Scotsman Wore Spurs (2 page)

Her costume, purchased at the only mercantile in the small town where she'd left the stage, looked altogether too new. She would have to do something about that, she thought, as she put on the stiff clothing. Her hat, though, was perfect. She'd taken it from her father's trunk; it dated back to a melodrama in which she and her parents had performed. Her father had bought it off a drunken cowboy for two bits, and it was as disreputable as they came.

Pulling the hat down over her forehead, she grimaced at the smell still emanating from the sweat-band. Then she gathered her courage about her like a cloak and turned once more to face the mirror.

Enter Gabe Lewis.

Gone was Gabrielle Parker, beloved and protected daughter of James and Marian Parker. Daughter of a criminal, if she believed what her father had said in his last communication to her. And how could she not believe her father's own words?

The hurt returned. The deep anguish that her frantic activities had tried to bandage over. The anger. The thirst for justice and retribution.

Her hand reached out and clasped the letter that was never far from her, the letter and the newspaper article her father had left in his trunk for her. She'd been sent to that trunk by his last, dying words: “In the trunk … letter … explains it all …” Mustering the last of his strength, he'd clutched her arm, whispering, “The article. Kingsley. It's him. Davis. Danger for …” The words faded, then he made one more mammoth effort to speak. “Leave … Texas. Promise.”

She hadn't had a chance to make that promise, and she had no intentions of leaving Texas, especially after finding the letter her father had written and left alongside a newspaper article. It was, as much as anything, a confession as well as a warning. Undoubtedly the accompanying article had prompted him to write it. Sensing danger, perhaps even fearing for his life, he'd wanted her to know the truth. The letter was dated the day before he'd been shot, and he'd marked the envelope “to be opened upon my death.” She'd hadn't believed the contents at first, though she couldn't deny the handwriting was his.

He'd always been larger than life to her, his laughter hearty and his eyes twinkling. He'd been a loving husband, a wonderful father, and a man who would give his last dime to someone in need. It was impossible to reconcile her image of her father with the man his letter described. Impossible to believe he had been friends with the likes of the men he said he once rode with.

And yet, by her father's own admission, he'd committed acts that had forced him to leave Texas and that had kept him away for twenty-five years. Throughout that time, he'd harbored a terrible secret.

It was obvious to her, now, that James Parker had paid for the sins of his youth all his adult life. Finally, he'd paid for them with his death. Now, in her grief and anger—and her guilt that it had been she who had brought him back to Texas when he'd obviously not wanted to come—Gabrielle believed it was up to her to make sure her father's killer paid for his sins as well. Why, dear God, had she begged him to make this trip when the offer was made? Why?

But she had, and now he was dead, and the law could care less. She'd directly accused the man named by her father—a man named Kingsley—but the sheriff had laughed it off. Kirby Kingsley, he'd said, was a man of substance and power; he would not even approach the man about the charge, not on the word of an entertainer.

Gabrielle fingered the newspaper article and read the headline once more. Her hands shaking as she held the paper, she stared almost blindly at the headline, though she knew it by heart. KINGSLEY TO TAKE HERD NORTH.

The article, which included an artist's sketch of a man named Kirby Kingsley, was nearly a column long. Her eyes scanned the words without really reading them, but they were already burned into her mind. Given what she now knew, she had no doubt that the article had been the cause of her father's uncharacteristic, anxious state in the days before his death. For her, it was the cause of overwhelming guilt. She understood, now, why her father hadn't wanted to come west, and she wished, with utter futility, that he had rejected her pleas. If he had, he would still be alive. It was her fault that he was dead, and she was learning all too quickly that grief compounded by guilt was nearly unbearable.

She was left with one choice: if her father's murderer was to be brought to justice—and it was inconceivable to her that he would not be—she would have to deliver him herself. She had no idea how, but she knew she had to do
something.

The article, after so many readings, had provided her with the means. Kirby Kingsley was planning a cattle drive. Composed of cattle from many ranches in the central Texas area, it was reported to be one of the largest drives ever attempted. Kingsley would trail boss the herd from a point south of San Antonio to the railhead in Abilene. Drovers were being hired.

She would become one of those drovers.

She could do it. She knew she could. She had played enough male roles to know the swagger, to know exactly how to lower her voice and imitate the language of a cowhand. And although Gabe Lewis didn't look like much, she'd seen enough cowboys to know they came in all sizes, and many were as young as fourteen or fifteen. Children grew up fast in the west.

Her one
real
disadvantage, she knew, were her riding skills. She could ride—barely. She had precious little experience, having traveled mostly by train and coach, but her father had insisted that she learn, at least, the basics. He'd also insisted that she learn to use a pistol for self-protection. One never knew, he said, when one might need to know how to sit a horse or use a firearm to protect one's self.

Her lips thinned to a grim line, and her resolve hardened. She
would
get hired. And she
would
carry out her plan. She would discover the truth, even if she had to use her gun to force it. The powerful Kirby Kingsley would pay for her father's death. So would his hired gun. Though she hadn't seen the killer's face, she felt she'd seen enough to identify him: an uncommonly tall man with cat-like grace and a band of silver on his hat. She would find both of them and force a confession if necessary, perhaps even take justice into her own hands.

She did not care about the price she might have to pay. With grief and guilt still raging inside, the future seemed an enormous black void. Her dreams—her father's dreams—of singing in a great music hall were shattered and she couldn't seem to piece them back again.

Taking a deep breath, Gabe Lewis gave the brim of his awful hat a final downward yank. He stuffed the little money he had into his pockets, tucked the bundle of discarded clothing under his arm and left the room. He needed one final prop before the play could begin.

He needed a horse.

Drew Cameron stretched out in the comfortable chair, nursing an excellent brandy and pondering his future.

For a while, he hadn't thought he had one. He'd almost died from loss of blood, then from an infection. But Kirby Kingsley had simply refused to allow him to die. Having made sure he had the best medical help available, Kirby himself had stayed by his bed day and night. Kirby said it was the least he could do for the man who'd saved his life.

Perhaps, Drew thought, it was saving each other's life that accounted for the odd kindship that had developed between them. Odd because they were so different. Drew, a ne'er-do-well who had been raised with the trappings of wealth among the Scottish aristocracy. Kirby, a hardworking dour rancher who had known only grinding poverty as a boy and young man. Drew cared about little, was attached to no one. Kirby cared deeply about his ranch, his cattle, his brother, his nephews; he felt extremely proprietary about all of them.

Still, the similarities between them seemed to override their differences. Both had been basically discarded as youngsters. And both had rebelled in ways that had injured themselves. The mutual recognition of kindred souls was there, and in the two months that Drew had been at the Kingsley ranch, the Circle K, he'd found the kind of friend, perhaps even the father, he'd never thought he'd have.

During late-night talks over drinks, Drew often sensed a sadness and loneliness in Kingsley. But tonight Kirby was positively morose.

“Still thinking about the ambush?” Drew asked.

“It's unsettling to know someone wants you dead,” Kirby said, frowning.

“You think whoever it was might try again? It's been two months.”

“I'd know a lot better if those three hadn't got away.”

“Two of them are probably still in no shape to try again,” Drew said.

“I wish that made me feel better,” Kingsley said. “But if they were hired guns, whoever paid them to kill me could just as easily hire others.”

Drew was silent. He wished he'd heard more: a name, a town, something.

“And I worry about the ranch. If anything happened to me …”

Drew tried to reassure him. “Nothing's happened for two months, and your brother, Jon, seems capable.”

“He knows animals. He doesn't know business, or men, and he never will. And my nephews? Hell, Damien has potential, but he's too hotheaded … and greedy. And Terry, he's like Jon. Good-natured but easily led. I've worked too damn hard to have everything destroyed.”

Drew couldn't disagree with Kirby. As a gambler, Drew studied men: their strengths and weaknesses. Kirby was pure steel; his brother clay.

“Go with us,” Kirby said suddenly. “You want to learn cow. There's no better way.”

Stunned at the invitation, Drew thought Kirby couldn't be serious. He tried to give his friend a graceful way out of the impulsive suggestion. “Kane O'Brien's expecting me.”

Kirby shrugged off the excuse. “If you want to learn the cattle business, you won't find a better classroom than a cattle drive.”

And O'Brien would probably be relieved, Drew thought. His brother-in-law had called in a debt in asking O'Brien to take him on. The last thing O'Brien was likely to want—or need—was a tenderfoot in the way.

“Think of it this way,” Kirby said, reading Drew's thoughts. “I really want you.”

“'Tis the why of it, I'm wondering,” Drew said, his brogue deepening. “I'm no drover.”

Kirby was silent for a moment. “I trust you,” he finally said.

The simple declaration touched and pleased Drew. Few people in his life had trusted him. Nor had he trusted many people.

With the first tiny spark of excitement flickering inside him, he rapidly considered the consequences of his disappearing on the trail for the next several months. Kirby had already written on his behalf to Kane O'Brien, saying he'd been wounded and was recovering nicely at the Circle K. It would be easy enough to cancel his visit. Other than that, he had no commitments, no obligations.

Yet he felt compelled to argue. “I don't think your nephews would be pleased.” Damien was to be second in command, and Damien didn't like him. Drew had seen the signs of growing resentment as Kirby spent so much time with his wounded guest.

“That's their problem,” Kirby said. “The fact is I would like you at my back. You're a fair hand with a rifle.”

“Ah, that. Every Scotsman is familiar with a sporting weapon. I had a bit of luck, no more. And you noticed I'm sure, I'm not much good at ducking.”

“No,” Kirby said dryly. “We'll have to work on that.”

“I've never done much but toss a pair of dice. You know I don't know anything about driving cattle.”

Kirby eyed him with amusement. “You said you used to race in steeplechases, and I've watched you ride the last several days. I don't think there's a damn beast you can't ride, though you'll have to get accustomed to the moves of our cutting horses. You can learn the rest. And the sound of your voice alone is worth the pay,” Kirby added.

Drew was confused.

“I heard you sing one day. Nothing soothes restless cattle like a mellow voice.”

“I can provide ye with a few Scottish battle songs,” Drew said wryly, “and little else.”

Kirby chuckled. “Hell, I would be the only trail boss ever to have a Scottish lord as a cowhand. And I'd wager the Circle K that underneath that noble skin lies a true Westerner.”

Drew forced a smile. “My title is the least thing I possess to commend me.”

His bitterness must have been plain. Kingsley was silent for a moment, then said, “I know you have guts, that you risked your life for a stranger's. That says a hell of a lot to me. And I know you're thinking about raising cattle,” Kingsley continued. “You can cut out fifty as your share when we reach Kansas City. Keep them as seed for your own herd or sell them.”

“That's above the going rate,” Drew observed.

“The going rate usually doesn't include my life.”

“I need no reward for that.”

“You think my life is worth so little?”

Drew felt his resistance weaken further. He wanted to go on the drive. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything. He'd heard the horror stories—dust, storms, flood, Indians, outlaws. He harbored a curiosity about this exacting land that permitted few mistakes. It was his chance to prove, not only to Kirby but also to himself, that he was more than a clever gambler. Yet he was apprehensive. He had disappointed nearly everyone. He didn't want to disappoint this man.

“And Damien and Terry?” he asked. “What will you tell them?”

Kirby's lips thinned. “I hire. They don't.”

The last thread of resistance broke. “Then I accept,” Drew said.

He'd played the rake the past fifteen years, consciously trying to destroy his family name, the title, and everything to do with Kinloch. It had been his revenge on the man who'd made his mother's life—and his own—a living hell. But there had always been an emptiness, a vast lonely place where his heart should be. Revenge hadn't filled it. Neither had gaming or drinking or whoring.