Holt's Gamble Read online

  Kierin turned to Jacob and an astonished Jim Kelly. "Excuse me, will you?" She followed Holt into the darkness. Spotting him stalking to the river, she ran to catch up with him.

  "Mr. Holt." Her call fell on deaf ears. He kept moving toward the water. "Clay, stop—will you? Please, I need to talk to you."

  Chapter 6

  Holt turned just as Kierin caught up to him. They nearly collided there, beneath the spreading branches of an ancient elm that stood alone at the edge of the Kansas. She regained her balance, talking great care not to touch him. He pointedly made no effort to help her.

  "Just tell me this," Holt demanded, leaning one hand imperiously against the trunk of the giant tree which stood like a sentinel between them. "Was it your bright idea to tell the whole damned train we were married-"

  "No—I—"

  "—and just who the hell do you think you are, saying something like that?" he continued, ignoring her denial.

  Kierin drew back, stung by the contempt she heard in his voice.

  "I—I'll thank you not to swear at me, Mr. Holt," she said at last, swallowing back the knot of tears in her throat.

  "I'll say anything I damn well please, Miss McKendry," he told her, his blue eyes blazing with anger. "Or should I call you Mrs. Holt, since you seem to have so handily arranged our marriage. I should have guessed how skilled you were at deceit, madam, considering your particular field of expertise."

  His words were aimed to wound and they found their mark with deadly accuracy. Her hand slashed out at his face, but he caught her wrist in his viselike grip before she could connect with a stinging slap.

  "Ah, the cat has claws."

  Her eyes narrowed with anger. "You're wrong about me, Mister Holt."

  "Am I?" he scoffed. He pulled her roughly against him and wound his fingers in her hair, forcing her head back so she'd have to look at him. "I don't think so."

  Kierin's eyes widened at the dangerous glint in his dark blue ones. A current of fear swept through her like an icy blast of air. He had never given her cause to fear him before, but now she knew it had been foolish to come out here to talk with him alone. Would anyone hear her if she screamed? She tried to twist free of his iron like grip, but he was too strong.

  "Let... go of me. Don't you touch me."

  A hard-bitten smile crossed his face. "Don't touch you?" he asked incredulously. He pulled her closer still, drawing her tighter against his lean, hard body. "Surely you can't mean to refuse you own husband?"

  Before she could answer, Holt's mouth slammed down on hers in a punishing kiss. It was a kiss born of anger, not passion, and his lips ground against hers, bruising her and devouring her muffled cry of fear. The harsh stubble on his face burned her tender skin, but he seemed not to notice. With her fists, she pushed against his chest. The heel of one hand slid over his bandaged shoulder and she heard his grunt of pain but it didn't stop him.

  She felt herself being pushed back hard against the trunk of the elm behind her. Holt trapped her there with the weight of his own body. His mouth clung possessively to hers, leaving her only for the second it took to change its slashing diagonal attack.

  Kierin fought him and struggled for breath, but her resistance only seemed to make him more insistent. Finally, she forced herself to go limp in his arms, knowing that it was useless to pit herself against his sinewy strength.

  She could feel the pounding of his heart against her chest, the hardness of his arousal that pressed against the soft curve of her belly, and finally, she heard the moan that escaped him as his kiss deepened, gentled, changing from fury to need.

  In spite of her anger, something deep within her was stirred awake by the fiery touch of his lips on hers. A tremor passed through her when his hand slid up the side of her ribs and closed over her breast, caressing and claiming it at once. She stiffened, hating herself for responding to him, for allowing him to have any effect on her at all.

  Kierin gasped when he wrenched his mouth abruptly from hers. She took small comfort in the fact that his breathing was as ragged and uneven as her own. His chiseled face remained only inches from hers, while his steely eyes probed the shadowed depths of hers.

  "Are you quite through?" she choked indignantly.

  Holt's eyes remained locked with hers and he blew out a harsh breath. "Do you want me to be?"

  "You arrogant—there's n-nothing I want more in this world." Tears of humiliation stung her eyes and she ran the back of her hand angrily across her cheek where his beard had burned her. She could still feel the heat of his kiss on her lips but she would never admit what that kiss had done to her.

  He traced a calloused finger down the hollow of her reddened cheek. "Next time, I'll be sure to shave first," he murmured close to her ear in a voice that reflected no regret for what had just happened.

  "There won't be a next time if I can help it." She shrank back from his unexpectedly gentle touch.

  Holt watched her with a mixture of heated passion and anger. He was still trying to come to terms with the effect she had just had on him. He had meant to hurt her, humiliate her.

  But he'd found the sensation of her soft breasts crushed against him—the smooth sweetness of her skin next to his—dangerous in a way that startled him, made him pull away from her before he did something he'd regret. Still, he wouldn't—couldn't—release her.

  "I wouldn't bet on that," he replied in answer to her retort. His heated gaze took in the way the silver moonlight played across her cheek. His fingers still bit into the soft flesh of her upper arms.

  "Oh, that's right," Kierin returned venomously, "when you're not attacking women, you're betting on them!"

  Holt laughed. "You alone have that dubious distinction, Princess."

  "Stop calling me that."

  "What?"

  "Princess. My name is—"

  "Kierin..." he finished, "Kierin Holt. Which brings me back to my original question."

  Kierin looked away from him and worried the edge of her lip. "You'll pardon me if I've forgotten what that was," she lied.

  "Shall I prod your memory?" With a disingenuous smile, he fitted his hips suggestively against hers.

  "No." She pushed him away with her hand. "That won't be necessary. Please let me go. I can't think when you're standing so close."

  My thoughts exactly, Holt mused as she squirmed in his embrace, but he didn't release her.

  Her chin came up stubbornly. "I won't say another word until you let me go."

  "All right then," he agreed, reluctantly loosening his hold on her. Holt stepped back, ignoring the painful messages his shoulder was sending him. Right now, he wanted answers. And one way or the other, he meant to get them.

  Kierin took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her throat to still the pounding of her heart. She eyed him warily, afraid that any moment he might spring again. Her glance darted furtively, searching for an escape route, but she sighed, knowing there was none.

  "I'm waiting," he said impatiently.

  In an unconscious gesture, she moistened her bruised upper lip with the tip of her tongue. She flinched when Holt straightened, but he made no advance toward her. "I told Jacob it was a bad idea," she began. "I would have—"

  "Jacob. What the hell has Jacob got to do with this?" he demanded, clearly miffed that she would try to involve his old friend in this.

  "Nothing. And everything. It was my fault for going along with it in the first place."

  "Will you stop talking in circles, woman? Look, I may still be a little confused about last night, but I sure as hell would have remembered exchanging 'I do's' with you—" Holt stopped, a worried frown creasing his brow. "I think..." The possibility that he might have no memory of exactly that, seemed not to have occurred to him until this very moment. "Hell. We're not, are we?"

  "Not... what?" Kierin asked, wanting suddenly to prolong his obvious discomfort.

  Holt took a threatening step closer to her. "Blast it, you know what," he nearly shouted. Then, at
her stubborn, closed expression, he lowered his voice. "Not married, damn it all."

  "I asked you before not to swear at me, Mr. Holt." She knew she was pressing her luck, but she found that she couldn't help herself. "If you can't keep a civil tongue—"

  Holt's eyes narrowed dangerously and he took another step toward her.

  She threw her hands up to stop him. "All right—in answer to your question—no, we're not married." She lowered her eyes, reluctant to see the relief wash over his expression. Defiantly, she skewered him with a glare of her own. "Did you honestly think I could have done the deed while you were unconscious? Nearly dead? No. It was a lie Jacob was forced to make to Beaker."

  "Go on," Clay said impatiently.

  "Before the train pulled out of Independence this morning," she continued, "the good Reverend kindly reminded Jacob that he doesn't allow 'camp followers'—I believe those were the words he used—to travel with his faithful flock." Kierin didn't attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice. "So Jacob told him that I... that I was your new wife."

  Holt raked his long fingers through his thick, dark hair with a groan. "Kierin—"

  "No—" she stopped him in a choked half-whisper, "let me finish. Granted, I should have told you earlier, but the time never seemed right. Seeing your anger now, I doubt there would have been a 'right time' to tell you something like this. You were ill and I thought I would have time to... to break it to you gently. I can see now that I was wrong."

  Ignoring his surprising look of protest, she continued, "I assure you, I find this arrangement as disagreeable as you do. I am grateful to Jacob for trying to help me, but I know now that it was... a mistake. I should never have gone along with it and I—I'm... sorry."

  Holt was shaken—not only by her words, but by the pain he saw in her eyes. Hell, he deserved her contempt. He was suddenly angry—not with her, but with himself. He'd been wrong. What had happened hadn't been her fault. And, he admitted, if he'd been in Jacob's place, he would have done exactly the same thing himself. After all, didn't he owe her that much? She had saved his life more than once. And, God knows, she didn't ask to be dragged along on this trip. He'd given her no choice. He had an obligation to protect her now. Didn't he?

  He frowned. It was a question that didn't bear repeating, Holt thought as his chest tightened with an old, unfamiliar ache. He already knew the answer.

  "No... look," he said, shaking his head, "I shouldn't have... I mean... it took me by surprise is all. I thought..." Oh, hell. It didn't matter now what he thought. He'd been wrong about her and he couldn't remember ever feeling like such a heel. "Look, I'm sorry. About what just happened. I don't know why I reacted that way. I-I'm grateful to you for saving my neck back there—"

  "I don't need your gratitude," she shot back in a cool, tempered voice. "In fact, I don't need anything from you except—it would seem—your name." She looked at him finally, her chin tilted up in defiance. "You own my papers, Mr. Holt, and I intend to pay you back in full measure for your wager. But I won't be treated like dirt under your feet, or like your backdoor whore either."

  He made no move to stop her as she determinedly sidestepped the sprawling elm trunk and found herself suddenly free from his unwanted closeness.

  "Unless you're prepared to take me back to Independence tonight, I'm afraid we'll have to live with this arrangement until others can be made." She hesitated only briefly, taking in his bewildered expression before setting the terms. "Our marriage will be in name only, for the benefit of the others on the train, and when the trip has ended, so will our so-called 'marriage.' Is that agreeable to you?"

  He searched her eyes for a moment before answering, knowing that he was responsible for the pain he saw there. "Yes," he answered finally. "But you don't—"

  "Fine," she told him abruptly. "It's settled then. Good night, Mr. Holt." She started to go, but turned back to him one last time.

  "If your shoulder should need attention again, I'm sure Jacob will be only too happy to change your dressing. He is, after all, much better versed in medicine than I."

  She waited for a moment, as if expecting him to answer, but when he gave her none, she disappeared back in the direction of the wagons.

  Holt watched her go and then slapped the palm of his good hand into the trunk of the elm in frustration, sending a jolt of pain to his already aching shoulder. He clutched it absently and threw his head back, staring blankly at the mauve-tinged evening sky. He deserved that and worse for what he had just done. He muttered a curse that echoed hollowly on the still night air.

  He could blame his overreaction on the burning ache in his shoulder, the exhaustion tugging at him or even the realization that he'd turned his life upside down by bringing her into it. But he knew his kneejerk reaction had more to do with the things he'd tried hard to put behind him for the last few years than anything to do with her.

  "Hello, Clay," came a woman's voice from behind him.

  Clay jerked his head up to see Rachael Beaker strolling toward him.

  "Rachael."

  The moonlight shimmered off her honey-blond hair. Her walk was seductive, utterly predatory. And he was definitely not in the mood for it tonight.

  They'd met on the steamboat between St. Louis and Independence several weeks ago. Rachael had been charming, available, and hungry—a combination especially appealing to him after what he'd just been through in St. Louis. They'd shared a few kisses in darkened corridors, but nothing more. It hadn't taken him long to discover that she wasn't just looking for a man—though, happily that came in the bargain—she was looking for husband material. And that, he would never be. No matter what pretense he'd be forced to keep up for the next few months.

  "What are you doing down here? You should be up near camp."

  "Just taking a walk. Why? Aren't I safe here with you. Clay?"

  "Perfectly."

  She clucked her tongue. "Too bad." She moved closer. "You know, you didn't tell me you had a fiancée waiting for you in Independence."

  "Life is full of little surprises," he returned with a shrug. He started up the hill that led back to the train. Rachael followed him.

  "Yes, isn't it? I must say, she doesn't look like your type."

  "Really?" he remarked dryly, still walking, "Just what is my type?"

  She looked up at him through a fringe of lashes. "Me, I suppose," she answered with a small laugh.

  "I thought we'd settled that, Rachael."

  "And I thought you weren't the marrying type."

  "Things change."

  "I couldn't help but notice your new wife stalking back to the wagon a few minutes ago," she went on. "She seemed upset. Honeymoon over so soon?"

  Clay turned, his expression tight. "That's none of your business, Rachael. Leave it alone."

  "It? Or you?"

  "Both."

  "I'm worried about you, is all. You don't look well, Clay. I wonder if this marriage agrees with you?"

  His shoulder throbbed, but he resisted the urge to clamp a hand over it. His patience was wearing thin. "Look Rachael, I'm... married now. Let's just leave it at that, okay? There are plenty of single men on this train who would fall all over themselves to have your attention."

  She put a slender hand on his arm. "But I don't want any of them."

  Even a week ago, her clinging had put him off. Now it simply angered him. "Leave me alone, Rachael. Leave my wife alone. Understand?" He didn't wait for her reply but turned and quickly put distance between them as he headed back to camp.

  Bed was what he really wanted. Sleep. But as he walked toward camp, he decided he didn't want to face Kierin just yet. Abruptly changing course, he headed toward Jim Kelly's wagon. He had a few misunderstandings to clear up.

  * * *

  Long after the evening winds had scoured the Stygian sky free of clouds, and the stars appeared as pinpricks of light on the velvety half-dome above her, Kierin sat in the back of the wagon staring out into the darkness. Sleep proved maddenin
gly elusive. Holt had not come back since their standoff at the river, but she wouldn't allow herself to worry about him. The insufferable mule could stay there for all she cared.

  The stars occupied her attention now, and she focused her thoughts on trying to pick out a constellation that always gave her trouble—Aquila, the Eagle, and its brightest star, Altair. Watching the night sky was something she had learned to do long ago when she was troubled. She and her brother, Matthew, would sit for hours on the roof of their small cabin outside of Independence, huddled beneath a blanket, taking turns pointing out the constellations and pouring over astronomy charts by lantern light.

  Matthew had been as eager a student of the heavens as Kierin had when their mother had taught her. In the years Sarah McKendry had been well, she had woven wonderful stories around her love of the stars—mythical tales of heroes and maidens, dragons and swans. They were the bedtime stories Kierin was raised on. She had passed them along to her brother, who embellished the yarns with fanciful escapades of his own. And how he'd loved to embellish.

  The memory of him brought a smile to her lips and she hugged her knees tightly to her, missing him immensely.

  "A penny for your thoughts," came a deep voice out of the darkness beyond the fire.

  Kierin was jolted out of her reverie by Holt's words and she tensed as he crossed to the wagon and rested a hand tiredly on the tailgate.

  "I'm afraid they're more precious than a penny," she answered coolly, forcing her gaze back up at the heavens.

  Holt traced the path of her look with his own. "I didn't mean to put a price on them."

  "Only on me then?"

  Holt slowly shifted his gaze to her. Fatigue embraced his movements like a heavy cloak. "It was just an expression, Kierin. Look, I said I was sorry for... what happened back there. But it's late. I need to sleep. Can we talk about this in the morning?"

  "I don't suppose there's much point in talking about it at all." Warding off the chill, Kierin pulled the patchwork quilt more tightly around her high-necked cotton nightgown, though she knew it was him and not the night air that sent a shiver through her.