Scotsman Wore Spurs (23 page)

“We can't lose this wagon,” Kirby said. “There's no place in Indian Territory to replace it.”

“We won't,” Drew said.

“If we see any Indians, we'll try to bargain with them for a few head of cattle. Don't shoot first.”

“I understand.”

Kirby glanced at him. “You ever shoot from horseback?”

Drew shook his head. “Just that night of the stampede, and then I wasn't aiming at anything.”

“It's hard as hell to hit anything,” Kirby said. “Wait till your target's close.”

Drew shifted in his saddle. “How close?”

“Within touching distance,” Kirby said with a wry smile.

Drew looked at him askance, thinking he couldn't be serious.

Kirby raised an eyebrow. “Still thinking about the cattle business?”

“Aye,” Drew said. “Never a dull moment.”

Kirby nodded. “I'm glad you're with us. Now, you'd better go back to the hoodlum wagon and tell the kid what's happening. You teach him anything about shooting?”

“One lesson,” Drew muttered.

“Better give him another one tonight.”

Not bloody likely, Drew thought. But he nodded, then started to turn his horse around. He stopped, though, when he caught a glimpse of Pepper's face under the brim of his hat. While Kirby's was pale, Pepper's face was a dull red. And his hands were decidedly unsteady on the reins.

Drew's gaze went back to Kirby. Kirby met his gaze, and Drew saw instantly that he wasn't the only one who was worried about the old cook.

“My horse needs some rest,” he said. “After I talk to Two-Bits, why don't I drive your team for a while.” It was a lame excuse. Ridiculous, really. The remuda was just to the right of the herd, and he could have replaced his mount any time he wanted. But Kirby nodded, and Pepper didn't argue. Something was wrong, Drew realized, something more than worry over renegade Indians.

He turned the pinto and rode back to the hoodlum wagon, pacing his horse next to Gabrielle.

She looked at him warily from under the hat that now sported a bullet hole. Her expression was curious—and guarded.

“Army says there's Kiowas and Utes north of here,” he said. “Keep your eyes open. I'm going to ride in the chuck wagon with Pepper and Mr. Kingsley.”

She gave him a short nod in reply.

“Pepper doesn't look well,” he continued, wondering whether she'd noticed anything.

“He says it's his arthritis acting up.”

So she had noticed something, although Drew couldn't help but think it might be more serious that arthritis.

He continued to ride next to her, reluctant to leave her side, yet having no real excuse to stay. “Remember what I taught you,” he said finally.

She turned her head and met his gaze directly, and he saw in her eyes all the pain and confusion he'd caused.

“I remember
everything you taught me
,” she said.

His jaw tightened, his lips thinning to a grim line. He had not even bid her goodbye yesterday when they'd returned to camp. Bloody hell, he'd felt deceived all over again, bewildered by the slip of a girl who had turned him inside out, then twisted his guts with lies.

“About the gun, lass,” he said.

“I remember.”

“Stay right behind the other wagon.”

She nodded.

He hesitated, then rode ahead again to the chuck wagon. Slipping his rifle from the scabbard, he handed it to Kirby, then took the lariat from his saddle horn and tied one end to his reins. Moving to the back of the wagon, he leaned over and tied the other end of the rope to the back bow. Then he slipped down and took several rapid strides to swing up onto the bench. The other two men made way from him.

He took the reins from Pepper and watched as the older man made his way inside to lie down on his bench.

Kirby spoke quietly. “He just told me he has a bad ticker. I may have to leave him at Haley's.”

“Haley's?” Drew said.

“Trading post where we'll get supplies. It's two days away, maybe three if we run into trouble. And that seems to be all we're doing.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How's the kid doing?”

Drew shrugged. “Indians don't seem to worry—” He stopped short, realizing he'd almost said “her.”

Perhaps, he should. Perhaps Kirby should know. Bloody hell, Kirby definitely should know. Yet Drew couldn't quite bring himself to give up Gabrielle's secret.

“Has there ever been a woman on a cattle drive?” he asked, hoping to hell he sounded more casual than he felt.

Kirby gave him a knowing look. “Getting lonesome? There's usually some, uh, soiled doves at Haley's. Competition's pretty stiff when a trail drive hits.”

“Just curious,” Drew said.

“I know of one or two men who take their wives along on drives,” Kirby said. “But there's damned little privacy on the trail, and I wouldn't want one along. What in the hell would you do with a woman on a drive, anyway?” He gestured ahead with the barrel of his rifle. “Next water hole we come on, most of the men will take a bath.”

Drew had his answer, and it only served to make him feel even more torn in his loyalties. Should he honor his bond of friendship with Kirby? Or should he honor the bond he'd created last night with the woman who had given him her virginity? The woman whom, despite lies and everything else, he was coming to love. God help him.

The day wore on. Undulating expanses of prairie stretched as far as Drew could see, and there was no sign of galloping, painted braves. Kirby rested inside the wagon with Pepper, and Drew drove the team, with three rifles lying at his feet.

They stopped early in the afternoon beside the Washita River. Drew unhitched the team. Pepper got down and opened the wagon boot, where all the pans and the staples were housed. But as Drew helped him take out the Dutch oven, the cook fell, his hand going to his chest. Drew caught him. The cook's precious oven clattered to the ground.

As Drew eased Pepper down to lie on the hard-packed earth, Gabrielle, who had unhitched her own team, sprinted toward them, her face full of distress.

Pepper struggled to sit, leaning against a wagon wheel. Seeing Gabrielle, he frowned and waved her away. “Don' jus' stand there. Get supper started.”

Drew watched her face. There was nothing blank about it now, nothing concealed. Anguish filled her eyes.

“Pepper?” she whispered.

“You deef?” the cook said. His face was no longer red but a pasty color, and his breathing was labored. His hand clutched at his chest, but his gaze was steely.

She shook her head. “I'll start the fire.”

The old man seemed to relax. “You can do it now. You can do it all. Smart lad.” He closed his eyes, and his body slumped against the wheel.

Kirby, who had climbed out of the wagon as quickly as his injuries allowed, kneeled next to Pepper, taking his hand. “Don't do this to me. Damn it, Pepper, don't do it.”

Drew leaned over, felt for a pulse in the man's neck, unsurprised to discover that there was none. He stood, heaving a sigh as he leaned against a wheel. Then he glanced at Gabrielle.

She was standing absolutely still, tears glistening in her eyes. She turned away, stumbled. Then, with a shuddering sigh, she straightened, turned, and walked briskly toward the hoodlum wagon.

He went after her.

They reached the hoodlum wagon at the same time, and he watched as she reached blindly inside for wood, spilling several pieces as she lifted out others.

He put his hands on her shoulders, and she jerked away, huddling against the wagon. Her shoulders heaved.

“Gabrielle,” he said softly.

She turned around, used the back of her hand to wipe away a tear. “I'm all right,” she said.

“I don't think you are.”

“Why do you even care?” she said, her voice filled with bitterness.

“God help me, I do,” he said.

“I don't need you,” she said. “I don't want you.”

“Ah, lass …”

She spun on him. “I'm not your lass.” Reaching down, she picked up the wood she'd spilled. “Pepper,” she said with dignity, “would want me to get supper.”

And with that, she walked swiftly away, leaving him standing there, in awe of her courage—and aching to hold her and take away her pain.

They buried Pepper as the last glow of the retreating sun bronzed the horizon. Every man not on duty stood at graveside while Kirby, a Bible in his hand, read a passage from Psalms.

Gabrielle stood beside the grave with the others, twisting her hat in her hands. She barely noticed the curious stares the drovers cast at her short curls. All of them were holding their hats, too, and it would have been stranger still for her to have kept hers on. At the moment, she didn't care what anyone thought. She was simply miserable and couldn't imagine things getting any worse.

Kingsley's voice was awkward, broken as he spoke. She had come to realize that the two men—the rancher and the cook—had been friends for a long time. Kingsley's pain as he read the Twenty-third Psalm was obvious. She didn't want to sympathize with him, but she did.

When he finished, each person turned a shovelful of dirt into the grave. She took the shovel from Drew, her hands unsteady as their fingers touched for a split second. She scooped up her share of dirt and tossed it in, then passed the shovel on to Damien. Drew started a song, a hymn she recognized, and the others joined him. She mouthed the words, knowing that her contralto voice would give her away, if her curls already hadn't. And then the men moved slowly away, leaving Kirby and Drew to raise a rough wooden cross that Drew had fashioned.

She had cooked some salt pork and beans, along with fresh bread. The bread still didn't have the lightness of Pepper's, nor the beans the spice, but she heard no complaints. The drovers always muttered as they ate Pepper's beans—right before they came back for second helpings. She figured she had not yet earned their muttering. It was a sign of affection and respect.

She would make them mutter, she thought, if it was the last thing she did. For Pepper, she would make them mutter.

Haley's Trading Post had been raided and burned. Only a dog remained, lying beside one of eight mounds of earth, its head tucked between its front paws. The animal barely managed to raise its head to acknowledge the newcomers as Drew rode in with Kirby and Damien beside him.

Drew looked at the ground as they cautiously approached, applying the tracking skills he'd learned over the past month. Unshod hoof tracks were overlaid with shod ones, which probably meant that soldiers had reached the trading post too late but, given that all tracks led off in the same direction, had gone after the culprits.

The tracks headed northwest. The drive was headed straight north. Perhaps, he thought, they could avoid trouble. Although, all things considered, that was probably too much to ask.

Neither Kirby nor Damien spoke as they dismounted and walked slowly around to inspect the devastation. Viewing the scene, Drew thought their silence was appropriate. He dismounted, too, and looked over the burned-out timbers, guessing there had been at least four buildings and a corral. The smell of smoke and fire still lingered, but when he touched a charred piece of fencing, it was cold. Two days, he thought, perhaps three.

Looking at Kirby, who was standing at the line of graves with his hat in his hand, Drew saw his friend's shoulders slump. He looked tired. Hell, he had to be hurting, both physically from his wounds and internally from Pepper's death.

Five days after being wounded, the trail boss had insisted on riding again and on assuming the duties of scout. Drew had argued against it, and for once, Damien had been on his side as they'd both tried to persuade Kirby to let someone else do it. But their arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Drew knew they'd been lucky to convince Kirby, at least, to take someone else with him.

Drew didn't understand Kirby's reluctance. It was evident to everyone on the drive that someone had tried to kill him. Was he
trying
to get himself killed? It almost seemed that way. When he left the herd to go riding across the open prairie, grim resignation etched into his face, it was as if he were riding out to meet his death. As if it were his destiny.

Shuddering, Drew tried to shake off the morbid thoughts. Told himself he was letting the burned ruins around him and the days of endless, empty prairie get to him.

Besides, with no gunmen in sight, they had more immediate problems. Kirby had stopped the herd five miles back at a water hole, and they were here, at the trading post, to order supplies. Supplies that wouldn't be here, waiting, when the wagons arrived.

Walking over to stand next to Kirby, he looked at the graves. “Friends?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Kirby said. “Haley wasn't the friendliest man on earth. He overcharged drovers and sold guns and liquor to the Indians. But he was the only damned supplier in a hundred miles.”

Gesturing toward the remaining seven mounds, Drew asked, “And the others?”

Kirby sighed. “Last time I was here, Haley's had five men and three women working for him. One kept the store, two were half-breeds who handled the stock. There was a blacksmith, and then there was Benedict.”

“Benedict?”

“A doctor of sorts.” Kirby uttered a harsh laugh. “He could drink more than any man I've ever seen and still remain standing. His fee was usually a bottle of Haley's rotgut. But when he was sober, he could heal man or beast better than any sawbones I've ever known. Stayed here because he had an Indian wife. Whites ostracized her and him, too. Haley left them alone.”

Kirby shook his head. “She's one of the reasons Haley had no trouble with Indians. She was a chief's daughter or something. Then, too, Haley wasn't particular about what he traded.”

Drew looked around. It would have been a hell of a lonely existence out here in the middle of nowhere. A lonelier death.