Scotsman Wore Spurs Page 10

  That was one reason he’d left Scotland. To get away from hating. He didn’t want to hate anymore.

  He was thirty-three, and he’d spent most of his life gambling, whoring, and drinking. All the while, he’d lived with an emptiness the size of a crater, but he had only discovered why he felt so empty after meeting Ben Masters and his half-sister Lisbeth. He’d never seen love until then, refused even to admit it existed. Now, he knew it not only could exist, it could flourish, given the right people to share it.

  Observing Ben’s and Lisbeth’s love for each other had given him a small taste of love—and an enormous appetite for more. Still, he wondered whether it was too late, whether he could ever accept—or believe—the fact that anyone could love him.

  He had followed Ben and Lisbeth to America, a place where the land was new and unexplored and the future more important than the past. He had hoped that here he might lose his demons.

  When Drew returned to the fire, Gabrielle was asleep, wrapped in his blanket. Only a few scattered embers remained of the fire. He sat down and stared at them as they smoldered into ashes.

  Chapter Seven

  Drew woke to the sound of crying. A soft heartbroken sound. He fought his way out of grogginess and focused on his surroundings.

  Night still dominated the sky, though to the east a hint of dawn edged the horizon and the stars were already fading.

  Turning his head to the side, he saw Gabrielle’s form, tossing about as if she were fighting off an attacker. Mixed in with her whimpers, he heard bits and pieces of mumbled words.

  “No, father. No. Mistake.” Then a long, agonizing, “Nooooooooo.”

  The despair and anguish in her words tore at his heart. Rolling to his side, he moved quickly over to her. The blanket had come off during her thrashing, and the shirt she wore was tangled about her waist, leaving her mostly naked. He caught a glimpse of sleek perfection before he covered her. Then, taking her by the shoulders, he shook her gently.

  “Gabrielle,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

  She started, her body jerking, then her eyes flew open. She sucked in a sharp breath and stared at him without recognition.

  “Gabrielle,” he said again, and her eyes lost some of their confusion and started to focus on him. He noticed the trail of tears on her face, the sheen of wetness in her eyes. “It’s all right,” he said awkwardly, unused to comforting. “You’re safe.”

  Her eyes blinked rapidly several times, and, finally, the pent-up breath rushed out of her lungs on a soft moan. Struggling to sit, she looked at him, then down at her body, as if suddenly aware of what she was wearing and how little she was covered. Several of the top buttons of the shirt had come undone, exposing a fair amount of skin, which, in the shadowed darkness before dawn, appeared white in contrast to the dark fabric framing it.

  She fumbled with the buttons before looking at him. “I must have had a nightmare.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I think you did. You mentioned your father.”

  He couldn’t see the expression on her face, but her tone was wary as she spoke. “Did I say anything else?”

  He shrugged. “Something about a mistake. That’s all.”

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He wished his gaze wouldn’t keep falling to the gentle rise of her breasts, nor his memory returning to her near naked form. The thought made him turn away so she wouldn’t see what shouldn’t have been in his eyes, his mind.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured.

  He saw as well as heard her breath catch—her chest rising sharply. His heart pounded and he knew he should look away. But he couldn’t. He felt as out of control as a schoolboy.

  He took her hand, swallowing it in his own. “Gabrielle?” he whispered.

  And then she was in his arms again, though he was uncertain about which of them had made the move.

  Devil be damned, but he wanted her. And you might well be damned if you continue. But his body ignored the mind’s message as her body clung to his. He tried to tell himself it was clinging for all the wrong reasons; she’d had a nightmare, she was frightened, she needed comforting—not passion. Yet it felt so right, her body against his.

  But just as he was adjusting himself to the rightness of the situation, and in the slowly growing light of dawn, she looked at him steadily, searching his features.

  “Who are you?”

  Caught off guard, he chose not to understand. “You know.”

  “I don’t mean your name,” she said, reproach coloring her tone. “And don’t tell me you’re an ordinary cowhand. Because you’re not.”

  “There’s no such thing as an ordinary cowboy,” he said.

  “But you’re more extraordinary than any of them,” she persisted.

  It bloody well took every bit of his self-control not to kiss her again. “Am I?” he said, rather pleased at the observation.

  She glowered at him. “What did you do before you came on this drive?”

  “I was a gambler. I am a gambler,” he corrected himself.

  Her scowl turned to interest. “A good one?”

  “Very good,” he replied immodestly.

  “Then why …?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t going to help her one bloody bit. Besides, he liked watching the way her mind worked. She just bored in like a coyote going for a rabbit. “Why what?”

  The glower returned. “Why are you on this cattle drive?”

  “You asked me that before,” he observed.

  “And you didn’t answer.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  If glances, even from very pretty eyes, could kill, he’d be under six feet of dirt.

  “You know damn well you didn’t,” she said, then immediately looked chagrined at the words that had popped out of her mouth.

  He’d been right, Drew realized—she had been raised as a lady and wasn’t used to swearing.

  He threw out a small bone. “I was bored,” he said, and it was at least part truth. He had no intention of sharing his deeper reasons. He wasn’t used to sharing any part of himself, and now didn’t seem a particularly good time to start, not with the creative and cunning Miss Lewis.

  She eyed him speculatively, the soft illumination of dawn revealing a bright intelligence in those lovely eyes. He’d always liked intelligent women. But he also liked honest ones.

  “Boredom doesn’t seem like a very good reason to …” She trailed off, as if suddenly uncertain.

  “To what, Gabrielle?” He prompted.

  She stared at the ground. “To do something so dangerous.”

  He laughed. “You’re scarcely one to talk about danger. At least I wouldn’t have joined a cattle drive as a cook’s helper without being able to sit a horse or make a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, you would have,” she shot back.

  The rejoinder rocked him. She was right. He might have done just that.

  “I usually recognize my limitations,” he countered. He just didn’t pay much attention to them.

  But she was smiling in triumph as if she’d read his every thought. It was most disconcerting.

  “What are they?”

  “What are what?” he replied, deliberately misunderstanding.

  “Your limitations. I didn’t think you had any.”

  Bloody hell, but she was good. She could feint with the best of them. Everything about her stimulated him—with the possible exception of her clothes. The mystery, the sharp wit, the self-confidence of a woman who could sit there with only a shirt and a dirty face and short tousled hair and challenge him on an intellectual level.

  “Limitations?” she prompted after a long silence.

  “I would much rather hear about yours,” he said smoothly.

  “You know mine,” she said. “I can’t swim.” After a moment, she added, “or cook.”

  “Isn’t that a little odd?”

  “I don’t know? Is it?”

&nbs
p; He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He liked her more every moment, even as part of his brain warned him. Danger, though, had always been appealing to him. Danger in a pretty package was even more fascinating. Their eyes met, and awareness rippled between them. The air was hissing, crackling, sparking a thousand tiny charges up and down his spine.

  “I thought every woman knew something about cooking.”

  “I thought every trail hand knew how to stay on a horse.”

  She touched a nerve. He’d always taken pride in his horsemanship and had ridden horses to championships in races in Scotland. “At least I’d been on a horse before joining a cattle drive.”

  She blushed. She was good at shielding some emotions, but she couldn’t seem to control the color that pinkened her cheeks.

  “You’re right,” she finally said. “It was rather … optimistic of me. It looked easy enough.”

  He turned his head so she wouldn’t see his smile.

  “You did well after the stampede and with Ace.”

  “I like him,” she replied quietly.

  He liked the way she said it—with directness and honesty.

  “He’s a good man,” Drew said, “and what happened was bad luck.”

  Her gaze fell to her hands in her lap. “It could have been worse if you hadn’t been there.”

  Drew felt uncomfortable again. He’d been in the right place at the right time, nothing more. “It’s the job,” he replied.

  “You could do anything you wanted,” she said, returning to her previous point.

  “I’m suited for very little,” he said. “My skills, such as they are, are mostly in the field of gaming. If I don’t wish to do that, I have few options.”

  She shook her head. “You could get any kind of a job with your education.”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow. “And what do you know about my education?”

  “It’s a good one,” she said evenly. “I would guess a university.”

  “I drank my way through one, yes,” he said, amusement mixing with a little resentment at the deadly accuracy of her observations.

  “And you obviously have breeding.”

  He chuckled. “Everyone has breeding, lass, or they wouldn’t be here.”

  Her lips pursed with concentration. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “And what did you mean?”

  “Your manners. The way you walk and talk. It radiates … confidence and wealth.”

  “And wealth equals breeding?”

  Her jaw set and those blue eyes became turbulent … and angry. He was mocking her, just as he had mocked himself for the last twenty years.

  “Obviously not,” she said, her tone acerbic. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why you’re on this drive.”

  “I thought I had.”

  “No answer that I believe.”

  “Then that makes us equal,” he said sharply.

  She looked as if he’d struck her. Her eyes clouded, and her body stiffened. He’d known she lied to him, but he still felt like a bully kicking a hapless kitten. He reminded himself that kittens had claws.

  “An adventure,” he said, trying to dispel the sudden tension between them. “An adventure as well as a job. An opportunity to see the West in ways few do.” It was another part of the truth, but he wasn’t able to keep the biting sarcasm out of his tone. “Don’t you know, lass, the Scots have an abiding fascination with all things American?”

  She frowned, clearly puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because we’re old and you’re new. We’ve lost our opportunity, and you have yours ahead. The English have basically taken our land, and they consider independence a fault. You consider it a virtue.”

  It was a rather pompous speech and he’d rather enjoyed the telling of it, again deflecting personal questions he had no desire to answer.

  He darted a quick glance at the sky. The black sky had turned a soft gray. The sun would be tipping the horizon before long.

  He looked down at his hand. It was still locked in Gabrielle’s. With a courtly gesture he’d learned as a child, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, lingering over it longer than he should have. He wanted to do more. Cursing himself for his rather rare gentlemanly behavior, he snapped, “We might as well get an early start.” And with that, he stood.

  She hesitated, looking at him with those damnably delectable eyes, her long sooty black lashes adding to her look of vulnerability. He reluctantly released her hand, which he’d been holding with his right hand. His arm was still sore and couldn’t bear much weight. But he offered her his left hand and pulled her up, effortlessly lifting her to her feet. Gabrielle Lewis weighed little more than a feather.

  She looked so damn bloody vulnerable. He suddenly thought of his brother-in-law and his sister. If she really were in trouble, Ben could help. “I have a friend,” he said slowly, “who is a lawyer in Denver. He used to be a U.S. marshal. He’ll help you. You can trust him completely.”

  “A marshal?” she repeated softly.

  “You can catch a stage in the next town,” he added. “I have enough money …”

  “No,” she said flatly. Then as if she realized how her rejection of his offer sounded, she continued, “Thank you, but … I just don’t … can’t trust anyone. You don’t know … this man.”

  Drew felt his suspicions rise again as something furtive appeared in her eyes. She seemed to shrug into herself, then let her gaze fall from his. At that moment, he knew absolutely that she’d lied, that at least some part of her story was false. Yet, what could be so important, or so dangerous, that a pretty woman would hide behind those bloody oversized clothes and cut her hair? What could be so bad that she would suffer the dangers and hardships of a trail drive?

  “You will still keep your promise?” she asked tentatively.

  He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe she had lied for some nefarious purpose. He would hold his tongue for the moment but keep a wary eye on her. Hell, he would keep an eye on her anyway, now that he knew what lay underneath the grime.

  “As I said last night,” he replied, “I won’t say anything for now. I won’t promise more than that.”

  She chewed on her lip for a moment, then started to say something, but he put his finger to her lips to stop her. “And if I find out you’re lying … about something important,” he added softly, “you’ll find I’m no gentleman.”

  She didn’t flinch, he would give her that. Still, as he turned away, he wondered whether the con artist had been conned.

  He walked over to test the clothes spread out over bushes and limbs. They were not quite dry, but he was not in the mood to be any more gentlemanly than he already had been.

  “I want to leave in a few minutes” he said coolly. “Can you be ready?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was quiet but sure. Most women would take hours, but then he’d never met one quite like Gabrielle before.

  No, Gabe. Gabe Lewis. He had to get used to the name again.

  The day wore on awkwardly for Gabrielle. There was little time for conversation and even if there had been, the Scotsman made it clear he wanted none of it.

  Oddly enough, Gabrielle felt she had lost a friend. By turning down what appeared to be a completely unselfish offer—money and a reference to his exmarshal friend in Denver—she had sparked his suspicion. Or had it simply been a test on his part? One she’d failed.

  Aches and bruises from the long ride made every mile a physical misery as well, but she could live with that. She found it more difficult to live with her lies than with Drew Cameron’s withdrawal.

  She tried to persuade herself again that she was playing a part, just as she had on stage so often. But each time she saw the Scotsman’s cool golden eyes and sardonic smile, she cringed inside. Cringed even more as she recalled the times he had, more or less, called her a liar.

  She wanted to blurt out h
er suspicions about Kirby Kingsley, to say that she had lied for good reason, but there was still too much she didn’t know. She didn’t know how closely the Scotsman was involved with the man she suspected of killing her father. And, although she was now certain that Cameron couldn’t have been the shooter, she wasn’t certain whether or not he knew the shooting had taken place.

  Could a man who saved one life condone the taking of another?

  She didn’t think so. And she most fervently didn’t want to believe it of him. But then, he was adept at playing roles, too. Didn’t that indicate he had something to hide?

  And what about Kirby Kingsley? She knew with complete certainty that he had something to hide—had been hiding it for twenty-five years. As she pondered the reasons for the journey on which she’d embarked, she recalled her father’s dying words and the words in his letter.

  She’d been so clear, so sure, that in leaving her the letter, directing her to it and to the article about Kingsley, that he’d been telling her that Kingsley was responsible for killing him. She was still sure. But not as sure as she had been.

  Somehow, in the past three days, something had happened to create tiny, niggling doubts. Perhaps it had been the storm or the dunk in the creek, in both of which cases she’d been terrified and certain that death was imminent.

  More likely, she thought, the hot flood of sensation created by Drew Cameron’s kiss last night had finally caused her to wake up from the dream state in which she’d existed since her father’s death. For she realized now that she’d felt frozen, suspended in time at the moment she’d seen her father clutch at his chest and start to fall. Inside, all she’d been able to feel were grief and fear and rage. She’d been driven—and perhaps blinded—by them ever since.

  But no more. The Scotsman’s passion, if it had accomplished nothing else, had shocked her back into living. Into feeling. Oh, the grief and anger—and loneliness—were still with her. But she no longer felt controlled by them.

  And with her new clarity of thought, she realized that she couldn’t simply walk up and shoot Kirby Kingsley. She might have done it a week ago—if she’d had the opportunity, if he’d done something at that moment to stimulate her rage into action. And she thanked God that the occasion hadn’t arisen. For she was no murderer.