Scotsman Wore Spurs (3 page)

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 with 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.…

“I can take care of him alone,” the boy said rudely.

“You got a name for this animal?”

“Billy, if it's any of your business.”

“That's a bloody odd name for a horse.”

“It ain't your horse.”

“No,” Drew conceded.

The boy removed the bit from Billy's mouth and took off the halter. Then he returned to the unbuckled saddle and slid it off the horse's back. He struggled with it, and Drew saw immediately that Gabe Lewis was not adept at handling tack. There was no deftness that comes with practice.

Drew's gaze went to the boy's hands. Gloves covered them. New gloves. Upon closer inspection, it seemed that the rest of his clothes were fairly new, too, though effort had been extended to hide that fact. The dirt, while plentiful, was too uniform for it to have been accumulated naturally, and the denim trousers were still stiff, not pliant.

“Don't you know it ain't polite to stare?”

The lad's angry question brought Drew's gaze up quickly. “Sorry,” he said, making an effort to be less obvious—though he continued his inspection.

Something else didn't ring true. The lad's speech was odd. The way he said “ain't,” as if it were an unfamiliar word. Drew had an ear for sounds. It was a natural talent that had been invaluable in gaming; he could always detect nuances in an opponent's voice: desperation, bluffing, fear. He thought he detected all those things in Gabe Lewis's youthful intonations.

Putting aside desperation and bluffing, both of which could be explained by poverty and need, why would the lad be afraid? Did he have something to hide? Could he be a runaway, or worse?

Drew hadn't forgotten the ambush nor the possibility that someone might try again. And he remembered the ambusher's words.
That little guy.
He very much doubted this slip of a lad could be involved in anything as savage as the ambush, but he had seen danger and dynamite come in much smaller packages.