Scotsman Wore Spurs (19 page)

As Gabrielle watched the rampaging calf, trying to decide how to catch him, Pepper appeared from inside the chuck wagon. She couldn't see his expression in the dim, predawn light, but she felt his burning glare. She would hear about this all day. Sleep was important to the hands, who usually got little of it. And they were lucky that the sound of clattering pots hadn't yet spooked the cattle.

She said a small prayer. Sammy would be lucky not to be invited to supper tonight—as a main course. Cowpunchers, she'd learned, became very protective of their charges and were loath to kill their own cows. They might buy a cow from another herd to butcher, but even that was rare. Sammy, though, was stretching the sensibilities of this bunch of cowhands to the limits.

“Sonofabitch!” Legs's familiar complaint came the loudest.

“Get that damned calf out of here!” Damien exclaimed.

Starting to feel a bit panicked herself, Gabrielle looked around. She had no rope, and when she tried to grab Sammy as he went past her, he butted her aside. Off balance and still only half-awake, she went tumbling to the hard ground. The calf continued stalking the camp. No one else even tried to stop him. They were all watching her.

Determined, she regained her feet and studied Sammy, who was running every which way, trampling on everything in his path, human or otherwise.

“Sammy,” she said coaxingly as she stood.

Sammy didn't respond.

“Sammy!” She tried to force a note of authority in her voice.

Sammy backed away. She looked around, and she thought her eyes must be playing tricks on her in the dark. But she had good night vision, and it did seem as if every drover present—about eight of them—was grinning. Including Drew Cameron. Even Kingsley, who was semipropped against a wagon wheel, appeared to have a small smile on his lips.

Knowing she'd be listening for days to the story of Two-Bits and Sammy, the calf that destroyed Kingsley's camp, she tried not to smile herself. Smiling did not fit her part—the gruff boy of few words. Instead, she concentrated on the calf, only too aware that she was the center of attention—and amusement.

Discarding the idea of getting a rope—Sammy seemed in no mood to stay still long enough for her to get it around his neck—she tried to think of a way to get the calf to come to her. The mother was tied to the chuck wagon, and she supposed it would work if she used the cow to lure her own calf. But then they'd have two bovines trampling the cooking area, and that would send Pepper into fits.

She thought rapidly, recalled the sound of the cow's mournful cry to her calf. How did it sound? She could mimic almost anything, having inherited her father's ear for sound and ability to reproduce it.

Without expectation of success, she made an effort to approximate a cow lowing and was astonished when the calf slowed and, finally, came to a stop. She made the sound again. The calf turned to look at her, his panic seeming to fade. She took a couple of steps toward the hoodlum wagon, and tried the plaintive lowing again. The calf followed. Slowly, she back-stepped her way across the camp, trying not to trip on the men or bedrolls in her path. Finally, she reached the hoodlum wagon, and the calf came up to join her, heading directly for its mother.

Gabrielle watched in relief as the mother welcomed her calf and it huddled next to her. Behind her, the camp was quiet; not a single drover uttered a sound. Then, a minute later, the clatter of pans signaled that Pepper had decided to start breakfast. Dawn couldn't be far behind.

With her back still turned to the rest of the camp, Gabrielle became aware of someone standing behind her. She knew who it was without looking. Her body reacted to the Scotsman whenever he came near her, almost as if she were a magnet to his steel.

“How did a banker's daughter learn to do that?”

She heard his whispered words as his breath tickled her ear. Her body stiffened, as much a reaction to his closeness as to his words.

She turned toward him. He was so tall, she had to look almost straight up to see his face. He had washed and changed shirts, and the smell of soap mixed with leather spiced the early morning air.

“That was a fine trick,” he added, his voice soft, even seductive, not harsh as it had been the last time he'd spoken to her.

“I've always been good at imitating voices,” she said.

“I've noticed. You never slip, do you?” he observed softly. “You've got your voice completely trained.”

“It's not trained,” she replied—being truthful, for once. “It's just a natural … talent.”

She returned his gaze steadily for a moment or two longer, then had to look away. He saw too much, asked so much. And she always wanted to answer.

“I see Mr. Kingsley is better,” she said.

The Scotsman was silent for a moment, clearly not ready to leave the subject of her voice control—and other unacknowledged talents. Finally, though, he let out a sigh and answered her question.

“Aye, he's better. We'll be starting back on the trail today.”

She glanced upward at him, surprised. “He's that much improved?”

“No,” Cameron replied, leaning against the wagon. “But he insists. He'll ride with Pepper. He can always use Pepper's bunk.”

“Does he know …?”

“Who shot him? No. He only saw the reflection of the sun off a rifle sight.”

She hesitated, then asked, “And does he know
why
?”

The Scotsman's features tensed. “He says not.”

Another moment of silence passed, then he said, “You don't carry a rifle.”

It wasn't a question, but she shook her head.

“Can you shoot?” His tone was casual, but his expression was not; his gaze, as he studied her face, was piercing.

Her fears told her to lie, to say, “No, I've never held a gun in my life.” But common sense warned her that she'd never get away with it. He'd know instantly that she was lying.

Thinking quickly, Gabrielle replied, “A little.”

“What does ‘a little' mean?”

“It means …” She lifted one shoulder in a quick shrug. “A little. I thought it would look odd for me not to have a gun if I was going to join a cattle drive, so …” She shrugged again. “I bought a gun. I tried it a few times.”

She risked a quick look at him. He was still staring at her—hard. But he didn't have that half-enraged, half-cynical expression she'd come to recognize as a sign that he thought she was lying to him.

“‘A few times,'” he repeated slowly. “And did you hit anything you aimed at?”

“Well … maybe once or twice.” She hoped her furtive glances at him would be interpreted as embarrassment, for she couldn't seem to prevent them.

“Well, then,” he began, “I'd say a few lessons might be in order.”

Her gaze flashed up to meet his.

“I'll teach you,” he said, throwing her completely off balance.

She didn't
want
him to teach her. She was already afraid of him, of how he made her feel, and every time he came near her, her fear grew.

Feeling more than a little desperate, she protested, “But I don't like guns.”

“But Gabe Lewis would,” he said, his lips twisting into an amused smile.

He had her there. And he knew it. Gabe Lewis
would
jump at the chance to learn to shoot.

“But … why? I mean, what difference does it make if I know how—”

“I think it's fairly obvious what difference it makes,” he cut in, his voice as smooth as glass. “The past two days have proven beyond a doubt that, out here, one needs to know how to protect oneself. And if you own a gun, you should understand how it works and how to use it.”

She could think of no argument that sounded even remotely sensible. She already knew she was beaten as she asked, “How do I know you're any good?”

One fair eyebrow shot upward. “I'm a Scot,” he said simply. “We learn to shoot almost before we can walk. Every gentleman knows how to hunt.”

His tone as he said the word
gentleman
caught her attention; for an instant, his cool and casual voice had hinted at contempt.

Carefully, she said, “You were a
gentleman?
”

“That's very debatable,” he replied, his smile disappearing.

Through the layers of charm, she saw a deep bitterness that even he, who was so good at masking his thoughts and feelings, couldn't hide.

“I don't think so,” she said softly. “I think you must have been a very fine gentleman.”

He seemed taken aback. “Now, what makes you think that?”

“The way you cared about Ace,” she said. “Not many of the others did.”

He shrugged as if that meant little.

“You believe in loyalty.”

“Doesn't everyone?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't think so.”

“And I thought
I
was cynical,” he said, the side of his mouth twitching again.

“And you keep promises.”

The half-smile evaporated instantly. “Is that a reminder?”

“No,” she said. “A thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet,” he warned. “I came bloody close to telling Kirby today, and I still might.”

“You think I'm a danger to him?”

“I don't know what you are,” he replied. “And I don't like puzzles.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking up at him through her lashes, a tiny smile curving her lips.

She hadn't been trying to seem seductive, only teasing. But for an instant, his eyes glittered brightly, his gaze holding hers in a look that made tendrils of heat curl through her. Then, however, his gaze skimmed over her, taking in the hat and clothes. And he grinned. She could have slapped him.

“I'm bloody sure,” he said. But his eyes still held a hint of amber fire, and she knew he was seeing past the clothes that would have shamed a beggar to her real self. And he had seen quite a lot of her.

Blushing, she looked away. Damn the man! Why did he have to confuse her so?

“When we stop tonight,” he said, “I'll take you for a shooting lesson.”

Lord, were they back to
that
again?

“But I don't
want
—” She stopped short, having looked up to find she was talking to the air. He had walked away, his long legs carrying him quickly beyond hearing range—unless she shouted. Which she wasn't about to do.

“Sonofabitch,” she said, trying out the word for the first time. She'd heard it often enough lately. The cowhands used it rather like glue, to stick every other word together. They also used it to describe any and all troubles. In fact, she heard it so frequently that she didn't even think of it anymore as an obscenity. It was a perfectly acceptable expression. Descriptive, too.

“Sonofabitch,” she repeated. But, although it helped to vent her frustration, she discovered that swearing did nothing to alleviate it.

Drew grinned as he walked back to the place he'd called his bed last night and gathered up his bedroll. Bloody hell, he enjoyed sparring with her.

He felt better than he had all night, his suspicions about Gabrielle having been laid to rest—or nearly so. He didn't think she had lied about her lack of shooting experience. And the distaste in her voice, when she said she didn't like guns, definitely had been real.

Later today, he would know for sure if she had told the truth. Oh, he knew she would try her damnedest to squirm out of their lesson, but he wouldn't let her, if only because he'd meant it when he told her she should know how to protect herself. Kirby would agree with him on that, would even force it on the lad he knew as Gabe.

As Drew tossed his bedroll into the back of the hoodlum wagon and got on with his duties for the day, he considered his ulterior motives in teaching Gabrielle the finer points of marksmanship. Of course, he would have to take her far enough away from camp that the cattle wouldn't be spooked by the sound of gunfire. Far enough that the two of them would be alone.

Far enough that he could kiss her again.

The farther the cattle drive had moved across the plains, the fewer gullies and streams there were—and Gabe was finding it more and more difficult to maintain her privacy. Unfortunately certain functions still had to be performed.

That morning, she relied upon her usual excuse—the search for wood—to disappear for a few minutes. But she had to walk quite a distance before she found a couple of stunted, mostly dead trees, and it occurred to her as she returned to camp that the lack of convenient shields might become an even bigger problem before the trip was over.

But it wasn't her lack of privacy that most concerned her at the moment. So far, she'd managed to wash her underclothes and her short hair in the hoodlum wagon with a pail of water, when everyone was asleep. If she had to, she'd come up with a way to take care of other personal matters.

But the Scotsman … he was a far greater problem.

He was like a dog with a bone. And she was the bone, much to her discomfort.

What made it so completely intolerable was her reaction to him. She didn't understand it. She had been courted in more cities than she could remember. Admirers had flocked backstage after performances, and invitations to dinner had been legion. Wealthy men. Handsome men. Influential men. But she'd never felt the kind of attraction for a single one of them that she felt for Drew Cameron—this fevered anticipation, with heart pounding, pulse throbbing, and blood quickening. All the clichés from books and plays had come alive inside her.

As she helped Pepper get breakfast ready, she found herself both dreading and eagerly anticipating the end of the day, knowing she would see the Scotsman again. And that they would be alone. Her state of anxiety made her somewhat absentminded and earned her a scowl from Pepper, and she tried harder to shove her own troubles aside and focus on the task at hand.

Pepper, she noticed, seemed to be complaining more than usual about his rheumatism, and he left more than usual for her to do. But then, she reasoned, he was also doctoring Kingsley, changing bandages and worrying over him like a mother bear over a cub, mumbling to himself as he did so.