Scotsman Wore Spurs Read online

  During late-night talks over drinks, Drew often sensed a sadness and loneliness in Kingsley. But tonight Kirby was positively morose.

  “Still thinking about the ambush?” Drew asked.

  “It’s unsettling to know someone wants you dead,” Kirby said, frowning.

  “You think whoever it was might try again? It’s been two months.”

  “I’d know a lot better if those three hadn’t got away.”

  “Two of them are probably still in no shape to try again,” Drew said.

  “I wish that made me feel better,” Kingsley said. “But if they were hired guns, whoever paid them to kill me could just as easily hire others.”

  Drew was silent. He wished he’d heard more: a name, a town, something.

  “And I worry about the ranch. If anything happened to me …”

  Drew tried to reassure him. “Nothing’s happened for two months, and your brother, Jon, seems capable.”

  “He knows animals. He doesn’t know business, or men, and he never will. And my nephews? Hell, Damien has potential, but he’s too hotheaded … and greedy. And Terry, he’s like Jon. Good-natured but easily led. I’ve worked too damn hard to have everything destroyed.”

  Drew couldn’t disagree with Kirby. As a gambler, Drew studied men: their strengths and weaknesses. Kirby was pure steel; his brother clay.

  “Go with us,” Kirby said suddenly. “You want to learn cow. There’s no better way.”

  Stunned at the invitation, Drew thought Kirby couldn’t be serious. He tried to give his friend a graceful way out of the impulsive suggestion. “Kane O’Brien’s expecting me.”

  Kirby shrugged off the excuse. “If you want to learn the cattle business, you won’t find a better classroom than a cattle drive.”

  And O’Brien would probably be relieved, Drew thought. His brother-in-law had called in a debt in asking O’Brien to take him on. The last thing O’Brien was likely to want—or need—was a tenderfoot in the way.

  “Think of it this way,” Kirby said, reading Drew’s thoughts. “I really want you.”

  “’Tis the why of it, I’m wondering,” Drew said, his brogue deepening. “I’m no drover.”

  Kirby was silent for a moment. “I trust you,” he finally said.

  The simple declaration touched and pleased Drew. Few people in his life had trusted him. Nor had he trusted many people.

  With the first tiny spark of excitement flickering inside him, he rapidly considered the consequences of his disappearing on the trail for the next several months. Kirby had already written on his behalf to Kane O’Brien, saying he’d been wounded and was recovering nicely at the Circle K. It would be easy enough to cancel his visit. Other than that, he had no commitments, no obligations.

  Yet he felt compelled to argue. “I don’t think your nephews would be pleased.” Damien was to be second in command, and Damien didn’t like him. Drew had seen the signs of growing resentment as Kirby spent so much time with his wounded guest.

  “That’s their problem,” Kirby said. “The fact is I would like you at my back. You’re a fair hand with a rifle.”

  “Ah, that. Every Scotsman is familiar with a sporting weapon. I had a bit of luck, no more. And you noticed I’m sure, I’m not much good at ducking.”

  “No,” Kirby said dryly. “We’ll have to work on that.”

  “I’ve never done much but toss a pair of dice. You know I don’t know anything about driving cattle.”

  Kirby eyed him with amusement. “You said you used to race in steeplechases, and I’ve watched you ride the last several days. I don’t think there’s a damn beast you can’t ride, though you’ll have to get accustomed to the moves of our cutting horses. You can learn the rest. And the sound of your voice alone is worth the pay,” Kirby added.

  Drew was confused.

  “I heard you sing one day. Nothing soothes restless cattle like a mellow voice.”

  “I can provide ye with a few Scottish battle songs,” Drew said wryly, “and little else.”

  Kirby chuckled. “Hell, I would be the only trail boss ever to have a Scottish lord as a cowhand. And I’d wager the Circle K that underneath that noble skin lies a true Westerner.”

  Drew forced a smile. “My title is the least thing I possess to commend me.”

  His bitterness must have been plain. Kingsley was silent for a moment, then said, “I know you have guts, that you risked your life for a stranger’s. That says a hell of a lot to me. And I know you’re thinking about raising cattle,” Kingsley continued. “You can cut out fifty as your share when we reach Kansas City. Keep them as seed for your own herd or sell them.”

  “That’s above the going rate,” Drew observed.

  “The going rate usually doesn’t include my life.”

  “I need no reward for that.”

  “You think my life is worth so little?”

  Drew felt his resistance weaken further. He wanted to go on the drive. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. He’d heard the horror stories—dust, storms, flood, Indians, outlaws. He harbored a curiosity about this exacting land that permitted few mistakes. It was his chance to prove, not only to Kirby but also to himself, that he was more than a clever gambler. Yet he was apprehensive. He had disappointed nearly everyone. He didn’t want to disappoint this man.

  “And Damien and Terry?” he asked. “What will you tell them?”

  Kirby’s lips thinned. “I hire. They don’t.”

  The last thread of resistance broke. “Then I accept,” Drew said.

  He’d played the rake the past fifteen years, consciously trying to destroy his family name, the title, and everything to do with Kinloch. It had been his revenge on the man who’d made his mother’s life—and his own—a living hell. But there had always been an emptiness, a vast lonely place where his heart should be. Revenge hadn’t filled it. Neither had gaming or drinking or whoring.

  Perhaps he’d find something in this new land that would.

  A pleased look on his face, Kingsley poured them both another drink. “To a successful drive,” he said.

  “To a successful drive,” Drew echoed as he swallowed the fine, golden liquid.

  Chapter Two

  Drew ignored the hoots of laughter from the cowboys watching him as he gingerly—very gingerly—picked himself up off the ground. The fall was ignominious. He couldn’t ever remember falling from a horse before.

  Kirby had warned him that cutting horses were unlike any other animal, their movements quick and sometimes unexpected when they saw a cow wandering off. The pinto Drew was riding had proven Kirby right, moving sharply when Drew had just relaxed after a very long day in the saddle.

  Drew eyed the horse with more than a little asperity, and the bloody beast actually bared its teeth in what Drew was certain was a grin. He winced at the picture they must make.

  “Uncle Kirby said you could ride,” Damien Kingsley said nastily. “What other tall tales did you hand him?”

  Drew forced a wry smile. He had been the target of unending razing since he’d first gone on the Circle K payroll a week earlier. His Scottish accent and unfamiliarity with the Texas longhorns hadn’t improved the image of tenderfoot.

  “What do they have for horses in Scotland?” another man scoffed.

  Damien, sitting a small roan, snickered. “You ain’t going to be any use at all.”

  Drew tested his limbs. They seemed whole, but every bone in his body ached. As accustomed as he was to riding, a week of sitting in a saddle for eighteen hours a day had strained even his experienced muscles. The thought of three months of days like this shriveled his soul.

  Learn cow. That’s what Kirby called learning the cattle business. In some peculiar, ungrammatical way, the expression fit. But Drew was beginning to think he’d just as soon jump off the edge of the earth. His enthusiasm for being a cattle baron had dimmed to the faint flicker of a dying candle.

  But, dammit to bloody hell, he’d never been a quitter, and
he wasn’t going to start now. Neither did he want to see the triumph spreading across Damien’s face. Even less did he want to disappoint Kirby.

  Drew brushed off his hands on the seat of his pants and started for the pinto. He was saved from another attempt to make peace with the bloody animal when Shorty, one of the drovers, interrupted the proceedings with a loud bark of laughter. “Well, lookit that, will ya!” he exclaimed.

  Drew shot a glance over his shoulder to see the cowhand pointing northward, past the ranch house and barn, and he turned to look, as did every other man present.

  Coming into view around the corner of the barn was the most moth-eaten, woebegone, and decrepit beast he’d ever had the misfortune to behold. And perched precariously on its bony back was a small figure whose hat looked as decrepit as the horse.

  “Mebbe Scotty could ride that,” one of the men said, laughing uproariously at his own joke.

  Drew would have loved to cram that laughter down his throat, along with the nickname they’d given him, but that would just make trouble for Kirby. He wondered how long he could curb a temper that had never been known for its temperance.

  They all watched the slow approach of the scraggly duo, and, listening to the men’s nonstop taunts, Drew already felt a measure of sympathy for the stranger.

  The rider and horse halted just a few yards from the gathered crowd. The lad—and he was a lad, Drew noted—was enveloped by a coat much too big for him. Only a portion of his face was visible. Under the dirty slouch hat, a pair of dark blue eyes seemed to study him before they lowered, then moved on to the other riders.

  “I’m looking for the foreman,” he mumbled in a voice that seemed to be changing.

  “What for?” one of the men said, using his elbow to nudge a companion. “Want to sell that fine horse of yours? That fellow there, with the pinto, may be interested.”

  Guffaws broke out again, and the boy’s eyes came back to Drew, resting there for a moment.

  “Lookin’ for a job,” he said, ignoring the jibe. “Heard they might be hirin’ here.”

  “Pint-size cowboys?” Damien said. “You heard wrong. We’re full hired. More than full hired,” he added, tossing a disagreeable look at Drew.

  “Read about the drive in the newspaper,” the boy said. “It said they be needing help. I want to see the foreman.”

  Drew admired the boy’s persistence. But the drive was full hired, even at the miserly wage of fifty dollars and keep. A number of much more promising cowboys had been turned down. It seemed every cowboy in the West wanted to ride with Kirby Kingsley on what was being called a historic drive.

  “I’ll take you,” Drew said. “Follow me.” Without waiting to hear what the other hands would make of his conspicuous disregard of Damien’s words, he headed for the corral.

  Leading the pinto by the reins, Drew limped toward the fenced enclosure where Kirby was making a final selection for the remuda, which would total one hundred and eighty horses at ten per man, plus sixteen mules for the two wagons.

  “Mr. Kingsley?” He had stopped calling Kingsley by his first name around the other men, having no wish to further aggravate their resentment toward him. He was an employee of the Circle K, nothing more.

  Kirby turned around, saw him, noted his limp—and grimaced in the way Drew had come to recognize as a smile.

  “Told you about those cutting horses,” Kingsley said.

  “So you did,” Drew replied wryly. “I won’t make the mistake of underestimating them again.”

  “Good. Nothing broken, I take it.”

  “Only my pride.”

  Kirby’s lips twitched slightly, then his gaze went over to the young rider beside Drew. “That a horse, boy?”

  The lad’s chin raised defiantly. “It ain’t his fault no one ever took care of him. He has heart.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gabe. Gabe Lewis.”

  “And your business?”

  “I heard you was hiring.”

  “Men,” Kirby said. “Not boys.”

  “I’m old enough.”

  “What? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen,” the boy said, “and I’ve been making my own way these past three years.”

  “You ever been on a drive?”

  Gabe Lewis hesitated, and Drew could almost see the wheels turning inside his unkempt head. He wanted to lie. He would have lied if he hadn’t thought he might be caught in it.

  “No, but I’m a real fast learner,” he answered, thrusting upward another notch.

  “We don’t need any more hands,” Kirby said, turning away.

  The quick dismissal brought a flush to the boy’s face. “Mister Kingsley?”

  Kingsley swung back around.

  The boy’s voice had lost its belligerence when the lad spoke. “I’ll do anything, Mr. Kingsley. Maybe I’m not so big, but I’m a real hard worker.”

  Kirby shook his head.

  “I need the job real bad,” the boy said in one last desperate plea.

  Drew watched as Kirby studied the boy. It shocked him that Kirby was actually considering hiring the lad.

  “By the looks of that horse, I’d agree,” Drew said helpfully, figuring Kirby needed only the slightest push.

  Gabe Lewis scowled at him for a second. Baffled, Drew wondered why his help wasn’t welcome.

  Kirby finally spoke. “Pepper, our cook, was complaining yesterday about his rheumatism. Maybe we could use someone to help him out. You up to being a louse, boy?”

  “A louse?” the boy repeated.

  “A cook’s helper,” Kirby explained. “A swamper. Cleans up dishes, hunts cow chips, grinds coffee. You ever done any cooking?”

  “Of course,” the boy said airily. Drew sensed bravado, and another lie, but Kirby didn’t seem to notice. From the moment the boy had mentioned he was desperate, the rancher had softened perceptibly. It surprised Drew. There was nothing soft about Kirby Kingsley.

  But it was obvious that Kirby had made up his mind to hire Gabe Lewis—for reasons Drew didn’t even begin to understand. The lad could barely sit a horse, admitted he’d never been on a cattle drive, and clearly had lied about his culinary ability. He probably lied about his age, as well; his face showed not even the faintest sign of stubble. Moreover, he didn’t look strong enough to control a team of four mules.

  Drew considered Gabe Lewis’s assortment of clothing. Odds and ends—and far too many of them—hung on a small frame, all dirty, much too large, and thoroughly impractical for the sweltering Texas spring. Was the lad trying to conceal a too-thin body, or did he fear someone would take what little he had if he didn’t keep it all close to his person?

  “My cook has to agree,” Kirby told the boy. “If he does, I’ll pay you twenty dollars and found.”

  The boy nodded.

  “You can’t cut it, you’re gone,” Kirby added.

  Lewis nodded again.

  “You don’t have much to say, do you?” Kirby asked.

  “Didn’t know that was important.” It was an impertinent reply, one Drew might have made himself in his younger days.

  Kirby turned to Drew. “Get the kid some food. I’ll talk to Pepper.”

  “I need to take care of my horse,” the boy said. “Give him some oats if you got any.”

  Kirby shook his head. “Don’t bother. He’ll be mixed in with ours. Not that he looks like he’ll last long.”

  “No,” the boy said flatly.

  Kirby, who had begun to walk away, stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I’ll take care of my own horse,” the boy said stubbornly. “He’s mine.”

  “If Pepper agrees to take you on, you’ll ride on the hoodlum wagon,” Kirby said. “You don’t need a horse. Besides, all the hands put their horses in the remuda for common use. This one, though”—Kirby shook his head—“he won’t be any good to us. Might as well put him down.”

  The lad’s eyes widened in alarm. “No. I’ll take care of him. He goes w
ith me.”

  “Then you can look for another job.”

  Drew couldn’t help but admire the boy’s pluck. His need for the job was obvious, yet he wasn’t going to give up the sorriest beast Drew had seen in a long time.

  “Maybe the horse has some potential,” Drew said softly.

  Kirby didn’t hide his disbelief. “That nag?”

  “He’s been mistreated, starved,” the boy said. “It ain’t his fault.”

  “How long you had him?” Kirby asked.

  “Just a week, Mr. Kingsley, but he’s got grit. We rode all the way from Pickens.”

  Kirby looked from the horse to Gabe Lewis … and back to the horse. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders in surrender. “What the hell. But you’re responsible for him. If he can’t keep up, I’ll leave you both.”

  “He will. He’s already getting stronger.” The lad paused. “What’s the hoodlum wagon?”

  “Damn, don’t you know anything?” Kirby’s irritation was plain. “It’s the wagon that carries bedrolls, extra saddles, tools. A chuck wagon for a drive this size needs every inch for food and supplies.”

  The lad looked fascinated but said nothing.

  Kingsley swore, frowned at Drew, and turned his attention back to the corral.

  Drew smiled at the boy, who didn’t smile back. He did, however, slide down from the horse—somewhat painfully.

  “I’m Drew Cameron,” he said.

  The boy looked at him suspiciously. “You talk funny.”

  “I’m from Scotland,” Drew explained. “The other hands call me Scotty.”

  The boy didn’t look satisfied but didn’t ask any more questions, either. Silent, he followed as Drew led him to the barn.

  Drew stopped beside an empty stall, and watched as the lad led his horse in and began to unbuckle the saddle. Drew poured oats into a feed bucket. The horse looked at him with soft, grateful eyes, and he understood the boy’s attachment. Hell, he’d had a horse he’d … loved. Too much. Bile filled his throat as he remembered.…