Scotsman Wore Spurs (10 page)

“Can I see Ace?”

“He's sleeping.”

She nodded. “I'll be off then. Tell him … I …”

“Asked after him? I will.”

She hesitated. “I'd 'preciate it if you don't tell anyone who left the money. Not even Ace. Just tell 'im it was left.”

“If he asks …?”

She shook her head.

The doctor shrugged. “All right. I'll see he gets it.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, for a moment unconsciously dropping her role and realizing immediately she'd made a mistake.

As Dr. Sanders gave her a puzzled glance. “Aren't you young for a cattle drive?”

“Not so young” she said.

Something flashed in his eyes, and she would have sworn he saw beyond her disguise. But he only said mildly, “It's your business,” then added opaquely, “Be careful.”

She wasn't sure what he was warning her about, but she knew she needed to leave before this too-astute man ruined everything. She nodded and escaped out the door.

The Scotsman was waiting for her at the stable. Both horses had been saddled, and he was talking amicably with the dour stable hand. He turned as she entered and, seeing her, flashed her a quick smile.

That smile, she thought, must have melted hearts in Scotland. Even her heart, as suspicious as it was of him, jerked a little as he turned on the full force of his charm. He had washed, shaved, and put on a clean shirt. Seeing how handsome he looked, she was only too aware of how grimy she must appear to him.

“If I hadn't found Billy here, chomping oats,” he said, “I might have thought you'd found easier pickings than those on a trail drive.”

“I'm not a quitter,” she said, averting her eyes from his piercing gaze.

“No,” he said. “I don't guess you are.”

It
hurt
to look at him, to see the gold in his eyes sparkle with mischief, the wry grin on his face. Darn it, why did he have to be so appealing?

She felt him studying her, knew he was taking in the hay that was still stuck to her clothes here and there. Her suspicion was confirmed by his question.

“Would you like to take a bath before we leave? There's a bathhouse at the end of the street.”

“Told you I don't believe in baths,” she said. “Ain't healthy.”

He frowned, then started to speak, hesitated, then thought better of it and shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let's go, then.”

He swung up on his horse with graceful ease and sat there as if born to it. Gabrielle winced at how awkward she must appear to him, climbing her way onto Billy's back.

“Relax,” he said as they started down the street. “Don't fight Billy or the saddle. Use your legs to communicate with the horse. He's smarter than you think.”

“I think he's very smart,” she shot back.

He shook his head, clearly tired of her rebellious retorts. She didn't blame him. She was tired of them, too.

As they passed the edge of town and turned northwest, Cameron tried again. “How long have you been riding?”

“How long have
you
been riding?”

“Since I was three,” he said. “Maybe younger.”

Gabrielle blushed, embarrassed at even having tried to challenge him in an arena in which he was clearly a master. At the same time, she stored the tidbit of information he'd offered her. She wanted to know more about him,
needed
to know. But now that she finally had the chance, she was afraid of divulging her interest. Not that she was all that clear anymore about exactly what her reasons were. What
was
clear, she realized, was the more she talked, the more she risked revealing her true identity—in any event, her sex.

Still, she couldn't pass up the opportunity the ride ahead afforded her. Their concern for Ace during yesterday's ride had stifled any conversation.

“If you've been ridin' that long,” she began, “how come the first time I saw ya, ya'd just fallen off a horse?”

The Scotsman grinned. “Did you have to remind me of that particular embarrassment?”

Gabrielle stared at him, her gaze riveted to his face. Her resistance to him melted under that grin, and strange things were occurring in her body. Her blood ran warmer, her heart fluttered, and an odd, mysterious ache formed somewhere in the core of her.

At her continued silence, he went on wryly, “If you must know, I underestimated a cutting horse. He wanted to go right, when I told him to go left. He went right, anyway, and, well … I went left. Without him.” Amusement deepened the Scottish brogue, making his voice whiskey smooth and sensual. Appealing. Very appealing.

Tearing her gaze away from him, Gabrielle sank further into her coat. “Does he still go right when ya tell him to go left?” she asked.

“Nay,” Cameron replied. “Now I go where he wants to go, at least where cattle are concerned. He obviously knows more than I do.”

Still, he had been quick enough, and skilled enough a horseman, to save Ace. And saving a man at the risk of his own life didn't fit her idea of an assassin.

Drat the man. Why did he confuse her so?

“How come you work for Kingsley? You ain't like the others.”

He cut his eyes toward her. “Why do you say that?”

She had many reasons. Breeding and education topped the list. He obviously had both while most of the hands couldn't read or write. Also, a kind of natural leadership exuded from him, despite his attempts to disguise the fact.

“You just ain't,” she said. When he remained silent, she decided to persist. “You like the boss?”

His glance toward her was sharper this time, and she told herself to be careful. She suspected the doctor had seen through her disguise. The Scotsman was no fool, but he'd had no reason to look beyond the obvious. She couldn't give him one. She looked ahead, rubbed Billy Bones's neck in a gesture of supreme indifference about whether the man answered or not.

The Scotsman looked straight ahead as he answered. “Kingsley's a good cattleman.”

What kind of answer was that? None at all, she thought. And he knew it. His avoidance of her question sent quivers through her, and she reminded herself sharply that she might be dealing with a man who killed other men for a living. She wasn't sure why this last obfuscation bothered her. The man seldom gave straight answers but seemed to take pleasure in playing word games or changing subjects when something personal arose. She recognized the pattern; her father used to do the same thing. She'd never known why he'd avoided some subjects, not until a few weeks ago.

What was the
Scotsman
hiding? Or did he always try to obscure his true feelings?

But she'd probed as far as she dared. She turned her attention to the trail, trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to do as the Scotsman suggested: Relax.

Dusk was chasing them as they reached the creek where the Kingsley riders had camped the night of the stampede. The cattle would be approximately twenty-five miles ahead, a two- or three-day journey for the cattle, one for him and Two-Bits.

Pulling his mount to a halt at the creek's edge, Drew studied the water in the waning light. It had been a mere trickle two nights earlier before the storm. Now, although the rain had stopped yesterday, the yield from upstream had transformed the creek into a fast-moving river.

Drew had heard of flash floods from other drovers. Added to his own vivid memory of the hail and torrential rain and icy wind, his memories of Texas would not be favorable ones. Oh, it had its points—spectacular vistas, magnificent sunsets, and a vastness unequaled by any other he'd seen. But it was no place he wanted to live, and he decided then and there that his ranch—if he ever built one—would be located in a more reasonable climate, where the ground wasn't so hard that water ran across it like an ocean every time it rained. Yes, he'd choose some nice reasonable terrain. And Texas wasn't it.

Two-Bits, who had been trailing behind him for the past five miles, appeared with Billy and stopped beside him. For several minutes, they both sat looking at the water they would have to cross. Drew had intended to go farther tonight. Kirby had already lost two men—Juan and Ace—and Drew knew he couldn't afford the loss of a third for long. But he didn't like the looks of the creek, especially the debris that was moving rapidly along the swollen waters.

He looked at Two-Bits. “We can try to cross it now or wait till tomorrow.”

The lad hunkered down in the saddle and frowned. He looked like a little elf, that small build in so many clothes and the ridiculous hat shielding his face as well as his thoughts.

“Could be worse tomorrow,” Two-Bits said.

“Can you swim?”

The boy nodded. Drew hesitated, weighing the veracity of the response. If the lad swam like he cooked, they could be in trouble. Then there was the question of whether or not Billy was strong enough to withstand the current, although Drew had to admit, the bedraggled horse looked a hell of a lot better than it had days earlier.

“You certain?” he asked.

Two-Bits answered by moving Billy toward the edge of the water. The horse went willingly enough.

“Wait here,” Drew warned, making up his mind. “Let me cross first.” He could judge then how dangerous it would be for a weak horse and an inexperienced rider.

His pinto plunged into the water and walked nearly the whole way, swimming only several feet before regaining its footing and making the bank.

When he and the wet horse were on the other bank, Drew turned and nodded to Two-Bits, who started Billy into the river. Drew watched as the horse carefully picked his way halfway across, then started the short swim. Drew was just breathing a sigh of relief when a log came barreling down the creek and hit the horse's withers.

Billy panicked, and Drew saw the animal lose his direction. In the next instant, he started swimming downstream, his big equine body struggling to regain its balance. Trying to decide what to do next—whether to plunge in and help or wait and see if Billy and Two-Bits worked it out together—Drew held his breath. Two-Bits clung to Billy's neck like a leech, and Drew heard and saw the lad trying to coax his panicked horse into swimming in the right direction. But it was a losing battle.

Two-Bits slipped slowly to the right, sliding around Billy's neck and finally fell off as the horse plunged frantically in the water. It was immediately apparent the lad had lied again—he couldn't swim a stroke.

Drew swore, keeping one eye on Two-Bits as he jumped from his horse's back, yanked the sling off his injured right arm, and hit the water. He saw the lad go under, then bob up only to go under again, limbs flailing.

He started swimming, ignoring the pain in his sprained arm. Through the corner of his eyes, he saw Billy scramble up to the bank, but Two-Bits was being tossed quickly downstream by the powerful current. As he swam, he saw the lad's hands attempt to grab a large floating limb—and miss. He quickened his strokes, and he was only a few feet away when he lost sight of the lad's head as he disappeared under the muddy water.

Drew swam underwater but, blinded by the mud and silt, he could only reach out and search with his hands. He felt cloth, then a hand, and he pulled, struggling to get to hard ground. The water was freezing, and the boy's clothing added weight and bulk, making it difficult to move. His weak right arm didn't help matters a bit.

Finally, Drew's feet touched the creek bottom. His arm hurting like hell, he managed to lift the now-limp form, carrying him up to the bank. Falling to his knees, he laid Two-Bits on the ground and pulled off his hat, which hung from a thong around the boy's neck. Gabe was bloody lucky he hadn't strangled. Shivering, muttering oaths under his breath, Drew started peeling off the boy's thick sodden clothes.

He stopped suddenly. With only a couple of layers to go, it was plain, even in the muted glow of twilight, that the body beneath the water-soaked clothing was not as it should be. Not as he expected to find it. Rather, it was soft and curved. Curved quite nicely. It was, in fact, the body of a girl.

Drew's mouth actually fell open, his hands frozen in place on the open edges of Gabe Lewis's shirt—the second layer from the real thing, as best as he could tell. His gaze shot to the skin. It was pale, almost white in the last rays of a setting sun, in contrast to her neck and face that were now streaked with dirt and something else. His fingers touched the skin, and when he took them away and looked at them he saw a brownish cast. Dye!

He swore again, long and inventively, even as he studied the delicate features that should have obviously proclaimed her gender. Would have, if not for the always present grime. No wonder she didn't take baths. Bad for the health, indeed! Bloody hell, he'd always prided himself on being observant, and she'd totally duped him.

But this was no time to ponder the obvious. He turned the slight figure over, onto her stomach, and straddled her, using his hands to force water from her lungs. The pressure on his sprained arm sent pain slicing from his fingers to his shoulders, but he gritted his teeth and kept up a steady rhythm. After a minute or so, he was rewarded. Beneath him, he felt her body convulse, then a rush of water poured out of her. He shifted off of her to sit beside her as she sputtered and gasped.

Relief flooded him. And anger. She could easily have died. Another minute or so in the water, and he wouldn't have been able to bring her back.

She started shivering as well as gasping and sputtering. They were both wet and freezing. And, he noticed, with the sun nearly gone, the temperature had dropped. They needed a fire.

Then he needed an explanation. A bloody good one.

Cold. She'd never been so cold. And air. She couldn't seem to get enough of it.

Slowly, painfully, Gabrielle returned to consciousness. For a minute or two, she coughed and choked without understanding what had happened. Awareness seeped in gradually, though, and she began to remember sliding off Billy's back, into the water.