Holt's Gamble (18 page)

A single line of consternation bisected his dark eyebrows. "Well, it sounds pretty damn awful when you put it that way, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Hell. I don't know what I thought. I guess I
didn't.
Sometimes I just follow my gut feelings, and that night they were telling me not to let that bastard Talbot treat you that way. But to be honest, Princess, I don't think you would've gone anywhere with me without a fight. You tell me. What
should
I have done?" he asked, bracing his elbows on his knees and flinging the straw negligently in the air. "Left you there to be picked over like some old ham bone by Talbot and that simpleton Thrumball?"

"No." She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought "No. I'm grateful you stayed, that you got me out of the Independence," she admitted impetuously. Her eyes glittered in the lamp glow. "I hated John Talbot and I was afraid of him. I don't even know why he bid me in that game. Just out of pure meanness, I suppose. I don't think he had any intention of losing the hand to you. He rarely lost at poker because he cheated."

"I know."

Kierin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You do? I mean, you did? But how did you—? A-Are you saying you cheated to win that hand?"

He grinned noncommittally. "I never said that."

She let out a short laugh and shook her head. "No, you didn't."

They both leaned back, appraising each other silently—she, with her arms folded protectively against her chest; he, with his wrists draped indolently across the tops of his bent knees.

The rain had stopped. The only sound was the occasional rhythmic
plink-plink
of raindrops as they slid from the oiled canvas into the open rain barrel outside.

Holt toyed with a question of his own, dismissed it, and called it back again. "While we're on the subject of
whys,"
he said at last, "suppose you tell me why, when you could easily have left me back there to die, you didn't."

She lowered her eyes and stared at her hands. "I should have an answer for that, but I don't," she admitted. "I just couldn't leave you there."

"Well, I'm glad as hell you didn't. I guess I haven't really thanked you for pulling me through it, have I?"

A tentative smile teased the corner of her lips. "Is that a thank-you?"

"I guess it is," he said with a laugh.

"You're welcome, then. It was really Jacob though. He's a wonder with herbal remedies. I didn't do much."

"That's not the way he tells it."

She wondered just how much Jacob had told him and how much he himself remembered of that first night. "About that night... there's something I need to ask you."

"Ask away."

She hesitated. "Who's Amanda?"

Holt paled and rocked back as if he'd been struck.
"What?"

"Is she your wife?"

A combination of pain and anger flitted across his sculpted features. "How the hell—? Did Jacob—"

"No," she assured him. "Jacob didn't say anything. You called her name when you were out of your mind with fever. You thought... I was her." Kierin watched his eyes shutter like curtains drawn across a painful scene. She half wished now she hadn't asked him. But she had to know.

"Mandy was my wife. She died three years ago."

Relief and sorrow warred inside her. "I'm sorry, Clay. You must have loved her very much."

His long silence spoke more eloquently than words. "It was a long time ago," he said finally. He eased away from the crate and stretched himself out on his side of the pallet. "We'd better get some sleep. Morning'll be here soon enough."

Helplessly, she watched him close off from her again. It didn't matter now. She had her answer. He was still in love with a ghost.

"What about your shoulder?" she asked.

"Never mind," he told her. "It'll be fine tomorrow. I just need to get some sleep."

She nodded and slowly reached up to turn down the wick on the kerosene lantern.

Clay closed his eyes, fighting the emotions doing battle within him. He'd thought it was a dream that night, holding Mandy in his arms, but it was Kierin who'd wrapped her warmth around him, soothed the fear and cold from him; encouraged him to fight, to live. He should have known. He flung an arm silently over his eyes.
Let it be. She's not for you, Clay.

Still he found himself listening to the sounds of Kierin undressing in the darkness. He heard the small metallic clicks of hooks and eyes releasing, the sound of cotton skirts rustling, like wind hissing through a crowded stand of aspen. He imagined what he'd see if he turned to look when the last of her garments was shed, before she pulled the white cotton gown over her head.

She slid in beside him and curled with her back to him.

"Clay?"

"Hm-m?"

"Did you mean what you said about the papers?"

"Yeah." In the darkness, he turned to look at her.

"Then... when we get West," she told him, "I'll be heading for California."

His chest tightened with an old familiar feeling. "California?"

"I have a brother out there and I mean to find him."

Clay pressed his head back into the ticking of the pillow.
It's better this way.
"If that's what you want."

"It is." The silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid words. "Clay?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Yeah, sure. Go to sleep now." He closed his eyes again and swallowed back the inexplicable lump of disappointment that formed in his throat.
It's better this way,
he repeated to himself. And he tried to believe it was true.

Chapter 9

The wagons pushed on, following the course of the Blue Earth River north across rolling plains of emerald green grass. The sporadic rain brought with it a new profusion of spring wildflowers. White pasque-flower, tiny bird-foot violets and golden black-eyed Susan rode the crests of waving grass. The riotous colors served to break the sheer monotony of the endless rolling prairie.

Kierin and the other women and children would stray far afield in search of the most beautiful flower. Often as not, it turned into a game of hide and seek for the children, who constantly disappeared in the waist-high grass near the trail.

Still, it was a rare night in Kierin's camp that didn't find a bucket or container straining with armloads of fresh-picked wildflowers from the long day's walk.

Daily, they saw evidence of those who had come this way before. Hardly a mile went by now when they didn't pass a broken-down piece of a wagon or a treasured heirloom. Hand-carved wardrobes, grass-choked cast-iron stoves, orange with rust, even fine cherry-wood dining tables littered the edges of the trail. To carry such luxuries, many had discovered, was to put an unnecessary added strain on teams already taxed by this, the easiest part of their long journey.

More disturbing than these were the graves that lined the rutted trail. Hundreds and hundreds of graves, some with crosses of wood and some distinguished only by river stones, lined the pathway like gruesome trail markers.

Most, Kierin simply passed by. It was harder to ignore the smaller graves of the children without thinking of Matthew. Even though she'd never gotten the letter her father had promised to send when they reached California, she never doubted they'd arrived. There were a hundred reasons, she told herself, why she'd never received word—the first, and most likely, being that Asa McKendry rarely concerned himself with the banalities of correspondence, except when there was a profit to be made.

It was possible, too, that the letter might have been sent, but had gotten lost or ruined on the trip back to Independence. That was the excuse she preferred to believe. Nevertheless, she found herself studying the small graves as she passed them, each one reassuring her that Matthew was still alive and well.

That was how Clay found her one afternoon as he rode up behind her on his Appaloosa.

"That's a cheery way to pass the time," he remarked, pulling Taeva up short beside her.

Kierin straightened abruptly, surprised by the sound of his voice. A flush crept up to her cheeks and she prepared for their usual crossing of swords. But when she turned to him, his easy smile forced the contentious words back in her throat.

Clay cast a shadow over her, blocking the sun. He was nearly silhouetted against the late afternoon glare. He held the reins loosely in one hand and leaned a forearm against the saddle horn.

He doffed his sweat-soaked hat and swiped at his glistening forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Looking for someone you know?"

"Not really," she answered truthfully, looking back down at the small grave at her feet. "It's just that someone planted a wild rosebush by this little girl's grave."

Her fingers brushed the petals of the pink blossom. "I was thinking how dear she must have been to her parents."

Clay settled his hat back on his head. "It's easy to get caught up with the tragedy of the trail, Kierin. There are a thousand graves like it ahead of us and almost as many behind," he said. "It's best if you try not to think about it."

He couldn't have known how close he'd come to the truth. With an effort, Kierin pushed back her fears about Matthew and forced a smile. "Where have you been all afternoon?"

He smiled and untied a pair of prairie hens from around his saddle horn. "Looking for dinner." He nudged Taeva forward, and tossed the game into the front of their wagon. Then, he came back and extended his hand down to her.

"Come on."

"What—up there?" Her disbelieving gaze traveled back and forth between his appealing grin and the powerful callused palm of his hand.

"I want to show you something and it's a hell of a walk. Come on," he encouraged, beckoning her with the waggle of fingertips.

She hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. "Where are you taking me?"

"What, and spoil the surprise?" he asked in a wounded voice. "Never."

Her smile reflected the mischief in his eyes. "All right," she told him dubiously, slipping her hand into his and stepping up onto his flexed foot. "But this had better be good."

Clay lifted her smoothly onto the saddle in front of him and settled her sideways across his lap. "Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Kierin gave him an astonished look. "As a matter of fact-"

"Don't answer that," he interrupted with a laugh and kicked Taeva into an easy lope.

The wind licked at her hair, whipping unruly auburn strands loose from the bun at the back of her head, and she smiled in spite of the misgivings she'd had only a moment ago. She'd forgotten how much she loved to ride.

Clay's arms, in the same moment gentle and steely, circled her. Even through her layers of clothing, she could feel the sinewy muscles in his thighs working as he guided the horse up a gentle swell. She wondered if he could feel her heart pound against his arm.

For a time, she tried to keep a modicum of space between them but, in the end, gave it up and relaxed against him. She'd never seen this playful side of him before and she wanted to enjoy it, even if it lasted for only a few minutes.

The train disappeared behind a rise, but Clay pushed the Appaloosa on, heading north into the endless span of grass. The verdant sameness of the tall-grass prairie made it appear from a distance as flat and monotonous as the sea, but in fact, the land was filled with dips and gentle hills. The green flower stalks of the big bluestem grass were so tall, they brushed their knees as they rode through it.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Kierin asked Clay when he'd slowed the horse to an easy trot.

"It's not much further," he told her, "What's wrong? Don't you trust me?"

She let out a throaty laugh, catching his playful mood. "That's a dangerous question, Mr. Holt. But frankly," she admitted, throwing her head back, "I don't care if we
are
lost. It's so beautiful out here without the dust and the cattle and all the noise..." She filled her lungs with the sweet-scented air. "You may have to drag me back to civilization."

Clay's dark eyebrows arched with feigned surprise. "Civilization?" His blue eyes made a cursory scan of the empty grasslands. "Did I miss it somewhere?"