Scotsman Wore Spurs (18 page)

Kirby Kingsley wasn't going to like the delay. Each drover knew that, including Drew. The schedule was crucial; the first herds reaching Abilene would fetch the best prices. Nearly twenty ranchers had contributed to the herd, and their success—or failure—depended on Kingsley.

Yet Kirby remained unconscious, and Pepper argued they shouldn't move him. They couldn't leave him with one or two men—all they could spare—with Indians and ambushers in the vicinity. They could make up a day later, Pepper said, and Damien agreed.

As late afternoon faded into night, and night into morning, the campfire kept burning, and all the drovers kept vigil around it, leaving only to take their turns at watch.

Drew prepared to get a couple of hours sleep before he had to go on watch, but he delayed his rest when Legs returned. The drover-tracker had little to report. He'd found only one set of horse tracks, and he'd followed them into a creek and lost them. Whoever had shot Kingsley was still out there.

Or here. The thought nagged at Drew. Would someone follow a cattle drive three weeks just to find an opportunity to get Kingsley alone? Or could the shooter be someone on the drive?

The idea that the shooter was living among them nagged at him as he lay down on his bedroll and tried to catch some sleep. So did the memory of the expression on Gabrielle's face when she'd seen Terry riding in with Kirby. A myriad of emotions crossed her features as she'd stood watching Pepper work over the trail boss—and relief and shock hadn't been among them.

Drew recalled that she had gone riding yesterday. He had never seen her with a gun, but that didn't mean she didn't own one—or couldn't have taken one from some drover's holster, stored in the hoodlum wagon, while the man slept.

Drew didn't like the direction of his thoughts, but he couldn't help them. His heart told him that Gabrielle couldn't be responsible. But his common sense, as well as his suspicious nature, forced him to admit that it wasn't impossible. Why had she lied to him? Could she be working with someone else? Why was it so important to her to be on this trail drive, and finally, had he made a possibly fatal mistake in not telling Kirby about her deception?

The questions followed him into a brief, restless sleep—along with the determination that he was going to have another talk with Gabrielle. And this time, he was going to get some straight answers.

Gabrielle drew the cool, wet cloth across Kingsley's face, then dunked it back into the water bowl. She'd finally persuaded Pepper to get some rest, promising to call him the moment Kingsley showed any sign of waking. If he ever did.

She studied the trail boss's feverish face, listening to his ragged breathing, thinking how odd it was that she was sitting here, nursing him. Even stranger to think she genuinely wanted the man she thought had killed her father to live. She told herself it was only because she wanted the chance to hear any words he might utter, that she wanted him to admit his part in her father's death.

But it was more than that, and she knew it.

A weakness of character? Her father had as much as identified him as his murderer.

The night was quiet. A few of the drovers remained around the fire, sleeping or simply lying on the bedrolls. Once in a while, one would come over and ask her how the boss was doing. Kingsley, she was learning, had won a singular respect and loyalty from his hands.

Still, as her gaze moved over the men in camp and as she thought about the others, out on their watches, she had to wonder if one of them wanted to kill their boss. She'd heard Damien's questions, known the possibility was being considered.

It was hard for her to imagine. She was coming to know the drovers well. They were loyal to each other and to Kingsley. They seemed to aspire to little more than a paycheck and a good meal, and their dreams appeared limited to the next town, where they hoped to find a glass of whiskey and a loose woman.

Only the Scotsman didn't fit. And Kingsley's nephews, who probably had much to gain with Kirby's death. They stood to inherit a vast ranch and the wealth and power that went with it. But Terry Kingsley struck her as too mild-mannered and ineffectual to plan anything more complicated than a poker game. Damien, though … well, that was another story. Damien was bright enough. And he certainly appeared angry. Still, his concern for Kingsley a few hours earlier had seemed quite genuine; he'd looked worried sick. And, in the end, Gabrielle couldn't persuade herself that Damien was capable of murder.

She added several pieces of valuable wood to the fire and watched the shadows dance across Kingsley's face. It was a harsh countenance, and he seldom if ever smiled. A hard boss, the hands all agreed, but fair. They didn't ask for more than that.

Sighing, Gabrielle wriggled inside her hot, dusty clothes as the Scotsman rode in from his watch. He wore no hat, and his tawny hair fell over his forehead, partially covering his handsome, sun-bronzed face. As he dismounted and walked toward her, she noted the sheer elegance of his movements—the way he rode, the way he walked, everything about him spoke of grace and confidence and strength.

“How is he?” Drew asked as he stooped beside her.

Gabrielle cast a quick glance at him. “No change.”

He looked pure exhausted. She ached to smooth away the lines of fatigue crinkling his eyes. She longed to stand in front of him as Maris Gabrielle Parker and see in his eyes the admiration she'd seen in others, not the doubt and questions and suspicions.

The chasm between them widened at his next question. “Pepper left you alone with him?”

Whether they were meant as an accusation or not, the words struck her like a blow to the stomach. His eyes, which sometimes appeared so golden, were hard now, the gold in them eclipsed by a glittering agate.

“He was tired,” she said. “I—don't think he's feeling well.”

His eyes cut to hers. “That makes things easier for you, doesn't it?”

“Why should it?” She challenged him.

His eyes didn't leave hers. “If Pepper is ill, he won't look too deeply into the peculiarities of his … what is that expressive word?… louse.” His voice was unemotional, cool, with an underlying hint of ruthlessness.

The good-natured, usually subtly amused Scotsman was displaying another side. The geniality was gone, and now she wondered whether it had ever really been a part of him or merely a skin that covered what he really was.

And what was that?

“No,” she simply.

“No what?”

“It doesn't make things easier,” she said.

“I saw your face when we brought … Mr. Kingsley in,” he persisted.

“And …” she prompted slowly, wondering what indeed had been in her face. She'd been so swamped by conflicting emotions that even she didn't know exactly how she'd felt.

“You weren't exactly … surprised.”

“Wasn't I?”

“And you were gone from camp the morning he was shot.”

She nodded noncommittally.

“Where did you go?”

“For a ride.”

“North?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't see anything?”

“No.”

His eyes seemed to peel layers from her. Layers of pretense, layers of lies, layers of feelings even she didn't understand.

I want him to live, too,
she wanted to scream at him.
I want him to tell me what happened twenty-five years ago. I want to know if he had my father killed
—
and if so, why. And if it was Kingsley, I want him to pay for it. But if he dies now, I'll never know the truth. And I'll never feel safe. So he can't die. Not like this.

But the words went unspoken. Drew Cameron was Kingsley's friend. He would never believe her, any more than the sheriff in San Antonio believed her.

For several long minutes, Gabrielle remained frozen, held prisoner by Drew Cameron's unrelenting gaze. Then, suddenly, the tension between them was broken by a quiet moan, coming from the man lying on the bedroll between them.

As she grabbed the wet cloth, wrung it out, and wiped Kingsley's forehead again, she cast a quick glance at the Scotsman and saw he was watching her as if he expected her to plunge a knife into his friend. She applied her attention to her patient.

Kingsley moved again, and he spoke a few unintelligible words. Leaning down, she put her ear close to his mouth. Most of the words were broken, but she heard several quite clearly.

“Sorry … so sorry.” Then another one, “Murderer.”

Chapter Ten

Kirby Kingsley's mumblings turned more coherent as the night wore on, and Drew convinced Gabrielle to get some rest. But despite Drew's patient prodding Kirby could tell him nothing about his attackers. He'd seen only the glint of sun on a rifle.

The pain that lined his face couldn't conceal the bleakness in his eyes as he came to the same conclusions Drew had reached earlier: The ambush three months ago was not an isolated, freak occurrence, as Kirby had wanted to believe.

Kirby had refused to go to the law then, saying he'd have to go all the way to San Antonio and the attacker would be long gone in any event. Drew had accepted that explanation at the time; now he wondered whether Kirby hadn't had another reason.

As Drew sat at his friend's side, he felt a deep and burning rage. Kirby was weak from loss of blood, his jaw was clenched and his forehead creased in an expression of severe pain, and his skin was gray. Only two days before he'd been a strong, healthy man still in the peak years of his life.

“Who?” Drew asked him. “Who would go this far to see you dead?”

Kirby looked up at him, his gaze desolate. “I have no idea.”

“You murmured some words as you woke up,” Drew said.

Alarm spread over his friend's face, and Drew's gut tightened.

“What?” Kirby asked.

“Don't you remember?”

Kirby shook his head, wincing a little at the pain that ensued from his head wound.

Drew frowned, remembering Kirby's words. “You said something about a murderer. About being sorry.”

Kirby closed his eyes, heaving a tired sigh.

“You
do
know something.” Drew spoke in urgent tones. “Tell me—what did you mean?”

Kirby hesitated, opening his eyes to look around.

“No one's listening,” Drew said. “The only hands here are all asleep—and snoring.”

Seeming reassured, Kirby sighed again. “Those things I said—they happened twenty-five years ago.”

“Someone with a long memory?”

Kirby's brow furrowed. “It doesn't make sense. There's no reason …”

“No reason a woman should be involved?”

Drew saw surprise flash through Kirby's eyes at his question.

“No,” Kirby said. “No reason at all. Why would you ask?”

Drew hesitated. He should tell Kirby about Gabrielle. Now. But if Gabrielle didn't have anything to do with this—and he couldn't believe she did—he would be betraying her.

“No reason,” he said. “Just satisfying myself on a point. Look—you need to rest. We can talk more tomorrow.”

Kirby didn't argue. His eyes drifted closed on another long sigh.

Drew fetched his bedroll and stretched out near Kirby. He was going to make bloody sure Kirby wasn't alone, especially not with Gabrielle or his nephews. Pepper would watch over him during the day in the chuck wagon, for despite Pepper's age and stiff limbs, he was good with a gun and he was loyal to Kirby.

Earlier Pepper had pronounced his boss on the mend, claiming his poultice had warded off infection. Drew remained a bit skeptical but was inclined to agree with Pepper's conclusion that Kirby would live.

This time. He wouldn't give odds on the older man surviving a third attack.

Drew swore silently. He'd cared for few people in his life, wasn't at all experienced at it, and now he wondered if he ever wanted to be. There was a lot to be said for being concerned only for oneself. Not that he'd done such a bloody good job of that either. Yet here he was, feeling responsible for two people: Gabrielle and Kirby. And for some reason, he couldn't rid himself of the notion that those two people's interests clashed in some way.

Frustrated, Drew closed his eyes and rolled to put his back to the fire. He needed some sleep. Kirby would insist on starting the herd tomorrow.

But sleep was a long time coming. And even when it came, visions of a blue-eyed, short-haired temptress plagued his dreams.

Loud swearing and pans crashing woke Gabrielle from a sound sleep under the hoodlum wagon. Alarmed at the disturbance, she pushed herself up onto an elbow, and rubbed her eyes.

“
Two-Bits!
”

Hearing her name being called—and none too pleasantly—she slipped on her shapeless coat and hat, though her eyes were barely open. They were open far enough, though, to see that it was still nighttime. As she rolled out from under the wagon, she squinted in the darkness and made out several forms moving about. But Pepper hadn't yet started the fire.

“
Gabe!
”

Scrambling to her feet, she hurried the thirty or so yards between the two wagons, the distance marking the space where the drovers slept when they weren't on watch. Some were up, others were slowly rising from bedrolls. Several were cursing—loudly.

Ten feet from the chuck wagon, Gabrielle was brought to a halt as she recognized another shadowed form, milling around in the darkness.

Sammy.

She'd left him with his mother, who was tied to the back of the hoodlum wagon, and she'd expected him to stay put. Obviously he'd had other ideas.

The calf had made his way to the chuck wagon, where he was stumbling over cowhands' sleeping bodies, bumping into the chuck box, sending pans crashing to the ground—and generally wreaking havoc. Confused by all the human noise, as well as the noise he himself was creating, the calf started running first in one direction, then another, stepping on drovers as he went.