Scotsman Wore Spurs (4 page)

He immediately dismissed the idea as absurd. Doubtless, the last few months in Scotland, during which he'd worried constantly that he would lose the sister he had just found, had made him overly cautious and far too suspicious. A man he'd never suspected—a trainer of horses—had proved to be a murderer and kidnapper. The experience had been a bitter reminder that people and things were often not what they seemed.

Draping an arm over the top of the stall, he asked, “Where are you from?”

Lewis continued brushing his horse. “Places.”

An answer Drew himself had given frequently. He nodded. The boy's business was his own until proved otherwise.

“The bunkhouse is the next building. Take any cot that doesn't look occupied,” Drew said, knowing there were several empty ones.

“When do we leave?”

Drew heard an anxious note in the boy's voice. “In two days.”

“What do you do?” Lewis put down the brush and turned to look at him, meeting his gaze fully for once. His eyes were almost too blue to be real and they were filled now with cold anger.

Drew shrugged. “Just a cowhand. And if I want to stay that way, I'd better get back to work.”

Drew turned and walked away. He could feel those blue eyes boring holes into his back. His spine tingled with the enmity he'd felt and wondered what he'd said, or done, to cause it.

What the bloody hell, anyway. The lad was none of his business.

Gabrielle watched Drew Cameron leave the barn. She had almost swallowed her tongue when she'd first seen him. He was uncommonly tall and lean. He had the same build as the shadowy figure who had killed her father and shot at her. Granted, Cameron's hat bore no band of silver. And he limped. The killer had moved like an alley cat, silent and sleek, as he'd disappeared into the shadow from which he'd appeared. But perhaps Cameron's limp had developed only recently. And he might own more than one hat.

In truth, what made Gabe most suspicious about the Scotsman had more to do with his manner. He'd said he was “just a cowhand,” in that distinctive Scottish brogue.

Just a cowhand.
She didn't believe it for a second. He was a lot more than a cowhand if she was any judge of people. In her experience, which admittedly was limited, cowhands were uneducated and easygoing. Drew Cameron was obviously well educated and, despite an easy smile, radiated a certain intensity.

Kirby Kingsley didn't treat him like another cowhand either. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something in the way Kingsley and Cameron communicated with each other spoke of a bond that went deeper than that of boss and hired hand.

And dear God, but Cameron was handsome. His hair was a tawny, light brown that shimmered in the sun, and his eyes were golden, with flecks of brown and green and gray. Some would call them hazel, but that didn't begin to describe their unique color. Like his hair, his eyes appeared to shimmer with gold, to flash, even dance—as if he were amused at something only he understood.

No, Drew Cameron might be acting the part of cowhand at the moment, but he was a lot more than that.

And Kingsley? A shiver raced up Gabe's spine, and she reached, almost unconsciously, to pat Billy's neck, seeking the only source of warmth and comfort available to her.

Kingsley wasn't at all what she had expected. She had thought he would be brash and loud and mean as a snake—a wild, reckless sort of man: an image conjured from the descriptions in her father's letter. But then, her father hadn't been wild and reckless, not apparently since his youthful days. And, she realized, that she hadn't taken into account the passage of time. Twenty-five years obviously had changed her father, and it must have changed Kingsley as well.

Kingsley was rich, now, and influential. Power and wealth probably went a long way toward disguising wild and reckless tendencies. But underneath the confident veneer, she was convinced, his heart was still wicked. His eyes were cold, almost completely without emotion, as was his voice. She could still hear him saying that her horse ought to be put down; he'd said it as unfeelingly as he might have ordered a worn-out fence ripped out and burned for fuel.

She had no idea why he had agreed to hire her. It had been clear at the beginning that he hadn't wanted to do it, and she'd sat there on Billy's back, certain her plans of getting Kingsley away from his ranch before seeking justice were hopeless. She'd been on the verge of pulling the Colt out of the coat pocket and confronting him then and there. The temptation had been almost overwhelming. Simply looking at him, being in his presence, had made her head spin and the entire world seem sort of hazy and unreal.

Then, before she'd lost her last shred of self-preservation, Drew Cameron had intervened. As much as she hated to think she owed her success to a man who might have killed her father, she was certain it had been Cameron's softly spoken words that had changed Kingsley's mind. Another reason to wonder about the relationship between the two men.

Gabrielle buried her face against her horse's neck and released a ragged sigh. He
was
a bag of bones, which is why she called him Billy, for Billy Bones—a fact she hadn't been inclined to admit to the tall Scottish drover. She would have given up her new job—and her chance to get Kingsley—if he'd insisted she leave Billy behind to be slaughtered. The horse was all she had. She ran her hand down the horse's neck and he trembled. When she'd gone looking for a horse to buy, she hadn't expected to become so thoroughly and instantly attached to one. But then she'd seen Billy, with his sad, hopeless eyes.

The liveryman had gone straight past him, but she'd hesitated.

“You don't want that one. He's done for. Cowpoke just left him here. Be best just to put him down.”

“How much?” she'd asked.

“Hell, you can have him,” the man said. “Five dollars for a saddle. But he won't last a day.”

But Billy had lasted. She had purchased some oats and had ridden him slow and easy and the horse had looked at her with a kind of gratitude that made her heart break open a little further. He was hers, and she was going to make him well. Kirby Kingsley be damned.

Giving Billy a final pat, Gabe made sure he had water. She added more oats to his feed, then headed for the bunkhouse.

“Don't need no help.” Pepper was adamant. “And I don't want no kid getting in my way.”

Kirby held his tongue and thought about the best way to pursue this topic. Fact was Pepper was the best trail cook in Texas, and he would do anything to keep him. A good cook could make or break a drive. Drovers often worked fourteen to eighteen hours a day in heat, pouring rain, and every other plague known to man; they demanded good food and good doctoring, and the cook was responsible for both.

“You were complaining yesterday about too much to do,” Kirby reminded him gently.

“That was jest complainin', and you know it,” Pepper said, his whiskers quivering with indignation. “You think I'm too old, you jest say so and hire someone else.”

“I don't want anybody else. You know I went looking all over Texas to find you.” He hesitated. “Truth is the kid needs a job.”

Pepper narrowed his eyes. “You going soft, Kingsley?” He was the only man in the Kingsley employ that called the owner—and trail boss—by his last name with no courtesy preceding it.

“No, I'm not going soft,” Kirby said, hoping to God it was true. “It just seemed a good idea since your rheumatism has been flaring up.” It was more than that, he knew. He wanted to help Gabe Lewis because he knew what it was like to be desperate for money, for work of any kind—and unable to find it. Twenty-five years ago, no one would give him a job. He had been taking care of his younger brother, and they both were so damned hungry they would do anything for a meal.
Anything.

“Won't share my wagon with him,” Pepper growled.

Kirby breathed in relief. It seemed the argument was won. “He can travel in the hoodlum wagon and sleep with the rest of the hands,” he said. “If it doesn't work out, I'll put him wrangling. Doesn't seem too good at horses, but maybe in a few weeks …”

“Probably no good at cooking either.”

Kirby thought Pepper was probably right. But the kid could learn. “You'll be doing me a favor,” he replied.

Pepper scowled. “I ain't no nursemaid.”

Kirby chuckled. There would be no misunderstanding about that. Pepper was as irascible as a coyote in a locoweed patch, and he would give the boy a hell of a time. But if the boy survived that, Kirby reckoned he could survive anything. It would be interesting to see whether Gabe Lewis had as much grit as his mouth had bravado.

Chapter Three

Gabrielle's worst fears were realized as dusk came. She'd gotten through supper fairly well. Large containers of stew had come from the kitchen and the hands had gathered outside to eat. She'd stood in line for her share, enduring the curious looks and teasing from the drovers; then she'd taken her plate to a spot under a solitary cottonwood, where the others left her alone to eat in peace.

As night fell, though, the cowboys straggled into the bunkhouse and, not wanting to stand out, she reluctantly followed. Yet, standing in the doorway of the long, narrow, wooden building, she bit her lip nervously and thought about the night ahead.

She hadn't really considered it before. Hadn't realized all the ramifications of being one of Kingsley's hired hands. For days, she'd been existing by clinging to a single purpose. Now she was faced with the reality of her plans, of sleeping in a room with several dozen nearly naked men.

She steeled herself. A role, she told herself. This was simply another role.
You can do it.

The room was dirty and overcrowded, probably because of all the extra hands being hired for the drive. And, dear heaven, it smelled. Her nose twitched at the undeniably gamy odor.

She'd already picked her space earlier when no one was there. She had hoped to find an empty place, a corner, in which she could make herself as small and as invisible as possible. But the only two beds she'd seen without belongings on them were two upper bunks in the middle of the room.

Now she headed straight for the one she'd chosen and where she'd left her bedroll, trying her best to ignore the disrobing men. But there was no escape from the cowboys who'd thrust off their shirts as soon as they gained the door. Some wore union suits under their shirts. Some did not.

“Sonofabitch, but it's hot for the first of May,” she heard one of the hands say.

Gabrielle agreed. She, however, couldn't strip down to nearly nothing as most of them had. Futilely, she tried to keep her eyes on the bare boards of the floor and, at the same time, watch where she was going.

“Hey, there's that kid,” one cowboy said. “Old Kirby couldn't have hired him.”

Another chimed in. “I heard Pepper grumbling that some brat had been stuffed down his throat.”

Gabrielle heard it all, knew she'd been meant to hear. She said nothing, just kept walking, her heart pounding. Suddenly, though, someone was in her path, and she had to stop.

“What's your name, kid?” the man said as several others gathered around, looking at her curiously.

Beneath her hat brim, she threw him the look of bravado she'd perfected during hours in front of the mirror.
Play the role
, she ordered herself.
That's all you have to do
.

“Name's Gabe Lewis,” she said off-handedly.

“How old are you?”

“How old are
you
?” she retorted.

“He's telling you it's none of yer business, Jake,” another cowboy said with amusement, “just in case you didn't figure it out.”

“You really goin' with us?” another man, lolling on a bunk, asked. “In that getup? You'll roast to death 'fore we leave Texas.”

“Hell, he won't make the second day.”

“If the sun don't get him, Pepper will,” chuckled another man.

“Leave him alone,” came a voice from the doorway, and though she couldn't see him over the heads of the cowboys, Gabrielle immediately identified it. No one would mistake the burr in his words. Her stomach tightened. She didn't want a protector, or need one. Especially this man.

“They don't bother me,” she said.

“None of your business, anyway, Scotty,” one of the hands said angrily.

“I'm making it my business,” the Scot said, moving toward her until he stood just feet away.

“You got a whole lot to learn, Scotty,” said another man, “even if you are the boss's pet.”

Gabrielle watched Drew Cameron's face pale, the hazel eyes turn deadly cold. “Go to bloody hell, Jake,” he said.

“You gonna make me?”

The bunkhouse suddenly simmered with tension. Faces were filled with expectation and avid curiosity. She watched the Scotsman's hands ball into fists, then relax. “I don't want to fight you, Jake.”

“You just good at ambushing men?” the man called Jake taunted, and Gabrielle felt herself go rigid. “I heard you saved Kingsley's hide by shooting some fellows from the back.”

She waited for Cameron to answer, to deny the accusation, but he didn't. He simply turned around, nothing in his face signifying he'd even heard the damning words. It was as if everyone stopped existing for him.

Using the moment to reach her bunk, she climbed up and sat cross-legged in the center. She watched as the Scotsman walked a couple of yards, stopped beside the bunk next to hers, and sat down on the lower bunk, obviously oblivious now to others in the room.

Ambush.
The word echoed in her head. Again, Gabrielle wondered if it had been he who had killed her father and tried to kill her. And it occurred to her suddenly that if Drew Cameron were her father's killer, he might recognize her despite her disguise. The killer had been standing in the shadows, and she'd caught only a glimpse of him, but she and her father had been well-illuminated by a street lamp. If Cameron were the killer and did recognize her, he might believe she could eventually recognize him. And, if that were so, then it could explain why he'd helped her secure the job with Kingsley. Having found her, he'd want to keep her close by—so he could finish her off in his own good time.