Scotsman Wore Spurs (25 page)

She sat down in the middle of the wagon, surrounded by barrels and boxes and Pepper's bed, which she'd declined to adopt, and said, “I forgot to bring in the jar to refill it.” She took off her hat and looked up at Drew with eyes that had seldom failed to get her what she wanted.

He wasn't buying it. A muscle in his cheek jumped, and his eyes were cool as he spoke. “Just what are you looking for?”

She decided to go on the attack. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on watch.”

“Did Kirby tell you that?” he said. “Is that why you thought it safe to rummage through his things? Is it money you're after? If it is, I can give you some.”

Gabrielle felt as low as a worm under a rock. He had thought her a liar, and now a thief. She could hardly deny the first, but the second charge struck straight through to her heart. She couldn't bear to look in his face and see the disappointment. Disappointment in her.

Suddenly, Gabrielle knew that Drew Cameron was more important to her than anything else. More important than Kirby Kingsley, more important than finding justice.

“I don't need money,” she said as she stood, bowing her head so she wouldn't hit the top of the wagon. She made her way to where he stood at the opened flap and reached out, asking for his hand.

He gave it to her, wrapping her hand in his, and she felt his strength and his warmth. It would be so easy to slide into his arms, she thought. But the anger in his eyes kept her from acting on the impulse. Instead, she scrambled down without his help to stand beside him.

When she was on her own two feet, weak as they were, she pushed the hat back on her head, pulling it down over her forehead. Then, peering up at him from under it, she searched his features.

She knew that she already had strained his patience to the breaking point. Finding her trying to break into Kingsley's strongbox was undoubtedly the final straw. She'd given him more reason than he ever would need to tell Kingsley what he knew about her.

Unless she gave him a better reason
not
to tell.

Gabrielle turned to survey the camp. Coffee was plentiful, so were the beans, staying hot over coals. A few drovers were asleep under trees. The next watch wouldn't be over for another hour.

Turning back to Drew, she said, “I'm taking Honor for a walk. Would you go with us?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Aye,” he said.

She was aware of his watching her as she went over to the hoodlum wagon to fetch Honor. The dog regarded her approach with little enthusiasm, his head between his paws.

“Ah, Honor,” she said, with a lump in her throat. “How can I make you feel better?”

“Time,” the Scotsman said behind her. “Time and patience.”

She turned around and looked at him. “Do you have time and patience?”

“It's running out, lass,” he replied. “Your hourglass is nigh onto empty.”

His warning was unmistakable. So was the cool glint in his eyes. She saw no hint of the tenderness he had shown her before, and she doubted that telling him the truth would bring it back. But it was all she had to offer.

Silently, she untied the dog's rope, attached to the wagon wheel. Honor got to his feet readily enough, though his tail still hung glumly between his legs. She gave a slight tug on the rope and he came along, leaving Sammy to bawl in dismay at being left behind.

As she walked, with Drew behind her, Gabrielle felt as tightly wound as wire between telegraph poles.

She reluctantly left the safety of the hoodlum wagon and headed for the patch of scraggly trees upstream that she had scouted earlier. Other trail herders had destroyed almost every patch of green, cut most of the trees, and polluted the water.

They walked in silence for a quarter of a mile, away from any listening ears, over a small rise, where they found some privacy by a giant cottonwood. The tree was too large to be turned into firewood easily and so had managed to survive the cattle drives it had seen pass by. Honor sniffed the ground, his tail raising a trifle as curiosity won over mourning. Gabrielle tied him to the cottonwood, then sat on one of the roots that jutted up from the earth.

The Scotsman leaned against the tree, obviously waiting for explanations she was still loath to give. Her heart's cadence became erratic as she looked up at him. A day's growth of beard roughened the stark planes of his face, and his eyes had the predatory gleam of a mountain cat. His hard, lean body was all power, all strength, and she blushed, remembering the feel of it, bare and warm and vital, on hers.

“Gabrielle?”

She swallowed hard, still uncertain whether this was a good idea. But she would lose him, for sure, if she said nothing. She might lose him anyway, but at least by telling him she had some chance.

Her gaze met his. “I don't know where to start,” she said slowly.

“The beginning is usually a good place,” he said. “Is Gabrielle your real name?”

“My middle name. My whole name is Maris Gabrielle Parker.” She held her breath a moment, wondering if he would recognize it. But his eyes reflected only interest, not familiarity.

“And why is Maris Gabrielle Parker masquerading as a boy on a cattle drive?”

“I didn't lie about someone being after me,” she said softly.

“But you did lie about the reason,” he finished.

She lowered her head. “Yes.”

“So, what
is
the reason you're being followed?”

She couldn't keep staring up at him. She held out her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then took it and sat next to her.

The silence stretched between them for several moments.

“Gabrielle?” he persisted.

“I don't know whether I can trust you,” she said desperately.

An instant of silence passed, then he spoke in ironic tones. “
You're
worried about trusting
me
? And what in bloody hell have I done that makes you think you can't?”

She hesitated, then said slowly, “You're friends with … with Mr. Kingsley.”

She felt his body stiffen beside her, felt his fingers go rigid as they were wrapped around hers, but he didn't speak.

“Swear you won't tell him,” she said desperately. “Swear it.”

“I canna' do that,” he said. “Not till I know what I'd be swearing to.”

She looked at him, pleading. “I think that Kirby Kingsley had my father murdered.”

Drew's mouth actually dropped open. “Kirby?”

“Yes,” she said miserably.

He stared at her for a moment, then uttered a harsh laugh. “You're daft,” he said, letting go of her hand.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself as she shook her head. “I'm not daft. My father … James Parker … was killed three months ago in San Antonio. In the street. I was with him. The gunman shot at me, too, but Papa threw himself on top of me before the man could get a clear shot. I didn't get a good look at the gunman, only a quick glimpse. He was at the end of the boardwalk, a long way off, and it was dark. Papa died in my arms, but … but before he died, he said, ‘Kingsley. It's him. Danger.'”

Drew went on staring at her for what seemed a long time as if she'd lost her mind. Finally, he gave his head a shake, saying, “This is insane. Maybe we'd better back up. Tell me what were you doing in San Antonio.”

Gabrielle bit her lip. Many considered actresses and singers, who entertained in saloons as well as music halls, to be only one rung up on the ladder from the oldest profession in the world.

“Gabrielle?” Drew's voice had sharpened, and a quick glance at him told her he would accept nothing but a full confession. Well, that was what she planned to give, whether he liked it or not.

“I was performing at the San Antonio Palace,” she said. “I'm a singer, and my father played for me.”

“A singer?”

“And an actress,” she said, almost defiantly.

She held her breath as she watched her reply register. Comprehension slowly spread across his features, and the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

“So that's how you did it,” he said. “I wondered how a well-brought-up miss managed to walk like an urchin off the Glasgow docks.”

“I've played boys on the stage,” she explained, her tone as dull and hopeless as her mood.

His next words startled her.

“Why Kirby?”

She blinked at him. “I told you what my father said as he died.”

Drew shook his head. “But
why
would Kirby want to kill your father—or take a shot at you?”

Gabrielle hesitated.

“Gabrielle, for God's sake—”

“My father and Mr. Kingsley and two other men committed a crime together twenty-five years ago.”

Drew pulled back, frowning. “Explain.”

Gabrielle swallowed. “When Papa was dying, he also said some other words. ‘In the trunk. Letter. Explains it all.' I—I found the letter in his trunk, and it was with a newspaper article about Kirby Kingsley and this cattle drive. Papa had seen the article and written me the letter in case”—she drew a small, ragged breath—“in case anything happened to him, so I would know the truth.”

She paused, casting a glance at Drew, trying to gauge his reaction. His face was inscrutable.

“Go on,” he said.

“Papa wrote that he and Kingsley and these other two men robbed a bank. A clerk was killed during the robbery. Afterward, the men, including my father, agreed to separate, take different names, and never meet again.” She looked at Drew, begging him to understand. “They could still hang, you see. All of them.”

Drew frowned. “But if they changed their names, how did your father know that Kirby was—”

“There was a sketch of Kingsley with the article about the drive. Papa recognized his face.”

Drew held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, sighing as he stared at the river flowing at their feet.

Gabrielle stared at the muddy water, too, its surface glittering under the last rays of the sun. She felt very much like Honor, lying on the riverbank several yards away. Heartbroken. As if life might as well end here, for the future loomed empty and lonely before her. Empty and lonely without Drew Cameron. He simply
had
to believe her.

Finally, Drew spoke. “Gabrielle,” he said softly. “Did you talk to the law?”

“Of course,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. “They didn't believe me any more than you do. Kingsley was too important to be accused or even questioned.”

Drew sighed. “What did the sheriff say about your father's letter?”

“I didn't show it to him,” she said, a hint of defiance creeping into her voice. “I knew he didn't believe me, and I didn't want to ruin my father's name, not without proof.”

The silence was deafening. Gabrielle could almost hear the unasked questions, the doubt, and futility filled her.

“You don't believe me,” she said.

Drew ignored the question. Instead, he spoke in an odd, curious tone. “You said this happened in May?”

She nodded.

“Kirby was attacked in March,” he said slowly. “He was ambushed.”

Her head jerked around, and she looked him in the eye. “Mr. Kingsley?”

“Aye,” Drew nodded. “Some coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

“Ambushed?” she repeated. “Are you
sure?
”

Again, he nodded. “I was there. I overheard three men in a saloon, plotting the ambush. Someone had offered them five thousand dollars to kill Kingsley. The next morning, I followed them and … well, let's leave it that their plans went awry.”

Gabrielle was stunned. She didn't doubt Drew's story for an instant—and she was certain he'd foiled the bushwhackers' plans. But if someone had attacked her father
and
Kingsley, then who …?

A shiver raced up her spine, and Drew's next comment only gave voice to her sudden fear.

“Four men,” he said. “And you think you know who two of them are. Who are the others?”

“I don't know,” she breathed. “My father didn't give me their names in the letter, and I supposed they'd be different from the names he knew, anyway.”

“So it would seem,” Drew murmured. “But suppose you tell me what you thought you would discover on the drive? Did you believe Kirby would confess to you?”

Gabrielle let her gaze fall to her lap, her fingers toying with the ratty edge of her coat. “I didn't know. Perhaps I thought I could
make
him confess. I even … thought I might kill him myself.”

In the silence that followed her announcement, Gabrielle drew a long, steadying breath. Without looking at Drew, she continued. “When I left San Antonio, I was … I didn't know what I should do. I kept seeing my father, lying on the street in a pool of blood. I didn't have anyplace to go. No other family. All I could think about was getting some kind of justice for my father, no matter what it cost.” She waved a hand in a helpless gesture. “Then, somewhere along the trail … I think it might have been the night of the stampede, or maybe the night we”—she shot him a quick glance—“the night we spent by the creek, after Willow Springs. Anyway, something happened, and I realized that I couldn't shoot Kingsley. I couldn't shoot anyone!” Her hands closed into fists in her lap. “But I still wanted justice. So I thought I would try to find some kind of evidence that would prove he'd had my father killed. That's what I was doing in the chuck wagon. Looking for something—anything—that would tell me once and for all that he did it. Or at least explain why it happened.”

When Gabrielle stopped speaking, she was breathless, her heart pounding in her chest. Frightened of what she'd see, she turned to look at Drew and found him looking at her as if he'd never seen her before.

“You planned to shoot Kirby,” he said slowly. “Then you planned to gather evidence against him. You thought he had murdered your father—and also tried to murder you. And all this time, you've given no thought at all about what he might do if he discovers who you are.” He shook his head in wonder. “You scare the bloody hell out of me, lass.”