Holt's Gamble

by Barbara Ankrum

  "Huh?"

  "The warehouse."

  Cain hesitated. Clay shoved the gun tighter.

  "Only a b-block or two from here, on Commercial Street. The Long Wharf," Cain answered.

  Peripherally, Clay caught the subtle movement of Suzanne's arm as she eased a drawer open behind her. Before he could react, Matthew was beside him with a knife blade at her throat. Suzanne gasped and pressed her head back against the white cupboards, taking in the sight of the savage-looking boy threatening her. "My God, it's an Indian."

  "Put it down," Matthew ordered. When she made no move to comply—only widened her eyes—he said, "I may be young, but don't doubt that I know how to use this." He pressed his blade harder against the white skin of her throat. The sharp knife she'd managed to pilfer from the drawer fell to the floor with a clatter.

  "Boy," Clay said admiringly, "you move like a Cheyenne."

  Matthew's drawn expression softened slightly at the praise. "Is she here?" he asked, not taking his eyes off his prisoner.

  "No," Clay answered. "But this gentleman is going to take us to her. Aren't you, Cain?"

  Cain's eyes widened in response.

  "Matthew, lock our troublemaking lady in the pantry over there," he said, indicating the small room off the kitchen. "I don't want her getting into any mischief while we're gone."

  Matthew nudged her into the room. He turned the skeleton key in the lock behind him, then slipped it into his knife sheath for safekeeping.

  "Let's go, Cain," Clay said, urging the brawny man out the back door with the gun at his back. "Show us the warehouse. If anything's happened to her... you're a dead man."

  The trio mounted their horses tethered at the front of the house. They headed southeast, toward the Long Wharf, with Clay holding the reins of Cain's horse. They failed to notice the man hunched over the saddle of a sorrel horse who followed at a safe distance.

  * * *

  Voices. A dull, throbbing ache at the back of her head. The scratch of straw against her cheek. Kierin's muted senses registered all these things one by one as she awoke. Her hands were twisted up behind her and she winced, realizing they were bound tightly with some kind of rope. Something warned her to keep her eyes closed. It was too painful to think about opening them anyway, her fuzzy brain reminded her. She lay like that, listening, trying to reorient herself.

  Mingled with the scent of the straw beneath her face, she could smell the ocean; hear its constant surge close by, punctuated by the distant cry of seabirds.

  Kierin focused on the sound of voices a few feet away. Men's voices. One sounded familiar. Were they talking about her? Realization came with a sickening rush of adrenaline to her aching head.

  John Talbot.

  "...have no way of knowing that," she heard him saying to the other main.

  "Ah, señor—el precio es diferente por bártulos dañado," the other man replied. "The price is different for damaged goods. My customers like virgenes. They pay a lot of money for them. Of course," he amended, "the American woman will bring a good price, too, virgen or no. Such hair. The color of fire. You did not exaggerate when you spoke of her."

  Kierin heard the crunch of straw as one of the men walked toward her. She lay perfectly still, feigning the deep, even breath of sleep. Oh God, don't let him touch me.

  "There's only one way to be sure," came Talbot's voice close to her face. "But I want her awake when you do it."

  She could hear the smile of anticipation in his voice.

  The Mexican chuckled gruffly. "Whatever your pleasure, señor. Perhaps—if she is not in one piece, so to speak—we can have a little fun with la señorita before I take her."

  "That," Talbot snarled, "would more than compensate me for the loss of a few dollars, Señor Dragón."

  Kierin's heart pounded in her ears so loudly she thought they must be able to hear it, too. A booted toe nudged her roughly in the ribs and she couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that betrayed her.

  Talbot laughed. "So, you're awake, my little wildcat. Why don't you open your eyes so we can have a little talk?"

  Kierin squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "Go to hell."

  His hand cinched around her upper arm and she felt herself being hauled up like a sack of grain. She cried as he wrenched her shoulder and a white hot pain traveled down her arm.

  "Hell. That's just where you're heading, Miss McKendry," he said with a vicious smile after hauling her to her knees.

  She blinked back the nauseating dizziness that made her rock unsteadily before him and she sat down hard on her heels. Her head felt swollen and pounded with every beat of her heart. She pressed her lips together against the pain.

  When it passed, Kierin glanced at her surroundings for the first time. She was in some kind of storehouse. Crates and hogsheads were stacked everywhere and the floor was covered with a thin layer of straw. Above them, a shadowy loft, stacked with more crates and barrels. High on the far wall was a window, propped open with a stick of wood. Moonlight spilled through the dirty panes, mingling with the harsh yellow glow from the lantern hanging on the wall. Talbot's man, Belson, lounged languidly against an upright wooden beam, cleaning his fingernails with a piece of straw.

  "Ah, que bonita..." crooned the Mexican to Talbot. "Such a beauty is rare, amigo. She is even more beautiful awake than asleep, eh?" He reached down and tipped her chin to either side to get a better look. Kierin jerked her head from his grasp and fired an angry glare in his direction. Her auburn hair spilled across her face.

  "And fiery, too? This is very good. We will tame those fires, señorita, and put them to good use."

  Tears prickled the backs of Kierin's eyes, but she refused to let them see her cry. Hopelessness settled like a mantle of snow on her shoulders. She had no illusions that she'd be able to overpower these two. They could do whatever they wanted to her and she'd be helpless to stop it. Oh, why didn't I listen to Clay and stay with Jacob? Clay's face swam up in her memory—the gentle handsome face she'd never see again. Forgive me, my darling.

  There was no one now. No one who would help her. She was completely, utterly alone. I'll die before I let them touch me, she swore silently.

  "El Dragón is very good at what he does, Kierin. I think you two will get along famously."

  "Why?" The tremble in her voice betrayed her desperation. "Why are you doing this?"

  He laughed in disbelief. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so she could get a good look at his face. "Why? You can look at this hideous excuse for an eye and ask me that question? Women used to beg to get into my bed. Now,"—a shudder ran through him—"they turn the other way so they won't have to look at me. I have you to thank for that." He let her hair go with a shove.

  "No, I've been looking forward to this moment for a long time." Talbot slipped his fine brown wool jacket off his shoulders and dropped it atop a crate beside him. "It was an easy matter to find your father once I got here and even easier to convince him of my honorable intentions toward you. One of my greatest talents has always been knowing a man's vulnerable spots. Your father's happens to be money. Or more specifically," he amended, "the lack of it.

  "He was well paid to betray you, Kierin. Perhaps that thought will console you while you rot in one of Dragón's brothels in Mexico. I, for one, will think of you there often, with great pleasure."

  Kierin choked back the tears that bunched in her throat and tipped her chin up defiantly. "You think it's your eye that makes people turn away from you, Talbot? Well, you're wrong. It's that empty place inside you where a conscience should be. That's what frightens people. Oh, they'll come to your gambling house and your dens of sin. Some will even come to your bed if the price is right.

  "But you'll never experience what it is to care about another person or to have that person care for you. Thank God I had it once in my life before this. With Clay. I'll always have that to hang on to, until the day I die. And you can never take that away, no matter what you do to me."

&nb
sp; Talbot laughed as if her words hadn't affected him, but she could see they had. "Clay Holt—that cow pusher." Talbot rolled a sudden kink out of his neck as if it pained him. "He'll get what's coming to him, too."

  "You were the one behind his wife's murder, weren't you?"

  Talbot's eyes narrowed into a frown and his gaze shifted nervously to Dragón and Belson, who were watching him closely.

  "Did you think he wouldn't put two and two together by now and realize that you were the one who murdered her?" she asked, feeling suddenly lightheaded with the knowledge that she'd surprised him. "You're a dead man already and you don't know it, because when Clay finds out what you've done to me, he'll find you and kill you."

  Talbot slapped her across the face, knocking her down to the straw floor. "Shut up!"

  Kierin smiled up at him. "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

  Talbot started at her again but the Mexican stopped him. "Muchacho," Dragón prodded gruffly. "El tiempo buela. Time flies. Let us settle our business."

  Talbot shrugged, regaining his composure. "Ah, yes. There is that little matter of your virginity, Kierin. Bothersome, I know," he said with an indifferent smile, "but it seems important to my friend here." Talbot started walking toward her.

  Kierin frantically scuffled backward on her side. There was no more stalling for time. A sick feeling rose in her throat. She knew exactly what he wanted to do. She knew she'd rather die than let Talbot put his hands on her. "Don't you dare touch me!"

  "You don't seem to understand, Kierin. I'm not asking your permission." With a tip of his head, he gestured to Belson and Dragón, who walked toward her.

  "Please... don't—" She tried to get her feet under her but she couldn't.

  Belson took her by the shoulders and forced her down so that her head knocked painfully against the floor. With her hands tied behind her back, she could only use her feet as weapons. She flailed them wildly, connecting twice with Talbot's shin before he grabbed her ankle and pinioned it to the floor.

  Shock and pain staggered her senses. She felt hands groping with her skirts, heard the fabric of her under clothes rip. A wordless scream welled up from the depths of her being. Its throaty, desperate pitch shattered the still night air, silencing the seabirds and blotting out the sound of the waves.

  Chapter 23

  Cain raised his hand, signaling Clay and Matthew to stop. He pointed to a dimly lit building that sat on the edge of the waterfront. Anchored just off shore was a fine-looking two-masted sloop ready for sail. The boat rocked in the waves from side to side and the small lantern atop one mast swung gently back and forth like a soundless church bell.

  "Is this it?" Clay's voice was low and harsh.

  "Yeah," Cain answered.

  "You sure?"

  Cain nodded, squinting at the wooden structure in the shadowy light from the quarter-moon. "He's meeting El Dragón here. That's his sloop."

  "Good." The butt end of Clay's pistol came down on the back of Cain's head with a dull thud. The man's eyes went wide for the moment it took his body to assimilate the blow, then he dropped from his horse to the ground like a fallen oak.

  Clay glanced at Matthew, who was staring wide-eyed at the fallen man. "He'll live, don't worry."

  "I don't care about him," the boy replied defensively. "You just took me by surprise is all."

  Clay threw his leg over his horse's back and dismounted, thinking the boy wasn't as tough as he wanted everyone to think he was. "That was the idea." Clay spared the body of the giant sprawled on the ground a brief glance. "Surprised the hell out of him, too, I imagine."

  He looped Taeva's reins around the branches of a nearby bush. Before he'd finished, Matthew had dismounted and done the same. Clay had serious reservations about involving Matthew in any of this, but from the looks of it, he'd need his help—if only to provide a distraction.

  He took the boy by the shoulders. "This is going to get dangerous. I don't plan on letting Talbot walk out of there alive."

  "I know."

  "I don't want you in the middle of this when it happens, you hear?"

  Matthew stared at him.

  "You hear me?"

  "I heard you. Are you going to stand here talking about it all night or are we going to go and get her?"

  Clay let out a long shaky breath. Perspiration dotted his upper lip. I should know better than to try to argue with a McKendry, he mused with a surrendering smile. "Let's go."

  They circled around the building silently. Clay had considered storming the building through the front door, but discarded the idea. He had no idea how many guns were in there and it would more than likely put Kierin directly in the line of fire. There'd be no second chances here, he thought grimly. The element of surprise would be his best weapon. He had to get a closer look to see what his best approach was.

  Inside, where a light shone dimly through a propped window and the thin cracks between the planked wooden walls, they could hear the voices of two men talking. A small window opened onto each side of the large one-room building. From the ground, he caught sight of a partial loft over the right side of the room. His skin prickled. Where there was a loft, there was a door.

  "C'mon," he whispered to Matthew.

  * * *

  Asa McKendry drew his horse to a stop beside the others and slid awkwardly off the animal. He pulled the rifle from its sheath noiselessly. His breath came in harsh rolling gasps, but he forced himself forward on legs that felt like river mud. His eyes focused only on the splinters of light coming from the barnlike building in front of him.

  It was too late for him, he mused, stumbling ahead. Too late to recover the mistakes he'd made in his life. Too late to win his children back. But not too late to help them. He'd get Kierin out of there. Whether he survived it or not made no difference.

  * * *

  On the far side of the warehouse, Clay found what he was looking for. An L-shaped beam protruded from the center of the roof, beneath a squat triangular portico. Behind the block and tackle that dangled, suspended from the beam, was a rough wooden door leading to the loft. A sturdy wooden ladder was built against the wall.

  As Clay's foot struck the first rung of the ladder, he heard the raised voices of a man and a woman. Adrenaline pumped through him at the sound of it.

  Kierin.

  He still couldn't make out her words, but he recognized the inflection. Her voice urged him on. Hold on, Princess, I'm coming.

  Matthew was right behind him by the time he reached the loft door. Carefully lifting the wooden latch, Clay prayed the door wouldn't squeak when he opened it. That thought went right out of his head at the sound of Kierin's gut-wrenching scream. Caution gone, Clay threw open the door and charged into the loft.

  At the same moment, the front door crashed open and the explosive roar of a discharged rifle thundered through the cavernous room. Clay slid to his knees at the edge of the loft just as a swarthy black-haired man flew backward from the force of the gunshot and landed in a lifeless heap on the straw-strewn floor. Clay saw another taller man duck low and roll behind a crate while drawing his gun.

  At the wide-flung entry door, Asa lowered his smoking rifle disgustedly. "Ye bastard, Talbot!" his voice boomed on the heels of the shot. "I'll kill ye with my bare hands."

  "Papa!" Kierin screamed in warning, but it was too late. Talbot's own pistol screamed in retort. Asa slammed back against the door and crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding chest.

  "No-o-o-o!" Kierin shrieked, and hurled herself at her father's murderer. She struck him from behind, causing Talbot's knees to buckle. The gun flew from his hand and landed a few feet away with a noisy clatter.

  Then he landed on her—hard. The air rushed from her lungs in a painful whoosh. With her face pressed into the cold straw floor, she gasped for breath. She heard Talbot swear and roll his excruciating weight off her. Reflexively, she drew her knees up to her chest, in the vain search for air. Her chest ached and hammered and she writhed against th
e floor, trying to prime her deprived lungs.

  Dimly, over the roar in her own ears, she heard another sound—a fierce growl, more animal than human—and caught the fleeting glimpse of buckskin and flashing gunmetal. The banshee dropped out of the loft above them, landing on Talbot with a bone-rattling thud. The two rolled across the floor, locked in a desperate, pummeling struggle.

  Kierin coughed, then gasped as her breath returned in fitful choking puffs. Finally, her lungs sucked in deep draughts of life-giving air. Strength returned to her limbs. Spitting straw from her mouth, she rolled onto her side and, using her knees for leverage, struggled to sit up.

  Shock raced through her as she caught sight of the men wrestling with each other. Her eyes fell to the long-legged man in buckskin whose face was hidden from her as the two men tumbled over and over. Yet she knew there was no mistaking the lean, powerful body which had become as familiar to her as her own.

  Clay. Oh, Clay it's you. She saw the flash of the gun Clay held tightly in his grip. Talbot ended up on top of Clay, fighting for possession of the weapon. He slammed Clay's wrist against the floor and simultaneously sent his right fist crashing into Clay's face. The gun sailed free and landed beneath a crate, out of reach.

  Clay's fist returned the blow in kind, and sent Talbot rocking back off balance. Rolling the other man off him and grabbing him by the shirtfront, Clay savagely punished Talbot's jaw with another blow and the man flew backward, his face bloodied and battered.

  Clay swayed on his knees, searching the ground for his gun. With his back to Belson, Clay didn't see the man taking a bead on him from behind the stack of wooden boxes.

  "Clay, watch out!" shouted a warning voice from above them. Clay ducked, rolling to the ground and the shot went wild, slapping into a barrel of molasses. Thick brown liquid exploded from the hole and oozed down the side of the barrel.

  Behind the crate, Belson was frantically reloading his pistol while trying to retreat from his position. A bloodcurdling war-whoop rent the air as Matthew dropped from the loft down onto the man's back.

  Belson's surprised yelp was cut short by a blow from the heavy handle of Matthew's hunting knife. The big man let out a grunt and sank like a stone to the floor.