Scotsman Wore Spurs (32 page)

“Little Ha'Penny,” she said. And raising her gaze to Drew's once more, she smiled.

His gaze burned through her with fierce intensity, but he only looked at her for a moment, before saying, “Let's go.”

She nodded.

They walked side by side to the river, with Honor bounding ahead of them. When they reached the bank, Gabrielle set the pans at the water's edge, then turned to see Drew at the top of the bank, making a bed of sedge grass in which to lay Ha'penny. She joined him, and they both looked at the baby, lying happily in his cozy spot. His eyes were growing droopy, his movements lazy, and she hoped he'd fall asleep.

Still looking at the babe, Drew spoke quietly. “Are you sure you don't want the reverend to take him?”

Her gaze flashed to him. “To be raised like those sad, silent children?” she asked.

“There's something to be said for silence.”

She searched his features, looking for a hidden meaning in his words, but clouds, scurrying across the moon, put his face in shadows. “Who would want silent children?”

He rose to stand beside her, and his voice was suddenly tight, as if each word was forced out. “My father used to say that they were the only kind worth having.”

“Your father?” she repeated cautiously, wanting him to continue. He'd said so little about himself.

“We were talking about Ha'Penny,” he said. “How can you raise a baby alone? Perhaps it's best to give up the child.”

She gazed at him sorrowfully. “How can you say that?”

“I know women often grow weary of bairns,” he said. “'Tis sometimes best to let them go before they …”

She waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, she said, “You think I'll grow tired of Penny and abandon him?” She couldn't disguise the hurt in her voice.

He shrugged, taking a few steps along the bank to stand with his back to her. “It's been known to happen.”

As it happened to you
, she added silently, knowing she was right. Though his words had been spoken dispassionately, she recognized the pain behind them.

Walking over to him, she turned to face him. “It will never happen to Ha'Penny,” she said quietly. “I have some money, and I can always sing.”

“With a child tugging at your skirts?”

Gabrielle supposed she ought to be indignant at his lack of faith in her, but she wasn't. Instead, she felt like crying. She understood now, she thought, the source of his pain, and it made her ache for him.

No one had loved a small boy, least of all the father and mother he spoke of in such toneless phrases. But had the grown man allowed anyone to love him? She doubted it, doubted he'd ever permitted anyone to get close enough to give him what she knew he needed. It explained so much—why he kept his distance from everyone, why he had avoided Ha'Penny. Why he was so angry—so hurt—over what he perceived as her betrayal.

“I will take care of Ha'Penny,” she said to him. “I will watch over him and love him.”

“Isn't this maternal streak rather sudden?” he said wryly.

“I'm old enough to know my own mind,” she said. “And I've always thought I would have children someday.”

He hesitated, shoving his hands into his back pockets to look up at the clouds racing across the moonlit sky. “If you wanted children, why haven't you married?”

She spoke past the lump forming in her throat. “I haven't met anyone I wanted to marry.”
Until now …

“Ah, bloody hell.” He shrugged. “I donna pretend to know a woman's mind.”

“You're just suspicious of them?”

His golden eyes bored into hers. “Haven't I reason to be?”

His words and the brief glance he gave her were full of skepticism, and she couldn't deny it was deserved. She had lied to him repeatedly. She had lied to his friend. Though she'd considered her reasons good ones, he obviously did not.

“I'm going to tell him,” she said. “I'm going to tell Kingsley everything.”

His head jerked toward her, his eyes spearing hers in the darkness. “Everything?”

“Aye,” she said, trying a tiny smile.

His mouth twitched at one corner, but he didn't actually return her smile. Quietly, he said, “Kirby might well ask you to leave.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“You don't have to tell him, Gabrielle,” he said. “I won't.”

“Don't you think I know how much it's been hurting you to keep my secret?” she said softly.

“It was my choice, lass.”

“I
made
you choose, and I'm sorry for that. And I don't want you to have to keep choosing—not any longer.”

Drew was silent. She wished she could see his expression, wished she knew what was in his eyes. How she yearned to see again the passion and longing, there in his tawny gaze.

She swallowed hard. Had her decision come too late?

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

“The man who defended Ha'Penny wouldn't hire someone to kill for him.”

“No,” Drew agreed. “He wouldn't.”

He could have said more. He could have said that he'd tried to tell her that. Instead he simply looked at her, and as the clouds broke overhead, letting the moonlight through, she saw in his eyes a slow thaw beginning.

She would have liked to help the thaw along a little further, but at that moment, Ha'Penny decided he'd had enough of adult conversation and let out a loud protest. Honor, who had been lying beside the babe, guarding him, hopped up and uttered a quiet “Woof,” also telling them that it was time they paid attention. Gabrielle walked over to scoop Ha'Penny into her arms, cuddling him, which brought immediate satisfaction to his tiny face. Content once more, he let his eyes drift closed.

Drew looked at the baby, then gestured with a nod toward Honor. “I think Honor has deserted the calves for Ha'Penny,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “'Tis the greater need in his eyes.”

Gabrielle loved the sound of laughter in his voice. “He's probably been waiting all his life to be a nanny,” she said.

“Aye,” he said. “He's a fine dog.”

“Have you ever had a dog?”

“Nay,” he said. “My … father did not believe in keeping pets, and I was sent away to school when I was verra young.”

“Sent away?”

“Aye, 'tis the way of it in Scotland, and Britain, too.”

“It must have been lonely.”

He shrugged. “'Tis the way of things,” he said again.

His words said almost nothing, but those unvarnished facts told her more than he knew.

“Is your father still alive?”

“Nay,” Drew replied. “He met the devil ten years ago,” Drew replied.

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was away at school.”

“And you had no brothers or sisters?”

He smiled suddenly, a wistful half-smile. “I have a half-sister. She's in Denver.”

Gabrielle remembered his offer made weeks ago of someone in Denver who might be able to help her. “You mentioned someone in Denver?”

He nodded. “My sister Lisbeth's husband.”

“You're close to them?”

“Not close, really.” He hesitated, then spoke in that careless, indifferent tone she'd come to recognize as veneer for his deepest feelings. “You see, Miss Parker, I'm a bastard, in fact if not in law. My so-called father gave me the use of his name because he dinna want the world to know he'd been cuckolded. But it dinna lessen his hatred o' me.” Ice edged Drew's words, and his brogue deepened as he continued. “I grew up wi' no real family. 'Twas not till a year ago that I learned of my half-sister. Nor did she know of my existence. So, you see, we've only recently discovered each other.”

Tears welled in Gabrielle's eyes, and she reached out to touch his arm. She felt him trembling and had to bite her lips to keep a cry of sadness from escaping, sadness for the stark loneliness of this splendid man's life. It nearly put her own recent grief to shame.

Drew looked at her hand on his arm, then raised his gaze to meet hers. She knew he saw her tears.

“All that I spoke of occurred a long time ago,” he said. “Ye ha' far too tender a heart, Gabrielle.”

“But a shallow one?” she asked, remembering his comments about her maternal capacity.

“I dinna say that.”

“But it's what you think.”

“I think a child is one bloody hell of a responsibility, 'tis all,” he said.

As if to emphasize that point, Ha'Penny chose that moment to rouse once more, his eyes opening and his face screwing up before he let out a holler. There was nothing wrong with his lungs, Gabrielle thought. Again Honor jumped to his feet, staring at her, reminding her of her duties.

She tested the babe's bottom and found it dry. “Would you be wanting some attention, then?” she crooned softly. “Or is it time to eat?”

He was so soft, so sweet cuddled against her. She bowed her head, letting her cheek touch his. She already loved him with all her soul, with all the yearning of a heart that hungered to love.

The baby quieted again, though he stayed awake, looking at her with his great dark eyes. He was such a solemn little thing.

She looked at Drew through the wetness in her eyes. “I will always love him,” she said. “I know you don't believe me, but I will. He'll smile and laugh and learn to play. And to trust.”
As I would like you to trust
.

Pausing for a moment, she began thoughtfully, “You said your friend in Denver is a lawyer. Could he help me adopt Ha'Penny?”

Drew regarded her warily. He obviously disapproved. But she knew no lawyers, nor how to go about finding a trustworthy one. She did know that she would trust any man that Drew trusted.

“The bairn may have relatives,” he said.

“Living?” she said skeptically. “Not his mother. And his father probably died in battle.”

“Probably is not good enough,” he said. “Ben will want to make sure.”

It was another subtle challenge to her integrity. Did she care enough about the child to try to find surviving kin who might take him?

“I want to be sure, too,” she said.

The corner of Drew's mouth turned up in a slight smile, and his eyes warmed considerably.

“I intend to finish the drive though,” she added. “If Mr. Kingsley will let me after …”

The smile disappeared from Drew's face. “I'm not sure you should,” he said. “When whoever shot at Kirby discovers he's not dead, they'll come after him again. I don't want them to find you, too.”

She frowned. “So you really think the two incidents are connected.”

“I don't believe in coincidences,” he said simply.

But Gabrielle sensed that he knew more than he was telling her.

“No outsiders will know Mr. Kingsley survived until we reach Abilene, will they?” she said worriedly.

“We'll be going into a small town tomorrow for supplies,” Drew said. “News travels fast out here, especially about a drive as big as this one.”

She shivered, thinking about the possibility of another ambush. Of Kirby Kingsley being shot. Of
Drew
being shot, because he would try to protect his friend. Suddenly, she realized that she didn't care nearly as much about finding her father's murderer. Nothing, not even that, was worth another life.

“No one would fault you for leaving,” Drew said, obviously misunderstanding her shiver.

“No,” she said. “It's too late for Mr. Kingsley to get a new cook. He needs me. And so do the calves and Billy and Honor and all the hands.”
And you need me
, she added to herself.
And if I leave now, I'm afraid I'll never see you again
. “I won't go,” she announced. “Not unless Mr. Kingsley makes me.”

Drew's eyes darkened, he swore under his breath. Then his hand went to her cheek, touching it lightly. “I don't want anything happening to you, lass,” he said.

Too late, she thought. It's already happened.
He
had happened to her. And she would never be the same.

His hand was hard, callused, against her cheek, yet it was the finest texture she had ever felt. “Drew, I don't want to leave you,” she whispered. “I
can't
leave you.”

Drew groaned, and suddenly his lips were on hers, hard and forceful and demanding. She felt the fierceness of his desire—and the tenderness she'd feared she had lost forever. He joined his mouth with hers in a delicious, erotic mating that made the tension build inside her, that wondrous craving that made her entire body sing. Tremors ran through her as his hands ran up and down her arms, trailing fire.

His arms came around her, and he started to pull her to him, then stopped, foiled in his efforts by the baby she held.

“Bloody hell,” he swore softly. Then, with a groan, he pulled away far enough to look down at Ha'Penny. When he lifted his gaze to hers, the pure, undisguised passion in his eyes sent waves of heat wafting through her.

“I want you, lass,” he said, his voice ragged.

She gave him a breathless smile. “He'll go to sleep after I feed him.” And it was just as well this way, she thought, for she couldn't have made love with the baby awake and there, with them.

The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek, then clasped her chin gently. She felt so small next to him, even fragile.

“I'm not sure this is even wise,” he said slowly, but his voice was thick with need.

“I've never been terribly wise,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Neither have I.”

She shook her head. “Oh, but you are.”

He snorted softly. “Ye donna know me.”

“I do,” she said. “I know your generosity and your integrity and your gentleness. I know all I need to know.”

“No, lass,” he said softly. “Donna make me into something I am not. I've led a profligate life. I hav'na had any ties, and I donna want any now. I ha' bloody little to offer anyone but trouble.”