Scotsman Wore Spurs (5 page)

She shivered in the heat. Implausible, yes. She wouldn't recognize herself. Yet … why else would he be kind to an itinerant boy?

Her eyes went back to him. Just her luck she would choose the bunk next to his. He was taking off his shirt, and she knew her eyes widened. Unlike most of the other cowboys, he wore no union suit under his shirt and his chest was bare—and stunning. Afraid she'd be caught staring, she couldn't avoid casting furtive glances at the Scotsman. She couldn't help it. Couldn't help noticing the sinewy muscles that rippled when he moved, the light brown hair that caught gold even in the dim light, then blended into a sun-bronzed body. She felt her cheeks flush and her stomach flutter in disturbing ways as she watched him bend down and pull off his boots with careless disregard for his companions.

She finally forced her gaze away, but even as her eyes focused on a piece of flooring, the image of Drew Cameron remained in her mind. She tried again to picture him as the obscure figure that she'd seen standing in the shadow with a gun in his hand, but the image wouldn't come into focus. She simply didn't know what to think. It seemed, lately, that her intuition was failing her.

She sighed, feeling every bit as uncomfortable inside herself as well as outside. Which brought her thoughts around to another problem. Her clothes. She longed to thrust them off. She longed most of all for a bath.

The other occupants of the bunkhouse had already relieved themselves of most of their clothes, some down to their longjohns. Despite her fear of being the center of attention, she noticed the drovers were all otherwise engaged, either lounging on their bunks, talking to the man in the next cot, or starting a poker game at one end of the room. Everyone seemed to have lost interest in her. Drew Cameron, wittingly or not, had diverted their attention.

Gabrielle took stock of her situation. Her well-considered plans had not included a roomful of half-naked men. She felt her skin prickle, and she was only too aware of her strangeness, that she was the only person in the bunkhouse still wearing a hat and jacket. But she was not about to part with either. They were her armor, her shield.

They were also hot as Hades.

Air. She had to get some air. She slipped from the bunk and moved toward the door, passing close by the men playing poker. She pulled her hat low on her forehead, keeping her eyes straight, aimed at the door and avoiding all the near-naked bodies.

“Where you goin', kid?” asked one man at the poker game taking place on the floor between two bunks. “You wanna join us?”

Her pace slowed, and she glanced down at the cards on the floor. She was tempted. She really was. The glint in their eyes said they were ready to take on a tenderfoot. And she could give them a good run for their money. Stagehands had often entertained her with games of chance when she was very young, waiting for her parents to finish their performances. She had later perfected the skill as she waited for her turns onstage. But she wasn't supposed to have any money, nor any marketable skill. She was, she reminded herself, a penniless, desperate orphan.

“Don't have any money,” she said shortly.

“We'll take your marker.”

“Like hell we will,” said another player.

Drew Cameron suddenly appeared next to her, apparently continuing his role of self-appointed protector. But he said nothing, his eyes studying her with the gleam of amusement she'd seen before. She still hadn't figured whether his apparent kindness earlier had been some kind of secret joke or something more sinister. Perhaps he just enjoyed playing with people, like cats played with mice before finishing them off.

That must be why her skin tingled whenever she saw him, why her blood seemed thicker, hotter. A simple matter of awareness. Not awareness of a man but of danger. She hoped to heaven it wasn't anything more.

“I gotta go see 'bout my horse,” she said and turned away, valiantly trying to keep from falling over one of the sitting men.

“That nag,” someone chuckled. “Looks like the hindquarters of bad luck. Ain't good for nothin' but Injun food.”

In the brief time she'd been in the West, Gabrielle had learned many things. Among those things was that calling a man's horse Injun food was one of the worst ways to insult him. She felt her temper rising. “Empty wagons,” she said, looking pointedly at the speaker, “rattle the most.”

“Gotcha there,” a man she didn't recognize said. “He means you, Hank.”

The Scotsman chuckled.

Hank swung angrily on him. “I wouldn't smile if I were you. You're 'bout as handy as a hog playing a fiddle.”

Gabrielle started to inch away toward the door, but the cowboy called Hank stopped her. “I'll bet that horse don't last a week.”

“He'll last as long as you,” she retorted angrily. “But I ain't got nothin' to bet with.”

The cowboy shrugged. “That hat.”

She hesitated. She needed the hat. It, more than anything else she wore, gave her a sense of protection. But in the few days she'd owned Billy Bones, she'd grown very protective of him. And she believed she'd been rewarded for the love she'd given him. Billy hadn't minded her inexperience. He'd tolerated, without complaint, the unhappy fact that his back went up when her backside came down.
Her
Billy had both courage and heart.

“What's
your
wager?” she asked.

The cowboy grinned. “
My
hat.”

The man next to him shoved an arm in the cowboy's side. “Those are the two worst damn hats I ever did see.”

Gabrielle couldn't disagree, and she couldn't understand why on earth anyone would want her hat. Still, she pondered the wager. She was going to have to live with these men, day and night, for as long as it took to accomplish her task, and she needed to make friends with them.

But not, she decided finally, at the risk of exposure. She needed the hat. It contributed, more than anything else she wore, to her disguise. If they learned she was a woman, she would never be allowed on the drive. She'd read enough dime novels to know that.

“I like my own hat,” she finally said in the gruff voice that was becoming second nature. “Mebbe next time.”

The man next to Hank, the bettor, grinned. “Can't see how either one of you could win that one, anyway. I'm Sandy. This ornery cuss is Hank Flanigan. He's so contrary that if you throw him in a river, he'll float upstream.”

Gabrielle smiled for the first time in weeks. Sandy was likable and friendly. She glanced at the Scotsman. His eyes were studying her intently and she had the sudden, frightening sense that he saw right through her layers of clothes, through the eccentric disguise she'd tried so hard to build.

She moved her gaze back to the friendly Sandy, then to the others in the bunkhouse. They were an odd assortment: black, white, Mexican, even one part Indian. The drovers ranged in age from nearly as young as she pretended to be to a man who looked forty or more. Most, however, seemed to be in their early twenties.

She nodded, having already given her name.

“Glad to have you with us,” Sandy said.

“Hummmph,” said the contrary Hank. “He ain't no bigger than two bits.”

“Two bits is a lot of money,” another said. “He can't be worth that.”

“Still, I think I'll call him Two-Bits,” Hank persisted.

“Two-Bits it is,” said another.

Gabrielle stood there a moment, letting what was now good-natured laughter crash around her, forcing a smile to her own lips. She had already realized in the past few hours that everyone had a moniker. She supposed hers could be worse.

Her gaze went, again, to Drew Cameron. He was studying her closely, as if measuring her in his mind. His penetrating scrutiny made her stiffen, and she thought, even standing with the other cowboys, he stood out in the crowd. He wasn't any more a part of them than she was.

But who, or what, was he?

“Come on, Scotty,” one of the men said. “Join the game.”

“So I will,” the Scotsman said, amusement returning to his eyes. But it wasn't the kind of amusement one shared with friends. It was another kind, the kind that belonged to a man laughing at himself, or, perhaps, at life in general.

All at once, Gabrielle thought she understood. His casual, lighthearted demeanor was a sham. A face he presented to the world. He used it to lull people into thinking he was no threat to them. Despite Jake's taunting words, it was obvious the other cowboys didn't take him seriously.

But they were making a mistake. A big one.

She wasn't sure what Drew Cameron was, but casual and lighthearted weren't in the running. A shiver ran down her spine. Was he simply an out-of-place Scotsman? Or was he something far more complex and murderous? She was sure of complexity. She wasn't sure about the latter. Her feet turned, and she hurried out the door, the ring of loud masculine laughter following her.

The lad did not come back that night. For some inexplicable reason, Drew found himself worrying about him. Perhaps he'd decided this group too rough for him, after all. Perhaps he'd taken that poor excuse for a horse and left.

The youngster—Gabe—had been bloody uncomfortable in the bunkhouse; that had been obvious. The place wasn't Drew's idea of paradise either, but he'd received enough snide remarks about his stay in Kingsley's house. If he was going to make this work, he knew he had to get along with the other hands. It was too long—and dangerous—a drive to have enemies at your back.

Besides, life in a succession of boarding schools had taught him he could sleep anywhere and get along with almost anyone. Since his father hadn't been able to stand the sight of him, he hadn't gone home, even during summers and Christmas holidays. Instead, he'd charmed both teachers and fellow students into inviting him home with them; the result had been that he'd rarely spent a holiday alone, and he'd learned how to adapt to an amazing variety of people and places. In short, he'd become a chameleon.

It was a talent he expected to serve him well in winning over the Kingsley cowhands. Already, he'd made inroads. He would continue to take their gibes and joshing in good humor. He'd work hard to gain their respect, and sooner or later they would accept him.

Meanwhile, he was learning a bloody lot—and the price of a few aches and pains didn't seem too high. Indeed, he was taking satisfaction in the physical labor, in stretching himself to the limit. Yesterday's fall had been humiliating—he still felt the bruises—but he had enough confidence in his horsemanship to know he eventually would live it down.

It was still dark, but Drew lost any hope of getting more sleep. The snoring had become ungodly. As had the odor of stale sweat. Hell, he might as well get up and check on Gabe. He needed some fresh air anyway.

Quietly, he rose from his bunk and searched for a clean shirt. He had three with him, and he religiously washed them daily. He doubted such small pleasures as clean clothes would be possible once the drive began, but he would take them now, even at the price of being called a dandy and tenderfoot and a few less charitable names. If the cowhands were aware he had a title, Drew knew he would never hear the end of it.

Walking quietly down the center aisle, Drew took a closer look at Gabe Lewis's bunk. The lad's bedroll and saddlebags lay on top of the unwrinkled blanket, which made it likely he was still somewhere about.

Outside, dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, the first hint of lavender relieving the inky blackness on the eastern horizon. Only a slight breeze stirred, but it was a vast improvement over the stuffy bunkhouse.

Drew took a deep breath of fresh air, then started across the yard, heading for the barn. With his eyes well-adjusted to the darkness, he looked around but didn't see another living soul. He swore to himself. Kirby hadn't seen the need for a guard, even after the ambush weeks ago. Drew had tried to persuade him to post one, but the cattle baron felt safe here, on his own land. Drew, on the other hand, wondered whether his friend was safe anywhere until the man who paid his attackers was found.

The door to the barn was closed but not barred from the outside, and Drew stepped in. A horse whinnied, announcing his presence and others started moving restlessly in the stalls. He passed them, treading quietly, and went directly to the stall where Gabe Lewis's horse had been stabled yesterday afternoon.

The horse was still there, and, when Drew peered inside the stall, it stepped carefully aside. He looked down to see what appeared to be a pile of rags in the corner. When the rags sighed and shifted a little in the straw, Drew smiled. So the lad hadn't given up. Somehow, Drew hadn't believed he would. Probably, before the drive was over, Gabe Lewis would win Flanigan's hat as well.

Thoughtfully, Drew eyed the broken-down horse. He knew horses, and he tended to agree with this one's owner that Billy was stronger than he looked and, indeed, had heart. Well, his owner had heart, too.

Leaving the barn as silently as he'd come, Drew walked over to lean on the top rail of the corral. There he watched the sky grow lighter, daybreak painting the vast canvas with an array of pink and golden hues. Dawn in Scotland, though beautiful in its own quiet way, had never been like this. Nothing here, in this wide-open land, was done on a small scale, and Drew didn't think he'd ever tire of its lonely splendor.

With the day about to begin, he saw smoke spiralling from Kingsley's house. Marguerite, the cook, was preparing breakfast. Pepper wouldn't take over feeding the men until the drive started. Drew remained where he was, watching the sunrise, until someone rang the great bell outside the ranch house. In minutes, men were pouring out of the bunkhouse, stopping only long enough to rinse their faces at the pump.

Drew went back inside the barn to wake the lad, only to find him standing outside of Billy's stall, stretching his arms above his head, hat in one hand. Drew's gaze stopped at the mop of dark curls plastered to the boy's head, curls that looked as if they belonged to a girl, not a boy.