Holt's Gamble (7 page)

Brown spoke first. "He was knifed by a low-down snake named John Talbot back in Independence. The girl 'n' me was only tryin' to help him. But your friend here ain't got the time for us to worry about who did what to who. He's lost a lot of blood and he's losin' more as we're sittin' here jawin'." Brown's gaze was steady on the black man and Jacob's anger seemed to dissipate with the blacksmith's explanation.

"Sorry," Jacob replied, running his fingers over his short-cropped hair. "It's just—can you help me git him into the wagon? I can tend him better in there."

Jacob lowered the tailgate on the wagon and swept back the canvas flap. Together, the men lifted Holt onto the thin straw-filled mattress that filled one side of the narrow wagon's dark interior. Jacob struck a match and lit the oil lamp which hung from one of the hickory bows supporting the canvas cover. A soft, yellow light filled the enclosure.

As the men worked over Holt, Kierin stood outside and tried to collect her thoughts. A powerful tremor coursed through her body, not from the cold but from the tumultuous emotions that battled within her. For reasons that she couldn't explain—even to herself—she wanted Holt to live. He was a complete stranger to her; a gambler who considered her his property. By rights, she should hate him.

But she didn't.

Tonight they had depended on each other for their very lives and Holt had nearly lost his—and still might—protecting her. Kierin let out a long sigh. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to care about anyone. A long time since anyone had cared about her.

Her head hurt and she was weary beyond words. Tears welled behind her tired burning eyes, but she refused to cry, refused herself the relief tears would bring her. Instead she reached for the pile of neatly stacked kindling and began to build up the banked fire. After it sputtered back to life, she fetched an iron pot that hung nearby and filled it with water from the large barrel lashed to the side of the wagon. She set it over the fire to heat, knowing that Jacob would have need of it soon.

The blaze was warm and soothing and she stared at the flames, willing them to heat the water quickly. For the first time she looked at her hands. They were covered with blood, as was the front of the shirt Holt had given her to wear.

She stood stiffly and walked to the river's edge. The narrow path twined through hedges of wild grapes, heavy with the promise of a summer harvest. Moonlight spilled across the water, mixing eerily with the tendrils of fog that lay like a winter's breath upon the river. Kierin bent and washed her hands and face in the frigid water. Shivering, she hurried back up the path to the campsite.

Brown met her at the fire when she returned.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Still unconscious. But that feller's got the constitution of an ox. If anybody can pull through somethin' like this, I reckon it'll be him. You known him long?"

Kierin was struck by the irony of his question.

Long? She'd only known the man for a few hours, but right now it felt more like years.

"No. Not long."

Scudder nodded, scooting his eyes away from hers. "Jacob asked me to get some water boilin' but I see you already got that taken care of."

"Yes, it's nearly hot enough," she replied, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"Well, I reckon I better get a'goin', ma'am. You be all right here?" he asked.

"Yes, I—I'll be fine," she told him with more conviction than she felt. "Mr. Brown, I want you to know how much I—that is, how much we both appreciate your help. If you hadn't come back—"

"Like I said before, it was somethin' I had to do."

"But what if there's trouble? I mean, it all happened in your shop..."

"If Talbot's dead, like ya say, there ain't gonna be no more trouble than I can handle. If not... well, Talbot'll never have to know it was me that helped you." Brown looked thoughtful for a moment and then continued. "And the law will never hear about you two from me. Be sure on
that
account. I reckon my family an' me may just pull up stakes one of these days an' head west. Independence is gettin' a might too crowded for my tastes anyway. I reckon there'd be a call for a good smithy out West, too."

Kierin smiled at him. "I'm sure there'll be a place for you wherever you choose to go, Mr. Brown. You're a good man."

Brown lowered his gaze from hers and twirled the brim of his hat in his big hands.

"Good luck to you, ma'am."

"And you, Mr. Brown."

He gathered the reins of his sorrel gelding and swung easily up into the saddle. Brown turned one last time and nodded to Kierin before nudging his horse into an easy lope in the direction of town.

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 delirious. 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.