Scotsman Wore Spurs (11 page)

For another awful minute, the memory of swirling darkness closing over her head and not being able to breathe overwhelmed her. But, finally, her present freezing state overcame all else.

She rolled to her side, moaning. It was so cold. Her eyes blinked open. She was lying on the bank of the creek. And it was not quite dark. About as dark as it had been when she'd taken Billy into the water.

Billy. Where was he?

Worried thoughts about her horse gave her the strength to struggle to an upright position. She looked around, still sputtering a little, teeth chattering, but she didn't see the horse.

What she did see, quite suddenly and with breathtaking clarity, was that her coat was gone and also her top shirt. The buttons of her flannel shirt were open. And what remained of her clothing—a single, light cotton shirt and the bindings around her breasts—were soaking wet and plastered to her skin.

Sucking in a quick breath, she twisted around and her gaze flew to meet Drew Cameron's. He was sitting, head propped on his knees, staring at her.

She stared back.

He cocked one eyebrow at her.

She gulped.

All the while, her mind worked furiously—as furiously as it could, given that she still felt decidedly muddleheaded—to invent some story she thought he might believe. For it was patently clear that her charade was over, and that any second now, he would demand to know why in bloody hell she'd been dressed up like a boy—yes, she was sure that's how he would put it.

But he didn't demand any such thing. He didn't speak at all. He merely stared at her in silence and he kept it up so long that she wondered if he actually knew that his silence was far more discomforting to her than any question he might pose or accusation he might make.

Desperately, she looked around. He'd started a fire, but it was small and still weak, giving precious little warmth. But her gaze was inevitably drawn back to the dripping man next to her.

Seeking to break the tension, she cleared her throat to speak. “Billy?” she asked, her voice weak and croaky.

“He made it across,” Cameron replied, his tone as calm as his appearance.

Except that he wasn't entirely calm, she finally noticed. He was shivering nearly as badly as she was. In fact, she realized it had been he who must have rescued her from the creek.

When she spoke she made no attempt to disguise her normal speech patterns or her voice. “Is it your mission in life to go around saving people's lives?”

“No,” he replied in carefully measured tones. “In fact, I try my best not to. I especially try bloody hard not to save fools from themselves.”

She knew he meant her, and she knew from his carefully modulated tones that he was furious. Well, he had a right to be, she supposed.

She saw his gaze skim over her, take note of her quaking shoulders and chattering teeth. Then he stood and glared down at her. “Your saddlebags and bedroll are soaked, and so are all your clothes,” he said. “I have some dry ones. Get what you need from my bedroll while I look for more firewood.”

Gabrielle watched him disappear behind some trees. Orders came easily to him, just, apparently, as saving lives did.

Who was he? The question posed itself in her mind for at least the hundredth time as she struggled to her feet. Hugging herself against the cold, she made her way unsteadily to his horse and unbuckled his bedroll. He was right; his things had survived the creek without getting soaked, probably because he'd wisely wrapped them in oilcloth. She found two shirts, including the one he'd worn yesterday, which she took out to put on. It smelled of soap, and she realized he must have taken time last night to wash it.

Darting a quick look, she stripped off the clothes from her upper body and pulled on the Scotsman's shirt. It swallowed her nearly whole, going below her knees. The cotton felt fine against her skin, and she knew it was good—and expensive—material.

Who
was
he? The question reverberated in her mind again and again. Where did a fifty-dollar-a-month cowboy get the money for a shirt like this? Or for those fine-tooled boots he wore? Or for the expensive saddle he used?

He could be a gambler, she guessed. He did play cards, and he had the cool, deceptively casual demeanor for it, as well as the almost frightening perception. But why on earth would a gambler want to work his hands to the bone on a cattle drive?

No reason she could think of.

So perhaps, he was a hired gunman. That made better sense. Not that she'd ever met one, but it seemed to her that the profession would require the same calm demeanor and piercing insight required of a successful gambler—in addition to an expertise with a gun. And he
did
wear a gunbelt. But then so did all the other hands.

Could he be a gunman? Hired, perhaps, by Kingsley to protect him? And, maybe, even kill for him?

But she didn't
want
Drew Cameron to be a hired gun. She didn't
want
to think of him as a murderer. She wanted to think of him as the man who had risked his own life to save Ace—and to save her.

Could there be two men in that one body? A coldblooded killer and the Scotsman who thought nothing of jumping in icy water to save a ragged, homeless boy?

With her thoughts in turmoil and shivers racking her body, she pulled off her wet trousers, realizing only too well how naked she was. There was only Cameron's shirt between her and the world. Taking the pair of trousers she found in his bedroll, she pulled them on. They enveloped her like a bass swallowing a minnow. She couldn't walk, she couldn't move. She could only stand there, holding the danged trousers up with two hands.

“A wee bit large, I would say,” came an amused voice, the Scottish accent lilting and appealing, yet very, very masculine.

Without turning to look at him, she tried to take a step, but her foot caught in the trouser leg. She started to fall, but her downward journey was stopped when his arm shot around her waist, catching her. Her hands flew automatically to his chest, bracing herself, which meant that she had to let go of the trousers. They fell instantly in a puddle around her feet, shackling her and leaving her naked, but for his cotton shirt.

“Let me go!” she demanded, panic edging her voice.

But when he started to, she promptly lost her balance again, and his arm tightened around her once more.

“Steady, there,” he murmured.

The amusement in his voice was infuriating. With her face flaming, Gabrielle looked down to see a pile of kindling alongside her feet; clearly, he'd dropped it to catch her. She also saw that if she tried to pull up the trousers it would only result in more complications. Instead, she tried to step out of them.

Cameron caught her arm and stopped her. Then his hand came up under her chin and tipped her face upward until she had no choice but to look directly at him.

His eyes had lost all hint of laughter. They were golden, tawny, like his hair, the gold dominating the gray and brown and green, like those of the jungle cat she'd seen in captivity in St. Louis. They were looking at her with the same hunter's gleam, too, as if he'd caught his prey and was trying to decide whether to play with it or go directly for the kill. She had no doubt, then, that Drew Cameron, the Scotsman, could be a very dangerous man.

She tried to back away, but he held her still, studying her face closely. Then, slowly and deliberately, he let his gaze travel up and down her body, making her feel as if he were ridding her of the one garment she wore. When he'd finished his inspection, his eyes came back to lock with hers.

“Well, Gabe Lewis,” he said. “Just who and what are you?”

Chapter Six

Drew waited for a reply. When none came immediately, he nudged a little. “Let's start with a name.”

“It
is
Gabe … Gabrielle,” the woman said slowly.

And she
was
a woman. Not a girl, which he'd believed at first. She met his gaze square on—for the first time, if he recalled correctly. Perhaps she'd realized that if she gave him a chance to look at her for long, he might see beyond the grime.

And she was right. He was seeing a great deal.

While he wouldn't call her beautiful, not in the sense of the fashionable ladies he'd known, she had a charm and appeal that went straight to his heart. The water had washed off much of the dirt, and her skin appeared nearly flawless. Her short dark hair clung around her face in wet curly tendrils, framing the large dark blue eyes. And those eyes were lovely. Dark blue, they fairly sparkled, like the twilight sky above them twinkling with the first stars of the evening.

Gabrielle. The name fit her a bloody sight better than Gabe.

It occurred to him that people saw what they expected to see. Otherwise, he could never have been so blind as not to see what had been before his eyes. He had accepted her as a boy because there had been no reason to look beyond the scruffy hat and clothes and grime, no reason to question the short hair and boyish attire.

Still, he'd always considered himself more observant than most. The fact that a slip of a girl had outsmarted him stung, even while it amused him.

But why the masquerade?

She shivered, and he realized that his questions would have to wait.

“I'll get more firewood,” he said. “Can you keep that fire going?”

She nodded.

He hesitated. “Like you cook and swim?”

She grinned suddenly, and he was enchanted. He'd not seen her smile before, and it transformed her. Her entire face took part: her nose wrinkled, the corners of her eyes creased, and her cheeks dimpled.

“I did take care of fires for Pepper without burning the chuck wagon down,” she defended herself.

But there was a wry note, and Drew suspected the chore had not gone altogether smoothly. He still hesitated.

“Truly I can,” she said. “You need to change clothes before you get pneumonia.” She paused briefly, her enormous eyes focused on him. “Thank you for coming in after me.”

“Did you think I wouldn't?” he asked gruffly. “But why in the bloody hell did you tell me you could swim?”

She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug. “I knew you wanted to get back. I didn't want to delay you.”

“Don't ever do that again,” he warned her. “Don't ever lie to me when I ask a question.” Her appeal, as she stood there in naught but his shirt, only slightly mellowed his anger. He hated lies. His entire childhood—such as it was—had been a lie, and it had nearly destroyed him. “I should have thought you learned that lesson with Pepper.”

Her eyes darkened and she had the grace to flush.

Deciding to leave her with that thought for a few moments, he went to his bedroll, rummaging through for the extra shirt. The only dry trousers were the ones she'd tried to wear. He looked to see that they were lying on the ground, where she'd stepped out of them.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, she leaned down, picked them up, and threw them to him. “You can have them,” she said, a tentative smile curving her lips. “They don't suit.”

He was barely aware of her words, however. His head was reeling from what he'd seen of her when she'd leaned over. Her legs were lovely, her body slender and firm. The soft cloth of the shirt clung to curves he never would have dreamed were there.

He had known some true beauties, had bedded more than a few, but none had the appeal of this half-drowned pixie. Was it merely abstinence? He'd not been with a woman since he'd left Scotland. But he was afraid it wasn't merely lust that suddenly gnawed at him.

Sighing, Drew took the shirt and trousers to the privacy offered by a cottonwood tree. He quickly changed into the warm, dry clothing, wondering as he did so if the cold, wet ones wouldn't serve him better. His blood could stand some chilling.

He searched for additional firewood for several minutes, needing the time to quiet his desire, to control a burning ache that had started smoldering inside him. He wanted some answers, and he'd need all his wits about him to extract them from this devious imp. She was a good little actress … and liar, he reminded himself. And his instincts had already failed him miserably where she was concerned.

He continued to remind himself of what a liar she was as he approached the still struggling fire she tended. She was huddled next to it, apparently trying to catch what little warmth she could.

After adding the wood to the fire, he sat down next to her. She looked up at him with a charming smugness, her breasts moving beneath the cloth of his shirt. Bathed in starlight, shadowed by darting flames, she was bewitching, a beautiful sprite whose magnificent eyes could inspire Celtic legend. He should have known they couldn't belong to a lad; they were altogether too beautiful.

More than that, something about them, something he perceived in their depths, made him feel alive, every sense tingling with anticipation. “Gabrielle,” he said softly. “An unusual name.”

He watched her tense, the shoulders bunch together. She said nothing.

“
Very
unusual for a cook's helper,” he continued thoughtfully.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she said. “Take you, for example. I don't think you're exactly what you seem, either.”

She was perceptive as the devil, too.

“But I don't think I left any doubt as to what sex I am,” he countered.

A frown flickered across her brow, and she hugged herself protectively. He could almost see her mind work frantically, forming explanations he might accept. Somehow, he felt they wouldn't be the truth.

She looked into the fire, away from his eyes, and he
knew
he was right. “I'm running from someone,” she finally said.

“Why?”

She hesitated. “He … wants me,” she finally stuttered. “He followed me everywhere. I thought I could lose him on this trail drive.”

“Who is he?”

She hesitated. “I can't tell you.”