Free Holt's Gamble by Barbara Ankrum

looked away, Kierin might have missed the glance the blond man stole back at Holt's wagon before ducking back between the harnessed team of oxen.
    Kierin sagged against the crate she was leaning on, confused and shaken by what she'd just witnessed. Why had that man sent the posse off in another direction when he had most certainly known Holt was part of this train? The man's look toward their wagon had confirmed that for her. His complicity in hiding Holt was surely enough to jeopardize his position with the train if he were found out. It didn't make sense.
    Beside her, Kierin heard the click of a gun's hammer being carefully uncocked and she spun around to see Holt, his face pale and tight, slide the revolver beneath the covers. Though she hadn't known he was awake, it didn't surprise her to learn he'd had been prepared to fight even when they both knew the absurd odds they would have faced. His azure eyes glittered again with fever as he stared at her.
    "Are they gone?"
    She nodded. "The man in the lead wagon sent them downriver, toward Westport."
    "Blond guy? Tall?"
    "That's him," she said. "Who is he and why did he send them away? He looked directly at your wagon after the posse rode off. He must know who you are."
    Holt's eyes slid shut again. "He knows."
    Before she could get any more out of him, he was asleep. With an impatient sigh, she tugged the quilts up under Holt's chin.
    His persistent fever worried her. Unchecked, it alone could kill him and the ride ahead of them could only serve to worsen it.
    Kierin wrung out a wet cloth and sponged Holt's dry face. She pulled aside the covers, and trailed the cloth down his neck and across the broad expanse of his chest. How odd, she thought, that in such a short time, she had become so intimate with a strange man's body. In fact, she knew it far better than she knew the man himself. The well-muscled contours and the firm leanness of his limbs spoke of a life lived hard and unsparingly.
    What made a man become so reckless with his own life, she wondered, as Jacob's words suddenly echoed in her ears. Sometimes, Clay ain't as careful as he oughta be. That boy got's a wild streak in him.
    What Holt had done last night was reckless and, no doubt, impulsive. It was probably only one in a long string of gambles that he had entered into on a whim, she realized, swallowing back the anger that rose at the thought. But this time Holt's gamble had cost her dearly; she had been forced to kill a man and now had a posse scouring the countryside for her. And though she fought to save his life, Holt would own hers if he lived.
    She glanced down at the sleeping man, her hands clenched into fists. "You'll live, Mr. Holt. You're probably too stubborn to die. Besides, I won't let you. God knows, I owe you that much. But I swear you won't hold me to those papers. No man ever will again."
    Outside the wagon, she heard the preparations for leaving being made. Children laughed and squealed with excitement and oxen bellowed in complaint as they were hitched to wagons. She knew the train would move out soon—leaving behind the only life she had ever known. She didn't regret leaving any of it; there was no one left here for her.
    Kierin tugged the blankets up around Holt, pushing aside her thoughts. She would go and find Jacob.
    Maybe he could answer the questions that had nagged her since the posse had ridden away.
    * * *
    "His name's Kelly. Jim Kelly," Jacob told her. "Beaker hired him on as wagon master 'cause he be the best one for the job. Been criss-crossin' this here country since 'forty-five, an' knows more 'bout the land 'tween here and California than most folks will ever forget." Jacob bent again to finish greasing the wheel's axle with the tar and tallow mixture from his bucket.
    Kierin's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "But why would he send the posse away?" she pressed.
    Jacob reached toward an awkward spot under the wagon. "Clay an' Jim have know'd each other since Churubusco,