The warm glow of the bourbon-spiked punch lingered in his bloodstream, mellowing the hard edges off his restlessness.

  At the far end of the circle, he caught a glimpse of Kierin's red hair as she turned on the arm of tall, blond officer. He felt his heart trip at the sight of her and he frowned. When, he wondered with sudden bewilderment, had he begun to think of her as his? From the moment he'd set eyes on her in Independence? Or was it the first time she'd smiled at him?

  It was a moot point, he decided with unsettling certainty. Kierin was as much a part of him now as waking and sleeping. She dogged his thoughts whether he was feeding the stock or curled up beside her at night in a hot sweat.

  Tossing the parfleche under the table, he started to shoulder his way through the crowds toward her. He suddenly wasn't in the mood to share her anymore.

  A delicate hand on his arm stopped him.

  "I was wondering if I'd ever get a chance to dance with you, Clay." Rachael Beaker cocked her head prettily, offering him her best angle. Her silvery-blond hair shimmered in the lantern glow like fool's gold. It was, Clay observed with detachment, her most compelling feature.

  "Hello, Rachael."

  "Hello, Rachael? Is that all you're going to say?" Her expression grew petulant. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?"

  Clay sighed, tossing a glance back in Kierin's direction. He knew he was trapped. "Would you care to dance, Rachael?"

  "I'd love to." She plucked up the skirt of her yellow silk dress and offered him her hand.

  The tempo of the music had changed from a lively Virginia reel to a waltz, and Clay cursed the timing. Rachael pressed herself close. Though her neckline was necessarily modest, the silk fabric did nothing to conceal the full sw
ell of her breasts. Her chin nearly reached his shoulder, and he found himself comparing her statuesque height unfavorably with Kierin's petite figure.

  "All this time, Clay, and you've hardly given me so much as a how-do-you-do."

  He could hear the pout in her voice.

  She looked up at him, flashing her large brown eyes. "I really shouldn't be speaking to you at all."

  "I'm a married man now, Rachael. Or weren't you listening the last time we had this conversation?"

  "Oh, I heard all right. But I've been a minister's daughter long enough to know that all marriages aren't made in heaven. You see, there's married, and then there's married. I wonder which of those you are, Clay?"

  He impaled her with a steely-eyed warning as they moved across the floor. "Don't go sniffing for trouble, Rachael. You're likely to find it where you least expect it."

  She threw back her head and laughed. "Did I strike a nerve, Clay? Actually," she replied in a low voice, "all I'm saying is I can think of better ways to spend one's evenings than taking cold dips in the river."

  Clay's eyes narrowed and he stopped dancing. "What?"

  "You didn't know I saw you the other night, did you?"

  "Christ, Rachael-"

  She gave him a cajoling smile. "Don't stop dancing, Clay. People might think we're having a lovers' quarrel."

  Clay jerked her back in his arms but his movements were angry and without gentleness. Had he ever found her attractive?

  "My guess is," Rachael continued, unperturbed by his rough treatment, "that it wasn't the first time she's turned you away, is it?"

  His answering laughter was hollow and cold. "What's the matter, Rachael? All those lost lambs in your father's flock and you can't get a single one to take a tumble with you in the bushes?"

  She tipped her chin up sharply at his remark then tossed her hair with a little shake of her head. "I've always enjoyed a challenge. That's what I find so attractive about you, Clay. Those other men are mice. Like that little wife of yours—"

  "Leave Kierin out of this," he told her in a tone that erased the smile from her face. "She's way out of your league. Why don't you find a willing victim among these lonely cavalrymen? I'm certain one of them would be happy to oblige you. And just think. For once you wouldn't have to worry about the man spilling the beans to your father in confession."

  If looks were lethal, he would have been bleeding all over the ground. Mercifully, the music stopped and the crowd mingled noisily around them. "Thank you for the dance, my dear," he said with a mock half-bow. "It's been,"—he searched for the right word—"unpleasant."

  * * *

  Kierin felt a stab of disappointment as the musicians struck up a slow, romantic waltz and Clay had still not come back to claim her. It wasn't that she'd lacked for partners. She'd danced with four different men in the space of as many songs. But she didn't care about dancing with any of them.

  She glanced up at her latest partner: a tall, sandy-haired lieutenant. His fine features were burnished by the prairie sun, his body muscled and firm. In another time, she would have appreciated his startling good looks. But she realized her notions of handsome had been forever altered by the dark intensity of Clay Holt.

  The lieutenant seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil and smiled down at her, his hand pressing lightly against her back. "Are you enjoying our fandango, Miss-?"

  "Mrs.—" she corrected quickly, returning his smile. "Mrs. Holt. And yes, thank you. I am."

  "Ah," he sighed with a wistful smile, "my luck. Find a pretty girl and she's already taken." With a flourish, he twirled her past several couples and she followed his graceful movements with surprising ease. "Are you and your husband headed for the Oregon Territory?"

  "Yes." The lie came so easily. "To the Willamette Valley, in fact." Askance, she caught sight of Clay's familiar silhouette across the way. Her head snapped around to get a better look at the blond woman on his arm. Her heart sank like a stone.

  It was Rachael.

  Her perfect blond head was thrown back in laughter at something Clay had said and he held her scandalously close. Something crumbled inside Kierin as she stared at them. She closed her eyes and looked away, unable to watch him make a fool of himself over Rachael's beauty.

  "Lots of opportunity there, I hear," the lieutenant offered, breaking into her miserable thoughts.

  "What? Oh, in Oregon?" She felt as if she'd swallowed a thistle, whole. "I suppose so." She stopped dancing and pressed a hand to her temple. "Uh, would you excuse me, Lieutenant? I suddenly have an awful headache. I think I'd like to sit down for a while."

  A look of disappointment clouded his eyes. "What a shame," he said taking her arm. "Here, let me help you."

  Somehow, his solicitousness made everything worse. "Please..." She stopped him with her hand. "You're very kind, but I'll be fine." She left him staring after her as she made her way through the crowds to the edge of the dance floor.

  Stalking beyond the circle of light with her fists clenched at her sides, Kierin took a deep draught of air into her lungs and kept moving, heedless of the shadowy darkness ahead of her. It was one thing to dance with that... that woman, Kierin thought. She could have accepted that. It was another thing altogether for him to ply her with that fatal charm of his and to hold her so tightly they looked joined at the seams.

  "So, we meet again, little lady."

  Kierin spun at the sound of the voice in the darkness beside her. She knew immediately who it was even though the shadows cloaked his features. It was the man she'd bumped into at Henri's store.

  She took several steps backward. "I... I was j-just going to find the refreshment table," she lied. "Isn't that silly? I guess I got turned around. If you'll excu—"

  "Not so fast, little lady." He grabbed her by the upper arm. His broken teeth leered at her in the moonlight. "Ain't no need to rush off. I got me a bottle of refreshments right here in my pocket." The flask made a little chinking sound as he patted it. "I'm more than willin' to share."

  "No. I mean—I don't want—"

  "Seein's how you wouldn't give me the time of day last time we met, I figure you owe me."

  She shook her head in alarmed confusion. "What are you talking about? I've never seen you before today."

  "Took me a while to place ya," he said, cutting her off, "but I don't never forget a face. 'Specially one as purty as yours."

  Kierin pulled against his hand, but he only tightened his grip. "I've never seen you before today. Now please, let me go."

  "Oh, now that hurts—you're not rememberin' me. Luther Bledsoe's the name, though I reckon we wasn't formally introduced." He trailed a dirt-encrusted finger down the front of her dress. "Just tell me one thing, missy. How'd a purty little whore like you find yer way outta that saloon and headin' fer Californee?"

  Chapter 13

  His words made Kierin dizzy and she took a faltering step backward. A sick sense of dread crept over her as she remembered where she'd seen him before. Of course it had been at Talbot's—his face, one of the thousands she'd seen there. Had it been only weeks since she'd been serving whiskey and beer to the likes of him? Out on the dance floor with Clay, it had seemed like another lifetime ago, a past she could leave behind. How foolish she'd been to let herself believe that.

  "You're mistaken, Mr. Bledsoe," she said with all the conviction she could muster. "Y-you must have me confused with someone else..."

  "Oh, no I don't. It's Karen, ain't it?"

  Her eyes widened.

  "No..." His smile broadened. "It's Kierin. I remember now. Unusual ring to it. Had every head turnin' yer way in that waterin' hole. All woman, you was, in that little red thing you was wearin'."

  Kierin was stunned into a hopeless, forbidding silence.

  "Got you a sweet setup here, ain't ya?" His pale eyes lingered on her bosom. "All these God-fearin' men an' their dried-up wives, just waitin' fer you to scratch their itch."

  Her voice returned in a rush. "No, you're wrong—
get away from me."

  "Why, I'll bet yer servicin' every buck on this train from here to—" His eyes suddenly narrowed. "What—you think I ain't got money like anybody else? Well, I do." He reached into his pocket and pulled out some jingling silver.

  She blindly knocked the money from his hand. "I don't want your money. Take your hands off me or I'll scream."

  An angry look clouded his face and he crossed his forearm brutally against her throat, pushing her up hard against the rough-hewn wall behind her. "Fine," he spat. "We'll do it without money, then. Makes no nevermind to me." He spit a stream of tobacco juice at her feet. "You whores are all alike. Always thinkin' yer too good fer the likes o' men like me."

  She tipped her chin up and gritted her teeth. "I'm not... a whore... at all."

  He gave her a mean little shake, banging her head against the hard wall behind her. A pain shot through her temples.

  "The hell you say, girl. I know what I know." His squinty eyes narrowed further and an evil gleam came into them. "But I'm gettin' the notion the good folks on this here train maybe don't know what you was back there."

  Kierin's chest rose and fell rapidly against the grimy sleeve of his long johns.

  He let out a little laugh. "I'm right, ain't I? Well, you kin play yer little game with the rest of these greenhorns, but you ain't foolin' me none. I reckon as how that little secret's worth somethin' to ya, ain't it, little lady?" He glanced back at the circle of dancers. The music was still loud enough to drown out their conversation. "I don't reckon I'll have to think too hard on how you can get me to keep it."

  His mouth came down hard on hers and his tongue impaled her. Her futile scream was absorbed by his mouth. She felt his hands bracket her hips, pulling her fully against his arousal. She pushed hard against his chest with her hands but she was no match for his strength.

  Without warning, Bledsoe was spun around. Kierin heard his grunt of surprise as he released her. In the darkness, she recognized Clay's silhouette just as his fist caught Bledsoe hard in the stomach. The man gasped and doubled over in pain, but Clay sent his knee crashing into Bledsoe's chin. He flew backward like a launched egg and landed with a groan in the dirt, sprawled near Clay's feet.