Marshal and the Heiress (45 page)

The liveryman had gone straight past him, but she'd hesitated.

“You don't want that one. He's done for. Cowpoke just left him here. Be best just to put him down.”

“How much?” she'd asked.

“Hell, you can have him,” the man said. “Five dollars for a saddle. But he won't last a day.”

But Billy had lasted. She had purchased some oats and had ridden him slow and easy and the horse had looked at her with a kind of gratitude that made her heart break open a little further. He was hers, and she was going to make him well. Kirby Kingsley be damned.

Giving Billy a final pat, Gabe made sure he had water. She added more oats to his feed, then headed for the bunkhouse.

“Don't need no help.” Pepper was adamant. “And I don't want no kid getting in my way.”

Kirby held his tongue and thought about the best way to pursue this topic. Fact was Pepper was the best trail cook in Texas, and he would do anything to keep him. A good cook could make or break a drive. Drovers often worked fourteen to eighteen hours a day in heat, pouring rain, and every other plague known to man; they demanded good food and good doctoring, and the cook was responsible for both.

“You were complaining yesterday about too much to do,” Kirby reminded him gently.

“That was jest complainin', and you know it,” Pepper said, his whiskers quivering with indignation. “You think I'm too old, you jest say so and hire someone else.”

“I don't want anybody else. You know I went looking all over Texas to find you.” He hesitated. “Truth is the kid needs a job.”

Pepper narrowed his eyes. “You going soft, Kingsley?” He was the only man in the Kingsley employ that called the owner—and trail boss—by his last name with no courtesy preceding it.

“No, I'm not going soft,” Kirby said, hoping to God it was true. “It just seemed a good idea since your rheumatism has been flaring up.” It was more than that, he knew. He wanted to help Gabe Lewis because he knew what it was like to be desperate for money, for work of any kind—and unable to find it. Twenty-five years ago, no one would give him a job. He had been taking care of his younger brother, and they both were so damned hungry they would do anything for a meal.
Anything.

“Won't share my wagon with him,” Pepper growled.

Kirby breathed in relief. It seemed the argument was won. “He can travel in the hoodlum wagon and sleep with the rest of the hands,” he said. “If it doesn't work out, I'll put him wrangling. Doesn't seem too good at horses, but maybe in a few weeks …”

“Probably no good at cooking either.”

Kirby thought Pepper was probably right. But the kid could learn. “You'll be doing me a favor,” he replied.

Pepper scowled. “I ain't no nursemaid.”

Kirby chuckled. There would be no misunderstanding about that. Pepper was as irascible as a coyote in a locoweed patch, and he would give the boy a hell of a time. But if the boy survived that, Kirby reckoned he could survive anything. It would be interesting to see whether Gabe Lewis had as much grit as his mouth had bravado.

Chapter Three

Gabrielle's worst fears were realized as dusk came. She'd gotten through supper fairly well. Large containers of stew had come from the kitchen and the hands had gathered outside to eat. She'd stood in line for her share, enduring the curious looks and teasing from the drovers; then she'd taken her plate to a spot under a solitary cottonwood, where the others left her alone to eat in peace.

As night fell, though, the cowboys straggled into the bunkhouse and, not wanting to stand out, she reluctantly followed. Yet, standing in the doorway of the long, narrow, wooden building, she bit her lip nervously and thought about the night ahead.

She hadn't really considered it before. Hadn't realized all the ramifications of being one of Kingsley's hired hands. For days, she'd been existing by clinging to a single purpose. Now she was faced with the reality of her plans, of sleeping in a room with several dozen nearly naked men.

She steeled herself. A role, she told herself. This was simply another role.
You can do it.

The room was dirty and overcrowded, probably because of all the extra hands being hired for the drive. And, dear heaven, it smelled. Her nose twitched at the undeniably gamy odor.

She'd already picked her space earlier when no one was there. She had hoped to find an empty place, a corner, in which she could make herself as small and as invisible as possible. But the only two beds she'd seen without belongings on them were two upper bunks in the middle of the room.

Now she headed straight for the one she'd chosen and where she'd left her bedroll, trying her best to ignore the disrobing men. But there was no escape from the cowboys who'd thrust off their shirts as soon as they gained the door. Some wore union suits under their shirts. Some did not.

“Sonofabitch, but it's hot for the first of May,” she heard one of the hands say.

Gabrielle agreed. She, however, couldn't strip down to nearly nothing as most of them had. Futilely, she tried to keep her eyes on the bare boards of the floor and, at the same time, watch where she was going.

“Hey, there's that kid,” one cowboy said. “Old Kirby couldn't have hired him.”

Another chimed in. “I heard Pepper grumbling that some brat had been stuffed down his throat.”

Gabrielle heard it all, knew she'd been meant to hear. She said nothing, just kept walking, her heart pounding. Suddenly, though, someone was in her path, and she had to stop.

“What's your name, kid?” the man said as several others gathered around, looking at her curiously.

Beneath her hat brim, she threw him the look of bravado she'd perfected during hours in front of the mirror.
Play the role
, she ordered herself.
That's all you have to do
.

“Name's Gabe Lewis,” she said off-handedly.

“How old are you?”

“How old are
you
?” she retorted.

“He's telling you it's none of yer business, Jake,” another cowboy said with amusement, “just in case you didn't figure it out.”

“You really goin' with us?” another man, lolling on a bunk, asked. “In that getup? You'll roast to death 'fore we leave Texas.”

“Hell, he won't make the second day.”

“If the sun don't get him, Pepper will,” chuckled another man.

“Leave him alone,” came a voice from the doorway, and though she couldn't see him over the heads of the cowboys, Gabrielle immediately identified it. No one would mistake the burr in his words. Her stomach tightened. She didn't want a protector, or need one. Especially this man.

“They don't bother me,” she said.

“None of your business, anyway, Scotty,” one of the hands said angrily.

“I'm making it my business,” the Scot said, moving toward her until he stood just feet away.

“You got a whole lot to learn, Scotty,” said another man, “even if you are the boss's pet.”

Gabrielle watched Drew Cameron's face pale, the hazel eyes turn deadly cold. “Go to bloody hell, Jake,” he said.

“You gonna make me?”

The bunkhouse suddenly simmered with tension. Faces were filled with expectation and avid curiosity. She watched the Scotsman's hands ball into fists, then relax. “I don't want to fight you, Jake.”

“You just good at ambushing men?” the man called Jake taunted, and Gabrielle felt herself go rigid. “I heard you saved Kingsley's hide by shooting some fellows from the back.”

She waited for Cameron to answer, to deny the accusation, but he didn't. He simply turned around, nothing in his face signifying he'd even heard the damning words. It was as if everyone stopped existing for him.

Using the moment to reach her bunk, she climbed up and sat cross-legged in the center. She watched as the Scotsman walked a couple of yards, stopped beside the bunk next to hers, and sat down on the lower bunk, obviously oblivious now to others in the room.

Ambush.
The word echoed in her head. Again, Gabrielle wondered if it had been he who had killed her father and tried to kill her. And it occurred to her suddenly that if Drew Cameron were her father's killer, he might recognize her despite her disguise. The killer had been standing in the shadows, and she'd caught only a glimpse of him, but she and her father had been well-illuminated by a street lamp. If Cameron were the killer and did recognize her, he might believe she could eventually recognize him. And, if that were so, then it could explain why he'd helped her secure the job with Kingsley. Having found her, he'd want to keep her close by—so he could finish her off in his own good time.

She shivered in the heat. Implausible, yes. She wouldn't recognize herself. Yet … why else would he be kind to an itinerant boy?

Her eyes went back to him. Just her luck she would choose the bunk next to his. He was taking off his shirt, and she knew her eyes widened. Unlike most of the other cowboys, he wore no union suit under his shirt and his chest was bare—and stunning. Afraid she'd be caught staring, she couldn't avoid casting furtive glances at the Scotsman. She couldn't help it. Couldn't help noticing the sinewy muscles that rippled when he moved, the light brown hair that caught gold even in the dim light, then blended into a sun-bronzed body. She felt her cheeks flush and her stomach flutter in disturbing ways as she watched him bend down and pull off his boots with careless disregard for his companions.

She finally forced her gaze away, but even as her eyes focused on a piece of flooring, the image of Drew Cameron remained in her mind. She tried again to picture him as the obscure figure that she'd seen standing in the shadow with a gun in his hand, but the image wouldn't come into focus. She simply didn't know what to think. It seemed, lately, that her intuition was failing her.

She sighed, feeling every bit as uncomfortable inside herself as well as outside. Which brought her thoughts around to another problem. Her clothes. She longed to thrust them off. She longed most of all for a bath.

The other occupants of the bunkhouse had already relieved themselves of most of their clothes, some down to their longjohns. Despite her fear of being the center of attention, she noticed the drovers were all otherwise engaged, either lounging on their bunks, talking to the man in the next cot, or starting a poker game at one end of the room. Everyone seemed to have lost interest in her. Drew Cameron, wittingly or not, had diverted their attention.

Gabrielle took stock of her situation. Her well-considered plans had not included a roomful of half-naked men. She felt her skin prickle, and she was only too aware of her strangeness, that she was the only person in the bunkhouse still wearing a hat and jacket. But she was not about to part with either. They were her armor, her shield.

They were also hot as Hades.

Air. She had to get some air. She slipped from the bunk and moved toward the door, passing close by the men playing poker. She pulled her hat low on her forehead, keeping her eyes straight, aimed at the door and avoiding all the near-naked bodies.

“Where you goin', kid?” asked one man at the poker game taking place on the floor between two bunks. “You wanna join us?”

Her pace slowed, and she glanced down at the cards on the floor. She was tempted. She really was. The glint in their eyes said they were ready to take on a tenderfoot. And she could give them a good run for their money. Stagehands had often entertained her with games of chance when she was very young, waiting for her parents to finish their performances. She had later perfected the skill as she waited for her turns onstage. But she wasn't supposed to have any money, nor any marketable skill. She was, she reminded herself, a penniless, desperate orphan.

“Don't have any money,” she said shortly.

“We'll take your marker.”

“Like hell we will,” said another player.

Drew Cameron suddenly appeared next to her, apparently continuing his role of self-appointed protector. But he said nothing, his eyes studying her with the gleam of amusement she'd seen before. She still hadn't figured whether his apparent kindness earlier had been some kind of secret joke or something more sinister. Perhaps he just enjoyed playing with people, like cats played with mice before finishing them off.

That must be why her skin tingled whenever she saw him, why her blood seemed thicker, hotter. A simple matter of awareness. Not awareness of a man but of danger. She hoped to heaven it wasn't anything more.

“I gotta go see 'bout my horse,” she said and turned away, valiantly trying to keep from falling over one of the sitting men.

“That nag,” someone chuckled. “Looks like the hindquarters of bad luck. Ain't good for nothin' but Injun food.”

In the brief time she'd been in the West, Gabrielle had learned many things. Among those things was that calling a man's horse Injun food was one of the worst ways to insult him. She felt her temper rising. “Empty wagons,” she said, looking pointedly at the speaker, “rattle the most.”

“Gotcha there,” a man she didn't recognize said. “He means you, Hank.”

The Scotsman chuckled.

Hank swung angrily on him. “I wouldn't smile if I were you. You're 'bout as handy as a hog playing a fiddle.”

Gabrielle started to inch away toward the door, but the cowboy called Hank stopped her. “I'll bet that horse don't last a week.”

“He'll last as long as you,” she retorted angrily. “But I ain't got nothin' to bet with.”

The cowboy shrugged. “That hat.”

She hesitated. She needed the hat. It, more than anything else she wore, gave her a sense of protection. But in the few days she'd owned Billy Bones, she'd grown very protective of him. And she believed she'd been rewarded for the love she'd given him. Billy hadn't minded her inexperience. He'd tolerated, without complaint, the unhappy fact that his back went up when her backside came down.
Her
Billy had both courage and heart.