Scotsman Wore Spurs (33 page)

His words held a warning she had no intention of heeding. From her parents' example, she had learned to believe in love. Now that she was testing it for herself, she felt greedy for more. She would value every minute she spent with Drew Cameron, regardless of the outcome. The awakening feelings, the glorious splendor, the sweet magic—no matter how short-lived—would last a lifetime in her heart.

Gabrielle swallowed at the emotions welling in her throat and put her hand to his face in a gesture of trust, of love.

His eyes softened. “I never expected …”

But he didn't finish the sentence. Ha'Penny began crying again.

She gave Drew a rueful look. “He's hungry. I have to feed him soon.”

“Aye,” he replied. “You go. I'll see to the dishes.”

She nodded. “And after Ha'penny's asleep …?” She let the question trail off.

“I'm not on duty until morning,” he replied.

“We could … take a walk.”

“Aye. We could.”

Gabrielle swallowed, the invitation in his eyes leaving no doubt about where their walk would end. But she had one other thing she had to do first.

“I want to talk to Mr. Kingsley,” she said, “before we … before our walk.”

Drew nodded. “I'll stay near the wagon and listen for Ha'Penny for you.”

She hesitated. “I don't want to tell him that you've known all this time.”

“Then, that won't be telling the truth,” he admonished gently. “If you don't, I will.”

Again, she hesitated. “Drew, I never meant to make you a part of it.”

“I made myself a part of it,” he said. “I'll go with you if you wish.”

She shook her head. “No. I have to do this alone.”

Taking her hand in his, he kissed her palm.

Gabrielle felt the warmth of his lips travel throughout her entire body. An hour. Perhaps a bit more. He would be hers again. For a while.

Drew watched Gabrielle walk back to camp with Honor at her heels, and as he stood staring after her, the sense of belonging that had evaded him all his life flooded him.

Still, foreboding nagged at him. He had bloody little to offer Gabrielle, not even the faith that he knew how to love. And he couldn't, wouldn't, disappoint a child. He'd never offer something he couldn't deliver or make a promise he couldn't fulfill. So wasn't it better not to offer anything at all?

Still, he ached like bloody hell. He tried to smother the flames licking at his groin, but nothing he told himself worked. He wanted Gabrielle as he'd never wanted anything in his life.

With a humorless, self-deprecating laugh, he turned to the dishes Gabrielle had left by the water. As he knelt to scrub them, he thought about how he must look. If only his old gambling companions at the Edinburgh clubs could see him now, washing dishes and dressed as he was. He'd always taken pride in his clothing, choosing fine fabrics and careful tailoring. And here he was, his cotton shirt and denim pants dulled with dust and dried sweat, his hair untrimmed and combed with fingers instead of a brush. He was used to excellent meals; now his menu consisted of beans and jerky and bread. His hands, more accustomed to cards than to cattle, were sun-browned and callused.

Yet he'd never felt better in his life. No more mornings after from heavy drinking the night before. And no more nagging regrets—regrets that he'd won money from people who couldn't afford to lose it, regrets that he was wasting a life simply to get even with a man long dead.

His companions had enjoyed him because he was good with a quip and a joke, but he'd had damned few friends he'd trust at his side in times of trouble. Westerners had an expression:
I'd ride the river with him
. Drew had never had a friend with whom he'd ride the river—not until he'd come West. Now he had several. Kirby. Shorty. Hank. His brother-in-law Ben. Men he could trust. It was a fine feeling.

And then there was Gabrielle. Pretty, independent, stubborn Gabrielle. Gabrielle, who was offering her heart to him.

He had been able to resist her when he felt she was using him. But her confession today had been like a crack in a dam; all his defenses came tumbling down. It had taken courage for her to admit she'd been wrong, and even more to admit it to someone she'd schemed against. He'd admired her before for her grit, for her determination, but never more than he did now.

He wanted to tell her what Kirby had told him earlier, that he had participated in a robbery many years ago. But it was Kirby's business, Kirby's secret, Kirby's past. Still, the rancher would surely grasp the connection when Gabrielle told him about her father.

If
she told him.

Drew clenched his jaw, shoving aside the doubt that had leaped into his mind. She would tell him. She had said she would. And he would not doubt her again.

Quickly finishing the dishes, he took a few minutes to wash up a little himself. Then, gathering the dishes, he headed back to camp.

He had a rendezvous to keep with a lady.

Kirby Kingsley watched Drew approach camp, carrying an armload of dishes. He'd seen Drew and Gabrielle leave camp, he carrying the baby and she the dishes, and the dog running in circles around them.

He hid a smile behind his coffee cup. He envied Drew and Gabrielle a great deal. They were so obviously falling in love. Their glances alone would ignite dynamite, although both, he'd noticed, were trying desperately to conceal their feelings.

He liked Gabrielle, enough to risk keeping her on the drive despite her gender. She had learned fast, had taken over easily from Pepper, and she never complained. She was gutsy, and really quite pretty once she'd washed off the trail dust and lost the coat and hat that had nearly swallowed her.

He did wish he knew more about her, though. Drew Cameron was his friend. Hell, he seemed to be his guardian angel. He would have liked to keep the Scotsman on after this drive, but he doubted that would be possible. Drew was not the kind of man to take orders for long. He was doing it now because he wanted to learn. But once he'd mastered these lessons, he would seek new challenges.

He watched Drew dump the dishes into the chuck wagon, then walk to the back of the hoodlum wagon, where he stood for a moment or two, speaking to Gabrielle. She was visible, sitting inside the wagon, feeding the baby.

Finally, Drew walked over to join him at the fire. Four drovers were playing poker a few feet away, and several others were already asleep. All was quiet from the Dander brood, too, tucked up inside their wagons.

“A bonny night,” Drew observed.

Kirby smiled to himself. The Scotsman added a special flavor to the drive, no doubt about it. Some of the other hands were even answering in
ayes
and
nays
.

“Could be some rain coming,” he replied.

“Will you be scouting out in the morning?”

Kirby nodded.

“Is Terry going with you?”

“Don't think there's any need. Not till after Caldwell. We haven't met up with anybody who might report that I'm still alive.”

Drew paused, then said, “What about that army lieutenant?”

Kirby shrugged. “He's heading straight south.”

“Still, I'd feel better if someone rode along with you.”

“You want to go?” Kirby thought he knew the answer before it came. Hell, anyone would rather ride scout than eat cattle dust. And while the Scotsman-already seemed to have a sixth sense about danger, maybe he could teach him something new, the rudiments of scouting.

“How would Damien feel about it?” Drew queried.

“Damien's needed here to ramrod the cattle while I'm gone.”

Drew was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps I should wait to say yes. By tomorrow, you may not want me around.”

Kirby looked at him, baffled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Drew didn't have a chance to reply. At that moment, Gabrielle emerged from the hoodlum wagon and came toward them, and Kirby noticed that her steps were missing their usual lightness.

Coming to a stop before him, she said, “May I see you alone, Mr. Kingsley?”

Kirby looked at Drew, whose eyes were enigmatic. Then he stood and guided Gabrielle away from the fire, out of camp, toward the river's edge, where conversation would be private.

“Are you quitting on me?” he asked her.

“No, sir,” she replied, “but you might soon be asking me to.”

“Scotty just told me the same thing,” he grumbled. “I would like to know why.”

“I've been lying to you.”

“Hell, I knew that.”

She turned to face him, looking straight up at him as she said, “I joined your cattle drive to kill you. I thought you'd killed my father.”

Kirby was too stunned to speak. It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping open. His mind shuffled frantically through the past, seeking some clue for what in hell she could be talking about. He gave up. Surely the man who'd been killed in the robbery couldn't be Gabrielle's father.

“Who …” he began.

“My father was once Jim Davis,” she said.

Kirby's blood ran cold at the name, and it nearly froze in his veins as she continued.

“All my life, though, I knew him as James Parker. He was shot down in San Antonio nearly four months ago. He … mentioned your name as he died.”

Kirby could barely think for the memories, the sheer force of emotion. The four of them, his old gang: Sam Wright, Jim Davis, Cal Thornton, and him. And on the fringes, as far away from danger as he could keep him, there was Jon. Standing there, on the bank of the Cimarron, the nightmare became real again.

“What name—” He broke off, cleared his throat and tried again. “What name did your father say? Kingsley or—”

“Kirby Kingsley,” Gabrielle replied. “He recognized you from a sketch in the San Antonio paper with an article about the drive. He'd torn it out.”

Kirby couldn't catch his breath. That damned picture. Someone had sketched him, and it had been a good likeness. But he'd changed in twenty-five years; he hadn't thought …

“Did your pa say anything else?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “He was losing blood pretty quickly, but …” Her voice quivered, trailed off, then began again. “He said, ‘The article. Kingsley. It's him. Danger.' And I thought he meant it was you who'd shot him—or that it was you who'd hired the gunman.”

She took a ragged breath. “He also told me about a letter he'd left in his trunk. He'd written it to me because he'd seen the article and the sketch, and I think he was worried something would happen to him. He wanted me to know why.” She paused, then finished, “The letter told all about a robbery. But you already know about that, don't you?”

Kirby didn't even consider trying to bluff his way through this. She already knew the truth. And he was damned tired of lying, of hiding. Besides, whoever had shot Jim Davis, he realized, had to be the one behind the attempt on his own life. The connection was too direct, too clear, for it to be otherwise.

“Which one were you?”

Her question jolted him from his thoughts. He immediately knew what she meant, but he wasn't quite ready to answer. He was finding it hard to give up the habits of a lifetime.

Sighing, he looked out across the river. “Tell me first—what happened to your father? Where did he go after the robbery?”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “He went East, met my mother, who was an actress, and joined her in touring the country. She died two years ago, and he and I continued touring together. I wanted to come West. He didn't want to come but … but I convinced him.”

Kirby heard the guilt in her voice. Christ, he knew how guilt could eat away a soul.

He heaved another sigh, remembering Jim Davis, his friend who was always whistling or humming a tune. He'd played a mouth organ, too. And he had been the most reluctant of them all to rob the bank, the one who had suffered the most when the clerk was shot. But Cal Thornton had convinced them all that no one would be hurt, that they were only stealing money from greedy bankers. Kirby hadn't realized until later that they were stealing from ranchers and small farmers and merchants, who lost everything they had in that robbery.

“If you thought I murdered him,” he said, “why didn't you go to the law?”

“I did,” she admitted. “No one would believe you could be involved in murder. They wouldn't listen to me and finally they wouldn't even talk to me anymore.” Her voice dropped to a murmur as she added, “They didn't put any credence in a singer and some-times-actress accusing one of the most powerful men in Texas of murder.”

“So you decided to beard the lion yourself,” he concluded, shaking his head. “Young lady, I don't know whether you're the bravest woman I've ever met or the craziest. If you thought I was a murderer, didn't it occur to you that I might have killed you, too?”

She looked at the ground, seeming to study it as she replied, “I didn't care if I died. When I left San Antonio I was … well, it didn't seem to matter what happened to me.”

God, he could almost have cried for the pain he heard in her voice—a voice far too young to feel such grief.

Uncomfortable with such strong emotion, and with the protective instincts she roused in him—that he was now certain she'd roused in his Scotsman—Kirby sought to divert them to less painful ground. Giving her a brief, sideways glance, he said, “So, you're a singer, like your pa?”

She nodded. “And an actress, like my mother, though Daddy and I both liked singing best and, after Mama died, that's all we did. We had an engagement at the Palace in San Antonio. My name
is
Gabrielle, but my full name is Maris Gabrielle Parker.”

Kirby remembered her. He remembered several ranchers talking about the lovely singer at the Palace. The name had meant nothing to him, nor had he any inclination to travel hours to see a performance. Now he wished he had. Perhaps he would have recognized Davis, perhaps he could have somehow prevented …