Scotsman Wore Spurs (28 page)

She thought of telling the truth now, immediately, simply facing Kingsley with all of her suspicions. But what if he
were
guilty? Chances were excellent that he and his nephews, who undoubtedly would back him, were good with their guns. They might try to silence Drew as well as her, and Drew wouldn't stand a chance against all three of them.

On the other hand, if she accused Kingsley of being a murderer in front of all the hands and it turned out that he was innocent, Drew would never forgive her.

It seemed hopeless. No matter what she did, she was damned to lose Drew—and possibly her life.

And she most fervently did not want to die. When she'd started out on this trip, she hadn't cared about anything save killing the man who had killed her father. But, as she'd said to Drew, somewhere along the way, things had changed. She didn't feel as if she were alone in the world anymore. Here, on the cattle drive, she'd found a sort of place for herself. She had men to feed and animals who needed her. And, if he only would let her, she had a man who she suspected needed love as badly as she did.

At the moment, that man was standing at the top of the rise overlooking the river, a silent, solitary figure. Keeping an eye on him from a distance, Gabrielle tried to imagine what he was thinking as he watched the activity from which he'd been banned. His last words had held such bitterness: “I'll back your lies just so I can prove you wrong.”

She didn't want him to lie for her, didn't want him to compromise his rock-hard integrity for her sake. Didn't want him to feel torn apart by conflicting loyalties.

She understood about loyalty, having felt an intense allegiance to her parents; moving as they had from city to city, from performance to performance, she'd had little opportunity to form other lasting friendships. In a few short weeks, she'd come to feel deeply loyal toward Drew. Whatever she did now, she had to find a way not to betray him. Nothing else—not justice or revenge or anything else—mattered more.

Throughout the day, Gabrielle bore the inquisitive looks of drovers as they came in for coffee or hardtack before returning to the river. Their looks didn't bother her; she was accustomed to worse. And she was enormously glad to be rid of the dirty, hot coat and the tattered hat. Her clothes dried on her body, and as her hair turned into a cap of wispy curls, she brushed it, feeling free and light.

When supper was over and she had enough pies for the next two or three days—and she could find no more duties to perform—Gabrielle dusted the flour off her hands and went to sit on the riverbank to watch the last cattle cross. By the time the crossing was complete and the herd was grazing a half mile from camp, dusk had settled over the prairie. The sky turned blood red, the colors violent and clashing.

Suddenly, Gabrielle became aware of a presence behind her and swung her head around. Kingsley stood above her, his shirt damp with sweat, his cheeks dark with bristle, his eyes cold. He looked every inch a killer.

“I want an explanation,” he said. “You're obviously not in need of a job.” His gaze went over her assessingly, even insultingly, as she rose. “I suspect you could find one in any saloon.”

She could, and she had, but she wasn't ready to tell him that. Besides, it wouldn't matter to him what kind of a job it might be; he obviously preferred to believe the worst. From the corner of her eye, she saw Drew approaching.

Kirby held up a hand, stopping him.

“Was it Scotty who brought you along,” he asked her, “to keep his bedroll warm?”

Her eyes opened wide. The thought that she might have planned all this only to be with a man was absurd. And it was just about the last accusation she had expected.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Drew didn't even know until—”

“Until?”

“Until the trip to Willow Spring. I fell in the water then, too,” she said defiantly, her mind working feverishly. How much, or how little, could she get away with telling Kingsley?

“Weeks,” Kingsley said, visibly angry. “He's known for weeks and kept it from me. He had no right.”

Guilt flooded her.
She'd
had no right drawing Drew into her conflict. “I told him someone was after me. That my life was in danger. I begged him not to tell anyone, that you might make me leave the drive.”

“You were right about that much,” Kingsley said. Then he paused. “Is it true that you're being pursued?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Someone tried to kill me.”

He was silent a moment. “Scotty does have a gallant streak,” he mused aloud.

“He wanted to tell you. He wanted
me
to tell you, but I made him promise not to.”

Kingsley's furious gaze seemed to cut right through her. “A cattle drive's no place for a woman.”

“I have no place else to go,” she said desperately.

“How about the law?”

She couldn't tell him that she'd already been to the law, had, in fact, accused
him
. “They won't help.”

“You sure the law isn't looking for
you
?”

A slight, almost sympathetic note crept into his voice, startling her. In fact, everything about the conversation startled her. She had expected accusations, dire suspicions, threats—things that a man who murdered might say or do. Instead, his angry eyes were actually beginning to twinkle.

She swallowed. She had been preparing herself to tell Kingsley the truth, to confront him with her suspicions if she could minimize the risks. But he wasn't asking the dangerous questions, and everything she had told him thus far was true.

“Can I stay?” she asked.

He hesitated, assessing her, then simply nodded. “Until I can find a regular cook,” he said. “And then we'll see.”

His mouth edged into an unexpectedly charming smile. “Poor bedeviled Drew,” he murmured, then turned away, leaving Gabrielle feeling more perplexed than ever.

Chapter Fifteen

Despite the inconvenience and indignity of it all, Gabrielle found herself fervently wishing for the good old days of being Two-Bits. Whatever scorn Drew seemed to harbor for her now, it was a feeling obviously not shared by the other drovers.

During the past three days since her gender was revealed, Gabrielle had been courted, fussed over, and cosseted. She had ceased being insignificant Gabe Lewis and was, instead, an object of intense and fascinated male interest.

She had received a sample of what was coming the very evening of the fateful river crossing. While she had been adding wood to the fire, one of the drovers rushed to her side, took it from her, and fed the fire himself, leaving her empty-handed and stunned. Before she could form a protest, ornery Hank Flanigan, who—a lifetime ago—had wagered his hat against hers in the Kingsley bunkhouse, approached her shyly. His face pink under a thatch of hair the color and texture of hay, he had shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, his shabby hat in hand. Then, he'd shyly thrust it at her.

“You'll be needing a hat, ma'am. Miss. I mean, well, you'll just be needing a hat, that's all.”

Another man had shuffled up to her. “Sorry we gave you a rough time, ma'am. We was just joshing.”

“You be needing any help,” Legs had chimed in, “you just call me.”

She couldn't lift a sack of flour or a piece of wood without one of the drovers trying to take it from her. On the other hand, Damien Kingsley hadn't offered anything but a leer. She hated that most of all, because it made her realize that he and the other drovers must be recalling the many times she'd been alone with the Scotsman.

Well, she wasn't alone with him anymore. He wouldn't even come near her.

The oddest thing of all to her, though, was Kirby Kingsley's reaction to her “new” presence in his camp. She certainly hadn't expected him to be so tolerant. He even seemed amused in a cynical sort of way. She'd seen him talking with Drew shortly after his conversation with her on the riverbank. When their discussion was over, Drew had shot her a quick enigmatic glance, then jumped onto his horse and ridden off to night watch. Kingsley had turned and, seeing her standing there watching, he'd actually chuckled before turning to walk away. She didn't understand it at all.

Since then, Kingsley had made few appearances in camp. Despite protests about the safety of his actions, he had insisted upon scouting ahead again. He was gone nearly all day, riding in only at night to give directions about the next day's trek.

All Gabrielle really wanted, though, was the former closeness she'd shared with Drew, and she feared she had made that impossible.

Still, even with all the clumsy masculine offers to help, she stayed busy. Too busy. Three baby calves had appeared at her wagon, shyly dropped by drovers. Sammy was old enough now to stay with his mother, but each night she had to find the other calves' mothers, and she'd rigged a system of using different-color bandanas to make the feat possible. Honor had taken it upon himself to keep the calves safe, herding them back if they tried to wander off. Billy Bones still demanded her attention, too, and so did Sammy, as did a passel of hungry, lonely drovers.

So the days passed, quickly and busily even as her inner loneliness grew deeper, more aching, more piercing. Kingsley had made it clear that he would find a new cook as soon as possible, and time was escaping like sand in an hourglass.

She looked up from the pans she was scouring to see that Kingsley himself was galloping in, which meant he had news of some kind. He was quickly surrounded by the drovers not on watch. She hesitated in the edge of the circle of men.

“Army says they got those Kiowas. Lieutenant claims it was a glorious victory,” he added dryly. “Army always says that, even when they get their tail whipped, but they tell me there's no more danger. Not from those renegades, at least.”

The drovers cheered.

“Means we can spread out the herd some now,” the trail boss said. “And go back to regular watches.”

Another cheer.

“But that doesn't mean there aren't other dangers out there. Cheyennes are on the warpath, and some of the other tribes aren't above cow rustling, so don't get careless.”

The drovers nodded in acknowledgment.

“I'll ride out and tell the others,” Kingsley said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Damien out there?”

“Damien, Scotty, Legs, and Hank,” Terry Kingsley offered.

At the mention of Scotty, the trail boss glanced at Gabrielle. She tried to keep her face from turning red, but, feeling her failure, she turned away as tears stung her eyes. That happened a lot lately, and it was terribly humiliating. Two-Bits wouldn't have cried.

But even while she tried desperately to control her expression, wondering why she'd never had that problem before, Gabrielle met Kirby's news with relief. She had feared for Drew, for all of the drovers, every time they left the campsite.

The men finally drifted into a poker game.

Now that the imminent danger of an Indian raid seemed to have passed, Gabrielle decided to ride Billy Bones out into the evening. Night came late, so she had perhaps two hours of light left. She needed desperately to escape both prying eyes and adoring looks.

She found her saddle in the hoodlum wagon and saddled Billy, who whinnied in excitement. He looked a different horse these days, his sides filling out, his coat shining from her frequent brushing. He obviously felt very much the fine fellow again.

Honor whined to go with her. The calves had all found their mothers, drunk their fill, and sunk to the ground to sleep. Only Sammy stood tall, proclaiming his new strength and independence.

“All right,” she told Honor. “But you must stay right beside me.”

He wagged his tail slightly in evident agreement, then watched as she mounted Billy with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. She still hadn't mastered that particular skill.

Gabrielle sighed. She'd had precious little time to practice her horsemanship. Her rump still came down when the horse's back came up.

“Miss, ma'am, uh …” Legs stepped in front of her horse. “It ain't safe for you to go out there alone.”

No one had cared when she was just plain Two-Bits.

“The Kiowas are gone,” she said.

“But there's all kinds of varmints out there, Miss. Gabrielle.”

“I'll have Honor with me,” she said, feeling an acute loss of freedom.

“I'll go wi' you,” he said hopefully.

Ducking her head shyly, she shook her head and used the one excuse she knew would work. “I, um, need some privacy. I'm sure you understand.”

Legs's ruddy half-Indian face froze with embarrassment. “You won't go far?”

“I won't go far,” she lied as convincingly as possible.

She refused to wear spurs. No matter how blunt they were, she thought them cruel. Instead, she twitched the reins, and Billy understood. He started off in a long, loping stride, Honor at his heels.

Gabrielle rode and rode, and rode some more. Her duties were done, supper over, a fresh pot of coffee sitting on coals for those coming off watch. She'd even made hardtack for the men to chew during the next day's drive. She tried to keep track of landmarks. She shuddered at the thought of becoming lost, but she had to get away. She had to think, to plan.

Except her planning so far had led to disaster. You could never tell just one lie, she mused. Even a small one told with good intentions seemed to spawn a pit of deceit.

No wonder Drew hated lies so much. Still, she wondered at the passion beneath his censure. Clearly, he'd been lied to and painfully so. But by whom?

A woman? Was that why he kept such a distance even as his eyes lit with fire every time he looked at her?

She tried to concentrate on her riding, on doing what Drew had instructed her to do. Relax. Go with the horse. Don't fight him. But she still held on to the saddle horn for all she was worth, and her rhythm didn't match Billy's at all.