Scotsman Wore Spurs (26 page)

“I don't think anything scares you,” she countered.

“
You
do,” he said. “Anyone who risks a stampede, drowning, and an Indian attack, all for revenge—”

“It's
not
revenge,” she interrupted.

“Then what is it?”

“Justice.”

His mouth curled up at one side in cynicism. “Another word for revenge.”

“Drew, I have to
know
what happened. Can't you understand that?”

“Of course, I can,” he said, his expression softening. “I can even understand how you might have wanted to kill the man you thought killed your father. But I don't understand what you hoped to accomplish by sneaking and skulking about camp—except perhaps to get yourself killed.”

Scalded to the quick, she defended herself. “I'm not sneaking and skulking.”

“What do you call it then?” he asked.

“Trying to find the truth, with or without your help.”

“It'll be without.”

“But he killed my father! And he tried to kill me!”

Drew shook his head. “I don't think Kirby Kingsley killed anyone. I think it's far more likely that whoever ambushed Kirby—
both
times—is the one who had your father murdered.”

Gabrielle clenched her teeth. She knew Drew made sense. The possibility Drew raised made sense to her, too. But her father had said it was Kingsley. She knew she wasn't mistaken about that. And she'd been clinging to that belief for too long to let it go so easily.

“Because you're Kirby's friend,” she accused him. “You
wouldn't
think him a murderer.”

“That's right,” Drew agreed.

“And if you're wrong?”

He paused.

“If he's innocent,” she continued, “I can't hurt him by just watching him.”

“If he's not, you can get killed.”

“So you admit it's possible?”

“No,” he said slowly. “No, I don't. I just want you to consider the risks and consequences of your own actions.”

“Do you?” she shot back.

A look of chagrin passed over his face. “Not usually. Perhaps that's why I don't leave here now and go straight to Kirby. But then I've never been an example to emulate.”

Her hand found its way back into his. “I know what I'm doing, and I'm not going to get myself killed.” She hesitated, biting her lip for a moment before continuing. “And I should probably tell you that I don't need any shooting lessons. My father taught me to shoot years ago, so I could protect myself. I hate guns, particularly after seeing my father killed … but I do know how to use one. And I'm not a child.”

She could see him trying to be angry at her for lying about her lack of skill with a gun, but, with a sigh, he lost the battle. Instead, for the first time during their conversation, she saw amusement dance in his eyes.

“No, you're not a child,” he said. “We certainly agree on that. Exactly how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

He reached up and took off her hat. She shook her head, delighted to be free of the thing, then she caught him staring at her. Staring in a completely different way. Not as if she were an addlebrain but with admiration, even awe.

“Bloody fool thing to do,” he muttered, but his eyes said something else altogether.

“Will you tell him?” she ventured.

They both knew she meant Kingsley.

“Do you know what you're asking of me, Gabrielle?” he said. “Kirby is my friend, and I don't have that many friends that I can simply toss them aside. You're asking me to betray him.”

“Not if he's innocent,” she said. “And would you want to be a murderer's friend?”

He sucked in a quick breath, holding it as his face underwent a change. The amusement faded from his eyes, and the admiration.

Carefully, he said, “And that's what you've thought of me all this time, isn't it? That I was knowingly a friend to a murderer.”

She stared at him, realizing too late the trap she'd sprung on herself. But she wasn't going to lie anymore, not to him. “I thought … maybe. I mean, the two of you were obviously close. He—He talks to you, more than he talks to anyone.”

Drew's eyes narrowed. “Keep going. What else did you think, Gabrielle?”

Her gaze darted away from his, skimmed over the shadowed landscape, came to rest on Honor, still lying, unmoving, on the riverbank.

“You thought I might have colluded with Kirby to have your father killed?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“At first I thought it was a possibility. But not for very long,” she replied.

“‘Not for very long,'” he repeated solemnly, mocking her. “Just
how
long? And while you're at it, tell me how much of your … how do I put this delicately … your willingness was a reflection of your true feelings—and how much was bait?” Shoving himself to his feet, he looked down at her icily. “What did you want to learn from me, Gabrielle, after
ensuring
that I didn't tell Kirby about you?”

“It wasn't like that,” she stumbled, stunned by his fury, by the hard set of his face, his coldness. Instead of dispelling his mistrust of her, she realized now that she'd only succeeded in deepening it. “It wasn't,” she pleaded again. “Drew, wait! Please! Drew!”

But her words met his back. She watched, her heart splintered, as he strode away.

Chapter Fourteen

“Drew, wait! Please! Drew!”

Drew heard Gabrielle's frantic words as he turned away, unable to listen to any more explanations, any more lies.

He lengthened his stride, wanting to outrun the sound of the husky voice that had very nearly stolen his heart.

Andrew Cameron, earl of Kinloch.
Such a noble title, he thought bitterly, for a man made the target of so many schemes and lies. After learning of the greatest lie of all, he'd thought he would never be hurt by one again. Expect nothing, and a man could never be hurt.

But now he felt mortally wounded. For without being able to say when or how it had happened, he realized that he had begun to trust Gabrielle. She'd made him start believing in people again, believing that there was honor and loyalty and love, and that he might, at long last, have a piece of them.

Maris Gabrielle Parker had just smashed that assumption into the ground. His brother-in-law Ben and his sister must be an anomaly, the exception that always proved the rule.

It hadn't been the lies, though he couldn't quite understand the logic of using lies in search of the truth. No, it wasn't the lies themselves. What had hurt was the fact she'd believed him capable of murder, that she'd used her body to ensure his betrayal of a friend.

At the remuda, he saddled Beelzebub, so named because he was difficult to control. Damien liked the black horse, but the other drovers avoided him. Drew mounted the sidestepping beast and headed at a full gallop across the river. Once on the other side, he raced over the prairie, determined to outrun the demons pursuing him—the betrayals he'd thought he left behind him in Scotland.

The earl of Kinloch. The
fool
of Kinloch. He heard his own laughter grabbed by the wind and carried off.

He also heard Gabrielle's voice:
Do you really want to be friend to a murderer?

Damn her.

He spurred the horse, aware of faltering light, of the night encroaching on the open prairie. He didn't stop until he saw the foam on the horse's mouth. Dismounting, he began walking the horse to cool him down. He had no idea how far he had ventured from the campsite, nor did he notice his surroundings. He did notice that Beelzebub's sides were heaving, and as he walked he began looking for water for the overheated horse. In all his life, he had never mistreated a horse, and that he had done so now did not improve his black mood. Damn the devil, he'd ridden the animal nearly to the point of collapse.

He guessed he must be five miles from camp, at least. Beelzebub tried nipping his shoulder, showing his disgust for the night outing, but then the horse neighed, and Drew heard an answering whinny.

He stopped. A horse, or horses, were out there. He drew his rifle from its scabbard on the saddle, and stood still, listening. His eyes scoured the prairie, finding a ravine not twenty feet away, and he walked Beelzebub to the edge. He could slip down into it, if necessary.

A hawk cried from a distance. Or was it a hawk?

At about the time he was envisioning bands of marauding Indians swooping down upon him, he made out the lone figure of an approaching horseman, and an instant later, he recognized the shape of the rider's hat. He waved his hands over his head, and the figure moved into a trot, coming to a stop in front of him.

Kirby Kingsley looked down, his face partially hidden by his hat.

“Jake said you lit out like a scorched rabbit.” Only a slightest hint of a question colored the trail boss's tone.

“So you came looking for me?”

“Along with renegade Kiowas,” Kirby reminded him, “there's ambushers out here, remember?”

“They're after you, not me.”

“Maybe. But I don't think the Kiowas would give a damn who it was.”

“I needed some time to think.”

“Should I ask about what?”

“No.”

Kirby dismounted and turned back in the direction from which he'd come. “You with me?”

“Aye,” Drew said.

They walked in silence for a while, but Drew felt none of their usual easy companionship. He was keeping things from Kirby, information the man had the right to know. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why he didn't simply open his mouth and say it: “Gabe Lewis is a woman. Her name is Gabrielle, and she came here to kill you.” But the words were lodged in his chest, and he couldn't make himself say them.

Instead, Gabrielle's own words echoed inside his head:
Kirby Kingsley killed my father! And he tried to kill me!
He didn't believe it was true for a second. But he did believe that her father had been killed and that someone had shot at her. He believed it in the same way that he knew Kirby had been ambushed twice.

The question was, What in bloody hell could he do about it?

“This country makes you feel mighty little,” Kirby said, breaking the silence.

“Aye,” Drew said, only now taking in the details of the scene around him—the high prairie in the last shadows of twilight. They were surrounded by a sea of sedge grass, broken occasionally by a deep ravine. There wasn't a tree in sight. It was vast and lonely and starkly beautiful.

“The Highlands has the same effect,” he said.

Kirby glanced at him. “You miss Scotland?”

“I miss the green hills,” Drew said. “I miss the pipes.”

Kirby chuckled. “Can't say I agree with you, there. Heard a Scotsman play those pipes once near a herd of cattle. Scared them clean to New York.”

Drew smiled. “That's one way of getting them there.”

“Nothing but bones, though. Didn't bring a cent.”

“I'll try not to indulge, then.”

Kirby cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Can you play those things?”

“A little. I didn't bring them to America, though.”

A few seconds passed, then Kirby asked, “You ever think about going back?”

“No,” Drew said. “There's nothing for me there.”

“The title?”

“Ah, the title.” He heaved a deep sigh. “What a grand thing a title is. People bow and scrape even if you don't have a farthing, even if you've accomplished nothing but to be born. 'Tis not something I take pride in, that title,” he said. “Maybe that's why I like your country. A poor man can become a king if he works hard enough. Look at you. You told me that young Gabe reminded you of yourself long ago. Now you own a good part of Texas.”

Kirby didn't reply for a moment, and when he finally did speak, his voice was rough with more emotion than Drew had yet to hear him express.

“The kid does remind me of myself,” Kirby said. “At his age, I was as desperate as he was that day he showed up at the Circle K. My father was killed at San Jacinto, during the Texas fight for independence, and my ma died a year later. Bank took our farm, not that it was much. I was seventeen, my brother eleven. I begged and stole. Did anything to keep my brother alive.”

Drew didn't want to hear anymore. He knew Gabrielle couldn't be right, that Kirby was no murderer. Yet a part of him was afraid that he was about to learn he'd been twice a fool. He didn't want to know that he'd saved the life of a man who had done murder.

“You ever do anything you regretted?” Kirby continued. “I mean all your life.”

Drew felt sick. “Aye,” he said. “I think everyone has, and I more than most.”

Kirby gave an impatient snort. “I doubt that. You're a good man, Drew Cameron. I wish I had ten more of you.”

Waving a hand in dismissal, Drew said, “It's a game for me, Kirby. An adventure.”

“I think you want it to be,” Kirby said slowly. “But it's not working out that way, is it?”

Drew looked at him askance. “I'm not sure what you mean by that.”

Kirby shrugged. “If you think of life as a game, you don't put your heart into it. And so you don't risk having your heart broken when things go wrong—like when men die in stampedes and drought kills off half the herd.” He hesitated, then continued. “But I've been watching you, Drew. You're a natural with horses and cattle. And you're a natural with men. Most of my hands would do anything for you.”

“I don't want them to do anything for me,” Drew said curtly.

“No,” Kirby agreed. “Then you're taking risks.”

Drew eyed him speculatively. “And what about you? Aren't you taking those risks?”

“Yeah, and I'm no damn good at it either,” Kirby said wryly. “It breaks my heart every time I lose even a single calf. And when it's a man … well, I swear each time that I'll never boss another cattle drive. But I can't say that I've minded the rewards of taking those risks. And there are plenty of those, too. Like being out here on the high prairie, on a night like this.” Looking up at the sky, now twinkling with stars, Kirby sighed. “But I've been damned lonely, too. I've survived for twenty-five years by limiting all the risks to myself. Making sure I was the only one who was taking them. And looking back, I can't say that I think it was the right thing to do.”