Scotsman Wore Spurs (39 page)

He studied his cook. She looked pale, her usual vitality absent, and her expression grim. She'd looked that way for five days, ever since Caldwell.

Kirby considered the possibility that she could be just plain tired; after all, keeping after the babe and the rest of her flock, in addition to her regular chores, would be exhausting for anybody. And, too, they'd been stopping earlier each day to keep the cattle rested and well-fed—weight was vital to buyers—which meant her cooking duties started earlier and lasted longer.

He might have been satisfied with that explanation for Gabrielle's dreary mood, except that she wasn't the only one looking so dreary.

In fact, the Scotsman was looking even worse. His composed, easygoing friend had suddenly developed a temper and a short fuse to go along with it. He avoided the other hands, and he was even more close-mouthed than usual.

Kirby figured it was about time he found out what the hell was going on, and he thought he'd more likely jerk it out of Gabrielle than the Scotsman.

Climbing out of his bedroll, he stood up and walked over to the fire, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he sauntered over and sidled up to his cook. She gave a quick swipe of her cheek with the back of her hand, then offered him a very brief, clearly uncomfortable smile.

“What's wrong between you and Scotty?” he asked, leaning back against the wagon.

She was silent for a moment. Then, letting out a resigned sort of sigh, she said, “There's something you should know. I—I couldn't tell you—or Drew—before. I'm not sure I should now. But he knows I …”

“That you're holding something back,” Kirby finished for her.

She nodded.

“So, what is it?”

Hesitantly, she said, “I think I saw the man who shot my father. Back in Caldwell.”

Kirby's heart missed a beat, then began to thud hard as he listened to her continue.

“He was asking about you, said he'd heard you'd been killed. No one could have known about that shooting except the man who did it.”

Kirby scowled. “Why do you think it was the same man who gunned down your father?”

She waved an arm, as though seeing the man she described, standing there before her. “He had the same build—tall and lean—a lot like Drew's. And his manner, the way he walked, was familiar, too, and he wore a silver band around the crown of his hat.”

Kirby's scowl deepened. “Where was Drew when you saw this sonofa—Uh, this man?”

“In the dry-goods store,” she replied. “He sent me on to order the feed. Some angry farmers stopped me. Then this man—his name is Killian—came along, and the farmers sort of melted back.” She drew a quick breath, her anxiety over the incident plain in her voice. “He asked me about you. I told him you were dead. I thought he'd head back to Texas, and when we returned you would at least have a name and—”

“Dammit!” Kirby exploded. “Girl, are you loco?” He watched her chin set stubbornly despite the uncertainty in her eyes.

“I was afraid you might go after him,” she persisted. “You and Drew. The feed store clerk said Killian was a hired gun—a killer.”

“
Dammit
,” Kirby cursed again. “Why didn't you tell us?”

Her chin lifted another notch, but her voice cracked as she replied. “He killed my father. I didn't want him to kill you and Drew, too. There was no law there. The last sheriff had been gunned down, and the people didn't like cattlemen. I was afraid that Drew—”

“I think,” he interrupted her, “that Drew would surprise you. He's no fool, Gabrielle. And neither am I.”

She lifted her gaze to stare at him, her eyes suddenly bleak, the fingers of her hands locked together at her waist. “I thought—”

“You thought Drew would walk down the street, guns blazing?” He shook his head. “You've read too many dime novels.”

He saw her lower lip tremble as her gaze fell away from his and her chin lowered. “I couldn't bear to lose anyone else,” she whispered. “Not again. Not that way, and not if I could do something to keep it from happening.”

“Ah, Gabrielle,” he sighed. Some of Kirby's anger faded as he understood what her decision had cost her. Not only had she risked alienating Drew, she'd sacrificed her own hope for justice, the goal that had driven her from the life she had known into the hardship and perils of a cattle drive.

“I'll never forget that night,” she said, her voice a thready whisper. “The blood, the look in Papa's eyes. I kept seeing Drew like that.…” She drew a sharp little breath, looked down for a moment, then back up at him with desperate, searching eyes. “But I just delayed things, didn't I?”

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “But at least I now have a name. That's a start.” He paused. “As for Drew, there's no reason to tell him yet. At the end of the drive, he'll go back to Colorado and be safely out of it.”

Kirby thought about what he'd said for a few minutes and realized instantly that his solution was no good. A bullet had been meant for her, too. And if the would-be murderer discovered that she'd been on this drive, which he might well do once the drovers separated, the bastard would probably figure she knew way too much.

“Tell him,” he said abruptly. “Tell Drew what you saw and why you didn't tell him.”

She frowned. “But you said he would be safer if he didn't know.”

“I was wrong,” Kirby said. “We're both underestimating him. We're both taking away his choices. He might be physically safer, but we'd be cutting the man to pieces. We'd be taking away his heart, and believe me, that's a much slower, more painful death.” He took her hand. “I'll always wish I'd had a daughter like you, and Drew's a damnably lucky man.”

Gabrielle looked at him with troubled eyes, still unconvinced.

“Look here, girl. You chose to come on this drive. You chose it out of love for your father, because your heart guided you. What if somebody else, not you, had heard your father's last words? Would you rather he or she had never told you for fear you might do something dangerous? Would you rather your choices be taken away?”

He saw her waver. “I couldn't bear it if …”

“You can bear anything,” he said. “You're a very strong young woman. And Drew's a strong man. He's also smart as hell. I don't think he's ever had much reason to trust anyone. Don't take away the one chance he might have. He loves you, you know. Don't disappoint him.”

“I already have,” she said in a small voice.

“But I don't think it's too late.”

“And if he's killed? How can I live with that?”

Kirby gave her a twisted smile. “I don't think your Scotsman's as easy to kill as you think,” he said. “And neither am I.”

She paused, looking at her hands, twisting at her waist. “He'll go with you after Killian,” she said.

“Probably,” Kirby agreed.

Her gaze flashed up to his. “I'm going, too! I can recognize him.”

“Now, hold on just one minute,” he objected. “Neither Drew nor I are going to let you risk your life like that.”

“Are you going to take away my choices?” she challenged.

Kirby glared at her for all of two seconds, then found himself chuckling as his own words were turned against him. “If I wasn't Drew's friend,” he said, “I might give him one hell of a race for you.”

She smiled. “No, I don't think so. Every once in a while, I see a faraway gleam in your eye. A girl back in Texas, perhaps?”

The old ache returned. “I gave up on romantic notions long ago,” Kirby said, embarrassed.

“Because of the bank hold-up?”

He nodded. “I never knew when it might come back to haunt me. I just knew it would. I didn't want anyone else hurt in the process.”

“Is that why you keep Damien and Terry at a distance?”

Astonished at her observation, he stared at her. “Damn,” he said softly.

Her eyes, full of compassion, glistened, and he knew that she understood.

“Go to him,” he said. “Tonight. He comes off watch at midnight.”

She nodded. “I'd better check on Ha'Penny.”

“I imagine that dog is keeping good watch over him and the rest of Noah's Ark,” Kirby observed. “And either Hank or Shorty or Terry will be in camp for the rest of the night. You know they'll listen for the babe.”

She gave him a weak smile, then turned to climb inside the wagon. Kirby meandered over to the fire, feeling unaccountably pleased with himself. Maybe, he thought, it was time to do a bit of night duty himself. He knew just the man to relieve.

Drew unsaddled his horse. He'd been surprised to see Kirby riding out to him on watch, even more startled at the trail boss's order to return to camp. But he couldn't deny that he was tired. Sleep came hard if at all these days.

It was close to midnight. The sky was black but clear, and a million stars winked at him. He enjoyed such nights; Scotland had a few of them, but most were drenched in fog and mist. Not that he'd seen many nights in Scotland; most had been spent in smoke-filled clubs, not out under the sky.

A fire smoldered beneath the perpetual coffeepot, and Drew threw on a little extra wood, as they did at night, then went to the hoodlum wagon for a bedroll. He wondered whether Gabrielle would be asleep, wondered if he wanted her to be or not.

The night was quiet, disturbed only by the occasional restless movement of cattle and the quiet snoring of several hands, rolled up in blankets scattered around the campsite. He reached the wagon, looked inside for his belongings, and immediately became aware of the silent figure sitting beside Ha'penny's makeshift bed, Honor at her feet. The dog raised his head, then lay it back down again, evidently feeling no threat to his tiny charge.

Despite the distance between Gabrielle and him, Drew felt a quickening of his pulse, the almost painful awareness that always stretched between them. As he gazed at her in silence, she slowly rose, stepped to the wagon flap, and held out a hand to him. He took it, then reached to lift her down.

She always felt so light in his arms. And right. As if she belonged there.

“Drew,” she murmured. “I've been waiting for you.”

His arm instinctively tightened around her waist, even as he warned himself against it. Blast it, he had spent the last few days trying to persuade himself of the folly of doing exactly what he was doing at that moment. But when she looked up at him, he had no will to let her go.

“Come with me for a while,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, but her fingers wrapped around his firmly to guide him away from the campfire and the sleeping drovers.

No stream or river broke the prairie here. The land stretched out in gently rolling hills and occasional ravines. Gabrielle led him to the other side of a hill, away from curious eyes, and by the time she halted, Drew's body was rigid with tension, sensing she was about to tell him something that he didn't want to hear.

As she turned to him, his hand seemed to propel her into his arms. He held her there, savoring the feel of her body next to his, his chin resting on her tousled hair. She smelled of soap and the slightest hint of flowers, and he wondered how she had managed that piece of magic. But then, she was a sorceress, full of mysteries and puzzles.

He resisted putting his lips to hers, knowing that if he did he would lose himself in her. He tried to maintain a coolness, a certain distance, but already his manhood was swelling against her. Angry that he had so little control, he took a step back.

“Gabrielle?”

She reached up to touch his cheek, then abruptly dropped her hand to her side. “I … I told Kirby tonight that I … that I saw the man who killed my father, back in Caldwell.”

Drew sucked in a sharp breath, his body instantly going cold.

“The man said … he heard someone say I was with the Kingsley drive, and he asked me about Kirby, said he'd heard the trail boss was dead. There was only one way he could know.”

Stunned, Drew stood there, unable to speak. Of all the things he'd imagined had gone wrong, of all the many excuses he'd invented for why she'd avoided talking to him, he'd never imagined anything like this.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he finally managed to ask.

“Why do you think?” she countered softly, brokenly. “With that huge heroic streak of yours, I was afraid you would try to face him down.”

Swearing under his breath, Drew turned away, his mind whirling. Gabrielle had come a long way for justice for her father. And now she'd risked ever finding it to protect him.
Him
—Andrew Cameron. No one in his life had
ever
tried to protect him before. No one had ever given a bloody damn whether he lived or died.

Suddenly, all the barren places in his soul started to fill with a warmth so long denied him.

“Drew?” Her voice was tentative.

“You have precious little faith in me,” he said roughly, turning back to her, hoping the mist in his eyes didn't show.

“Oh, I have faith,” she whispered. “I have faith in your heart, in your courage. In your loyalty.” Reaching out, she clasped his hand tightly. “I know you can do anything you put your mind to. And I know you're good with a rifle. But that man … Drew, he wore his gun like it was part of him. And you're not a killer. You could
never
be a killer. And he is.”

Drew knew he should be angry. Gabrielle had kept something from him that both he and Kirby had a right to know. But all he felt was a glowing, blinding joy.

Gabrielle had never wanted anything from him, never tried to take anything he wasn't willing to give. She had reached out and offered him her heart because she saw something in him no one else had bothered to find.

The lump in his throat threatened to choke him as he reached out and pulled Gabrielle to him. He clung to her, hearing her muffled sobs, offering her halting reassurances. “It's all right, lass,” he said. “My brave, bonny lass … It's all right, now.”