Holt's Gamble Read online

  Kierin watched until she could see him no longer and then turned back to the fire. Steam rose from the hanging pot. Wrapping her hand in the long sleeve of Holt's buckskin shirt she lifted the pot from its hook.

  Jacob was bent over Holt, pressing a white cloth against his shoulder, when she stepped up into the wagon. She set the pot down and moved closer. In the light, Holt looked deathly pale and still. His dark curls clung damply to his face.

  "Git me that bag over on top of that crate," Jacob commanded suddenly, startling her.

  She reached for the squat leather bag and handed it to Jacob. Still holding the cloth to Holt's shoulder, Jacob reached into the bag with his free hand and pulled a small corked vial from it.

  "Mix some o' this with that warm water. Mix it up good—like you was makin' soup," he ordered.

  Kierin looked at the vial curiously. "What is it?"

  "Marigold powder. Stops the bleedin' an' holds down infection."

  "I never heard of that before."

  Ignoring her comment, he handed her a small metal bowl, and focused on Holt's wound again. Kierin poured some water into the bowl and added the powder, mixing it with her hands; the pungent odor filled the wagon's interior. When the mixture reached a consistency that seemed to please Jacob, she handed him the bowl.

  Jacob quickly tore another piece of sheeting and dipped it into the marigold decoction. He wrung it out slightly and laid it gently upon the wound, pressing it firmly.

  "That ought'a do it," he mumbled to himself. He laid a work-roughened hand on Clay's forehead. His ebony skin made a startling contrast to Holt's whiteness.

  "Come on, Clay boy..." he urged. "You gots to fight this, now. Don't you go givin' up on me here. We gots a long way to go."

  There was a softness to his voice that touched Kierin. She looked away, feeling suddenly like an intruder on the two friends.

  Jacob reached for his bag again, and pulled out a pouch filled with dried herbs. "If he wakes up, give him some tea out'a these rosehips. Keep the pressure on that bleedin' 'til it stops and change that dressin' every half hour or so 'til I gets back."

  "Back?" she stammered in bewilderment, "Where are you going?" Surely he didn't intend to leave her alone with Holt?

  "Clay left a trail of blood I reckon a blind man could follow. I just aim to backtrack a little so they don't trail him back to this wagon."

  "Oh, of course..." A wave of apprehension swept through her. What if it was too late for that already? "Be careful, Jacob."

  He nodded. Unfolding a spare blanket, he wrapped it around her shoulders. "I'm much obliged to you for bringin' Clay back," he said with grudging gentleness, a hint of a smile touching his full lips. Then he turned and left the wagon.

  * * *

  First one, then two hours passed as Kierin watched over Holt, changing the poultice on his shoulder and keeping cool cloths on his forehead. He rested fitfully. He seemed to be fighting the fever that now warmed his body and she forced sips of tea down him when he roused enough to drink it. Kierin held the blankets on him when he fought to kick them off and added her own when he shivered uncontrollably under the pile that covered him.

  All the while her concern for Jacob's safety grew. Had he been caught covering their trail? What could be keeping him so long? She looked out the half-opened flap. It was close to dawn and the sky was turning a deep, cobalt blue. The subtle change of light filtered through the white canvas of the wagon top. She pressed a hand against the ache in the small of her back, a symptom of the weariness that vibrated throughout her body.

  She returned to Holt and mechanically renewed the poultice, wringing it out in the warm water. His fever was worse, she realized, when her hand brushed his hot skin.

  "Come on, Mr. Holt," she urged him, "don't give up. You can fight this."

  Automatically, she wrung out another cool cloth for his head. She was startled when his long, slender fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her. She found him staring at her. His sky blue eyes were glazed and overly bright with fever and he frowned as if trying to focus on her face.

  "Amanda?" The word was little more than a whisper.

  "What?" Kierin leaned closer to his face.

  Holt's fingers tightened around her wrist. "Sorry... so sorry... forgive me."

  "Shh-h," she soothed, "don't try to talk."

  "No... I didn't know, Amanda... God, if I'd known..."

  "No, it's all right... Mr. Holt." Kierin tried to make her voice calm, but his growing restlessness alarmed her. Clearly, he had mistaken her for someone named Amanda in his delirium. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might be married. Could Amanda be his wife? Lover? Whoever she was, it was plain Holt cared very deeply for her.

  He struggled to sit up, but she held him down firmly.

  "I'll kill them..." he said suddenly, his voice a harsh, rasping whisper. "Bastards... my gun."

  His cold, hollow tone sent a chill through her.

  "Mr. Holt—Clay, please," Kierin begged, "stay... still." She struggled to keep him flat, but his wound began to bleed again.

  "Oh, no, " she sighed, and wrung out another cloth in the marigold solution. She pressed it against him and Holt began to shiver again.

  "C-cold... I'm... so cold. Hold me, Mandy... the snow is so c-cold."

  "Shh-hh." Kierin brushed his dark brown hair back from his forehead. She could see no other remedy. There were no more blankets to pile on him and still he trembled. Quickly, she lifted the covers and slid in beside him, nestling against the damp heat of his body. She kept one hand on the poultice, draping her arm awkwardly across his bare muscled chest, and leaned her head tentatively against his other shoulder.

  With his good arm, Holt drew her closer still, tightening his grip on her almost fiercely. Minutes passed—her body entwined intimately with his—and his shivering began to subside. Slowly, gratefully, she felt his breathing become deep and regular with sleep.

  How long she lay like that, listening to the lulling sound of his breathing—afraid to move for fear of waking him—she didn't know. Her sense of time was framed solely by the rhythmic rise and fall of Holt's chest beneath her arm. Her body molded to the lean, male contours of his, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. She watched his face in the lamp glow. The fine even features were shadowed by a dark growth of stubble and his long, dark lashes lay still in dreamless sleep. Her breathing became attuned to his and soon, despite her best efforts to stay awake, her eyes drifted shut. She had never felt so exhausted as she did now. Sleep took her gently, but insistently, as the morning sun lit the eastern horizon.

  * * *

  The rich deep scent of coffee found its way beyond the haze of sleep that had encompassed Kierin and brought her slowly to an unwilling consciousness. Her uncooperative eyes refused to open as if she were lost somewhere, deep in a dream from which she had no desire to escape. She curled toward the warmth beside her, her arm still draped across Holt's chest. Her fingers tightened around the almost dry poultice lying against his wounded shoulder.

  Kierin's eyes flew open. She sat bolt upright on the straw mattress, letting the bloodstained cloth slip from her fingers. The oil lamp had somehow gone out and she blinked in the half-light, trying to focus on the man beside her. A wave of panic swept her as she realized she had fallen asleep, leaving him completely unattended. Silently, she cursed her carelessness and leaned close to the still man to check his breathing. Relief flooded through her when she found that he was breathing with the slow, easy rhythm of sleep.

  She touched his brow lightly and found that the searing fever had subsided somewhat. Kierin sank back on her heels with a sigh of relief. She dipped the cloth in the now cooled marigold concoction and wrung it out slightly. As she placed it gently on his shoulder, her gaze traveled unbidden down the expanse of his darkly furred chest. A disturbing ripple of excitement stirred within her at the memory of lying beside him, caught in his embrace.

  Silly, she scolded herself. He was deliri
ous. He thought you were someone else. Someone, she reminded herself, named Amanda who was probably his wife. Did gamblers like him keep wives somewhere? she wondered. Holt hadn't struck her as the kind of man to settle down with any one woman. Kierin shook her head. What did she really know about this man?

  Her fingers reached out and brushed a silken strand of dark brown hair from his forehead. She only knew that she cared for him in a way she couldn't yet fully understand. A bond had formed between them in that transient moment between life and death. Her mind burned with the memory of the pain he had unwittingly shared with her last night and the warmth their bodies had imparted to each other.

  All of that didn't matter now, Kierin sighed, pulling the quilts up under Holt's chin. All that mattered was that he survive. She eased herself up off the mattress, careful not to disturb him. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she stepped out of the wagon into the dazzlingly bright morning sun.

  "Mornin', ma'am," Jacob called to her from the campfire as casually as if he said those words to her every day. With a hand rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was lifting a coffeepot from the fire. He pointed a cup in her direction. "Coffee?"

  "Jacob," she cried, "I was so worried about you. Where did you go? I thought you'd be back hours ago. I was afraid they had—"

  "I'm fine," he told her, pouring her a cup anyway. "It just took me a might longer than I expected to do what needed doin', is all."

  "Thank God, you're all right. Did anyone see you?"

  "I don't reckon I was see'd or we'd have heard from them by now," he drawled. He handed her the coffee. "I been back since nigh on sunup".

  "Sunup—" Kierin's faced flushed with the knowledge that Jacob must have seen her sleeping with Holt. "Oh, I... I'm sorry I fell asleep. Holt was so cold. It was the only thing I could think of to warm him... and I-"

  Jacob waved his hand as if to dismiss her apology. "Probably the best medicine you could 'a give him. Sometimes a man..." He hesitated and looked back at the fire before continuing. "Sometimes a man got's to have a reason to fight his way back from somethin' like that. Someone to hold him gentle—like a woman can. I 'spect that done as much for him as that powder I give ya." Jacob looked at Kierin sideways and smiled.

  There was no malice in it. No judgment. Kierin met his smile and returned it. She found that she liked Jacob. But she couldn't let him think there was more between her and Holt than there really was. She wrapped her hands around the cup and took a sip. A small sip. Strong hardly described the taste. "Jacob," she began uneasily, "it's not what you think between Holt and me."

  Jacob nodded his head, seemingly not surprised by that bit of information. "Brown told me what happened. I seen the papers in Holt's pouch. And a good size stake to boot."

  "If Holt had only known what kind of a man John Talbot was, he wouldn't have stayed in that game to bid on my papers and none of this would have happened."

  "Don't you go blamin' yourself for that," Jacob told her sternly. "Clay's the kinda man likes a challenge. Fact is, sometime he ain't as careful as he oughta be. That boy got's a wild streak in him." Jacob took a drag on his cigarette, then looked up at the wagon. "A good challenge draws him like a honeybee to a flower. Got hisself stung this time though. Stung good."

  Kierin watched the pain flit across the black man's features before he reined in his emotions. It was obvious that he cared deeply about the man in the wagon. She wondered what type of man earned that kind of loyalty from his friends.

  Jacob's voice broke into her thoughts.

  "This yours?" He handed her the tapestry bag she had dropped behind Brown's shop.

  "Yes. Oh, Jacob. You took a big risk going back there. Did you find out anything?"

  "Only that there's a posse formin' ta look for the two of you."

  "A posse," Kierin breathed.

  "Me an' Clay planned to pull out with the wagons this mornin'. I reckon as how we ain't got no choice but to stick with that."

  "This morning?" A new kind of fear sliced through her. "I'm not sure Holt can take the jolting of a ride like that. It could kill him."

  Jacob stirred the fire with a stick. "It be risky. But Clay's a strong man. I don't see how we can wait."

  "His fever is down a bit this morning," she said, hoping to convince herself that Jacob's words were true.

  "I know, I checked him when I got back from town."

  "Oh, yes... of course," she murmured dumbly. "I guess I'd better go back and look in on him." Kierin rose, picked up her bag, and started to walk toward the wagon. Jacob's worried voice stopped her.

  "Uh-oh."

  "What is it?" she asked, turning back to him.

  "Pull that blanket around you an' let me do the talkin'." He discarded his cigarette and crunched it beneath his boot. Jacob turned to the small weasel-faced man who had stepped up to their campfire.

  "Reverend Beaker." Jacob's greeting was cool and blunt.

  The man nodded curtly, but refused to actually acknowledge the black man with words.

  Kierin could almost feel the thickness in the air between the two men. Jacob's face was a study in control. The weasel—dressed entirely in black, save his white clerical collar—peered at Kierin through narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a sour expression. She flushed deeply under his scrutiny and she looked back at Jacob.

  "Somethin' I can do for you this mornin', Reverend?" Jacob asked in a tight voice.

  Beaker gestured at Kierin several times with his bony finger as if he were pointing at a piece of dust that had been missed in a cleaning.

  "You and Holt know the rules on my train about... camp followers." The words slid out of his mouth with distaste. "This is a family train, boy. We don't tolerate... single women."

  A muscle twitched in Jacob's jaw, though he managed to keep an even expression on his face.

  "I don't reckon Mr. Holt would take too kindly to you callin' his new bride a camp-follower, Reverend Beaker," Jacob said with quiet control.

  Kierin's eyes flew to Jacob in disbelief. Did he say bride? She tried to breathe normally, knowing Beaker was watching her reaction.

  Beaker pursed his thin lips. "Are you telling me that Holt has taken a wife since I saw him yesterday?"

  A smile curved Jacob's lips. "Love works in strange ways, Reverend. You ought'a know that. Besides, I reckon he couldn't face my cookin' all the way to Oregon. Mrs. Clay Holt, meet the Reverend Josiah Beaker, the spiritual leader of this here wagon train."

  Kierin clutched the blankets more tightly around her and nodded to Beaker, who stood looking down his thin nose at her. Lifting her chin, she tried her best to look self-assured.

  "Mrs. Holt," he said finally, touching the brim of his fat-crowned black hat. "I beg your pardon for the misunderstanding, ma'am." The apology came grudgingly. "Where is your husband this morning, by the way? I have yet to see him. I should offer him my congratulations."

  "He's sleepin', Reverend," Jacob said. "You know how it is with newlyweds. A little too much celebratin' last night." Jacob winked at Kierin.

  "I see.... Well, I'll be on my way then," Beaker said. "We'll be pulling out within the hour. Perhaps Mr. Holt will see his way clear to join us by then. Good day, ma'am." Beaker turned and strode out of the campsite.

  * * *

  The sound of voices penetrated Holt's senses slowly, as if the darkness that surrounded him was wrapped in thick cotton, unwinding layer by layer until the muffled sound became the familiar deep voice he recognized as Jacob's. The other voice had a higher pitch to it and he knew it was a woman's, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before. She sounded downright irritated though.

  His eyes ground open as if they'd had a fistful of sand thrown into them. He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the canvas cover and wondered briefly what he was doing lying in the wagon in the middle of the day.

  His first movement answered all of his questions and then some. A blinding pain shot up his arm and through his chest and
he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. When the throbbing subsided, the memory of last night came flooding back to him.

  He fixed his stare on the dust motes churning through the morning sunlight filtering into the wagon and tried to remember how it had all turned out—how he had gotten here. But that part of it flitted teasingly on the edge of his memory, out of reach. The image of the woman—her delicately drawn face and her green eyes, the color of a stormy sea and the way they had flashed at him, first in anger, then in fear—leapt to his mind.

  In truth, he hadn't expected either one of them to get out of that situation alive. But somehow they had. The pain in his shoulder confirmed that for him. He lay quietly, recovering his senses one by one.

  There was the smell of Jacob's coffee brewing on the fire. It was always strong enough to knock a man on his ass, he mused, but it was infinitely better than his own, so he never complained. Mingled with the coffee smell was the scent of something else that touched off a growling deep in the pit of his stomach. It was broth, whose beefy aroma drifted up tantalizingly into his senses—as readily as did the memories of the woman who had once cooked it for him.

  That thought caused him nearly as much pain as his shoulder did and he struggled to put it out of his mind.

  But the memory of holding Amanda last night came unbidden. He could still almost feel her warmth against him. He knew he must have dreamed it, but it had seemed oddly real. Holt clenched the fingers on his good hand into a fist in frustration. His brain must be as muddled as the rest of him, he reasoned. Either that or he had finally gone over the edge. Amanda was dead. Dead along with their unborn child. Dead for years.

  His grief over their deaths had consumed much of the past three years, but he thought he had gotten beyond that; left it behind him. Why then did he still imagine her touch or her voice encouraging him to fight against the death he would have once welcomed?

  A new, hot wave of pain stabbed at his shoulder and he sighed deeply, allowing the pain to take him back to the dark, comfortable place where he had been. To the place without memories.