Scotsman Wore Spurs (20 page)

“People go gettin' shot. Ain't no civility no more,” he muttered as he puttered slowly about. “Ambush,” he added disgustedly.

Kingsley, still on his bedroll by the chuck wagon, tried to move a little but pain added more creases to his lined face.

“Shouldn't be moving,” Pepper mumbled.

“Got to go on,” Kingsley said and tried again.

Sympathy warred with anger inside Gabrielle, as she watched him. She shouldn't care about his pain, but she did. He'd lost a lot of blood, and the gash alongside his head was ugly. His head must hurt like the furies, and she was sure that even his smallest movement made it worse. Still he persisted, struggling to his feet, until he was upright, hanging on to a wagon wheel.

His eyes were as hard as stones, his face harsh, and she wondered again what engendered the loyalty she'd encountered among his hands. Perhaps, she thought, because he
was
a hard man, a man who would do anything to hold on to what was his.

The question was, What did
anything
include?

After the hands had eaten, she hitched up the mules to the hoodlum wagon as one of the wranglers hitched mules to the chuck wagon, and both started out. The broad beam of the disreputable hat stayed low on her forehead, protecting her face from the sun. Looking at her gloved hands on the reins, she wondered whether they would ever be as they had been, smooth and without calluses.

How could the Scotsman have any interest in her? Other than to have his questions answered, that is. And did she really want him to be interested in her as a woman? The questions bedeviled her throughout the long, hot, dry day.

Sammy was in the back of the wagon, bawling his protest against the indignity. But he still couldn't keep up with a ten-mile trek. Not yet. Even if he could wreak havoc in camp.

Sammy. Think about Sammy. Think about the theater. Think about music. Don't think about Kingsley. Don't think about the Scotsman.

Don't think about how the devil she was going to persuade Drew Cameron that she didn't know how to shoot a gun.

Billy Bones was actually playful. Frisky. Spirited.

Drew wondered about the changes Gabrielle had wrought upon the horse. It appeared to him that patience, food, and affection had produced nothing short of a miracle. He had been too occupied with his own duties, as well as thoughts of Gabrielle, to notice before, but as he watched the woman and the horse riding beside him, he catalogued the differences. Billy held his head high, his steps were quick and sure, not dragging as they had been when the two appeared at the Kingsley ranch nearly a month ago. His coat was sleek, and his eyes clear.

And Gabrielle? Well, she still had a ways to go, but her seat had improved; she no longer appeared as if she was in danger of falling off at any second. And although she still looked like the ragamuffin he'd first glimpsed, he now noticed the straight back, the willful chin, and the fierce passion in her startling blue eyes.

He longed to get his arms around her.

They rode for a half hour before stopping, far enough away that noise wouldn't stampede the cattle. Drew dismounted, then went over to Billy Bones and offered Gabrielle his hand.

She hesitated, then gave it to him, slipping down into his arms. He enjoyed the feel of her against him, and his hands imprisoned her for a brief moment. She fitted there.

Too well. He didn't want to let go.

She seemed to slide even closer to him, her disreputable hat hitting his chin. While one hand kept her imprisoned, the other released the tie under her chin and took the hat from her head, letting it glide to the ground.

He could see her eyes now, the beautiful blue eyes that could make a man weak. Hell, they
did
make him weak. Her dark hair swirled in tendrils around her face, and he knew why she always kept the damn hat on. She looked utterly female to him now, and the confusion in her eyes made him feel protective. And lustful.

It had to be magic, he thought, sorcery of some kind, that she practiced upon him, for he simply had never felt this way with any other woman. Tender and protective and, at the same time, nearly overwhelmed with desire. His hand brushed a curl from her face, and he knew she'd washed it recently. The texture was silk against his fingers, the softness of her skin irresistible.

He leaned down, letting his lips brush hers, and her response stifled any scruples or reservations he had. Her lips were warmly inquisitive, and her hands circled his neck tentatively, her fingers creating rivers of fire that raged through him.

His kiss deepened and her body pressed instinctively into his until the ache in his loins became agony. He wanted this woman, and he'd ceased to care if it was right or wrong, or if it made one whit of sense.

The kiss became frantic, his tongue entering her mouth and searching, seducing until, suddenly, she jerked away.

Staring up at him, panic filling her gaze, she took a quick, ragged breath. “Scotty …”

“Drew,” he said. “My name is Drew.”

She simply continued to stare at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of passion and fear.

“Say it,” he said.

“Drew,” she obeyed.

He liked the sound of it. The husky quality of her voice was sensual, enticing.

His thumb and index finger played with her chin, then ran up and down her cheek. “How did you do this?” he asked.

“Do what?” The words were more like a sigh.

“Darken your skin.”

She worried her lip before answering. “A dye.”

“How did you learn about it?”

“An actress taught me.”

“What else did she teach you?”

Caution flickered in her eyes, and she lowered her gaze and tried to turn away.

“Not this time, Gabrielle,” he said, his hand capturing her elbow and turning her back toward him. “What else did this actress teach you?”

“To beware of men,” she said angrily, twisting to get away.

He didn't let go.

“Too bad you didn't pay attention,” he said silkily. “A trail drive is hardly a place to avoid them.”

“I thought you were going to teach me to shoot,” she said, tugging her arm from his grasp.

“I thought you didn't want to learn.”

“I changed my mind.”

“So did I. I would much rather do something else.”

With her arms wrapped around her waist, she gazed up at him, and he saw in her eyes a thousand different things: fear and passion, defiance and longing. Mostly, though, he saw her confusion.

His heartbeat quickened. She was smart and funny and full of grit, and he liked her. He liked her quite a lot, despite knowing that it was a bloody fool thing to do.

He knew nothing about commitment, about caring deeply for someone. Most of all, though, he feared her secrets. He didn't think he could survive the ruin inevitably caused by secrets and lies. Not again.

Drew sighed. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to bed her. He ached to do it. And he could. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Yet, he hesitated. And finally he backed away, thinking as he did so that it was a bloody poor time to develop a conscience.

“All right,” he said, drawing the pistol from his holster and holding it out to her.

Gabrielle stared at it as if it were a rattlesnake, and he knew instantly that she'd been telling the truth. She really didn't like guns.

“I've got my own,” she said, and she turned, opening the flap of her saddlebag and pulling out her weapon.

Drew's eyebrows shot upward in surprise. He didn't know what he'd expected—probably a derringer, a lady's gun, or some falling apart ancient pistol. But she turned back to him holding a Colt. Putting his own gun back into its holster, he took it from her and examined it to find that it wasn't new but was perfectly serviceable and in excellent repair. It was also loaded.

He emptied the bullets from the chambers and offered it back to her. Before she took it, she bent down, picked up her hat, and plopped it back onto her head. Then, with some hesitation, she took the gun from his hand, seemingly uncomfortable even holding it.

“Just feel it,” he said. “Get comfortable with it.”

“How can you ever be comfortable with a gun?”

The question startled him. He'd never
not
been comfortable with a gun. Guns of various kinds always had been a part of his life. Hunting was often a social event. He'd never enjoyed it, but his father had made sure he acquitted himself well as a boy. As a man, he'd disdained hunting as he'd disdained so many things his father worshiped.

“In this country,” he said, “it appears a necessity.”

“And in Scotland?”

“A gentlemanly skill,” he said with self-mocking amusement.

“The two seem at odds.”

“Aye, they should be,” he said, his smile fading. “But that's not the way of the world—not this world, in any event.”

“Is America really so different from Scotland?”

“Today it is,” he said. “Where I come from, shooting people is frowned upon.”

“I think I would like Scotland,” she said.

“Ah, but it has a bloody past.”

“And we have a bloody present,” she said in a low voice.

“Aye, but civilization will come. It always does,” he replied, watching her face.

Grief. It darkened her eyes and tugged the corners of her mouth downward. It was real, and it was recent. He watched her struggle to regain control.

“You sound disappointed,” she finally said.

“Opportunity often disappears with the coming of civilization,” he replied. “With order comes rules.”

“And you don't like rules?”

“Not much.”

“And you're looking for opportunity?”

“Isn't every man,” he said, then added, “and woman?”

The air was sizzling between them. He was barely aware of the words being spoken. He couldn't take his eyes from her.

“And how far would they go … for opportunity?”

“Ah, now that is a good question,” he said. His hand touched her chin. “How far would
you
go?”

She moistened her lips, her eyes locked with his. Then, abruptly, she stepped back, as if burned, and turned her attention to the gun in her hand.

“Are you going to show me how to use it?”

She always changed the subject when he asked anything personal, and he was determined to get beyond that gate. “You haven't answered my question. How far would you go, Gabrielle?”

She looked at the gun. “I think you must have been a snake-oil salesman.”

“Ouch,” he said. “You wound me. I do have a few standards, and wasting alcohol in such a fashion wouldn't meet them. I'm an adventurer, yes. A gambler admittedly, even a rogue at times, but never a charlatan.”

Her eyes lit with interest. “A rogue?”

“Of the first order,” he admitted cheerfully.

“What does a rogue do?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Ah … a well-bred young lady would know better than to ask.”

She looked down at her clothes. “Do I look like a well-bred young lady?”

He chuckled. “You look delectable. And I suspect you
are
a lady.”

She studied her fingers, playing nervously with the gun.

He put a hand on hers. “Be very careful with that. I like my body parts.”

She looked startled. Alarmed. She really
didn't
like the gun.

“Hold it firm, lass,” he said. “Try the trigger.” He watched her for a moment, then pulled the dilapidated hat from her head.

“That's an improvement,” he said, grinning.

She started to grab for it, but he threw it several feet away and grabbed her when she started to go after it.

“I can't put my arms around you with that bloody hat in my face,” he said lazily.

Her shocked gaze flashed to his, but before she could protest, he stepped behind her and put his arms around her, lifting her hand holding the gun. “To teach you the intricacies of the weapon, lass,” he said in a voice meant to be reassuring. Or was it? He enjoyed teasing her, enjoyed knowing he had her as off balance as she had him.

“It seems simple enough,” she retorted. “You pull the trigger.”

He chuckled. “Try it. Aim at something.”

She looked around, her eyes lighting as they reached him.

“I dinna mean me,” he said. “And there are no bullets.”

“I can wish, can't I?” she retorted.

“Ah, lass, that's an unkind thing to say.” He looked around, spied the hat.

His large hand fit around hers, showing her how to grip the gun. “Pull the trigger easy,” he said. “Never rush a shot.”

When he was satisfied that she understood the basic principle, he loaded the gun and handed it back to her.

“Now aim at the hat and pull the trigger. Slowly. The pistol will jerk, so be prepared.”

She gave him an indignant glare. “My hat?”

He shrugged. “A bullet can hardly do it any more harm.”

“Hmph.”

She half-turned away from him and took aim at the hat. He had to stifle a laugh as he watched her chew her bottom lip and squint in concentration. A full minute passed, he could swear, before she finally pulled the trigger, and when she did, her whole body jerked as the revolver kicked in her hands. The bullet stirred a pile of dust two feet to the left of her hat.

But he wasn't concerned with her lack of accuracy. Her hands were shaking, and he suddenly realized what courage it had taken for her to pull the trigger. Her distaste for guns went beyond a simple fear of the unfamiliar, or even a healthy respect for a lethal weapon. It was something primal, something born of experience. And it was connected to the raw grief he'd seen in her eyes only a short while ago.

Feeling as if he were finally getting close to unlocking a great mystery, he moved to put his arms around her again. “Gabrielle,” he began, once more taking hold of her gun and lifting it. “It won't hurt you. Hold it like …”