Scotsman Wore Spurs (16 page)

Who
was
he? The question was never far from her mind. She'd never known a more complex man. A Scot in the American West who claimed he was bored and wanted an adventure. An educated man who possessed all the polish and charm of the upper class of British society, who nevertheless said he was a gambler by profession—and a good one. A man who saved other men's—and one particular woman's—lives at the risk of his own, without hesitation.

A man willing to endure the ridicule of his fellow cowhands and his trail boss to help her save one out of a thousand calves bound for slaughter.

Again, the question begged asking: Who
was
Drew Cameron?

Her eyes held his across a mere three feet, and the connection between them was so strong, so bone deep, that she actually felt her legs turn to water. She swayed on her feet, her heart beating so loudly that she was certain he must be able to hear it.

Slowly, as their gazes held, the smile faded from his face, and his gold-flecked eyes seemed to soften in a way she hadn't seen before. She saw him suck in a quick, sharp breath, and she knew that he felt it, too, this explosive attraction radiating between them.

But Pepper and Kingsley were on the other side of the campfire talking. And soon the cowhands would be coming in for supper. Through a haze of longing, she knew she couldn't simply go on standing there, staring at him. Still, she couldn't tear her gaze away.

It was the Scotsman who broke the tension. Pushing away from the chuck wagon, he took a step toward her and raised a hand to the side of her face. She felt an instant of panic, thinking he had forgotten her role, forgotten she was supposed to be a boy, and was about to do something that would make the sky come crashing down upon her, certainly, and perhaps upon him, as well.

But the moment passed quickly when a half smile appeared on his face and a gleam returned to his eyes. His hand merely brushed past her cheek, then retreated, turning palm-up between them. She looked down to see a coin, lying on his palm, as if it had been plucked from behind her ear.

“Magic,” he said in that lilting brogue, which seemed especially strong. “A slight of hand. The art of illusion. Remember, few things—or people—are ever what they seem.”

He took her hand and put the coin in it and her fingers closed around it. His eyes bore into hers for a moment with an intensity that seared through her soul. The he sauntered over to the fire, poured himself a cup of coffee, and wandered over to greet several other drovers who were arriving—leaving her more mystified than ever.

The Red River crossing was a nightmare Drew never wanted to repeat.

They lost no men or animals. But they came close. Too bloody close. A number of cattle became mired in quicksand, and the drovers had to dismount, duck into the water and tie the animal's legs together, then pull them out. It was long, dangerous work.

Yet when it was over and both men and cattle were resting, Drew admitted to himself that he felt a sense of accomplishment such as he had never known. He was wet, muddy, and nearly dead from exhaustion as he collapsed near the chuck wagon with the other drovers. Still, he felt exhilarated. Even Kirby was smiling—a spare smile, but a smile nonetheless.

There was much to be said for physical labor, Drew thought, lying flat on his back, not moving a muscle. It could hurt like hell, but the rewards of knowing he'd stretched himself to the limit—and won—soothed the physical pain. Yes, pride was a fine thing.

Letting his head roll to the side, he looked around the camp. Most of the drovers not on duty lay spread out on the ground, too tired to jaw, as they so picturesquely called conversation. Two-Bits—he continually had to remind himself to think of Gabrielle that way—was busy at the cook fire, relieving Pepper, who was tending minor injuries.

Drew watched her, trying not to think of what lay underneath the layers of clothes she still wore. He wondered why no one else saw through them to the slender curves, why no one had noticed the delicate bone structure of her face.

He wished
he
could stop noticing. And remembering. He wished his body would stop reacting to the memory. Illusions. He had made that little speech about magic as much for himself as for her, to remind himself that she had secrets and that he detested secrets.

But as he watched her hunch over the fire, he felt an admiration he'd never felt for a woman before. Nothing daunted her, not stampedes or wounds or Pepper. She'd endured unmerciful teasing over the calf with her head held high. And she'd held on to that calf in the hoodlum wagon on the crossing despite the animal's frantic thrashing to return to its mother.

Indeed, he liked her spirit as much as the body that contained it. And, oh, he did like her body.…

Drew was still enjoying the view—or rather his memory of it, swaddled in shapeless rags—when he saw Kirby approach. Tearing his gaze from Gabrielle, he lifted a questioning eyebrow at the trail boss—which was about as much as he was capable of moving.

Kirby stooped down to talk, balancing on the balls of his feet. “You're becoming a real cowman. I was watching you out there.”

Drew started to offer his usual sort of reply—“I didn't do anything the other hands weren't doing”—but then stopped himself. He
had
done a good job. And it pleased him considerably that Kirby, whom he respected, had noticed.

“Thanks,” he said simply, swallowing his discomfort of accepting any kind of praise.

“You want to move on up?” Kirby asked. “Take point?”

The pleasure spread. The point man rode near the front of the herd. No more eating dust.

“I think I could tolerate it,” he replied.

Kirby gave him a rare smile. “We'll stay here tomorrow, let the cattle rest and calm down a bit. Some of them had a rough time. I'll be riding out in the morning. I'll probably be out scouting most of the time, now that we're entering Indian Territory.” He hesitated, then continued. “Damien will be in charge.”

Drew grinned. “I appreciate the warning, though it isn't really necessary. Damien's all right. Just has a burr under his saddle, and I think I'm it.”

Kirby's lips twitched. “You're catching onto our lingo real fast, even if I've never heard burr said with that many r's.” He unwound and stood. “I hope to hell you're right.” He hesitated a moment, then continued, “That kid's doing real well, better than I ever thought. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

Drew nodded.

Kirby let out a deep sigh. “Every time I look at him, I can't help seeing myself at that age. With a younger brother to look after and not so much as a pot to piss in, things were pretty tough.” His eyes grew bleak. “You get mighty reckless when you're hungry.”

Drew understood about hunger, not for food but for a sense of belonging. His hunger had made him reckless, too.

Following the direction of Kirby's gaze, he looked over at Gabrielle. What was she hungry for, he wondered. Hungry enough to make the desperate, reckless choice to come on this cattle drive.

Sighing, he turned back to Kirby. “You turned out pretty good,” he said.

Kirby's eyes went dark, almost blank. “You do what you have to do to hold on to your own,” he said. Then he spun around to leave, glancing over his shoulder long enough to say, “Just look after him for me.” Then he strode away.

The night was deep before Gabrielle was finally able to close her eyes. She had bruises where the calf had fought her as she held on to it during the crossing. She knew now what Kingsley meant in saying she'd want to shoot the animal herself after a day. Still, every time she looked into those huge brown eyes, she was more determined than ever to save the poor thing.

The object of her crusade—Sammy, short for Samson—was currently lying contentedly with its mother behind the wagon.

But it wasn't Sammy that kept her awake; it was the vision of the Scotsman and Kirby huddling together near the fire, talking.

Damien Kingsley had been watching, too. It had been obvious to her for some time that he felt displaced in his uncle's eyes by Drew Cameron. Watching Damien, she could see the barely suppressed anger, the envy, even the chagrin, stamped on his features. It would take a blind fool, she thought, not to realize that feelings as powerful as those Damien was harboring were dangerous to have around on a cattle drive—and she was neither blind nor a fool.

She hoped that Kingsley and the Scotsman weren't oblivious of the potential danger either. She hoped Damien would control his temper and not, finally, do something terrible. Shuddering, she refused to allow herself to consider exactly what “something terrible” might entail.

Worried, frustrated that she could do nothing to prevent Damien Kingsley from doing exactly as he pleased, Gabrielle scooted over onto her other side, facing away from the fire and the men. As she tried once more to fall asleep, it occurred to her to wonder if she looked at Kingsley the same way Damien looked at Drew Cameron: with pure malice.

Odd, but since yesterday, when he'd let her keep the calf, she didn't feel quite the same about the trail boss. Not that he'd been kind. But she was quite aware that he would have been well within his rights to order her to give up the calf. And she even acknowledged that it would have been the sensible thing to do. She couldn't have stopped him. Yet he hadn't, and the paradox of humanity existing in a ruthless murderer had her baffled.

At the moment, she was too tired to think about it. Tomorrow, she decided, burrowing into her bedroll, she would go for a ride on Billy. Pepper had said she could, that they would be resting for the day and that he wouldn't need her until the afternoon. That's what she needed: some distance.

Tomorrow, she would let Billy take her far away from beans and Pepper and Kirby Kingsley. Far away from Drew Cameron. Far away from the lowing cattle and the clatter of pans.

Kirby rode hard, deep into Indian Territory. He led a second horse that he would ride when the first one gave out. He planned to cover enough ground to scout out campsites for the next three—possibly four—days. He wanted to make it through Indian Territory as quickly as possible, knowing that Kiowas and Comanches, along with renegades from other tribes, still hunted this area—and not only for game.

As he rode, he considered the decisions he had to make. Decisions about Damien and Terry, and about his own future. The ambush several months ago had reminded him of his mortality—and his sins. He could do damn little about either, but he didn't want his brother's and nephews' lives ruined, too.

Gold brushed the sky as the sun tipped the horizon. Wisps of cloud wandered aimlessly overhead. The prairie stretched out for miles, looking benign and peaceful. But Kirby knew differently. He'd passed this way before. Jagged outcroppings of rock and deep gullies made it perfect for ambushes. And he thought a lot about ambushes these days.

He hadn't gone far, was probably no more than several hours from camp, when his spine started tingling. For a moment, he thought it only nerves. When the shot rang out, shattering the quiet of morning, he called himself a fool.

His horse whinnied in pain, reared. Kirby held on, looking around sharply, reaching for his rifle. He saw a flash as the sun glanced off metal. An instant later, pain struck him from behind, fierce and burning.

He felt himself falling—then he felt nothing at all.

Chapter Nine

Riding point was one hell of a lot better than riding drag. Simply breathing clean air was a novelty. The pinto obviously enjoyed it, too, Drew noticed. The horse's steps were quicker, his head higher, his spirit almost exuberant.

Damien Kingsley, however, was not a happy man. He was in his usual position, at center front of the herd, with his brother Terry riding right point and Drew riding left. To say Damien was unhappy about the new arrangement was an understatement. But he hadn't tried to change his uncle's orders, for which Drew was relieved. He didn't want to be the cause of a quarrel in the Kingsley family, and he wasn't sure how he felt about Kirby using him to test Damien's limits—for he knew that was what his friend was doing.

When the drive left the Red River that morning, Kirby had been gone a day and a half. But no one was really surprised. The trail boss had said he would be gone several days. Now that they had left Texas, everyone was aware of increased danger and the need for moving quickly and having campsites planned well ahead.

Drew cast a glance upward, at the huge blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. Only a huge red ball of the sun beating mercilessly down upon the parched land. It was going to be another hot one.

He felt a moment's sympathy for Gabrielle, still enveloped in all those clothes. Then he reminded himself he'd offered her an alternative, an introduction to Ben Masters and the money to reach Denver and she'd rejected it. Hadn't even considered it briefly.

Had she refused because he'd said Ben was an ex-marshal and she was running from the law? The question plagued him, along with the even more troublesome one: Should he have told Kirby that his scruffy, troublesome louse was a woman? He felt guilty that he hadn't. But he would have felt even more guilty if he'd broken his promise not to tell and Gabrielle had been injured as a result.

He didn't want to see her hurt in any way. He wanted to protect her, as unfamiliar and uncomfortable as the feeling was. When he'd looked for her that morning at breakfast and found her gone, his stomach had clenched and his heart had started to pound. It had pounded harder when Pepper told him she'd gone riding on Billy.

Bloody hell, why couldn't he keep his mind away from her? Why did it constantly jerk back to her, and the mystery surrounding her?

His horse snorted, then whinnied. He snapped back to the present, wondering what had alerted the pinto. Expecting to see an escaping steer, he saw, instead, something moving toward them from the northwest, too far away to identify. As it approached, the form resolved into two forms, then into two riderless horses.