Scotsman Wore Spurs (24 page)

Damien walked up to them. “We're running short of supplies, Uncle Kirby. What do we do now?”

“I'm worried more about those damned Indians,” Kirby said, waving the hand that held his hat to include the ruins. “It looks like a passel of them.”

Damien grunted something affirmative. “Yeah, and it looks like the army's on their tail.”

“Humph,” Kirby grunted.

Drew knew Kirby shared his fellow Texans' disdain for the U.S. Army, a dislike that ran back to the American ‘Civil War.' Tensions still openly simmered from the bloody conflict.

At that moment, their attention was drawn to the lone survivor of the massacre: the dog. They all looked at the end grave when the animal lying next to it let out a brief, plaintive whine.

Drew glanced at the well and saw that the top had been burned. Walking over to his horse, he got his canteen, then walked back to where the dog lay. He poured some water into his hat and offered it to the animal. The dog whined again and tried to stand but couldn't. The animal was holding one of its legs awkwardly, and Drew noticed a deep wound. He pushed the hat under the dog's nose and watched it drink, slowly at first, then frantically.

When the animal was through, it lay down next to the grave again, its head resting on the mound.

Damien drew his six-shooter from its holster.

“No,” Drew said sharply.

“It's best for the animal,” Damien said. “What in the hell do you want to do with it? Leave it here to die of thirst?”

Drew looked back at the motionless dog, keeping vigil over its master's grave. He couldn't bear to see the beast's loyalty and devotion rewarded with a bullet.

“Two-Bits,” he said, “can take of him.”

“Ha!” Damien snorted. “Like that damned calf that's always running all over the camp? Besides, we'll be getting a new cook, and who'll take care of the damned animal then?”

Drew shot a look at Kirby.

“He's right, Scotty,” the trail boss said. “You know it.”

Drew shook his head. “None of us thought Billy was any good, and look at him now. Another month and he'll out-race any horse you have. Two-Bits has a way with animals, you know that.”

All three of them turned their gazes back to the dog, who suddenly looked up at Drew as if sensing an ally. Liquid brown eyes regarded him sorrowfully. Of medium size, with thick black and white fur, a long nose, and an intelligent look in his eyes, the animal looked to be a mongrel.

Kirby sighed in resignation. “If you can get him away from that grave, you can bring him along.”

Drew flashed him a grateful smile, going down on one knee to run his hand along the dog's fur. It trembled but didn't move, nor did it make a sound. He took the injured paw and flexed it. The leg wasn't broken, but the wound looked infected.

“Come on, boy,” he said, urging to dog to its feet. But the animal only looked at him. Drew fished in his pocket and found a piece of jerky, offering that. The dog sniffed it, then put his head back down between his paws.

Damien walked away, snorting in disgust.

Drew swore. Then he thought about Gabrielle, and in his mind he saw her smile. He hadn't seen that dimpled smile recently, not, in fact, since their abbreviated shooting lesson.

He rubbed the dog's head. “'Tis time for the living, my wee friend,” he said in a low voice meant only for the dog's ears. “And I'm knowing a body who needs ye as much as ye need her.”

The dog ignored him. Clearly, he didn't understand Highland speech.

Drew sighed, reached down and started to pick up the beast—and promptly got bitten on the wrist.

“Bloody hell!”

“So much for good intentions,” Kirby said. “We don't have all day for this.”

Drew scowled at the dog. Then, tearing off a piece of his shirt, he tied the dog's mouth shut, ignoring the growling protest. “I canna' leave ye here,” he said. He looked up at Kirby. “You don't know who his owner might have been?”

Kirby shrugged. “There's always a lot of dogs around. Might have been Benedict's. I don't think Haley ever cared for a living thing.”

Sometimes that didn't matter. Drew knew that as surely as he knew his own name. He'd tried his bloody damnedest to be loved, only to be kicked and beaten. He'd always come back for more. Too many times.

He picked up the dog and mounted his horse, his left arm holding the squirming furry bundle, trying to ignore its frantic attempts to return to the grave.

“He'll try to come back,” Kirby warned him.

“Maybe,” Drew said, knowing that Gabrielle would tame the beast. He was sure of it. He didn't trust
her
. But he trusted her gentleness and her compassion.

Dammit, she would love this bloody dog.

Chapter Thirteen

Gabrielle loved the dog from the first moment she saw him. She loved him even more after hearing of his vigil at the grave. But what she loved most was that Drew had brought the animal to her.

With his eyes conveying both tenderness and amusement, he dumped the dog into her arms. “I've brought you some more trouble,” he said, his brogue thick and lilting. “And I'm thinking this wagon will soon be resembling a bloody ark.”

Joy rushed through her. He
hadn't
entirely given up on her. Yet the knowledge frightened her, too, because she was afraid to hope, afraid to care too much.

Really though it was too late. She already cared too much. Her heart wanted to burst whenever she looked at him, and when their gazes met, she felt tremors of warmth in that place he'd awakened inside her.

She gathered up the ragged piece of fur and hugged him close. Unable to express her gratitude to Drew in words, she let her eyes thank him.

“You'll have to be after naming the beast,” he said. “No one knows how he was called.”

“Honor,” she said suddenly, thinking of the dog's steadfastness by his master's grave. “I think I'll call him Honor.”

And Honor was no trouble at all. He was just sad, and Gabrielle spent more time that day with him than she should have, talking to him, telling him that his master had gone to a wonderful place and that he, Honor, had a new home.

Well, maybe he was a little trouble. Because she gave the dog so much attention, supper was late, the beans gravelly, and the bread overcooked. Damien scowled, which he did very well, and Kirby muttered something about how he must be going daft, letting her keep the “damned beast.” But he didn't make her give the dog up.

The following morning, as they crossed the river and pushed north, Honor sat next to her on the bench of the hoodlum wagon. She flicked the reins, urging the mules onward, trying to keep pace with the chuck wagon being driven by one of the wranglers. Because of the increased threat of Indian raids, the wagons were still staying closer to the herd than usual. Nerves were stretched to a fine point. Arguments and fights had broken out last night after Kingsley reported his findings at Haley's. Supplies were dwindling, including coffee and sugar.

Gabrielle reached over and stroked the dog, who tolerated her affection without enthusiasm. He'd stopped whining though, and he seemed more relaxed than when Drew had handed him to her. She was still afraid to untie him, afraid he might go back to the ruined trading post.

The plains seemed endless as she looked out across them, her eyes watchful. She was the sole cook now, until Kingsley replaced her. Before he did, she planned to use the access that her new position afforded her to sneak a look at the trail boss's belongings. Not that she had any expectation that such a search would produce hard evidence that Kingsley had murdered her father. It was simply the only thing she could think of to do that might, at least, give her a clue about the man she'd found so difficult to know.

She stroked Honor again as guilt welled up in her. She didn't want to use Pepper's death for her own advantage. She had grown to care about the man and his gruff ways.

Nor had she been raised to think it was acceptable to invade someone else's privacy. She couldn't help feeling she was betraying her parents and herself by spying on Kingsley. While her father's last words still echoed constantly in her mind, she nonetheless had formed a grudging respect for the powerful cattleman.

He had hired a young, desperate boy, and for that insolent youth he'd allowed a broken-down horse to come on a long, hard trail drive. He'd stayed the execution of a newborn calf who'd had to be carried in a wagon. He'd given a reprieve to a dog who was sure to have died and who would need to be fed from their dwindling supplies. And he'd been close to tears, speaking over the grave of a man he'd called friend for twenty years—she was sure of it.

Gabrielle was desperate to reconcile Kingsley's behavior with the image she had painted of him in her mind as a cold-blooded killer, and for that reason alone, she would put aside her scruples and her self-respect to search his belongings. She had, at best, ten days on the trail before they reached the next town, where Kingsley would try to find a new cook. Ten days to learn the truth.

And ten days of being totally responsible for the care and feeding of sixteen drovers—with only limited supplies to accomplish the task.

Hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts, and she peered around the edge of the wagon to see Kingsley himself galloping toward her.

“Canadian River ahead, about one mile,” he shouted. “We stay on this side overnight, then cross at dawn.”

She nodded, watching as he galloped off to tell the others. Since nearly drowning, she'd come to hate river crossings, although some were worse than others. She hoped the Canadian River was shallow and skinny.

It wasn't. It was wide and fast-moving, and although the drovers declared that it wasn't very deep, it seemed plenty deep enough to drown in. Gabrielle prepared supper for the drovers, all the while casting unhappy glances at the obstacle she would have to cross, come dawn.

The hands were especially quiet and tired. The constant danger of Indian raids meant they were all doing extra duty, the number of guards on every shift doubling. Throughout the evening, Gabrielle watched weary-eyed men come in for coffee and food and a couple of hours of sleep, then go out again.

Kingsley came in just before sunset from scouting ahead on the other side of the river. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he tasted it gingerly, then gave her a nod.

“Coffee's right good,” he said.

Gabrielle shifted her gaze away from him, confused and at the same time pleased by his praise.

He took a plate of beans and fresh bread and squatted near the fire, where Jake and Legs were already eating.

“You handling everything all right?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“A lot to ask of a kid.”

She looked away.

“You think you can hang on another week or so?”

Again, she nodded.

“Dammit, kid, you got a voice?”

She shot him a quick glance. “Didn't know you wanted a voice. Thought you wanted a cook.”

Jake and Legs guffawed.

Kingsley smiled too, a crooked smile that was unexpectedly appealing. “Prickly, aren't you?”

She shrugged.

“We got another month to go,” he said. “Maybe more. This is too big a job for a stripling.”

“And it wasn't too big for an old man?” she retorted without thinking.

Kingsley went rigid, his face paling, and Gabrielle knew she'd gone too far. He'd been fond of Pepper. She'd as much as said he'd killed the old cook by bringing him along, and that hadn't been her intention at all.

Kingsley held his silence, merely finished his meal and coffee, found himself another mount, and rode out to check the herd.

Jake rose and stretched. “I'm going to catch some shut-eye. Have the midnight watch.”

Legs stood up, too, and they both walked over to flop down onto their bedrolls.

Gabrielle was alone, the only one near the chuck wagon. Her heart pounded, and she tried to find a reason why it wasn't a good time to carry out her plan. But she knew it might be the only time she would have.

She found an excuse—molasses for the coffee—in case anyone came back into camp and saw her inside the chuck wagon. Then she took a deep breath, looked around to see that no one was in sight but sleeping cowhands, and scrambled into the back end of the wagon.

There was a large box tucked against the back of the bench. She'd seen it several times when fetching something for Pepper. She leaned over to examine it in the dwindling light. The box, one foot long and about six inches wide, was locked. She didn't know what she expected to find in it, but the fact that it was locked caught her attention. It probably contained money, but maybe Kingsley also kept letters in it, or a diary.

Frustrated, she played with the lock for a moment, not wanting to break it or make it look as if it had been forced. After several minutes of futile efforts, she gave up, deciding that she would have to wait. Sooner or later, they would be near a town or a trading post, and Kingsley would buy supplies. Which meant he'd need money. She'd make sure she was around the next time he opened his strongbox, so she could get a glimpse of the contents, and maybe see where he kept the key.

She was still staring at the box when she heard the Scotsman's voice.

“Thinking about taking up banditry?”

Gabrielle pivoted on the balls of her feet. He was standing at the back of wagon, leaning to look inside, an elbow resting where he'd untied a flap.

“I was looking for molasses,” she replied indignantly.

“Are you now?” he said softly. “I thought I saw some outside.”

“I thought we would need more. It'll be a long night.”

“Aye,” he said, “and it'll be the devil's own work trying to keep the cattle out of that river tonight. They're as jumpy as the drovers.”

Grateful for the change of subject, Gabe moved away from the box, over to a small barrel of molasses, then realized she had nothing to put it in. She felt her face grow hot and knew she had to brazen it through.