Holt's Gamble

by Barbara Ankrum

  Her hands moved up and down the sleek warmth of his back, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he consumed her. He was her fire, her life, her reason for being. Her fingers traced a path down his ribs, feeling him quiver in response, until her hand met the fierce warmth of his hardness and she closed her fingers around it. She felt his body jump as if from an electric shock and he buried his face in the valley between her breasts with a groan.

  Stroking, gently stroking, she felt the fire build within him. His hand had dipped to the small triangle of down at the juncture of her legs. Though lovemaking was still so new between them, the touch of his fingers in such intimate contact felt so right. Already, he seemed to know exactly where to touch to stoke her desire. It seemed to do the same for him.

  A fine sheen of sweat dampened his chest and she thanked whoever was responsible for bringing him back to her. She felt unable to get close enough. His touch wasn't enough. She needed more.

  "Clay?" she whispered.

  He smiled against her mouth. "Shhh-hh," he murmured back. "You feel so good."

  She was wet and ready for him, yet he stoked her desire with a practiced hand until she was nearly out of her mind with wanting.

  "Now... please, Clay... I... want you... inside me," she begged.

  "Now? You sure? Because I could always—"

  She felt his grin against her neck. "Now. Please. Right now."

  "Your wish is my command." He poised himself above her and entered her in one swift stroke, making her gasp with pleasure. Pushed beyond the brink of control, his body moved with hers in a rhythm old as time. The world fell away as they clung to each other. Heartbeat to heartbeat, silk against steel, they drowned in the waves of passion that flooded over them like a violent, sprawling tide. It drew them in and spiraled them up as one toward the crest of rapture. At last, exploding together, his groan of release mingled in the still, dry air with her strangled cry. It was a fulfillment so fierce it left them both gasping for breath.

  He slumped heavily against her, and she felt his heartbeat gradually slow from a furious pounding to a steady thud.

  They lay like that for a while, until their breaths returned to normal. For a moment, she thought he'd gone to sleep.

  "Is it like this for everyone?" she wondered. Only after she heard his husky chuckle did she realize she'd spoken the question out loud.

  "Not by a long shot." Clay wasn't a man to make comparisons. He rarely did it, and for good reason. But he did know he'd never felt so utterly complete, so balanced, as he did when he was with her. He was experienced enough to know that what they shared was rare and precious. It was a gift he vowed never to take lightly.

  His body was damp with a sheen of perspiration, and reluctantly, he peeled his weight off her. She tightened her arms around him, afraid he would leave her.

  "I'm not going anywhere, love," he soothed with a chuckle. "You've left me too weak to walk."

  "Good," she said, laughing. "Perhaps I should keep you this way. Then you can't get into trouble."

  His flattened palm teased her nipple again. "If that's what it takes, madam, I'm at your service."

  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?"

  In frustration, he turned on her. "I didn't want any of this, but I've damn well got it, haven't I?" He started to walk away but she caught him by the sleeve.

  "And you're all alone in this I suppose?" she accused, making him stop short. "What about me? What about us? I... I love you, Clay. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

  Clay stopped and bent his head. "Yeah," he answered slowly. "That's what makes this whole situation so damned impossible."

  She shook her head at his logic. "Impossible? Don't you see that's the only thing that makes it bearable?"

  His look to her was fierce and foreboding. "But it doesn't change the facts, does it?"

  "If you're determined to go, I'm coming too."

  "No. If I do this, I do it alone. I'm not going to get you any more involved than you already are."

  She stamped her foot, sendi
ng up a cloud of reddish dust into the stifling air. "Involved? Ooh-h, you're a stubborn, bull-headed mule, Clay Holt, and you can't see the desert for the sand. I'm already involved up to my eardrums, in case you hadn't noticed."

  Clay glanced at the people hovering nearby and pulled Kierin off beside the front gates of the fort where they could have more privacy. "You're not coming. You'll stay with Jacob and Dove until I get back."

  His commanding attitude irked her and she raised her chin defiantly. "If you get back. And what shall I do while you're gone?" she argued, fighting the tears of frustration that burned behind her eyes, "Spend the next year worrying that Talbot has had you killed? Didn't he come close enough the first time?"

  He took her shoulders in his hands. "Don't you see I'm doing this for you? For us?"

  "No," she replied, with a despairing shake of her head.

  "I don't. And I think... you're wrong."

  He dropped his hands—resigned, but determined. "Maybe I am. I don't know. I guess I won't until I get there. I just know I can't live my life this way, dodging the law and always looking over my shoulder. For the past year or so, I've had two hired guns after me, because I was getting too close to the man they worked for—the bastard who killed my wife. Obviously," he sighed, "never close enough. They even tried to bushwhack me in St. Louis, just before I came to Independence, but I managed to get away. I'm tired of living this way, Kierin. I won't ask you to do it either."

  Kierin frowned as the realization dawned on her. She looked up at him. "Did you say... two men?"

  Clay nodded silently.

  "Was one tall, prematurely gray and the other short and paunchy?"

  Clay stared at her. "How did you know that?"

  She shook her head. "It's probably nothing."

  "What?"

  Visibly shaken, she went on. "The same day you won me in that game, I accidentally overheard a conversation going on in Talbot's office between him and two men he'd hired to... kill someone. They'd botched the job in St. Louis for him and he was furious. He fired them on the spot and told them... well," she amended, "I won't repeat what he said.