Scotsman Wore Spurs (14 page)

“As I said last night,” he replied, “I won't say anything for now. I won't promise more than that.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment, then started to say something, but he put his finger to her lips to stop her. “And if I find out you're lying … about something important,” he added softly, “you'll find I'm no gentleman.”

She didn't flinch, he would give her that. Still, as he turned away, he wondered whether the con artist had been conned.

He walked over to test the clothes spread out over bushes and limbs. They were not quite dry, but he was not in the mood to be any more gentlemanly than he already had been.

“I want to leave in a few minutes” he said coolly. “Can you be ready?”

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet but sure. Most women would take hours, but then he'd never met one quite like Gabrielle before.

No, Gabe. Gabe Lewis. He had to get used to the name again.

The day wore on awkwardly for Gabrielle. There was little time for conversation and even if there had been, the Scotsman made it clear he wanted none of it.

Oddly enough, Gabrielle felt she had lost a friend. By turning down what appeared to be a completely unselfish offer—money and a reference to his exmarshal friend in Denver—she had sparked his suspicion. Or had it simply been a test on his part? One she'd failed.

Aches and bruises from the long ride made every mile a physical misery as well, but she could live with that. She found it more difficult to live with her lies than with Drew Cameron's withdrawal.

She tried to persuade herself again that she was playing a part, just as she had on stage so often. But each time she saw the Scotsman's cool golden eyes and sardonic smile, she cringed inside. Cringed even more as she recalled the times he had, more or less, called her a liar.

She wanted to blurt out her suspicions about Kirby Kingsley, to say that she had lied for good reason, but there was still too much she didn't know. She didn't know how closely the Scotsman was involved with the man she suspected of killing her father. And, although she was now certain that Cameron couldn't have been the shooter, she wasn't certain whether or not he knew the shooting had taken place.

Could a man who saved one life condone the taking of another?

She didn't think so. And she most fervently didn't want to believe it of him. But then, he was adept at playing roles, too. Didn't that indicate he had something to hide?

And what about Kirby Kingsley? She knew with complete certainty that he had something to hide—had been hiding it for twenty-five years. As she pondered the reasons for the journey on which she'd embarked, she recalled her father's dying words and the words in his letter.

She'd been so
clear
, so
sure
, that in leaving her the letter, directing her to it and to the article about Kingsley, that he'd been telling her that Kingsley was responsible for killing him. She was still sure. But not as sure as she had been.

Somehow, in the past three days, something had happened to create tiny, niggling doubts. Perhaps it had been the storm or the dunk in the creek, in both of which cases she'd been terrified and certain that death was imminent.

More likely, she thought, the hot flood of sensation created by Drew Cameron's kiss last night had finally caused her to wake up from the dream state in which she'd existed since her father's death. For she realized now that she'd felt frozen, suspended in time at the moment she'd seen her father clutch at his chest and start to fall. Inside, all she'd been able to feel were grief and fear and rage. She'd been driven—and perhaps blinded—by them ever since.

But no more. The Scotsman's passion, if it had accomplished nothing else, had shocked her back into living. Into
feeling
. Oh, the grief and anger—and loneliness—were still with her. But she no longer felt controlled by them.

And with her new clarity of thought, she realized that she couldn't simply walk up and shoot Kirby Kingsley. She might have done it a week ago—if she'd had the opportunity, if he'd done something at that moment to stimulate her rage into action. And she thanked God that the occasion hadn't arisen. For she was no murderer.

But if she weren't going to kill Kingsley, she still felt compelled to bring him to justice. Somehow, she had to find a way to prove that he had ordered her father's murder.
Somehow …

Gabrielle spent a good part of her time thinking about ways she might gather evidence against Kingsley. It seemed an impossible task, given that it was unlikely he'd brought a signed confession along with him on a cattle drive. Finally, she realized she was merely driving herself crazy, and she forced herself to stop thinking about her father's murder and about Kingsley, and instead to think about the good times.…

She thought of her parents. Her mother had been very beautiful, much more beautiful than she was. She had inherited her father's wide mouth and willful chin, but her mother had shown her how to make the best of herself. Marian Parker would turn over in her grave if she could see her daughter now in such hideous, dirty clothes and cropped hair.

Then again, perhaps she might have winked. And she certainly would have been gently amused by her offspring's mishaps as a louse. Gabrielle smiled, remembering her mother's warmth and open-mindedness.

She remembered, too, seeing her parents together. The way her father had looked at her mother, as if she were the only woman on earth. When her mother had died two years ago of pneumonia, part of her father had died, too, and the gleam in his eyes and laughter in his voice had never returned.

Gabrielle had always hoped for a love like her parents had found. She'd always wondered if she ever would find a marriage as fine and whole as theirs had been. The dark side, though, was always the ending, and she wondered now whether the joy was worth the grief.

She had no one to ask.

Emotion clogged her throat and blurred her vision. She stared at Drew Cameron's straight back as he rode ahead of her. Would he betray her to Kingsley, she wondered. Or would he keep her secret, as he'd promised. The question pounded at her throughout the last hours of the long day.

She knew when they got close to the herd, because the cow chips were fresher. At last she saw the cattle in the distance and heard their soft lowing as they grazed. She followed the Scotsman around the cattle, both of them riding slowly so as not to spook the herd. They headed directly for the chuck wagon, where they found Kingsley sipping a cup of coffee and Pepper stirring a pot of beans.

Both men looked up as they approached. Kingsley's typically severe expression didn't change, nor did Pepper's.

“Thought you might be staying in town,” the cook grumbled, looking directly at her, making it clear that he was unhappy she hadn't.

“We wouldn't want to be disappointing you,” the Scotsman said, his accent pronounced.

The corners of Kingsley's lips twitched slightly, but his eyes remained hard, even cold. “Took you long enough,” he finally said, turning to Drew. “You know we're damned shorthanded. Take a fresh horse. You're on night herd.”

Drew smiled slightly. “Aye, sir,” he said with mock subservience, but he headed toward the remuda without another word.

Gabe was furious on his behalf. They'd eaten only two short meals of hardtack and jerky that day. They'd had no coffee. And Cameron had been in the saddle for nearly twelve hours already.

The fact that Kingsley hadn't even asked about Ace infuriated her even further. It also strengthened her belief that he was a man who could kill another man without remorse or conscience.

“Pepper can use some help,” he said to her, then started to turn.

“Don't you want to know about Ace?”

Kingsley stopped and turned back to her. “Why? There's nothing more I can do.”

Gabe slid down from her horse to face him. She knew she shouldn't say another word, but she was tired, and hurting, and she wanted to lash out at the man who used people so easily.

“He might be crippled for life,” she said.

Kirby's reply was curt. “That's the risk of a trail drive,” he said. “Every man knows it. And now you know it, too. You can quit anytime.” He turned and walked toward the remuda, where she saw him saddle and mount a horse, then ride out from the camp area.

“Damn young fool. Shoulda stayed in town,” Pepper muttered as he stalked back to the chuck wagon.

The words were meant to be heard, and Gabrielle set her chin stubbornly. They weren't going to get rid of her that easily.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, following him.

“Really want to know?”

She stared at the old cook blindly, tears of anger and frustration clouding her eyes. What
was
she accomplishing here?

Pepper's scowl faded. “It ain't that bad, boy. You did awright the other night. Mebbe you ain't a complete loss.”

“The other night?”

“Durin' the storm. When you helped out with the horses and the wagon and didn't go losing your head. Mebbe you have some promise. You watch me and mebbe you'll learn something.” With another dubious “mebbe,” he turned away.

Dubious or not, the faint praise lifted the weariness from her shoulders, and she knew a kind of pride deeper than any she'd felt after a successful performance. Pepper, she realized, was a much more critical house than any she'd played to.

“You wanna try cookin' them beans again,” he asked. “We'll be needin' a new batch for the night riders.”

She did. She nodded. Drew Cameron would be one of those. She'd show him how competent she could be.

“But I ain't letting you near my starter,” Pepper added ominously.

She couldn't stop a small smile. He glared at her. But she suspected she saw a twinkle in his eyes.

Kirby Kingsley rode the perimeter of his cattle, telling himself he was out here to check the night herders. The truth was, he wanted to remove himself from the accusing eyes of the boy. Those eyes had bored right through him, as if searching his soul and finding it wanting.

Hell, the kid hit the mark, only he didn't know how closely. Gabe Lewis obviously believed him hardhearted because he hadn't asked about Ace, but he had crimes on his conscience that were a hell of a lot worse.

He hadn't told the kid he did hurt for Ace and had provided the best he could for him, but that he couldn't have stood knowing that Ace had lost a leg, or even his life. This was his fifth trail drive, and he'd lost more hands than he wanted to remember: He'd lost them to rivers, to rustlers, to Indians, to stampedes. He'd learned to do what he could, then try to forget them. It never quite worked, but he damned well tried. Otherwise, he would never boss another drive.

But God, that kid's blue eyes haunted him.

He spurred his horse into a gentle trot, seeking out Drew Cameron. It probably hadn't been fair to send Drew out, but he wanted to talk to the man alone, and he sure as hell couldn't do it around the chuck wagon.

Kirby found him at the back of the herd. Most of the cattle had finished grazing and were down for the night. They seemed well content at the moment. Drew was sitting toward the back of his saddle, humming a tune as all the cowhands did at night.

As he approached the Scotsman, he spoke, “Drew?”

Drew nodded wearily. “He'll be all right,” he said. “The doctor even thought he might be able to save the leg. He'll be crippled, though.”

Kirby nodded.

“I told him he could work for me if I ever get a ranch going.”

Kirby smiled stiffly. “You will. I've never seen anyone learn so fast.”

“I'm not sure the others agree.”

“They do,” Kirby said. “I've heard them talk.”

He was glad Drew had the tact not to mention his nephews. He'd been making excuses for them to himself, but in truth, he couldn't excuse their jealousy. They hadn't stopped sniping at the Scotsman even while the others had accepted him. His acceptance had become complete when he saved Ace; there wasn't a man now that wouldn't partner with the Scot, except Damien and Terry Kingsley.

“I half-expected the kid to stay in town,” Kirby said.

He could have sworn he saw Drew's body stiffen slightly, but his answer sounded casual enough.

“So did I, but he's no quitter.”

“Was he any trouble?”

“Outside of nearly drowning, no,” Drew said. “He told me he could swim. He can't. Something to remember.”

Kirby chuckled. “He does seem to exaggerate his abilities.”

“I'm surprised you let him stay.”

Kirby shrugged. “I was hungry once. Real hungry. I lied and stole and cheated for food for my brother and me. I know what desperation will do.” He hesitated, then asked. “Did he tell you anything about himself?”

“Not much,” Drew replied.

“Sometimes … I have the feeling that he … knows me.”

When Drew remained silent, Kirby sighed, still wondering why the boy—and those angry eyes—preyed on his mind.

“Want a relief?” he said.

Drew shook his head. “I like it out here alone.”

Kirby understood. God knows, he'd felt that splendid isolation enough times. The clouds had gone and the sky was clear. The only sound was the soft, contented lowing of the cattle and an occasional bit of a song from another hand who'd drifted by.

“I'll be scouting ahead. It's good to have you back.”

He didn't wait for an answer but spurred his horse away from camp, riding alone under the bright moonlit sky. He didn't want to admit even to himself that it was a boy's eyes that kept him from heading toward camp—and sleep.

Chapter Eight

Beans, beans, beans. Sitting on the ground next to the chuck wagon, Gabrielle separated the gravel from the beans and hoped that after this cattle drive, she'd never see another bean as long as she lived.