Scotsman Wore Spurs (15 page)

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 considered 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.

The frantic cries of mother and calf stirred her anger. She applied her heels to Billy's sides and cantered over to Damien.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He looked at her with disgust and spoke curtly. “He's too small to travel or cross that river,” he said curtly.

She understood immediately what he was planning to do, and her stomach knotted. She looked at the calf tugging to get away, and at the mother bawling plaintively.

“He can go in the hoodlum wagon,” she said.

Damien closed his eyes for a moment with an expression of pure disgust. “Hell, just what we need. A fryin'-sized pilgrim trying to tell us how to run a trail drive. Go back to the chuck wagon.”

“No,” she said.

Damien's neck turned red. He was a good-looking man and would have been even more so if his countenance weren't so marred by dissatisfaction. It had been her observation that he blustered his way through things, rather than think them out, and she often wondered why Kingsley left him in charge when he was gone.

Family
. Damien was part of Kingsley's family. It was the only explanation. The hurting came back. Kirby Kingsley had family. She didn't.

Sliding off Billy's back, Gabrielle went over to the calf and stroked its sleek head. Damien started to yell at her to get away and do as he'd said, but he was interrupted.

“What's wrong?”

The sound of Drew Cameron's voice brought Gabrielle's head up fast, and she marveled that she hadn't heard him approach.

“I have to put the calf down. You explain it to him,” Damien said. “Damn fool kid.” Without waiting for a response, he began again to drag the calf away.

“No,” she yelled, throwing her arms around the calf's neck as it looked at her with great brown eyes.

Damien swore.

“Gabe, he'd never be able to keep up,” the Scotsman explained, jumping down from his horse to walk over to her. “He'll kill himself trying. Putting him down is the kindest thing to do. And Damien has to take it away from the others … the smell of blood makes them crazy.”

She wanted to say that it would make her crazy, too, but with the sound of the cow and calf bellowing at each other ringing in her ears, all she could do was stare at the Scotsman, pleading with him not to let this happen. In some remote corner of her mind, she knew she was being irrational. She didn't care. Other calves might die, but this one … she simply couldn't let it happen. Not with the mother crying right in front of her.

Half-choking on the words, she managed to say, “I'll take care of it,” she said. “The wagon …”

Cameron looked at her for a moment, their gazes locking, then, with a sigh, he rolled his eyes heavenward.

Speaking to Damien, he said, “I'm off now. I'll be going back to the chuck wagon. Look, your uncle would be happy if we saved one of his cows. You know that mother's going to go looking for her calf and might wander off. Gabe can take the calf in the wagon and tie the mother behind.”

“Sonofabitch,” Damien swore. “You gonna do that for every calf born on the drive?”

Drew shrugged. “There's no harm in trying it on this one, is there? And it will save you some time. You'll have to take that calf off a long way if you don't want to spook the whole herd.”

Damien snorted in derision. “My uncle will think you're crazy.”

“Probably,” Drew said easily.

With her breath lodged in her lungs, Gabe waited for Damien's decision. She could almost see his mind working. If the calf disrupted the camp, he could blame it on the Scotsman. And not having to take the calf off
would
save time.

“Go ahead,” he said finally. “Take him.”

Gabrielle breathed again. Quickly she slipped the rope from around the calf's neck. It ran to its mother, who immediately started nuzzling it.

Cameron took the rope off his saddle, walked over to the cow. She watched as he slipped off the other drover's rope, and put his own on. He grinned at her with that devil-go-to-hell smile that made her legs unsteady and her breath short and ragged.

“Know anything about calves?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I think you're going to learn cow real fast.”

Gabrielle's adoption of a calf—and the Scotsman's part in it—made them both the butt of jokes the rest of the evening.

“Got a bull that needs a ride,” one drover quipped. “Been complainin' 'bout walking too far.”

“Scotty's got a soft streak,” said another. “Hey Scotty, what about a game of cards?”

“Hey Two-Bits, that calf would make one hell of a sonofabitch stew.”

Gabrielle suffered through the taunts and Pepper's scowl. The cook's response made all the other heckling seem like congratulations.

“Weren't your place to buck Kingsley,” he said. “Nobody likes puttin' down a calf, but ain't nothin' else to do with 'em. Kingsley will tell you that. You jus' wait.”

But Kingsley didn't tell her any such thing. To her utter amazement, when he had heard the story, he had merely looked at the Scotsman as if he were insane, then back as her as if he expected no better.

“That damn calf causes any problems I'll shoot him myself,” he said. “You'll want to do it yourself after a day.” And with that, his lips thinned, and he walked away.

Stunned, Gabrielle looked at the Scotsman, who was leaning against the back of the chuck wagon. He winked at her, and her heart skipped a beat, all thoughts of Kingsley wiped instantly from her mind. Even covered with dust, Drew Cameron was an extraordinarily striking man, his tawny hair and golden eyes and wide sensuous mouth making it almost hurt to look at him.