Scotsman Wore Spurs

by Potter, Patricia;

  Drat the man. Why did he confuse her so?

  “How come you work for Kingsley? You ain’t like the others.”

  He cut his eyes toward her. “Why do you say that?”

  She had many reasons. Breeding and education topped the list. He obviously had both while most of the hands couldn’t read or write. Also, a kind of natural leadership exuded from him, despite his attempts to disguise the fact.

  “You just ain’t,” she said. When he remained silent, she decided to persist. “You like the boss?”

  His glance toward her was sharper this time, and she told herself to be careful. She suspected the doctor had seen through her disguise. The Scotsman was no fool, but he’d had no reason to look beyond the obvious. She couldn’t give him one. She looked ahead, rubbed Billy Bones’s neck in a gesture of supreme indifference about whether the man answered or not.

  The Scotsman looked straight ahead as he answered. “Kingsley’s a good cattleman.”

  What kind of answer was that? None at all, she thought. And he knew it. His avoidance of her question sent quivers through her, and she reminded herself sharply that she might be dealing with a man who killed other men for a living. She wasn’t sure why this last obfuscation bothered her. The man seldom gave straight answers but seemed to take pleasure in playing word games or changing subjects when something personal arose. She recognized the pattern; her father used to do the same thing. She’d never known why he’d avoided some subjects, not until a few weeks ago.

  What was the Scotsman hiding? Or did he always try to obscure his true feelings?

  But she’d probed as far as she dared. She turned her attention to the trail, trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to do as the Scotsman suggested: Relax.

  Dusk was chasing them as they reached the creek where the Kingsley riders had camped the night of the stampede. The cattle would be approximately twenty-five miles ahead, a two- or three-day journey for the cattle, one for him and Two-Bits.

  Pulling his mount to a halt at the creek’s edge, Drew studied the water in the waning light. It had been a mere trickle two nights earlier before the storm. Now, although the rain had stopped yesterday, the yield from upstream had transformed the creek into a fast-moving river.

  Drew had heard of flash floods from other drovers. Added to his own vivid memory of the hail and torrential rain and icy wind, his memories of Texas would not be favorable ones. Oh, it had its points—spectacular vistas, magnificent sunsets, and a vastness unequaled by any other he’d seen. But it was no place he wanted to live, and he decided then and there that his ranch—if he ever built one—would be located in a more reasonable climate, where the ground wasn’t so hard that water ran across it like an ocean every time it rained. Yes, he’d choose some nice reasonable terrain. And Texas wasn’t it.

  Two-Bits, who had been trailing behind him for the past five miles, appeared with Billy and stopped beside him. For several minutes, they both sat looking at the water they would have to cross. Drew had intended to go farther tonight. Kirby had already lost two men—Juan and Ace—and Drew knew he couldn’t afford the loss of a third for long. But he didn’t like the looks of the creek, especially the debris that was moving rapidly along the swollen waters.

  He looked at Two-Bits. “We can try to cross it now or wait till tomorrow.”

  The lad hunkered down in the saddle and frowned. He looked like a little elf, that small build in so many clothes and the ridiculous hat shielding his face as well as his thoughts.

  “Could be worse tomorrow,” Two-Bits said.

  “Can you swim?”

  The boy nodded. Drew hesitated, weighing the veracity of the response. If the lad swam like he cooked, they could be in trouble. Then there was the question of whether or not Billy was strong enough to withstand the current, although Drew had to admit, the bedraggled horse looked a hell of a lot better than it had days earlier.

  “You certain?” he asked.

  Two-Bits answered by moving Billy toward the edge of the water. The horse went willingly enough.

  “Wait here,” Drew warned, making up his mind. “Let me cross first.” He could judge then how dangerous it would be for a weak horse and an inexperienced rider.

  His pinto plunged into the water and walked nearly the whole way, swimming only several feet before regaining its footing and making the bank.

  When he and the wet horse were on the other bank, Drew turned and nodded to Two-Bits, who started Billy into the river. Drew watched as the horse carefully picked his way halfway across, then started the short swim. Drew was just breathing a sigh of relief when a log came barreling down the creek and hit the horse’s withers.

  Billy panicked, and Drew saw the animal lose his direction. In the next instant, he started swimming downstream, his big equine body struggling to regain its balance. Trying to decide what to do next—whether to plunge in and help or wait and see if Billy and Two-Bits worked it out together—Drew held his breath. Two-Bits clung to Billy’s neck like a leech, and Drew heard and saw the lad trying to coax his panicked horse into swimming in the right direction. But it was a losing battle.

  Two-Bits slipped slowly to the right, sliding around Billy’s neck and finally fell off as the horse plunged frantically in the water. It was immediately apparent the lad had lied again—he couldn’t swim a stroke.

  Drew swore, keeping one eye on Two-Bits as he jumped from his horse’s back, yanked the sling off his injured right arm, and hit the water. He saw the lad go under, then bob up only to go under again, limbs flailing.

  He started swimming, ignoring the pain in his sprained arm. Through the corner of his eyes, he saw Billy scramble up to the bank, but Two-Bits was being tossed quickly downstream by the powerful current. As he swam, he saw the lad’s hands attempt to grab a large floating limb—and miss. He quickened his strokes, and he was only a few feet away when he lost sight of the lad’s head as he disappeared under the muddy water.

  Drew swam underwater but, blinded by the mud and silt, he could only reach out and search with his hands. He felt cloth, then a hand, and he pulled, struggling to get to hard ground. The water was freezing, and the boy’s clothing added weight and bulk, making it difficult to move. His weak right arm didn’t help matters a bit.

  Finally, Drew’s feet touched the creek bottom. His arm hurting like hell, he managed to lift the now-limp form, carrying him up to the bank. Falling to his knees, he laid Two-Bits on the ground and pulled off his hat, which hung from a thong around the boy’s neck. Gabe was bloody lucky he hadn’t strangled. Shivering, muttering oaths under his breath, Drew started peeling off the boy’s thick sodden clothes.

  He stopped suddenly. With only a couple of layers to go, it was plain, even in the muted glow of twilight, that the body beneath the water-soaked clothing was not as it should be. Not as he expected to find it. Rather, it was soft and curved. Curved quite nicely. It was, in fact, the body of a girl.

  Drew’s mouth actually fell open, his hands frozen in place on the open edges of Gabe Lewis’s shirt—the second layer from the real thing, as best as he could tell. His gaze shot to the skin. It was pale, almost white in the last rays of a setting sun, in contrast to her neck and face that were now streaked with dirt and something else. His fingers touched the skin, and when he took them away and looked at them he saw a brownish cast. Dye!

  He swore again, long and inventively, even as he studied the delicate features that should have obviously proclaimed her gender. Would have, if not for the always present grime. No wonder she didn’t take baths. Bad for the health, indeed! Bloody hell, he’d always prided himself on being observant, and she’d totally duped him.

  But this was no time to ponder the obvious. He turned the slight figure over, onto her stomach, and straddled her, using his hands to force water from her lungs. The pressure on his sprained arm sent pain slicing from his fingers to his shoulders, but he gritted his teeth and kept up a steady rhythm. After a minute or so, he was rewarded. Beneath him, he felt her body
convulse, then a rush of water poured out of her. He shifted off of her to sit beside her as she sputtered and gasped.

  Relief flooded him. And anger. She could easily have died. Another minute or so in the water, and he wouldn’t have been able to bring her back.

  She started shivering as well as gasping and sputtering. They were both wet and freezing. And, he noticed, with the sun nearly gone, the temperature had dropped. They needed a fire.

  Then he needed an explanation. A bloody good one.

  Cold. She’d never been so cold. And air. She couldn’t seem to get enough of it.

  Slowly, painfully, Gabrielle returned to consciousness. For a minute or two, she coughed and choked without understanding what had happened. Awareness seeped in gradually, though, and she began to remember sliding off Billy’s back, into the water.

  For another awful minute, the memory of swirling darkness closing over her head and not being able to breathe overwhelmed her. But, finally, her present freezing state overcame all else.

  She rolled to her side, moaning. It was so cold. Her eyes blinked open. She was lying on the bank of the creek. And it was not quite dark. About as dark as it had been when she’d taken Billy into the water.

  Billy. Where was he?

  Worried thoughts about her horse gave her the strength to struggle to an upright position. She looked around, still sputtering a little, teeth chattering, but she didn’t see the horse.

  What she did see, quite suddenly and with breathtaking clarity, was that her coat was gone and also her top shirt. The buttons of her flannel shirt were open. And what remained of her clothing—a single, light cotton shirt and the bindings around her breasts—were soaking wet and plastered to her skin.

  Sucking in a quick breath, she twisted around and her gaze flew to meet Drew Cameron’s. He was sitting, head propped on his knees, staring at her.

  She stared back.

  He cocked one eyebrow at her.

  She gulped.

  All the while, her mind worked furiously—as furiously as it could, given that she still felt decidedly muddleheaded—to invent some story she thought he might believe. For it was patently clear that her charade was over, and that any second now, he would demand to know why in bloody hell she’d been dressed up like a boy—yes, she was sure that’s how he would put it.

  But he didn’t demand any such thing. He didn’t speak at all. He merely stared at her in silence and he kept it up so long that she wondered if he actually knew that his silence was far more discomforting to her than any question he might pose or accusation he might make.

  Desperately, she looked around. He’d started a fire, but it was small and still weak, giving precious little warmth. But her gaze was inevitably drawn back to the dripping man next to her.

  Seeking to break the tension, she cleared her throat to speak. “Billy?” she asked, her voice weak and croaky.

  “He made it across,” Cameron replied, his tone as calm as his appearance.

  Except that he wasn’t entirely calm, she finally noticed. He was shivering nearly as badly as she was. In fact, she realized it had been he who must have rescued her from the creek.

  When she spoke she made no attempt to disguise her normal speech patterns or her voice. “Is it your mission in life to go around saving people’s lives?”

  “No,” he replied in carefully measured tones. “In fact, I try my best not to. I especially try bloody hard not to save fools from themselves.”

  She knew he meant her, and she knew from his carefully modulated tones that he was furious. Well, he had a right to be, she supposed.

  She saw his gaze skim over her, take note of her quaking shoulders and chattering teeth. Then he stood and glared down at her. “Your saddlebags and bedroll are soaked, and so are all your clothes,” he said. “I have some dry ones. Get what you need from my bedroll while I look for more firewood.”

  Gabrielle watched him disappear behind some trees. Orders came easily to him, just, apparently, as saving lives did.

  Who was he? The question posed itself in her mind for at least the hundredth time as she struggled to her feet. Hugging herself against the cold, she made her way unsteadily to his horse and unbuckled his bedroll. He was right; his things had survived the creek without getting soaked, probably because he’d wisely wrapped them in oilcloth. She found two shirts, including the one he’d worn yesterday, which she took out to put on. It smelled of soap, and she realized he must have taken time last night to wash it.

  Darting a quick look, she stripped off the clothes from her upper body and pulled on the Scotsman’s shirt. It swallowed her nearly whole, going below her knees. The cotton felt fine against her skin, and she knew it was good—and expensive—material.

  Who was he? The question reverberated in her mind again and again. Where did a fifty-dollar-a-month cowboy get the money for a shirt like this? Or for those fine-tooled boots he wore? Or for the expensive saddle he used?

  He could be a gambler, she guessed. He did play cards, and he had the cool, deceptively casual demeanor for it, as well as the almost frightening perception. But why on earth would a gambler want to work his hands to the bone on a cattle drive?

  No reason she could think of.

  So perhaps, he was a hired gunman. That made better sense. Not that she’d ever met one, but it seemed to her that the profession would require the same calm demeanor and piercing insight required of a successful gambler—in addition to an expertise with a gun. And he did wear a gunbelt. But then so did all the other hands.

  Could he be a gunman? Hired, perhaps, by Kingsley to protect him? And, maybe, even kill for him?

  But she didn’t want Drew Cameron to be a hired gun. She didn’t want to think of him as a murderer. She wanted to think of him as the man who had risked his own life to save Ace—and to save her.

  Could there be two men in that one body? A coldblooded killer and the Scotsman who thought nothing of jumping in icy water to save a ragged, homeless boy?

  With her thoughts in turmoil and shivers racking her body, she pulled off her wet trousers, realizing only too well how naked she was. There was only Cameron’s shirt between her and the world. Taking the pair of trousers she found in his bedroll, she pulled them on. They enveloped her like a bass swallowing a minnow. She couldn’t walk, she couldn’t move. She could only stand there, holding the danged trousers up with two hands.

  “A wee bit large, I would say,” came an amused voice, the Scottish accent lilting and appealing, yet very, very masculine.

  Without turning to look at him, she tried to take a step, but her foot caught in the trouser leg. She started to fall, but her downward journey was stopped when his arm shot around her waist, catching her. Her hands flew automatically to his chest, bracing herself, which meant that she had to let go of the trousers. They fell instantly in a puddle around her feet, shackling her and leaving her naked, but for his cotton shirt.

  “Let me go!” she demanded, panic edging her voice.

  But when he started to, she promptly lost her balance again, and his arm tightened around her once more.

  “Steady, there,” he murmured.

  The amusement in his voice was infuriating. With her face flaming, Gabrielle looked down to see a pile of kindling alongside her feet; clearly, he’d dropped it to catch her. She also saw that if she tried to pull up the trousers it would only result in more complications. Instead, she tried to step out of them.

  Cameron caught her arm and stopped her. Then his hand came up under her chin and tipped her face upward until she had no choice but to look directly at him.

  His eyes had lost all hint of laughter. They were golden, tawny, like his hair, the gold dominating the gray and brown and green, like those of the jungle cat she’d seen in captivity in St. Louis. They were looking at her with the same hunter’s gleam, too, as if he’d caught his prey and was trying to decide whether to play with it or go directly for the kill. She had no doubt, then, that Drew Cameron, the Scotsman, could be a
very dangerous man.

  She tried to back away, but he held her still, studying her face closely. Then, slowly and deliberately, he let his gaze travel up and down her body, making her feel as if he were ridding her of the one garment she wore. When he’d finished his inspection, his eyes came back to lock with hers.

  “Well, Gabe Lewis,” he said. “Just who and what are you?”

  Chapter Six

  Drew waited for a reply. When none came immediately, he nudged a little. “Let’s start with a name.”

  “It is Gabe … Gabrielle,” the woman said slowly.

  And she was a woman. Not a girl, which he’d believed at first. She met his gaze square on—for the first time, if he recalled correctly. Perhaps she’d realized that if she gave him a chance to look at her for long, he might see beyond the grime.

  And she was right. He was seeing a great deal.

  While he wouldn’t call her beautiful, not in the sense of the fashionable ladies he’d known, she had a charm and appeal that went straight to his heart. The water had washed off much of the dirt, and her skin appeared nearly flawless. Her short dark hair clung around her face in wet curly tendrils, framing the large dark blue eyes. And those eyes were lovely. Dark blue, they fairly sparkled, like the twilight sky above them twinkling with the first stars of the evening.

  Gabrielle. The name fit her a bloody sight better than Gabe.

  It occurred to him that people saw what they expected to see. Otherwise, he could never have been so blind as not to see what had been before his eyes. He had accepted her as a boy because there had been no reason to look beyond the scruffy hat and clothes and grime, no reason to question the short hair and boyish attire.

  Still, he’d always considered himself more observant than most. The fact that a slip of a girl had outsmarted him stung, even while it amused him.

  But why the masquerade?

  She shivered, and he realized that his questions would have to wait.

  “I’ll get more firewood,” he said. “Can you keep that fire going?”