Marshal and the Heiress (46 page)

“What's
your
wager?” she asked.

The cowboy grinned. “
My
hat.”

The man next to him shoved an arm in the cowboy's side. “Those are the two worst damn hats I ever did see.”

Gabrielle couldn't disagree, and she couldn't understand why on earth anyone would want her hat. Still, she pondered the wager. She was going to have to live with these men, day and night, for as long as it took to accomplish her task, and she needed to make friends with them.

But not, she decided finally, at the risk of exposure. She needed the hat. It contributed, more than anything else she wore, to her disguise. If they learned she was a woman, she would never be allowed on the drive. She'd read enough dime novels to know that.

“I like my own hat,” she finally said in the gruff voice that was becoming second nature. “Mebbe next time.”

The man next to Hank, the bettor, grinned. “Can't see how either one of you could win that one, anyway. I'm Sandy. This ornery cuss is Hank Flanigan. He's so contrary that if you throw him in a river, he'll float upstream.”

Gabrielle smiled for the first time in weeks. Sandy was likable and friendly. She glanced at the Scotsman. His eyes were studying her intently and she had the sudden, frightening sense that he saw right through her layers of clothes, through the eccentric disguise she'd tried so hard to build.

She moved her gaze back to the friendly Sandy, then to the others in the bunkhouse. They were an odd assortment: black, white, Mexican, even one part Indian. The drovers ranged in age from nearly as young as she pretended to be to a man who looked forty or more. Most, however, seemed to be in their early twenties.

She nodded, having already given her name.

“Glad to have you with us,” Sandy said.

“Hummmph,” said the contrary Hank. “He ain't no bigger than two bits.”

“Two bits is a lot of money,” another said. “He can't be worth that.”

“Still, I think I'll call him Two-Bits,” Hank persisted.

“Two-Bits it is,” said another.

Gabrielle stood there a moment, letting what was now good-natured laughter crash around her, forcing a smile to her own lips. She had already realized in the past few hours that everyone had a moniker. She supposed hers could be worse.

Her gaze went, again, to Drew Cameron. He was studying her closely, as if measuring her in his mind. His penetrating scrutiny made her stiffen, and she thought, even standing with the other cowboys, he stood out in the crowd. He wasn't any more a part of them than she was.

But who, or what, was he?

“Come on, Scotty,” one of the men said. “Join the game.”

“So I will,” the Scotsman said, amusement returning to his eyes. But it wasn't the kind of amusement one shared with friends. It was another kind, the kind that belonged to a man laughing at himself, or, perhaps, at life in general.

All at once, Gabrielle thought she understood. His casual, lighthearted demeanor was a sham. A face he presented to the world. He used it to lull people into thinking he was no threat to them. Despite Jake's taunting words, it was obvious the other cowboys didn't take him seriously.

But they were making a mistake. A big one.

She wasn't sure what Drew Cameron was, but casual and lighthearted weren't in the running. A shiver ran down her spine. Was he simply an out-of-place Scotsman? Or was he something far more complex and murderous? She was sure of complexity. She wasn't sure about the latter. Her feet turned, and she hurried out the door, the ring of loud masculine laughter following her.

The lad did not come back that night. For some inexplicable reason, Drew found himself worrying about him. Perhaps he'd decided this group too rough for him, after all. Perhaps he'd taken that poor excuse for a horse and left.

The youngster—Gabe—had been bloody uncomfortable in the bunkhouse; that had been obvious. The place wasn't Drew's idea of paradise either, but he'd received enough snide remarks about his stay in Kingsley's house. If he was going to make this work, he knew he had to get along with the other hands. It was too long—and dangerous—a drive to have enemies at your back.

Besides, life in a succession of boarding schools had taught him he could sleep anywhere and get along with almost anyone. Since his father hadn't been able to stand the sight of him, he hadn't gone home, even during summers and Christmas holidays. Instead, he'd charmed both teachers and fellow students into inviting him home with them; the result had been that he'd rarely spent a holiday alone, and he'd learned how to adapt to an amazing variety of people and places. In short, he'd become a chameleon.

It was a talent he expected to serve him well in winning over the Kingsley cowhands. Already, he'd made inroads. He would continue to take their gibes and joshing in good humor. He'd work hard to gain their respect, and sooner or later they would accept him.

Meanwhile, he was learning a bloody lot—and the price of a few aches and pains didn't seem too high. Indeed, he was taking satisfaction in the physical labor, in stretching himself to the limit. Yesterday's fall had been humiliating—he still felt the bruises—but he had enough confidence in his horsemanship to know he eventually would live it down.

It was still dark, but Drew lost any hope of getting more sleep. The snoring had become ungodly. As had the odor of stale sweat. Hell, he might as well get up and check on Gabe. He needed some fresh air anyway.

Quietly, he rose from his bunk and searched for a clean shirt. He had three with him, and he religiously washed them daily. He doubted such small pleasures as clean clothes would be possible once the drive began, but he would take them now, even at the price of being called a dandy and tenderfoot and a few less charitable names. If the cowhands were aware he had a title, Drew knew he would never hear the end of it.

Walking quietly down the center aisle, Drew took a closer look at Gabe Lewis's bunk. The lad's bedroll and saddlebags lay on top of the unwrinkled blanket, which made it likely he was still somewhere about.

Outside, dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, the first hint of lavender relieving the inky blackness on the eastern horizon. Only a slight breeze stirred, but it was a vast improvement over the stuffy bunkhouse.

Drew took a deep breath of fresh air, then started across the yard, heading for the barn. With his eyes well-adjusted to the darkness, he looked around but didn't see another living soul. He swore to himself. Kirby hadn't seen the need for a guard, even after the ambush weeks ago. Drew had tried to persuade him to post one, but the cattle baron felt safe here, on his own land. Drew, on the other hand, wondered whether his friend was safe anywhere until the man who paid his attackers was found.

The door to the barn was closed but not barred from the outside, and Drew stepped in. A horse whinnied, announcing his presence and others started moving restlessly in the stalls. He passed them, treading quietly, and went directly to the stall where Gabe Lewis's horse had been stabled yesterday afternoon.

The horse was still there, and, when Drew peered inside the stall, it stepped carefully aside. He looked down to see what appeared to be a pile of rags in the corner. When the rags sighed and shifted a little in the straw, Drew smiled. So the lad hadn't given up. Somehow, Drew hadn't believed he would. Probably, before the drive was over, Gabe Lewis would win Flanigan's hat as well.

Thoughtfully, Drew eyed the broken-down horse. He knew horses, and he tended to agree with this one's owner that Billy was stronger than he looked and, indeed, had heart. Well, his owner had heart, too.

Leaving the barn as silently as he'd come, Drew walked over to lean on the top rail of the corral. There he watched the sky grow lighter, daybreak painting the vast canvas with an array of pink and golden hues. Dawn in Scotland, though beautiful in its own quiet way, had never been like this. Nothing here, in this wide-open land, was done on a small scale, and Drew didn't think he'd ever tire of its lonely splendor.

With the day about to begin, he saw smoke spiralling from Kingsley's house. Marguerite, the cook, was preparing breakfast. Pepper wouldn't take over feeding the men until the drive started. Drew remained where he was, watching the sunrise, until someone rang the great bell outside the ranch house. In minutes, men were pouring out of the bunkhouse, stopping only long enough to rinse their faces at the pump.

Drew went back inside the barn to wake the lad, only to find him standing outside of Billy's stall, stretching his arms above his head, hat in one hand. Drew's gaze stopped at the mop of dark curls plastered to the boy's head, curls that looked as if they belonged to a girl, not a boy.

Sensing his presence, the lad's head jerked toward him, and in the next instant, he stuffed the hat back on his head. Dark blue eyes grew wary. Then hostility, so strong it almost reached out and touched him, filled them before the lad looked away.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Drew ignored the hostility and went into the stall, walking over to the horse, running his fingers down its side. It trembled at his touch.

“Get away from him,” the boy said. “He doesn't like …” The boy stopped suddenly.

“What doesn't he like?” Drew asked curiously.

But the boy's face went utterly still, and Drew was stunned. Control. Complete control. Something one didn't see in a face that young.

“He don't like foreigners,” Gabe said after a moment, startling him into remembering his own question.

“And how would he be knowing I'm a … foreigner?” Drew asked with amusement.

“Yer accent, of course,” the answer came airily and with just a dash of superiority at besting an adversary.

“And Billy can distinguish among accents?” Drew said.

“He's a very smart horse.” The slightest twinkle of mischief shone in those blue eyes before coming under control again.

It was amazing. Despite the boy's grammar and rough demeanor, Gabe Lewis was bright—very bright—and also a little bit of an actor. Perhaps a great deal an actor.

But Drew's amusement quickly faded. Someone was after Kingsley. And there seemed more to this lad than what lay on the dusty surface. Gabe Lewis had claimed to be sixteen and, Drew figured, might be as young as fourteen. But Drew had seen boys even younger than that on Glasgow docks who were thieves and killers. Some had the faces of angels. Some wouldn't have thought twice before staving in a head if a few pence were offered.

Drew decided then and there he would keep an eye on young Master Lewis.

“You might want to discard some of those clothes,” he suggested. “It's going to be a bloody hot day.”

The boy merely huddled his slight body more into the offensive garments and turned back to his horse. His posture made it clear he wasn't going to take anyone's advice. Well, he'd learn. Drew would bet his saddle that the boy would discard at least some of those layers before late afternoon.

Leaving Gabe to his own devices, Drew went to find the pinto he had ridden yesterday. He was damned if a horse was going to get the best of him.

Sitting behind his huge walnut desk, Kirby reviewed his preparations for the drive. He had cash—wrapped in oilcloth and locked in a strongbox that would go in the chuck wagon—along with powers of attorney from neighboring ranchers participating in the drive. He was leaving his own power of attorney for his brother Jon in case anything happened to him.

When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers toying idly with the pen he held. Through the open windows of his office, he could hear the cowboys in the yard, laughing loudly about some wager one of them had lost. Their energy and excitement were high. Tomorrow was the big day. They would saddle up and ride out with an unprecedented ten thousand head of cattle. Hell, he was excited, too.

Staring out the window, Kirby frowned. He would have liked to go into town to say goodbye to Laura Sellers, but he had no right.

Laura.
Even her name was pretty. So was the sound of her voice. He pictured her in his mind. Lovely taffy-colored blond hair, intelligent dark brown eyes, a curvaceous body that made him ache. He had known the widowed dressmaker for five years; her husband Bill had been a lawyer and Kirby's friend until he died a year ago, leaving barely enough for her to live on. She might have returned east, where apparently she had relatives. She'd stayed, though, and started a successful dressmaking business. He recalled the several occasions that he'd paid her a visit. He could do that under the guise of friendship without it causing talk. He'd never asked her out, though, despite knowing she would have accepted his invitation. He hadn't gotten so old or out of touch that he couldn't tell when a woman would welcome his attentions.

His fingers clenched around the pen. When he thought of Laura, the vow he'd made never to marry was strained to the limit. But he still feared that the ugly secret he harbored might destroy him someday, and he wanted to make very sure that no one he loved was also destroyed.

For that reason, he lived a solitary and lonely life except for his brother and nephews, and even then he'd tried to make them independent of him. It was difficult. Since he was fourteen, Kirby had taken care of Jon, who at the time of their parents' death was eight. He had been father as well as brother, and Jon had never completely learned to stand on his own two feet. Nor had his sons.

The pen broke in his hand. The events of twenty-five years ago were as alive in his mind as if they had happened yesterday. He had tried to put them away in a mental box and close it off, but they kept coming back. Lately, they'd been coming back more and more often. He couldn't help but wonder if the ambush several months ago was in some way connected to that long-ago disaster.

Who
had hired the gunmen?

Three men came to Kirby's mind, three men who had something to gain by his death, or more likely, something to lose if he remained alive. Yet … what could have stirred the pot after so many years?