Scotsman Wore Spurs

by Potter, Patricia;

  But if she weren’t going to kill Kingsley, she still felt compelled to bring him to justice. Somehow, she had to find a way to prove that he had ordered her father’s murder. Somehow …

  Gabrielle spent a good part of her time thinking about ways she might gather evidence against Kingsley. It seemed an impossible task, given that it was unlikely he’d brought a signed confession along with him on a cattle drive. Finally, she realized she was merely driving herself crazy, and she forced herself to stop thinking about her father’s murder and about Kingsley, and instead to think about the good times.…

  She thought of her parents. Her mother had been very beautiful, much more beautiful than she was. She had inherited her father’s wide mouth and willful chin, but her mother had shown her how to make the best of herself. Marian Parker would turn over in her grave if she could see her daughter now in such hideous, dirty clothes and cropped hair.

  Then again, perhaps she might have winked. And she certainly would have been gently amused by her offspring’s mishaps as a louse. Gabrielle smiled, remembering her mother’s warmth and open-mindedness.

  She remembered, too, seeing her parents together. The way her father had looked at her mother, as if she were the only woman on earth. When her mother had died two years ago of pneumonia, part of her father had died, too, and the gleam in his eyes and laughter in his voice had never returned.

  Gabrielle had always hoped for a love like her parents had found. She’d always wondered if she ever would find a marriage as fine and whole as theirs had been. The dark side, though, was always the ending, and she wondered now whether the joy was worth the grief.

  She had no one to ask.

  Emotion clogged her throat and blurred her vision. She stared at Drew Cameron’s straight back as he rode ahead of her. Would he betray her to Kingsley, she wondered. Or would he keep her secret, as he’d promised. The question pounded at her throughout the last hours of the long day.

  She knew when they got close to the herd, because the cow chips were fresher. At last she saw the cattle in the distance and heard their soft lowing as they grazed. She followed the Scotsman around the cattle, both of them riding slowly so as not to spook the herd. They headed directly for the chuck wagon, where they found Kingsley sipping a cup of coffee and Pepper stirring a pot of beans.

  Both men looked up as they approached. Kingsley’s typically severe expression didn’t change, nor did Pepper’s.

  “Thought you might be staying in town,” the cook grumbled, looking directly at her, making it clear that he was unhappy she hadn’t.

  “We wouldn’t want to be disappointing you,” the Scotsman said, his accent pronounced.

  The corners of Kingsley’s lips twitched slightly, but his eyes remained hard, even cold. “Took you long enough,” he finally said, turning to Drew. “You know we’re damned shorthanded. Take a fresh horse. You’re on night herd.”

  Drew smiled slightly. “Aye, sir,” he said with mock subservience, but he headed toward the remuda without another word.

  Gabe was furious on his behalf. They’d eaten only two short meals of hardtack and jerky that day. They’d had no coffee. And Cameron had been in the saddle for nearly twelve hours already.

  The fact that Kingsley hadn’t even asked about Ace infuriated her even further. It also strengthened her belief that he was a man who could kill another man without remorse or conscience.

  “Pepper can use some help,” he said to her, then started to turn.

  “Don’t you want to know about Ace?”

  Kingsley stopped and turned back to her. “Why? There’s nothing more I can do.”

  Gabe slid down from her horse to face him. She knew she shouldn’t say another word, but she was tired, and hurting, and she wanted to lash out at the man who used people so easily.

  “He might be crippled for life,” she said.

  Kirby’s reply was curt. “That’s the risk of a trail drive,” he said. “Every man knows it. And now you know it, too. You can quit anytime.” He turned and walked toward the remuda, where she saw him saddle and mount a horse, then ride out from the camp area.

  “Damn young fool. Shoulda stayed in town,” Pepper muttered as he stalked back to the chuck wagon.

  The words were meant to be heard, and Gabrielle set her chin stubbornly. They weren’t going to get rid of her that easily.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, following him.

  “Really want to know?”

  She stared at the old cook blindly, tears of anger and frustration clouding her eyes. What was she accomplishing here?

  Pepper’s scowl faded. “It ain’t that bad, boy. You did awright the other night. Mebbe you ain’t a complete loss.”

  “The other night?”

  “Durin’ the storm. When you helped out with the horses and the wagon and didn’t go losing your head. Mebbe you have some promise. You watch me and mebbe you’ll learn something.” With another dubious “mebbe,” he turned away.

  Dubious or not, the faint praise lifted the weariness from her shoulders, and she knew a kind of pride deeper than any she’d felt after a successful performance. Pepper, she realized, was a much more critical house than any she’d played to.

  “You wanna try cookin’ them beans again,” he asked. “We’ll be needin’ a new batch for the night riders.”

  She did. She nodded. Drew Cameron would be one of those. She’d show him how competent she could be.

  “But I ain’t letting you near my starter,” Pepper added ominously.

  She couldn’t stop a small smile. He glared at her. But she suspected she saw a twinkle in his eyes.

  Kirby Kingsley rode the perimeter of his cattle, telling himself he was out here to check the night herders. The truth was, he wanted to remove himself from the accusing eyes of the boy. Those eyes had bored right through him, as if searching his soul and finding it wanting.

  Hell, the kid hit the mark, only he didn’t know how closely. Gabe Lewis obviously believed him hardhearted because he hadn’t asked about Ace, but he had crimes on his conscience that were a hell of a lot worse.

  He hadn’t told the kid he did hurt for Ace and had provided the best he could for him, but that he couldn’t have stood knowing that Ace had lost a leg, or even his life. This was his fifth trail drive, and he’d lost more hands than he wanted to remember: He’d lost them to rivers, to rustlers, to Indians, to stampedes. He’d learned to do what he could, then try to forget them. It never quite worked, but he damned well tried. Otherwise, he would never boss another drive.

  But God, that kid’s blue eyes haunted him.

  He spurred his horse into a gentle trot, seeking out Drew Cameron. It probably hadn’t been fair to send Drew out, but he wanted to talk to the man alone, and he sure as hell couldn’t do it around the chuck wagon.

  Kirby found him at the back of the herd. Most of the cattle had finished grazing and were down for the night. They seemed well content at the moment. Drew was sitting toward the back of his saddle, humming a tune as all the cowhands did at night.

  As he approached the Scotsman, he spoke, “Drew?”

  Drew nodded wearily. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “The doctor even thought he might be able to save the leg. He’ll be crippled, though.”

  Kirby nodded.

  “I told him he could work for me if I ever get a ranch going.”

  Kirby smiled stiffly. “You will. I’ve never seen anyone learn so fast.”

  “I’m not sure the others agree.”

  “They do,” Kirby said. “I’ve heard them talk.”

  He was glad Drew had the tact not to mention his nephews. He’d been making excuses for them to himself, but in truth, he couldn’t excuse their jealousy. They hadn’t stopped sniping at the Scotsman even while the others had accepted him. His acceptance had become complete when he saved Ace; there wasn’t a man now that wouldn’t partner with the Scot, except Damien and Terry Kingsley.

  “I half-expected the kid to st
ay in town,” Kirby said.

  He could have sworn he saw Drew’s body stiffen slightly, but his answer sounded casual enough.

  “So did I, but he’s no quitter.”

  “Was he any trouble?”

  “Outside of nearly drowning, no,” Drew said. “He told me he could swim. He can’t. Something to remember.”

  Kirby chuckled. “He does seem to exaggerate his abilities.”

  “I’m surprised you let him stay.”

  Kirby shrugged. “I was hungry once. Real hungry. I lied and stole and cheated for food for my brother and me. I know what desperation will do.” He hesitated, then asked. “Did he tell you anything about himself?”

  “Not much,” Drew replied.

  “Sometimes … I have the feeling that he … knows me.”

  When Drew remained silent, Kirby sighed, still wondering why the boy—and those angry eyes—preyed on his mind.

  “Want a relief?” he said.

  Drew shook his head. “I like it out here alone.”

  Kirby understood. God knows, he’d felt that splendid isolation enough times. The clouds had gone and the sky was clear. The only sound was the soft, contented lowing of the cattle and an occasional bit of a song from another hand who’d drifted by.

  “I’ll be scouting ahead. It’s good to have you back.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but spurred his horse away from camp, riding alone under the bright moonlit sky. He didn’t want to admit even to himself that it was a boy’s eyes that kept him from heading toward camp—and sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Beans, beans, beans. Sitting on the ground next to the chuck wagon, Gabrielle separated the gravel from the beans and hoped that after this cattle drive, she’d never see another bean as long as she lived.

  Three weeks out, they had stopped in midafternoon on the bank of the Red River, where Kingsley announced that they would remain for the night, giving both men and cattle a chance to rest before making the treacherous crossing. On the other side was Indian Territory, a term that produced any number of harrowing tales from hands who’d been there and lived to tell about it.

  “Dang it,” Gabrielle muttered when a handful of unsorted beans and gravel fell out of her hand and into the pot. Muttering under her breath, she began picking out the offending matter, vowing again that, when this hellish journey was over, she’d never eat beans again. Lord, they lived on beans. Beans and salt pork. And pepper. An unholy amount of pepper. The old cook had certainly acquired his moniker honestly.

  In fact, she’d come to see that Pepper was much more than a cook, or even a doctor, for the drive. He acted as stake holder for bets, banker, barber, confessor, and mediator. Pepper handled all with a crankiness that bothered no one. It was, apparently, not only accepted but expected. A supplicant was disappointed if he didn’t receive a growl and a “Hell damn I ain’t no twenty people.”

  On this drive, he was also acting as a teacher. Under Pepper’s contrary tutelage, she had learned to prepare a decent pot of coffee—and a pan of beans. He still wouldn’t let her near his precious starter, however, nor the Dutch oven where he baked his sourdough biscuits. And she still collected cow chips—or wood, when it was available—and cleaned the pots and pans. Pans had to be washed mostly with sand because the rivers were always muddy, being stirred either by their own cattle or by the herds ahead of them. Busy from dawn until well after dark, she had lost track of the days. One day had merged into another in the endless drudgery of the drive.

  The hands kept up their spirits by making bets. They made bets on anything and everything: whose beard would be the longest when they arrived at the railhead, how long it would be before Scotty gave up trying to shave every day, how long it would take to cross a particular river, when—not if—they would encounter Indians. She’d even discovered they’d made bets on how many days she would last the drive and how long it would be before she took off her hat and coat. She could have told them those were two bets they were all bound to lose.

  While the cowhands were making bets, she was working alongside Pepper to keep them fed, and there was simply no end to the work involved in feeding eighteen hungry, tired drovers. Efforts to do so were made far more difficult by the lack of clean water and the dust; the farther north they went, into the endless plains of north Texas, the worst the dust became.

  Gabrielle sighed and gave her hot forehead a swipe with the back of her hand. As she did so, she let her gaze wander around the camp—heaven help her, hoping for a glimpse of the Scotsman.

  She’d seen little of him during the past two weeks. Kingsley had taken to scouting ahead a lot of the time, often staying overnight, leaving Damien in charge when he was gone; the younger Kingsley, who didn’t try to hide his animosity toward the Scotsman, made sure that Cameron was kept busy. Cameron still rode drag—the dirtiest job on the drive—and caught the first night shift, the time when the cattle were still restless. The result, as far as Gabrielle was concerned, was that she saw him only when he galloped up to the chuck wagon to grab a quick meal before falling down onto his bedroll for a couple of hours’ sleep. He was always asleep in seconds.

  She knew he was, because she watched him. She couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help remembering the touch of his lips on hers, and the tender fierceness of his hands on her body. She wondered if he remembered, too. If he did, he gave no acknowledgment of it. His golden eyes seldom rested on her for more than a moment.

  Still, she consoled herself, he’d kept his promise. He hadn’t told Kingsley that she was a woman—for if he had, she wouldn’t still be here—and she supposed that counted for something.

  As for her purpose in being here, Gabe wondered more and more often if this journey were nothing more than a fool’s errand. Even if she could have found the time, she hadn’t yet found the nerve to go through Kingsley’s belongings, stowed in the chuck wagon. Not that she had any real hope that such a search would produce anything conclusive, but it was the only means she had available to learn anything about him. With him gone so much, it was impossible for her to make any sort of personal assessment of the man. She only knew the drovers respected him, though they didn’t seem particularly fond of him.

  When he was in camp, the only person to whom Kingsley spoke more than a few words at a time was Drew Cameron—which, as she came to think about it, made it even more peculiar that the Scotsman was always assigned the worst jobs. If he truly was Kingsley’s friend, then the trail boss was going to extraordinary lengths not to let anyone think he played favorites.

  As her mind wandered back to its favorite topic—the Scotsman—she marveled that he continued to perform all the odious duties assigned to him without resentment or protest. He did everything with unfailing good nature and a cocky grin, as if to say to the world he could handle anything dished out. What she couldn’t understand was why he even would want to.

  In some ways, he was more of a mystery to her than Kingsley.

  She sighed as she finished sorting the beans, dumping them into a pot and adding water. Pepper insisted on seasoning them, just as he did his famous sonofabitch stew. She had no idea what went in the latter, and she didn’t want to know.

  “Need some wood.” Pepper growled. “Take that horse of your’n and go fetch some. Ain’t none anyplace close.”

  Nor was there. Numerous trail drives crossed here, stripping the land. There wasn’t a twig or branch to be found anywhere.

  Gabrielle welcomed the thought of riding her horse. She was tired of riding on the hard bench of the hoodlum wagon, though she was pleased with her progress in handling the team. She’d earned the calluses that now covered her palms.

  Giving Pepper a cocky grin—she considered it the ultimate challenge to get him to smile back—she dusted off the seat of her pants and headed for the remuda. When she spotted Billy, she felt a surge of pride. He had gained weight, his coat was glossy, and he was swiftly becoming a perfectly respectable-looking horse. Although the horses were considere
d common property, no one ever rode him except her. They knew he was her horse.

  “Before long,” she whispered, “I’ll have to change your name to Sir William. What do you think of that?”

  He nuzzled her hand in search of the treat she always gave him, munching the proffered oats quickly. “Greedy boy,” she scolded, then saddled him, occasionally stroking him as she did, telling him what a fine fellow he was. He always seemed to understand, arching his neck a little and picking up his tail.

  After saddling him, she rode to the hoodlum wagon and found the sling she’d made for gathering wood and cow chips. Even Pepper had been impressed with her inventiveness. He’d also been impressed—though he hadn’t actually said so—that she could sew. Since then, she’d been pressed into mending shirts and buttons and trousers for the trail hands, a chore that he usually—and reluctantly—would have performed.

  Swinging wide of the herd, the memory of the stampede still alive in her mind, she headed upriver. The afternoon was lazy. A slight breeze, coming over the river, took the edge off the heat, and the sky was as blue as blue could get. She felt a measure of freedom on these wood-searching trips, a relief from the tension of always acting a role, always being onstage.

  She rode a couple of miles before finding a small stand of trees that had not yet been picked clean. Tying Billy to a bush, she went to work. Wincing slightly, she cut down a small tree, begging its forgiveness. One of the cowhands had told her Indians did that, and she’d fancied the idea. When she deemed that she’d collected enough, she packed the wood in the sling and tied it to the saddle, then mounted and started back slowly toward camp.

  As she approached the herd, the loud, plaintive bawling of an angry cow caught her attention. She looked to see that one man on horseback—she identified him by his hat as Damien Kingsley—was separating a small calf from his mother and leading it away by a rope. The mother tried to follow, but another drover had lassoed it and was pulling it in another direction.