Scotsman Wore Spurs (22 page)

But he simply couldn't catapult the lie.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did you lie to me?”

He felt, more than saw, her flinch.

A moment of silence passed, then in a low, clear voice, she said, “Do you really have to ask?”

He turned his head and looked into her eyes. God, but they were blue. Such an intense blue. And all that intensity was focused on him. Tenderness, something that might even be close to love, surged through him.

But he didn't want love, didn't trust it. He had no idea how to give it, or take it.

“I told you never to lie to me again.” His voice wasn't even his own. It sounded scratchy, harsh.

“I'm not sorry,” she said softly. “I could never be sorry for what just happened. Please don't you be.”

He wasn't. Deep in his heart he wasn't. That's what scared him.

Scared? Bloody hell, he was
terrified
.

His hand went to her face, tracing its contours, hesitating at the corner of her mouth. “How many other lies?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, and he knew there were others. A heavy lump settled in his heart. He didn't know if he could survive many more untruths.

“How many?” he said again.

Her fingers pressed tightly against his. “There are … some things I can't tell you,” she said.

“There's no one after you,” he said, probing as he watched her eyes.

She nodded her head. “That
is
true.”

His anger transferred to that other person, that unknown assailant who would dare to harm her. “Why?” he asked. “Why can't you tell me the all of it?”

“Because I don't know the all of it,” she said. “I only know that a person I loved very much was killed. And someone shot at me.”

“A person you loved?” Jealousy stirred within, completely unfamiliar, distinctly uncomfortable. “Who was it?” he asked.

“A relative,” she said.

“I thought you
did
know all of it,” he said. “Your father the banker, selling you in marriage to a creditor. A friend being hurt trying to help you.” He suddenly realized his anger ran so deep because he cared so much about her. Each of her lies was a dagger in his heart.

He rolled away from her and buttoned his shirt, then found his pants and pulled them on. He threw her clothing over to her, ignoring the pain in her eyes.

“Drew?”

“Get dressed,” he said coldly and turned away, going over to the horses. He closed his eyes, an avalanche of regret rolling through his body. He had to get her out of his system. But how could he when she'd claimed a deeper place than anyone ever had? How could he love a woman he didn't trust?

His father's voice, speaking words he hadn't wanted to hear, echoed through his mind.
Your mother was a whore. You're not my son. Is that what you wanted to know?
He hadn't wanted to know, but he'd
needed
to know. And the words had explained so much. But they'd come too late, when he was grown, and the damage had been done to a bewildered little boy who had never understood why he was hated so. By the time he'd learned why, he'd already lost any ability he might have had to trust. And he'd already been convinced he wasn't worthy of someone else's love.

He felt as if he'd been given a glimpse of heaven only to be jerked back, mere moments later, into hell.

He turned. Gabrielle had pulled on her trousers and a shirt. Her short hair was tousled from his hands, from their lovemaking, and her lips were swollen. Her eyes, as she straightened to look at him, were beseeching, but her back was ramrod straight.

“I'll never be sorry,” she said defiantly.

A gnawing ache filled his belly. He wanted to take her in his arms and whisper sweet words to her. He wanted to slide back into her and know the ecstasy of their mating. He wanted to do all that, and more—and he could; she would welcome him.

But he didn't trust her.

“
I
am,” he said bitterly. “Let's go.”

Mounting his horse, he rode away, leaving her to don the remainder of her clothes, mount alone, and ride in his dust.

Gabrielle knew she'd made a mistake. She had known it from the beginning, but she hadn't realized how truly dreadful a mistake it had been. Not until she'd seen the emptiness, the pain, the utter desolation in Drew's eyes. Eyes that had completely dismissed her.

She wanted to tell him the truth. All of it.

But how could she? She'd seen for herself Drew's affection and concern for Kingsley. How could she tell him that she thought his friend was a murderer? How could she make him choose?

And what if he chose Kingsley?

She would die.

But could that pain be worse than what she was experiencing at this very moment? Would it really be any worse to have him choose his friend over her than to have him ride away without a backward glance only minutes after he'd made love to her?

She could still feel the fullness of him inside her, the touch of his hands on her body, the tenderness of his kisses on her lips.

She also felt the tears trickling down her cheeks.

What had she done?

Chapter Twelve

The following morning, Gabrielle bounced along on the seat of the hoodlum wagon, her eyes peeled for Indians. She thought the terrain appeared incapable of sustaining any form of life. The plains were an endless sea of parched dirt, broken only by piles of stones and scrub. The desolation surrounding her was a match for her mood.

She'd spent a restless night, wondering if she should tell Drew everything. Should she trust his instincts and basic integrity with her life? The answer was always the same: She wanted to tell him. But what if he didn't believe her? What if she were forced to leave the drive, never to know the truth about Kingsley? Worse, what if, by telling Drew, she put him in danger, too?

The wagon banged over a rock she hadn't noticed, and she nearly fell off the seat. Trying to stay alert, she gripped the reins of the mules and sighed.

She'd learned a few new facts about Kingsley that morning over the breakfast cook fire. A couple of the drovers had been talking, and she'd overheard one say that the trail boss had started the Circle K twenty-five years ago with a small stake.

Twenty-five years ago. At that same time, her father had left Texas for the East, with a stake of his own and a secret that would eventually kill him. Impossible that it could be coincidence.

But what could she do with the information? It proved nothing. It merely helped to confirm her suspicions.

The day wore on slowly. She spent many hours watching the wagon ahead of her, thinking about the injured cattleman riding inside of it. Thinking, too, about Pepper, for whom she'd come to feel a grudging respect, even affection.

He hadn't felt well again this morning. His arthritis, he'd said, was acting up. He'd left many of his chores to her, including the bread baking, which told her exactly how ill he must feel. Bread and pies were his pride. He'd never allowed her to touch either. She had watched and learned, though. Her bread hadn't been as light as his, but it had been acceptable.

She should feel proud, she guessed. Satisfied with her accomplishment. But all she felt was heartbroken. And no matter what she tried to think about, her mind wandered back to the look on Drew's face as she'd seen him over the cook fire—cool, impersonal, indifferent, his eyes devoid of emotion.

The look haunted her throughout the long, hot day.

Every movement of the wagon hurt like hell, but Kirby was more concerned about Pepper than himself. As he lay on the hard bench inside the chuck wagon, trying not to fall off as they bumped over the rock-hard ground, he pondered the old man's behavior. He wasn't convinced that arthritis was the only thing causing Pepper difficulty. Watching him now, through the wagon's open front, Kirby noted Pepper sitting stiffly on the seat, driving the mules automatically without his usual picturesque curses. The simple fact he wasn't grousing was a sure sign that something was wrong.

Dammit,
everything
had gone wrong on this drive. The stampede. Juan's death and Ace's injuries. The ambush. The delays. This morning, he'd noticed that even Cameron had grown tight-lipped and silent, and Kirby had to wonder if the devil was riding his trail.

Shifting on the bench in a futile effort to get comfortable, he heaved a sigh. He wished Damien would return from scouting. He'd been gone since yesterday before dusk and should have been back by now. Maybe, he thought, it hadn't been wise to send his nephew out as scout, but he'd had little choice. Somebody had to do it, and no one else knew the territory or had the experience.

With another deep sigh, Kirby peered through the front of the wagon and spoke to his cook. “Pepper?”

“Huh?”

“You all right?”

“Gettin' old, that's all.”

“That kid …?”

Pepper grunted. “He's doin' okay. Better'n I 'spected.”

Kirby was silent, weighing the response. It was high praise, coming from Pepper, but had the kid really earned it—or was Pepper saying it because he knew he was failing?

Thinking about the trail ahead, Kirby remembered a trading post thirty miles north where there was a doctor. He'd see to it that Pepper got a good looking over when they got there.

He eyed the old man's back. “We've seen a lot of drives together, haven't we, Pepper?”

“Yep.”

“Are they getting harder or are we getting older?”

“Mebbe you outta leave 'em to yer nephews.”

“You think they're ready?”

Pepper's reply was silence.

“I don't either,” Kirby sighed.

Pepper grunted.

“What do you think of Cameron?”

“Scotty?”

“Yeah.”

“Don' know what he's doin' here. He ain't no drover.”

“He's learning ‘cow.'”

Pepper shook his gray head. “He's a wanderer, that one. Never does stay still. Ridin' off every chance he gets.”

“You saying you don't trust him?”

“Ain't sayin' nuthin' of the kind,” Pepper growled. “He saved Ace. That's a fact. Jus' sayin' he's a wanderer.”

“Like you.”

“Like I
used
to be.” Pepper was silent for a moment or two, then grumbled, “I didn' tell ya b'fore 'cause I wanted t' come along, but I've got me a bad ticker. It's been slowin' me down some, more 'n I reckoned on.”

Kirby stiffened. He'd known Pepper for twenty years or more. The old man had been cook for the outfit, on and off, throughout that time. He would disappear for a year or two then come back. “Just got itchy feet,” he'd report. He'd obviously recognized a kindred spirit in the Scotsman.

“I want the doc at Haley's Trading Post to check you out,” Kirby said.

When Pepper didn't protest, he felt his heart sink, and as he lay back on the bench and closed his eyes, worry pressed down on him. Worry about Pepper, about where Damien could be, about getting the herd to Abilene without further mishaps. Most of all, he worried about who was out there, waiting for him, waiting to kill him.

He counted three possibilities. Three men's names. And he thought about those men, and the man he'd been when he'd known them, as he endured the long, hot, pain-filled day.

Drew worked the pinto to get a wayward cow back into the herd. Really, the pinto sprinted ahead of the steer and drove it back where it belonged without much effort on his part. Still, he enjoyed the action and almost would have welcomed another sudden spurt of independence from one of his charges.

Hell, he'd have welcomed
any
diversion from thoughts of Gabrielle.

Because of the danger from Indians, the wagons were staying close now, not moving several miles in front of the herd. He could see the back of the hoodlum wagon, jostling along in the ruts other wagons had made as they passed this way. Riding left point he couldn't even get her out of his sight, much less his mind.

Don't think about her. Think about something else. Think about owning a ranch. Think about Ben and Lisbeth. Think about anything but Gabrielle.…

He thought about Indians. Not that he knew enough about them to occupy his thoughts for long. He had seen a few in towns, usually on foot, and he'd listened to tales about their horsemanship, their fierceness, their atrocities. He'd heard enough to make him want to know more about the wild men of the plains. The part of him that was Scot sympathized with their desire to remain free, to fight off their would-be conquerors, as his people had fought the English for several hundred years. His people, too, had been slaughtered.

As he was dwelling on these gloomy thoughts—which, anyway, were an improvement on even gloomier thoughts of the woman driving the wagon ahead of him—he saw Damien riding toward the herd.

He spurred his horse forward, wondering what had kept him so long. He knew Kirby had worried like hell.

“Small detachment of cavalry ahead,” Damien said, pulling in to ride beside him. “The lieutenant says a bunch of renegade Kiowas took off from the reservation with some of their families. They've been sighted north of here. Some Utes, too. Those two tribes are blood enemies. And both are probably needing food.”

Frowning, Drew muttered, “All we need now is to get caught in the middle of an Indian war.”

Damien hesitated, then said, “Uncle Kirby says you're good with that rifle. Go on up and ride with the wagons.” Without waiting for a reply, Damien rode back to warn the other drovers.

Drew spurred his horse, heading for the chuck wagon. When he reached it, he paced alongside the bench. Pepper grunted at his arrival. Kirby, his head still wrapped in bandages and his face sheet-white, was sitting on the bench beside the cook. He was holding a rifle.

He nodded to Drew. “Damien told you?”

Drew nodded.