Holt's Gamble (15 page)

Soon, despite her conviction that she would not sleep a wink all night with him beside her, Kierin fell into a deep, much-needed slumber, which didn't release its hold on her until the sun broke the horizon the next morning.

Chapter 7

Holt flexed the stiff muscles of his shoulder with a circular motion, wincing as he did it. He was bone-tired. He'd pushed himself hard today. Maybe too hard, he admitted reluctantly, shifting his backside on the tooled leather cradle of his saddle. The high-strung black Appaloosa beneath him pranced nervously, nose to the pungent rain-scented air and Holt patted the stallion's sleek neck to soothe him.

"Easy, Taeva," he murmured. "We'll be home soon." Holt scanned the prairie ahead, hoping to spot the canvas wagon tops over the next rise, but he knew he'd traveled miles farther than he'd intended tracking the herd of buffalo. A weary sigh escaped his lips. After nearly two weeks on the trail spent regaining his strength, Holt had grown impatient with his recovery. It irked him to be less than a hundred percent. He'd grown used to doing everything for himself in the last few years. It didn't sit well with him to be dependent on others. Especially on a woman. And not just any woman, he thought irritably. That one.

Holt's lips quirked up in a half-smile. It wasn't the first time she'd crossed his mind today. Not by a long shot. In fact, Kierin hadn't been far from his thoughts since he'd laid eyes on her in Independence. Not that it mattered. He hadn't gotten so much as a how-do-you-do from her since their little misunderstanding by the river the first night out.

She'd done her part, just as she'd promised him she would. Cooking, washing, even milking the damn cow. She'd been pleasant as you please to Jacob and everyone else on the goddamned train, he thought with a flash of irritation. Everyone but him. To him, she was about as warm as the Missouri River in January.

Holt muttered a curse and stood in the stirrups to lengthen his view of the darkening prairie.
Where the hell are the wagons?
Holt turned his collar up to the brisk chill that suddenly stirred the air and he shivered. The stallion blew out a quivering snort in reply, and gave a jangling shake to its bridle. Rain clouds, dark and heavy, massed in the distance, coming fast from the direction in which he was headed. Only minutes ago the late afternoon sky had been clear, but he knew that was often the way with prairie storms. They were unpredictable at best and downright dangerous at their worst. He'd heard of men freezing to death in the middle of summer in a prairie blizzard. This one, thankfully, smelled of rain, not snow.

Holt shifted the two bags of fresh meat slung over the pommel of his saddle and wedged his knees around them in search of a more comfortable position. Reaching back, he untied the thong that held his rolled up India rubber slicker in place behind the saddle and slipped it over his head. A clap of thunder in the distance echoed warningly over the landscape and Holt nudged Taeva forward into an easy lope, anxious to be home.

Home. To his
wife.

Holt blew out a harsh puff of laughter and tried not to think of the cold shoulder she'd likely turn on him when he got back. Hell. A man could only take so much of that. Sleeping beside her night after night had become torture for him. What sleep he got was hot, achy, and restless. When he'd awaken in the darkness, with her next to him, he'd find his good intentions bathed in a sheen of longing sweat. He'd lay awake for hours listening to the sounds of her breathing, imagining her soft and willing beneath him. Her sweet-scented hair would be scattered enticingly across the pillow like a whisper of flame, crossing the invisible line she'd drawn down the center of their bed. Sometimes as she slept, he would touch it—roll it between his fingers as if that alone could satisfy the ache she stirred up in him.

Not likely.

Hell, he admitted grimly, she had every reason to detest him... dragging her into that mess back in Independence then attacking her down at the river like some kind of low-life bully. What did he expect? The truth was, as the days passed, he was finding it harder and harder to think of her as just another of Talbot's strumpets. She was different from other whores he'd known. In fact, she was different from any woman he'd ever met—full of pride, yet fragile—strong, yet achingly vulnerable. It struck him that those very qualities were what had enticed him to bid on her in that poker game back in Independence and, likewise, stirred a feeling of protectiveness in him now.

A fat droplet of rain splattered upon the brim of his battered hat, dousing his thoughts and focusing his attention back onto the situation at hand. He didn't particularly relish the idea of being the tallest object on this godforsaken prairie in the middle of a thunderstorm. Standing in his stirrups again, he peered through the gloom of the sheeting rain ahead and cursed.

Where the hell is that train?

* * *

The wagons had circled up early on Jim Kelly's direction. With the wind whipping at her hair, Kierin fought the canvas cover flat and lashed it securely at the front of the wagon. She hoped to fend off the inevitable seepage of rainwater, but by the looks of the storm coming, she had little hope of keeping the contents completely dry. The cover flapped noisily in the rising wind, rocking the wagon on squeaky springs. She removed the cover from the water barrel, hoping to collect some rainwater. At least the storm wouldn't be a total loss, she thought resignedly.

Jacob was pounding in the last of the stakes on his small tent when she finished.

"Are you sure you'll be all right out here in this tonight, Jacob?" Kierin eyed the sorry-looking tent doubtfully.

"Don't go worryin' about me none, ma'am." Jacob swiped at his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "I seen worse. Much worse in my day. I be fine here."

She nodded, unconvinced. "I'm afraid we'll have to settle for a cold supper tonight. There isn't time for a fire."

"No, ma'am. That be just fine." Jacob unfurled the rubber ground cloth into his tent and spread it out carefully.

Kierin climbed up onto the wagon but didn't go in. Instead, she scanned the eastern horizon for signs of a rider, but for the umpteenth time today, she was disappointed.
Where could he be?
she wondered, trying to keep the worry which seemed lodged in her throat in check. Holt had left her before sunup, and almost against her will, she had found herself watching for his return ever since. Jacob had told her Holt had gone hunting. Alone.

An uncomfortable silence had shrouded their days since the argument that night by the river. The night he'd—Kierin clamped her eyes shut at the memory. She had avoided discussing it with him as he had promised her they would.
What was the point?
she thought miserably. It was clear he thought her a fallen woman, a strumpet like all the others at Talbot's. What else
could
he think after seeing her in a whore's dress, dallying drinks in a saloon? No, she knew what she'd see in his eyes if she looked at him squarely. And lately, he didn't even try to hide his contempt. He'd made it plain he found it distasteful to share a bed with her. He climbed into the wagon long after she had retired and was gone in the morning before she awoke. That seemed to suit him just fine, she mused, considering that he had ceased all attempts at communication days ago. Well, it suited her just fine, too.

"Stock's hobbled for the night," Jacob said, breaking into her inner dialogue. She jumped a little, embarrassed he had caught her looking for Holt.

He rested one hand tiredly on the wagon side. "Any sign of him yet?"

"Who?" she asked, busying herself with a wrinkle in the wagon cover. But she wasn't fooling anyone. She shook her head and gave him a half-smile, climbing down beside the wagon again. "No. No sign. Do you think he's all right?"

"Clay?" he asked, looking off at the looming storm. "He be fine, ma'am. I 'spect he'll be along. If'n it gets too bad, he can bivouac out there for the night."

Jim Kelly's deep voice came from a few feet away. "He'd better damn well get back here tonight." Kelly wore a scowl as Kierin and Jacob turned to greet him. "Sorry ma'am, but I told that mule-headed fool not to go out on his own today. He still isn't running on a full head of steam."

Jacob slid his hat off his head and rubbed his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "You know Clay once't he gets his mind set on somethin'."

"Well, I don't like people bein' separated from the train in one of these storms," Kelly grumbled to no one in particular. "Taylor would'a gone with him, or Mel Watkins... they've both been itchin' to get a hunting party together. But we've been crossin' too much Indian sign lately for my taste."

"Indians?" Kierin looked anxiously at both men. Jacob had made her fears of the storm seem groundless, but Jim Kelly was being anything but reassuring.

Kelly seemed to realize his mistake at mentioning the Indians. He shuffled his feet and tried to soften his words. "Now don't you worry yourself about that, ma'am. They won't bother a train as big as this one. They'd be fools to try it."

"I wasn't concerned with the train, Mr. Kelly, and you needn't try to protect me from the facts just because I'm a woman," she told him coolly. "My concern is for the safety of one man out there alone on the prairie who's too stubborn to admit he might need someone other than himself." She stared at the wagon master, waiting for a reply.

Kelly shifted uncomfortably, looking to Jacob for help and finding none. Jacob was busy hiding a grin behind his weathered hand. "I... do apologize for talkin' down to you, ma'am. It's just... most women faint at the mention of those savages."

"Well, I'm not most women, Mr. Kelly, and you'll not likely see me faint at the sight of an Indian or two. I lived in Independence all of my life and saw more than my share of Indians there."

"I don't mean to argue with you, ma'am, but there's a big difference between town Indians and the wild ones you'll see out here on the plains. I've no doubt you're a brave woman, but you'd be smart not to stray far from the wagons or go off on your own in these parts."

"I'll remember your warning, Mr. Kelly."

"I thought we agreed you'd call me Jim," he said with a quirked smile.

"Jim," she acknowledged with a tilt of her head. "And I thought we agreed you'd stop calling me ma'am."

Jim grinned and tipped a sideways look at her. "My apologies, Kierin."

"So, about... my husband. Will you send someone to look for him?"

Jim Kelly shook his head. "We can't spare any men now. The stock is likely to get spooked by the storm and I've got men posted to watch them. If he's not back by morning, we'll talk about it then."

Kierin looked at Jacob, who was studying the toes of his boots. His silence acknowledged his concern. "Thank you, Jim," she said, with as close to a smile as she could manage. She climbed up into the wagon and then leaned back out again. "Jacob, supper will be ready when you are."

The black man nodded. "Be in directly."

The men moved out of hearing range, though Kierin knew they were discussing the oncoming storm, To distract herself, she clattered noisily through the pantry box of pans as she prepared their cold supper, then spooned the sticky clump of cold beans onto two plates. She wrinkled her nose.

Beans again. And hard tack.

The only palatable part of this meal would be the sweet butter she'd skimmed off the top of the milk in the butter churn they'd lashed to the side of the wagon. She still marveled at the way the butter appeared at the end of the day, churned by the action of the wagon. Churning was certainly one chore she could do without, she thought, pouring two cups of milk from the tin container. A crash of thunder nearly made her spill the lot.

Redolent with the heavy scent of damp earth, the air thickened around her. She set the cups down and pulled her sticky blouse away from her damp skin. The sound, when she first became aware of it, came from far off, like a steady drumbeat.

Rain.

It engulfed the wagon in seconds until all she could hear was the sound of its steady pounding against the sturdy oiled-canvas cover. It drowned out all other sounds, including the pounding of her own heartbeat as it clattered in her ears.

Like a gust of wind, Jacob leaped into the wagon, already drenched to the bone.

"Whoo-ee!" he cried, wiping a hand down his rain slicked face. He stood like some kind of drenched scarecrow, his expression somewhere between amusement and shock.