She studied the trail boss’s feverish face, listening to his ragged breathing, thinking how odd it was that she was sitting here, nursing him. Even stranger to think she genuinely wanted the man she thought had killed her father to live. She told herself it was only because she wanted the chance to hear any words he might utter, that she wanted him to admit his part in her father’s death.
But it was more than that, and she knew it.
A weakness of character? Her father had as much as identified him as his murderer.
The night was quiet. A few of the drovers remained around the fire, sleeping or simply lying on the bedrolls. Once in a while, one would come over and ask her how the boss was doing. Kingsley, she was learning, had won a singular respect and loyalty from his hands.
Still, as her gaze moved over the men in camp and as she thought about the others, out on their watches, she had to wonder if one of them wanted to kill their boss. She’d heard Damien’s questions, known the possibility was being considered.
It was hard for her to imagine. She was coming to know the drovers well. They were loyal to each other and to Kingsley. They seemed to aspire to little more than a paycheck and a good meal, and their dreams appeared limited to the next town, where they hoped to find a glass of whiskey and a loose woman.
Only the Scotsman didn’t fit. And Kingsley’s nephews, who probably had much to gain with Kirby’s death. They stood to inherit a vast ranch and the wealth and power that went with it. But Terry Kingsley struck her as too mild-mannered and ineffectual to plan anything more complicated than a poker game. Damien, though … well, that was another story. Damien was bright enough. And he certainly appeared angry. Still, his concern for Kingsley a few hours earlier had seemed quite genuine; he’d looked worried sick. And, in the end, Gabrielle couldn’t persuade herself that Damien was capable of murder.
She added several pieces of valuable wood to the fire and watched the shadows dance across Kingsley’s face. It was a harsh countenance, and he seldom if ever smiled. A hard boss, the hands all agreed, but fair. They didn’t ask for more than that.
Sighing, Gabrielle wriggled inside her hot, dusty clothes as the Scotsman rode in from his watch. He wore no hat, and his tawny hair fell over his forehead, partially covering his handsome, sun-bronzed face. As he dismounted and walked toward her, she noted the sheer elegance of his movements—the way he rode, the way he walked, everything about him spoke of grace and confidence and strength.
“How is he?” Drew asked as he stooped beside her.
Gabrielle cast a quick glance at him. “No change.”
He looked pure exhausted. She ached to smooth away the lines of fatigue crinkling his eyes. She longed to stand in front of him as Maris Gabrielle Parker and see in his eyes the admiration she’d seen in others, not the doubt and questions and suspicions.
The chasm between them widened at his next question. “Pepper left you alone with him?”
Whether they were meant as an accusation or not, the words struck her like a blow to the stomach. His eyes, which sometimes appeared so golden, were hard now, the gold in them eclipsed by a glittering agate.
“He was tired,” she said. “I—don’t think he’s feeling well.”
His eyes cut to hers. “That makes things easier for you, doesn’t it?”
“Why should it?” She challenged him.
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “If Pepper is ill, he won’t look too deeply into the peculiarities of his … what is that expressive word?… louse.” His voice was unemotional, cool, with an underlying hint of ruthlessness.
The good-natured, usually subtly amused Scotsman was displaying another side. The geniality was gone, and now she wondered whether it had ever really been a part of him or merely a skin that covered what he really was.
And what was that?
“No,” she simply.
“No what?”
“It doesn’t make things easier,” she said.
“I saw your face when we brought … Mr. Kingsley in,” he persisted.
“And …” she prompted slowly, wondering what indeed had been in her face. She’d been so swamped by conflicting emotions that even she didn’t know exactly how she’d felt.
“You weren’t exactly … surprised.”
“Wasn’t I?”
“And you were gone from camp the morning he was shot.”
She nodded noncommittally.
“Where did you go?”
“For a ride.”
“North?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t see anything?”
“No.”
His eyes seemed to peel layers from her. Layers of pretense, layers of lies, layers of feelings even she didn’t understand.
I want him to live, too, she wanted to scream at him. I want him to tell me what happened twenty-five years ago. I want to know if he had my father killed—and if so, why. And if it was Kingsley, I want him to pay for it. But if he dies now, I’ll never know the truth. And I’ll never feel safe. So he can’t die. Not like this.
But the words went unspoken. Drew Cameron was Kingsley’s friend. He would never believe her, any more than the sheriff in San Antonio believed her.
For several long minutes, Gabrielle remained frozen, held prisoner by Drew Cameron’s unrelenting gaze. Then, suddenly, the tension between them was broken by a quiet moan, coming from the man lying on the bedroll between them.
As she grabbed the wet cloth, wrung it out, and wiped Kingsley’s forehead again, she cast a quick glance at the Scotsman and saw he was watching her as if he expected her to plunge a knife into his friend. She applied her attention to her patient.
Kingsley moved again, and he spoke a few unintelligible words. Leaning down, she put her ear close to his mouth. Most of the words were broken, but she heard several quite clearly.
“Sorry … so sorry.” Then another one, “Murderer.”
Chapter Ten
Kirby Kingsley’s mumblings turned more coherent as the night wore on, and Drew convinced Gabrielle to get some rest. But despite Drew’s patient prodding Kirby could tell him nothing about his attackers. He’d seen only the glint of sun on a rifle.
The pain that lined his face couldn’t conceal the bleakness in his eyes as he came to the same conclusions Drew had reached earlier: The ambush three months ago was not an isolated, freak occurrence, as Kirby had wanted to believe.
Kirby had refused to go to the law then, saying he’d have to go all the way to San Antonio and the attacker would be long gone in any event. Drew had accepted that explanation at the time; now he wondered whether Kirby hadn’t had another reason.
As Drew sat at his friend’s side, he felt a deep and burning rage. Kirby was weak from loss of blood, his jaw was clenched and his forehead creased in an expression of severe pain, and his skin was gray. Only two days before he’d been a strong, healthy man still in the peak years of his life.
“Who?” Drew asked him. “Who would go this far to see you dead?”
Kirby looked up at him, his gaze desolate. “I have no idea.”
“You murmured some words as you woke up,” Drew said.
Alarm spread over his friend’s face, and Drew’s gut tightened.
“What?” Kirby asked.
“Don’t you remember?”
Kirby shook his head, wincing a little at the pain that ensued from his head wound.
Drew frowned, remembering Kirby’s words. “You said something about a murderer. About being sorry.”
Kirby closed his eyes, heaving a tired sigh.
“You do know something.” Drew spoke in urgent tones. “Tell me—what did you mean?”
Kirby hesitated, opening his eyes to look around.
“No one’s listening,” Drew said. “The only hands here are all asleep—and snoring.”
Seeming reassured, Kirby sighed again. “Those things I said—they happened twenty-five years ago.”
“Someone with a long memory?”
K
irby’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t make sense. There’s no reason …”
“No reason a woman should be involved?”
Drew saw surprise flash through Kirby’s eyes at his question.
“No,” Kirby said. “No reason at all. Why would you ask?”
Drew hesitated. He should tell Kirby about Gabrielle. Now. But if Gabrielle didn’t have anything to do with this—and he couldn’t believe she did—he would be betraying her.
“No reason,” he said. “Just satisfying myself on a point. Look—you need to rest. We can talk more tomorrow.”
Kirby didn’t argue. His eyes drifted closed on another long sigh.
Drew fetched his bedroll and stretched out near Kirby. He was going to make bloody sure Kirby wasn’t alone, especially not with Gabrielle or his nephews. Pepper would watch over him during the day in the chuck wagon, for despite Pepper’s age and stiff limbs, he was good with a gun and he was loyal to Kirby.
Earlier Pepper had pronounced his boss on the mend, claiming his poultice had warded off infection. Drew remained a bit skeptical but was inclined to agree with Pepper’s conclusion that Kirby would live.
This time. He wouldn’t give odds on the older man surviving a third attack.
Drew swore silently. He’d cared for few people in his life, wasn’t at all experienced at it, and now he wondered if he ever wanted to be. There was a lot to be said for being concerned only for oneself. Not that he’d done such a bloody good job of that either. Yet here he was, feeling responsible for two people: Gabrielle and Kirby. And for some reason, he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that those two people’s interests clashed in some way.
Frustrated, Drew closed his eyes and rolled to put his back to the fire. He needed some sleep. Kirby would insist on starting the herd tomorrow.
But sleep was a long time coming. And even when it came, visions of a blue-eyed, short-haired temptress plagued his dreams.
Loud swearing and pans crashing woke Gabrielle from a sound sleep under the hoodlum wagon. Alarmed at the disturbance, she pushed herself up onto an elbow, and rubbed her eyes.
“Two-Bits!”
Hearing her name being called—and none too pleasantly—she slipped on her shapeless coat and hat, though her eyes were barely open. They were open far enough, though, to see that it was still nighttime. As she rolled out from under the wagon, she squinted in the darkness and made out several forms moving about. But Pepper hadn’t yet started the fire.
“Gabe!”
Scrambling to her feet, she hurried the thirty or so yards between the two wagons, the distance marking the space where the drovers slept when they weren’t on watch. Some were up, others were slowly rising from bedrolls. Several were cursing—loudly.
Ten feet from the chuck wagon, Gabrielle was brought to a halt as she recognized another shadowed form, milling around in the darkness.
Sammy.
She’d left him with his mother, who was tied to the back of the hoodlum wagon, and she’d expected him to stay put. Obviously he’d had other ideas.
The calf had made his way to the chuck wagon, where he was stumbling over cowhands’ sleeping bodies, bumping into the chuck box, sending pans crashing to the ground—and generally wreaking havoc. Confused by all the human noise, as well as the noise he himself was creating, the calf started running first in one direction, then another, stepping on drovers as he went.
As Gabrielle watched the rampaging calf, trying to decide how to catch him, Pepper appeared from inside the chuck wagon. She couldn’t see his expression in the dim, predawn light, but she felt his burning glare. She would hear about this all day. Sleep was important to the hands, who usually got little of it. And they were lucky that the sound of clattering pots hadn’t yet spooked the cattle.
She said a small prayer. Sammy would be lucky not to be invited to supper tonight—as a main course. Cowpunchers, she’d learned, became very protective of their charges and were loath to kill their own cows. They might buy a cow from another herd to butcher, but even that was rare. Sammy, though, was stretching the sensibilities of this bunch of cowhands to the limits.
“Sonofabitch!” Legs’s familiar complaint came the loudest.
“Get that damned calf out of here!” Damien exclaimed.
Starting to feel a bit panicked herself, Gabrielle looked around. She had no rope, and when she tried to grab Sammy as he went past her, he butted her aside. Off balance and still only half-awake, she went tumbling to the hard ground. The calf continued stalking the camp. No one else even tried to stop him. They were all watching her.
Determined, she regained her feet and studied Sammy, who was running every which way, trampling on everything in his path, human or otherwise.
“Sammy,” she said coaxingly as she stood.
Sammy didn’t respond.
“Sammy!” She tried to force a note of authority in her voice.
Sammy backed away. She looked around, and she thought her eyes must be playing tricks on her in the dark. But she had good night vision, and it did seem as if every drover present—about eight of them—was grinning. Including Drew Cameron. Even Kingsley, who was semipropped against a wagon wheel, appeared to have a small smile on his lips.
Knowing she’d be listening for days to the story of Two-Bits and Sammy, the calf that destroyed Kingsley’s camp, she tried not to smile herself. Smiling did not fit her part—the gruff boy of few words. Instead, she concentrated on the calf, only too aware that she was the center of attention—and amusement.
Discarding the idea of getting a rope—Sammy seemed in no mood to stay still long enough for her to get it around his neck—she tried to think of a way to get the calf to come to her. The mother was tied to the chuck wagon, and she supposed it would work if she used the cow to lure her own calf. But then they’d have two bovines trampling the cooking area, and that would send Pepper into fits.
She thought rapidly, recalled the sound of the cow’s mournful cry to her calf. How did it sound? She could mimic almost anything, having inherited her father’s ear for sound and ability to reproduce it.
Without expectation of success, she made an effort to approximate a cow lowing and was astonished when the calf slowed and, finally, came to a stop. She made the sound again. The calf turned to look at her, his panic seeming to fade. She took a couple of steps toward the hoodlum wagon, and tried the plaintive lowing again. The calf followed. Slowly, she back-stepped her way across the camp, trying not to trip on the men or bedrolls in her path. Finally, she reached the hoodlum wagon, and the calf came up to join her, heading directly for its mother.
Gabrielle watched in relief as the mother welcomed her calf and it huddled next to her. Behind her, the camp was quiet; not a single drover uttered a sound. Then, a minute later, the clatter of pans signaled that Pepper had decided to start breakfast. Dawn couldn’t be far behind.
With her back still turned to the rest of the camp, Gabrielle became aware of someone standing behind her. She knew who it was without looking. Her body reacted to the Scotsman whenever he came near her, almost as if she were a magnet to his steel.
“How did a banker’s daughter learn to do that?”
She heard his whispered words as his breath tickled her ear. Her body stiffened, as much a reaction to his closeness as to his words.
She turned toward him. He was so tall, she had to look almost straight up to see his face. He had washed and changed shirts, and the smell of soap mixed with leather spiced the early morning air.
“That was a fine trick,” he added, his voice soft, even seductive, not harsh as it had been the last time he’d spoken to her.
“I’ve always been good at imitating voices,” she said.
“I’ve noticed. You never slip, do you?” he observed softly. “You’ve got your voice completely trained.”
“It’s not trained,” she replied—being truthful, for once. “It’s just a natural … talent.”
She returned his gaze steadily for a moment or
two longer, then had to look away. He saw too much, asked so much. And she always wanted to answer.
“I see Mr. Kingsley is better,” she said.
The Scotsman was silent for a moment, clearly not ready to leave the subject of her voice control—and other unacknowledged talents. Finally, though, he let out a sigh and answered her question.
“Aye, he’s better. We’ll be starting back on the trail today.”
She glanced upward at him, surprised. “He’s that much improved?”
“No,” Cameron replied, leaning against the wagon. “But he insists. He’ll ride with Pepper. He can always use Pepper’s bunk.”
“Does he know …?”
“Who shot him? No. He only saw the reflection of the sun off a rifle sight.”
She hesitated, then asked, “And does he know why?”
The Scotsman’s features tensed. “He says not.”
Another moment of silence passed, then he said, “You don’t carry a rifle.”
It wasn’t a question, but she shook her head.
“Can you shoot?” His tone was casual, but his expression was not; his gaze, as he studied her face, was piercing.
Her fears told her to lie, to say, “No, I’ve never held a gun in my life.” But common sense warned her that she’d never get away with it. He’d know instantly that she was lying.
Thinking quickly, Gabrielle replied, “A little.”
“What does ‘a little’ mean?”
“It means …” She lifted one shoulder in a quick shrug. “A little. I thought it would look odd for me not to have a gun if I was going to join a cattle drive, so …” She shrugged again. “I bought a gun. I tried it a few times.”
She risked a quick look at him. He was still staring at her—hard. But he didn’t have that half-enraged, half-cynical expression she’d come to recognize as a sign that he thought she was lying to him.
“‘A few times,’” he repeated slowly. “And did you hit anything you aimed at?”
“Well … maybe once or twice.” She hoped her furtive glances at him would be interpreted as embarrassment, for she couldn’t seem to prevent them.
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