Holt's Gamble (14 page)

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 maddeningly 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.

"We
will
talk," he told her, weariness etching deep lines around his mouth, "but not now." Before she could stop him, Holt braced a hand on a hickory bow support and, with an effort, hauled himself up into the dark interior of the wagon.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?" Kierin stammered. "You don't mean to sleep in here again tonight, do you?"

Holt shot her an indulgent look and laughed. "Damn right I do." He struck a match on the sole of his boot and lit the lantern that hung from the bow. The soft, yellow glow filled the wagon.

"But... but I left a stack of blankets for you outside. Jacob said... I thought... you'd sleep under the wagon."

"Under the wagon?" he echoed incredulously. "When there's a perfectly good bed in here? Now why would I want to do that?" He peeled off his shirt, grimacing as he eased it off his left shoulder.

Kierin's mind raced frantically with alternatives. He
couldn't
sleep here. Or she
wouldn't.
How could she after what had happened between them tonight? The memory of his kiss still burned on her lips.

"Well, then, you could... share the tent with Jacob." Even as she said it, though, the thought of the two big men sharing the small canvas tent Jacob had pitched outside the wagon seemed ridiculous.

"Look, Kierin, this is
my
wagon,
my
bed. My shoulder hurts, I'm more than a little cranky, and right now, I can barely see straight I'm so tired. So let's quit arguing and go to bed."

"Fine," she said reluctantly, gathering up her oversized quilt. "If you're taking the bed,
I'II
sleep under the wagon." She started to climb out, but his hand stopped her.

"No, you won't."

She tried to shake his hand free, but he held her fast.

"What do you mean I—"

"I mean you're sleeping in here with me." His tone was unequivocal.

"I will not!" She yanked the quilt from his steely grasp. To her chagrin, she heard the delicate stitchery tear.

"You
will,
by God, if you want the rest of this train to think we're husband and wife."

His words hit her like a fist and let all the air out of her argument. She gulped back the few chosen words she had readied for him and brushed back a strand of auburn hair that had come loose from the thick braid that fell over her shoulder.

He was right. How would it look for a newlywed couple to sleep apart? At the very least, it would raise unwanted questions, and at worst, she and Holt would become the objects of meddlesome gossip which
could
get her thrown right off the train. She saw then that she really had no choice. No choice at all.

"I hadn't... You're right, of course," she admitted reluctantly. "But..."

"Right. Subject closed. Give me a hand with my boot, will you?" Perched on a crate, Holt proffered a booted foot for assistance.

Kierin stared at him as if he had just asked her to stand on her head. "You—you mean to disrobe?"

He lowered his foot. "That's what I usually do before I sleep, yes."

"Oh." Kierin swallowed hard. Of course she'd seen him nearly naked when he had been injured, but that—that had been different. He'd been unconscious, for heaven's sake. He was a far cry from that now.

He raised his foot again. "My boot?"

Kierin nodded halfheartedly and tugged at his boot. It came off in her hand and she let it drop to the wagon bed with a thud. It seemed an intimate act—one, she imagined, performed unthinkingly between a husband and wife. Probably as commonplace as a man's fingers unlacing his wife's corset, or hers darning his socks.

But she and Holt weren't married. They were strangers. When she looked up at him, he was learning back against a crate with his eyes closed and a hand pressed to his bandaged shoulder. The man was practically asleep on his feet, she thought, watching him covertly. Where had he been in the two hours since she'd left him at the river?

"Could you get the other one? Please?" He cracked one blue eye open in supplication.

Silently, she tugged his other boot off as well, setting it aside with its mate. When she had finished, Holt mumbled his thanks and eased himself carefully down onto the narrow mattress, covering himself with the heavy woolen blanket there. A small wave of relief washed over her when she realized he was too tired to remove his pants.

Kierin stood with her arms tightly crossed in front of her, unsure of what to do next. The thought of stretching out next to him, in
their
bed, sent a shiver up her spine. The memory of the kiss by the river and the unexpected sensations it had stirred inside her sent color flooding to her cheeks. What if he tried to kiss her again tonight? Another, equally disturbing thought struck her. What if he didn't?

"Kierin, come and lie down," he said, almost as if he had heard her innermost thoughts. "You have my word, I won't touch you." He paused, pulling aside the blanket in silent invitation. "Come on."

She'd have been a liar to deny the ridiculous twinge of disappointment she felt at his pledge, yet she teetered on the reckless edge of accepting his proposal. She
could
sit up all night, make a nest for herself in the corner of the wagon out of harm's reach. But the next logical question reared its ugly head: What about the hundred or more nights that would follow this one?

In the end, exhaustion overcame hesitation, and after turning down the wick on the lamp, she crawled in beside him on the narrow pallet, careful not to touch him. She pulled her side of the blanket around her, clutching it under her chin.

"G'night." His voice came softly from the darkness beside her. The word hovered between them like a white flag, fluttering on the still night air.

It would be childish, she reasoned, to snub him now when they lay only inches apart, the heat from his body warming her skin. Childish and pointless. No matter what they thought of each other, they were destined to spend the next few months in close quarters together. It would serve little purpose to let the animosity between them fester and grow.

"Good night," she whispered back, but the steady deep rhythm of his breathing told her that sleep had already claimed him. Kierin sighed, staring up into the blackness above her, and her mind still whirled with unanswered questions.

The man beside her remained as much a mystery as he'd been twenty-four hours ago, except that he'd apparently decided to go along with their farcical marriage. But the question that really nagged at her had less to do with him than with the woman he'd called for in his sleep. The woman named Amanda.

Kierin tried to picture her, conjure up an image of her there in the darkness of the wagon, but she couldn't. To her discredit, she'd had been tempted, so tempted, to throw the woman's name up to Holt earlier in her anger, but some sixth sense had warned her not to. Whoever Amanda was—wife? lover?—she possessed a part of Holt which Kierin doubted anyone else ever would. If Amanda was his wife, what would she think of the charade the two of them were playing out now?