Holt's Gamble Page 15

  The place they'd called home wasn't much, but even now, if he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the earthy blend of wood smoke and tanned hides which were as much a part of the small cabin they shared as the rough-hewn timbers that supported it.

  "How could I forget that little hole we called home?" he asked, pulling himself from the self-indulgent memory. "Those were good times, Ben."

  Ben made a sound deep in his throat as if the memory gave him as much pleasure as it did Clay. He took a few long draws on the stem of his pipe and leaned forward. His fringed elbows dangled over his knees. "I was right sorry to hear about your troubles a few years back, Clay."

  Clay's back straightened and his gaze flicked up involuntarily to Kierin. She was clearing the dishes with Dove. For a fraction of a second, she looked up to search his face and the tenderness in her eyes sent an unexpected shock rippling through him. He glanced away quickly, afraid to ponder what was behind that tenderness.

  It shouldn't have surprised him that word of what had happened on his ranch had gotten around to Ben. Still, it did. "How'd you hear?"

  "Old Tom Fitzpatrick. Said he'd run into you at the Fort Laramie powwow a couple years back. Said you was after the bastards that done it." He paused, waiting for Clay to respond.

  Silence.

  "You ever get 'em, son?" Ben prodded gently.

  The familiar mask descended over Clay's face, but this time the look was couched in pain. "Two of 'em," he admitted. "Never did find the other one. He was hiding behind the name of some company that was trying to buy up the land north of Oregon City for the timber. After the fire, near as I could figure, the third man sold out and moved back East. That's where I've been for the better part of three years."

  Ben crossed his moccasined feet, pulling them close to his body, and wrapped his arms around his knees Indian-style. "Damn shame," he said with a regretful shake of his head. "You headed back there now? To Oregon?"

  "Yeah. The trail is cold behind me now. If I go back to where I began, maybe..." His voice drifted off, his thought left unspoken. The fire hissed in the silence that fell. Across the encampment someone was playing a wistful tune on a mouth harp.

  "Maybe it's time to let it go, son," Ben suggested gently.

  The flare of anger in Clay's eyes was brief and, out of respect for Ben, disappeared almost as fast as it came.

  Let it go, Clay repeated silently. It was a litany that had crossed his own mind many times in the past few years though the very idea seemed a betrayal. Until now, no one had dared to say it to him, but it was a sentiment he'd read often in Jacob's eyes.

  In his heart, he knew they were both right. Killing those two men hadn't brought back Amanda or their child. Instinctively, he'd known from the start that she wouldn't have wanted it. That wasn't her way.

  None of that had mattered to him three years ago, so blinded was he by anger and hatred. It had simply become, over the years, a personal vendetta for him—a temporary if fleeting balm for the pain of his loss. Revenge, he'd discovered, wasn't sweet and it hadn't changed anything.

  Except him.

  "About Tom Fitzpatrick, Ben," Clay began, wanting to change the subject but reluctant to embark on an equally painful one.

  Ben quickly came to his old friend's defense. "Aw, he didn't mean no harm, tellin' me about your troubles, Clay. He was worried about you is all."

  "I know. It's not that." He hesitated again, knowing what good friends the two men had been in the old days. "I saw Tom this winter, in Washington."

  "Hell's bells. Washington? Ain't he come up in the world?" Ben chucked a sound through his teeth. "Washington. Well, he makes a damn good Indian agent and that's a fact. How the hell is he?"

  "He... died this past winter, Ben," Clay answered slowly. "Pneumonia."

  Ben was quick to hide the stricken look that leaped to his eyes. Clay knew Fitz had been a good friend and a dependable trapping partner to Ben in years gone by. He was a man you could count on in a squeeze. He watched as the trapper mechanically tamped another wad of tobacco into the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe.

  "When he heard I was heading West again," Clay continued, "he asked me to deliver his last report to the new commander at Fort Laramie. Some green first lieutenant named Randall."

  "A first lieutenant?" Ben nearly choked on the smoke from his pipe. "What the hell are they trying to do? Start a goddamn war? Them West Point Willies is so wet behind the ears they don't know their asses from a hole in the ground, much less a hostile Indian from a friendly one."

  Clay shrugged in silent agreement.

  "Why you?" Kierin asked, wiping her damp hands on the towel she'd pinned around her dress as an apron. "Surely they've appointed a new agent for the Plains tribes by now."

  Clay looked up at her. "By now I'm sure they have. But Tom asked me to do this as a personal favor to him, partly because I was there with him in 'fifty-one when the treaty was negotiated and I know the terms. He told me the Sioux were pretty hot last year over a long list of grievances, including cuts in their annuities."

  "Annuities?" Kierin asked.

  "The U.S. government promised to pay the Plains tribes in goods each year for the right to move the wagons through their territory safely."

  Ben shook his head sadly. "Ain't no stoppin' it now," he predicted as much to himself as to the others sitting around the fire. "Annuities or no, the day's coming when the Indians is gonna run outta fuse with the wasikun, the white man. There won't be no place safe out here for us to be."

  Dove touched Ben's sleeve and, for the first time since Kierin had met her, spoke in remarkably good English. "You are brother to the Sioux, Mato." she told him proudly. "Many have smoked your pipe of friendship. No Sioux brave will harm you."

  The old man's face crinkled in a sad but affectionate smile. "There's truth in your words, Wakinyela. But there'll come a time, mark my word, when no wasikun's hair'll be safe on the prairie, because the Indians doin' the scalpin' won't bother with all them pleasantries like introductions."

  "Then," she answered, "you must wear a fine tunic. I will quill it for you as I did once for my brother. Then all will know you are Sioux—here." She tapped a closed fist over her heart.

  Ben's expression had turned solemn. "You do me honor, Dove." Dove fell silent again, but sat back on her heels with a satisfied smile.

  From across the fire, Jacob watched Dove with a half smile tipping his mouth. "She speaks better'n I do. But I guess that ain't hard."

  A blush crept up Dove's cheeks and she stared at the ground.

  Ben seemed to swell with pride. "She knew some from a white girl the Pawnee took alongside her, and the rest she picked up from me. I'll be hornswaggled if she ain't the smartest woman I ever met."

  Dove busied herself shoving a few dry logs onto the fire, looking as if she'd prefer to be anywhere but there. Ben patted her back with awkward affection as Jacob rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Tossing the stick he'd been stirring the fire with into the blaze, he stood up. "Jim gave me first watch tonight, so I best be on my way." He turned to Dove. "I ain't thanked you proper for savin' my life today, Wakin-yela," he told her, stumbling over her proper name. "I... I'm beholden to you."

  Dove didn't answer but searched Jacob's dark eyes for a long moment. Kierin watched something elusive spark between them before Dove nodded and lowered her eyes. Almost reluctantly it seemed, Jacob pulled his gaze from her, bid them all good night, and walked off into the darkness.

  Ben rubbed the stem of his pipe for a moment thoughtfully. "Well," he said, slapping his thigh, "I'm plumb tuckered out. Think I'll hit the hay. You comin', Dove?"

  The Indian woman cast a furtive glance into the darkness after Jacob. Then, in spite of her condition, she rose gracefully from her knees and took her place beside Ben.

  "G'night, Dove, Ben," Clay said, standing to clasp the old trapper's hand once more. "It's damn good to see you again."

  "You too, boy," Ben answered, taking Clay's hand in bot
h of his in a warm handshake.

  Long after they'd gone, Clay stood staring off into the darkness, lost in thought. Watching him, Kierin realized no one would be privy to the memories he grappled with. He's such a solitary man. He kept his thoughts and emotions bottled up within him like fine whiskey. Were they too precious to share, she wondered, or too painful?

  "Well, I think I'll take a walk," Clay told her finally, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denims. "I'll be back... later."

  Disappointment stung her as she watched him walk away. It had become his habit to take a walk at night, giving her time to prepare for bed in private. It was a consideration that she'd always been grateful for.

  Until tonight.

  She didn't feel like going to sleep and she was much too wound up to be tired. Before she could stop herself, she called after him. "Do you want some company?" Her courage nearly faltered as he turned to face her with that inscrutable expression of his. "I'm... not really sleepy yet," she added with a hopeful smile.

  He pulled his hands slowly out of his pockets. "Sure. I just thought..."

  Ignoring him, Kierin took a deep breath of the crisp evening air. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" she asked, taking his arm.

  Clay nearly jumped at the contact. He released a shaky breath. "Mm-hm," he agreed, letting his eyes roam over the deep auburn color of her hair in the moonlight. "Beautiful."

  The obsidian sky above her glittered with a million pinpricks of light, scattered like so many seeds in the wind. Wildflowers scented the gentle breeze. Across the encampment, a fiddle and melodian had joined the harmonica and a crowd had gathered around the fire to listen.

  Clay and Kierin strolled slowly toward the group.

  "It's on nights like this," Kierin said, breaking their comfortable silence, "that I miss Matthew the most."

  "Matthew. Is that your brother?"

  Kierin nodded. "We used to study the stars when the sky was clear like this. He was quite accomplished for a ten-year-old."

  Clay stopped walking. "Your brother's only ten?"

  "He was a year ago. He's nearly eleven now. Why?"

  "I don't know," he answered. "I thought... when you said you had a brother in California, it was an older brother. Your whole family out there?"

  Her expression changed subtly. "Just my father and Matthew. My mother died soon after Matthew was born."

  "How did you happen to stay behind in Independence?" he asked, suddenly wanting to know.

  Kierin looked away uncomfortably. She didn't want to talk about this; it was too painful. But it needed saying. "Didn't you even look at those papers you signed back there?"

  Her answer threw him off balance. "What are you talking about?"

  She sighed into the night air, emotion burning the backs of her eyes. "It was my father who left me with John Talbot to work off his gambling debt. He... took my brother and went to California to find gold."

  "He what?"

  Kierin didn't raise her head. It shamed her to think of what had been done to her. "He said he'd come back for me when he struck it rich."

  "Christ!" he swore. "Your own father? Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

  Kierin's eyes met his on common ground. "Would it have changed anything if I had?"

  His eyebrows went up fractionally. "I... I don't know. You could have told me anyway."

  "Why? Like you've told me about yourself? About your wife or Ben?"

  His expression stilled and grew serious. "That's different," he replied.

  "Is it?" She stopped and faced him. "You know, I found out more about you today from that old trapper than I have from you in a whole month."

  "That's just who I am, Kierin," he told her without apology. "Don't expect things from me I can't give you."

  She laid a hand tentatively on his arm and tipped her chin up to look at him. "It doesn't have to be that way between us, you know."

  Clay searched her eyes for a truth he knew he'd find there. It would be so easy to trust her. Easy to share the burden he'd been carrying for so long with a woman like her. But it was an old habit, long ingrained and hard to break. Even if he did tell her about the ghosts that haunted his sleep, it would serve no purpose. He had his devils to chase and she had hers.

  Impulsively, he pulled her close to him in the darkness. "It's better if you don't get to know me too well, Princess," he told her, splaying his fingers across her back. "You might not like what you find."

  For a long moment, she allowed his arms to enfold her in his embrace. She pressed her cheek against the hard wall of his chest. It felt good just to stand there and let him hold her like this.

  "Is that really what you're afraid of, Clay?" she asked against his sleeve. "Or are you simply afraid to let anyone that close to you again?" She untangled herself from his arms and shrugged her loose-woven shawl around her shoulders. Not wanting to hear his answer, she walked on ahead of him into the circle of music and light, leaving him behind to ponder her words.

  Chapter 11

  Fort Kearny sat on a low sandy bluff overlooking the Platte River. Originally called the Post at Grand Island, both for its lack of fortification and its view of the large, tree studded sandbar on the Platte, Kearny was not much more than an unimpressive collection of buildings strung out around a rectangular parade ground.

  The fort was, nonetheless, a bustling center of activity on the Oregon Trail. As the only munitions and supply depot between Forts Leavenworth and Laramie, Kearny served as a hub in the spokes of the army's Western deployment and as protection for the California and Oregon-bound emigrants.

  Kierin's disappointment with Kearny's lackluster appearance was short-lived. The fort was humming with the sounds of civilization—something she hadn't realized she'd missed until now. Everywhere she looked, there were people. Blue-uniformed troops drilled in the central square under the noonday sun, while others lounged near the soldiers' barracks watching the wagons roll into the fort. Civilians peppered the walkways in street clothing.

  A two-column formation of mounted cavalry troops stirred up a cloud of dust as they rode by the wagons on their way to patrol. They galloped past a small ragged contingent of tepees camped near the entrance. The Indians were Pawnee for the most part and a few Ponca. Kierin eyed them nervously as Jim Kelly called a halt to the wagons.

  Clay, who was riding alongside the wagon, reined in Taeva and dismounted. Kierin started to climb down from her perch on the wagon seat, but suddenly felt Clay's strong hands around her waist. Effortlessly, he lifted her down and set her on the ground. His hands lingered at her waist, and a half-smile crossed his face.

  "Jim's giving us an hour or so to buy what provisions we need before we make camp," he said. A teasing look lit his eyes. "I don't suppose you're interested in accompanying me to the sutler's store, are you?"

  After more than a month in the wilderness, the idea of browsing through a shop surrounded by four solid walls sounded like heaven. She lifted an eyebrow in mock warning. "Just try to leave me behind, Clay Holt..."

  He chuckled in response. "Jacob? You want to come along?"

  Jacob untied the neckerchief at his throat and wiped his dark face with it. "Naw," he drawled. "I reckon I'll head over to the ordnance depot." With a nod of his head, he indicated the thick-walled earthen building at the north end of the fort. "We's running low on balls and powder. I'll meet you back here if you needs a hand." Jacob started to saunter off, but turned around, walking backward a few steps. "Be obliged if you'd pick up some more tobacco an' papers for me," he called. "Oh, and if they got a peppermint stick or two..."

  Clay grinned at Jacob, well aware of his innocuous vices. "You sure you don't want to come with us...?"

  Jacob waved him off good-naturedly and headed across the parade grounds.

  Ben appeared at Clay's shoulder with Dove. "You reckon DuBecque still runs the sutler's store here?" the old trapper asked, massaging his fingers through his thinning hair before replacing the knit cap that a
lmost always covered his head.

  "Probably," Clay replied with an offhanded grin as they started toward the store. At Kierin's questioning look, he explained. "DuBecque was trading with the Ponca and Pawnee in these parts before the fort was even here. That rascal could fleece a bear out of his winter coat and then convince the poor animal that he'd done him a favor. If the old fella's got a breath in him, you can bet he's still at it."

  Ben threw his head back and let out a booming hoot of concurring laughter. "Don't let DuBecque hear ya talkin' that way. He'll have you horse-tradin' fer feather pillows without the stuffin'."

  The small, but bustling sutler's shop was tucked between the quartermaster's store and the officers' quarters. The first thing that caught Kierin's eye as she walked in were the rich pelts of beaver, fox, and wolverine that decorated the rough-hewn walls. Racks of anders and antelope prongs hung over the windows and doorway. Shelves stocked with tinned goods and other paraphernalia laddered up two sides of the room.

  At the opposite end of the room, a long double-planked bar rested atop two oak barrels. Several men lounged nearby nursing whiskeys while a middle-aged woman dressed in baggy trousers and a loose-fitting flannel shirt poured drinks for others. Her gray-streaked hair frizzled around her face like a halo, seemingly immune to all attempts at controlling it. She was laughing at something one of the men said.

  Ben smiled and walked past the hogsheads of apples and the fragrant pickle barrels to where the woman stood. "Still got a steady hand on the pour, I see."

  The woman's head snapped around in instant recognition of the voice. Her dark brown eyes widened with surprise. "As I live and breathe!" she gasped. "Ben! Ben Crowley!" She fairly leaped from behind the bar to give him an enormous bear hug, which he returned with equal enthusiasm. His eyes squeezed shut as if he were trying to carve the moment of holding her in his memory as a keepsake.