Scotsman Wore Spurs (37 page)

He caught himself thinking of Laura more and more lately. Maybe if exposure of his past wasn't so imminent—so likely—he might have tried to court her after all. Watching Gabrielle and Drew together, the way their gazes seldom strayed from each other, made him ache inside for what had never been and never could be.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Gabrielle had prepared before leaving.

Damien, who had just ridden in, joined him. “The men are angry,” he said. “They want to go into town.”

“I know,” Kirby said wearily. “Tell them there will be a bonus at the end of the trail.”

“They're not thinking about bonuses. They want a reason.”

“You also want a reason, Damien, don't you?”

His nephew hesitated; then anger flickered in his eyes. “You confide in the Scotsman, don't you? I know you think he saved your life, but Terry and I are kin, after all.”

“I don't
think
Cameron saved my life,” Kirby said sharply. “I know it. And he damn well doesn't want anything that's yours, if that's what you're afraid of.”

“No,” Damien said stiffly. “It's just … It used to be the four of us, dammit. You and Pa and Terry and me. Now it's always you and Cameron.”

Kirby heard the hurt in Damien's voice, and he wished he could ease it. But he and his brother had vowed years ago to say nothing about how they'd gotten the money to start the Circle K. Even Jon's late wife, Sarah Elizabeth, had never known about the bank robbery. And he couldn't confide in Damien without discussing it first with Jon.

More than that, although he loved Damien like a son, Kirby knew his nephew was still young and a little wild, and he knew all too well that liquor loosened tongues. He just plain didn't trust Damien with his life. Not yet.

But he did trust Drew Cameron. He might not know the details of the Scotsman's life, but he knew enough to recognize that, for a man so young, Drew Cameron had more life experience—and little of it good—than Damien ever would
want
to have. Drew knew how to keep secrets—his own and those entrusted to him by others.

But what was he going to do now, right this minute, about Damien?

In the end, he said only, “Scotty's been a good friend. A good hand.”

“Better than Terry and me?”

“You're foreman, Damien, not Scotty.”

“But you make all the decisions—like keeping Two-Bits on the drive.”

Kirby sighed. He'd seen Damien's attempts to attract Gabrielle. The girl hadn't rebuffed him as much as she'd simply been totally unaware of anyone but the Scotsman. “You know anyone else who can cook?” he pointed out.

“No, but I still don't like it,” Damien said. “A woman has no place on a trail drive. And why was she here to begin with? You sure it doesn't have anything to do with those ambushes?”

Kirby didn't like the calculating look in Damien's eyes, the suspicion fed by the boy's jealousy of Drew.

He wished he could say more, but he couldn't, not without putting a stick of dynamite in his volatile, if unwitting, nephew's hands. “Yes, I'm sure,” he said simply. “Now, I'll check on the watches. You get some food and sleep.”

Damien looked as if he wanted to protest, but he didn't. Kirby headed for the remuda. Once the drive was over, he would try to repair his relationship with his nephews. If, he qualified, he was alive and free to do so.

Caldwell, Kansas, sat stoically in the blistering heat, a jumble of rickety buildings rising from the prairie.

Gabrielle strained forward on her seat, after weeks on the trail eager for a glimpse of civilization. She wondered whether the town had a theater or a restaurant. Especially a restaurant. She'd never been so tired of anything as she was of beans.

Drew was handling the team of mules. He'd been extraordinarily quiet on the two-hour drive into Caldwell, even though she'd peppered him with questions about Edinburgh and London. He'd been to so many places she'd only read about, and she was hungry to learn more about them—and about him.

His answers, however, had mostly been monosyllabic. His golden eyes had remained fixed on the horizon, and she'd wondered whether he missed those fine cities, whether he missed his homeland.

She pushed back a curl that had fallen alongside her cheek; her hair was growing out, and she had to tuck it under her hat. She longed for a few pins. She really longed for a dress, a fine dress that would make Drew's eyes light up the way those of the men in her audiences had.

But she didn't have much money with her, and she planned to use what little she did have on clothes for Ha'Penny. He still had only the deerskin shift his mother had dressed him in.

As they reached the road that ran through the center of town, she searched the signs fronting the wooden buildings. There was one saloon after another: Cowboy's Rest, The Longhorn, The Maverick, Trail's End. Then she saw a gunsmith's, a blacksmith. Another gunsmith.

Drew stopped at a dry-goods store and turned to her. “You have a list?”

She nodded. She'd taken inventory and catalogued everything they would need to reach Abilene. She knew Kirby wanted to avoid towns from now on.

Drew climbed from the wagon seat and turned to offer her his hand. Then he stopped, his hand half-raised, a wry smile on his face. Gabrielle grinned back. In the past few days, they'd almost forgotten their roles as cowhand and louse.

She swaggered into the store behind Drew, effecting the strut she'd seen practiced by young boys playing at being men. A heavyset clerk met them inside, visibly judging their clothes and weighing their ability to pay. He frowned and seemed on the edge of turning his back when he noticed the wagon outside.

“Settlers?” he asked.

Drew shook his head. “We're with a cattle drive stopped a few miles east of town. We need supplies.” He handed Gabrielle's list to the storekeeper as she looked around.

Two men standing at the counter muttered angrily. “Where'd you say you left them cattle, mister?” one asked.

“East,” Drew replied calmly.

“My farm's that way,” the other man said. “Last herd that went through trampled my crops. We're damned tired of you Texans riding roughshod over our land.”

“You tell me where your farm is,” Drew said politely, “and we'll be sure to stay clear of it. We don't want any trouble.”

“Who's bossing the outfit?” asked the first farmer, his jaw set at a belligerent angle.

Drew hesitated fractionally, and Gabrielle held her breath. They had already discussed the question with Kirby when he'd given Drew the cash for their purchases, and they'd agreed on the best response. Still, she was certain Drew was finding it hard to lie.

“Damien Kingsley,” came Drew's reply, uttered in perfectly normal tones.

Gabrielle breathed a little easier.

“Heard of them Kingsleys,” the second farmer said. “Nothing good, either.”

He was obviously spoiling for a fight, and Gabrielle watched the scene unfold with apprehension.

But Drew merely shrugged, saying, “He's no better or worse than most.”

“You got cash money?” the storekeeper asked.

“Aye, I do.”

“You ain't no Texan,” the first farmer observed.

“Astute of you to notice,” Drew said, straight-faced, and Gabrielle had to pretend to wipe her nose with her hand to hide a grin.

“What did you call me?” The man stepped forward, his face mottled with anger.

“I said you were observant,” Drew replied seriously. “And now we would like to get our goods and be on our way.”

The storekeeper looked at his other customers and shrugged. “Let me see your money first.”

Drew reached into his shirt pocket and took out a roll of bills. “Will this be sufficient, do you think?”

The storekeeper nodded, took the list from his hand, and looked it over. “You'll have to get them oats at the feed store, next to the livery,” he said as he started to search his shelves for the other supplies. The two farmers headed for the door without further comment.

Gabrielle gave an inward sigh of relief and found a counter stocked with bolts of cloth. She ran her hand down a bolt of dark blue silk, then gently fingered a reel of ribbon. She looked up to see Drew watching her with his amber eyes glowing. As he stood in a beam of light coming through the large glass window in the front of the store, his hair was sun-gilded, falling in copper strands over his forehead and down to touch the very top of his shirt collar. His clean-shaven face was dark from the sun, and as she looked at him, he peeled off his gloves, revealing strong, powerful hands that she knew could also be gentle.

Not now
, she told herself, forcing her gaze away from him. But her body didn't listen to the admonition; it was reacting in that hungry way it always did every time she looked at him—her heart racing and her blood simmering.

She turned back to the ribbon, trying to keep from caressing it as a woman would. But she couldn't resist another quick glance at Drew. His lips had turned up in that devilish half-smile that always melted her heart. His eyes shifted to something beyond her, and she let her gaze follow his. There stood a manikin dressed in a pretty blue calico frock and a jaunty hat.

Her gaze flashed back to him, and she found his eyes measuring her, then the dress. She shook her head imperceptibly, but his grin widened. Dropping the reel of ribbon back onto the counter, she moved toward a table with bolts of strong, practical material.

“For Ha'Penny,” she said in answer to Drew's raised eyebrow, and she pulled several bills out of her pocket and placed them on the counter.

Sighing as though in resignation, he stood quietly while the storekeeper cut the fabric she chose, wrapped the parcel, and handed it to her with her change.

Then he asked the man, “Is there a good restaurant in town?”

The man shook his head with disgust. “Just saloons and a few boardinghouses. Might git somethin' at the hotel, such as it is. Or you might try the Trail Dust Saloon down the street. They have good steaks.”

Drew winced, and again Gabrielle had to hide a grin. He'd adopted a cowhand's code as his own: Thou shall not eat that which you are herding to market. The very suggestion of eating beef was nigh on to blasphemy.

Politely, Drew inquired, “Would I be likely to find any mutton available?”

The storekeeper's eyes widened. “You crazy, mister? Mention sheep around here and you can get dead real quick.”

Gabrielle heard Drew's sigh and sympathized. “We'd best get back, anyways,” she said.

Drew glanced her way as he paid the bill and lifted one of the heavy sacks. “You go on to the feed store and order the oats for the horses. I'll load these things and pick up you and the grain on the way out of town.”

Gabrielle protested. “But you need help loading.”

“No, I do not,” Drew said. “You go. I'll be along directly.” He lifted one of the large sacks, gave her a final glance, and ordered again, “Go.”

Now, she figured, was no time to argue, not with the storekeeper watching. But she turned toward the door with decidedly mixed feelings. Drew might be gallant, but she resented his sudden imperiousness.

She hugged her package for Ha'Penny to her chest and walked out to the wagon, placing the parcel under the bench. Then she headed toward the feed store, passing several saloons along the way.

Heat radiated off the street, and she wished she could discard her jacket. It was too risky, though, for both for her
and
Kirby. The mental reminder put her nerves on edge as her gaze skimmed over the other loiterers outside the saloons.

She pulled Hank's hat down farther on her forehead and continued on her way. Each saloon she passed was much like the other. But as she tried to pass the entrance of the third one, a crowd of men blocked her way. Among them she recognized the two farmers from the dry goods store.

“Pretty small for a drover, ain't you?” one man asked.

“You think he's old enough to hold a beer?”

“Hell, no. But he's old enough to buy some for us, since his kind been spoiling our land and polluting our water.”

“What 'bout it, boy?” another asked.

“I heard the other one say he had plenty of cash money.”

More men were coming out of the saloon now, aroused by the commotion. Anxiety pricked at Gabrielle. And the muttering grew louder. She'd heard about the Kansas farmers' growing animosity toward the large herds of cattle being driven through the state. Several young drovers had even been hanged, it was rumored. Her eyes darted around, looking for a way out.

Then she saw him. A tall man on the edge of the crowd, listening intently. A tall man with a silver band around his hat.

Her hands clenched at her sides, but she dared not show any recognition. She wanted to look back toward the general store to see whether Drew was aware of what was happening, but she didn't want to draw attention to him either.

Someone jostled her. “You understand English, boy?” one of the farmers said. “Or are you a foreigner like that other one?”

Her gaze skipped over to the tall man again, memorizing his face. It was gaunt, the cheeks hollow, the eyes small and dark like those of a bird of prey.

“You dumb, too?” another man asked.

“Must be dumb to wear all them clothes in this heat,” someone jeered.

Gabrielle tried to edge herself out of the knot of men. She didn't have to feign her growing fear. If they touched her, they would soon discover she wasn't what she seemed.

The tall man stepped closer, and the crowd parted for him as the seas had parted for Moses.

“You with the Kingsley herd?” the man asked.

She nodded.

“Heard you had some trouble. That Kingsley was killed.”

There was no way he could have heard, Gabrielle knew. Not unless he was the one who had shot Kirby and now was making sure that his quarry was dead.