Scotsman Wore Spurs (30 page)

A bark cleared his thoughts. Evidently the dog had found the object of their search. And Drew had a job to do.

I promised.

Gabrielle kept telling herself that as she went from one man to another, seeking two willing hands to milk a cow.

Sheepishly, one after another declined. Several refused, she knew, because Damien had warned them off from helping her with the baby. Two others said they'd never milked a cow before. Others simply disappeared when they saw her coming.

She'd glared at Damien for his part in the joint refusal, then returned to the child. The infant desperately needed nourishment. She had tried to crumble a biscuit in some water, but the baby couldn't eat the soggy mixture.

She was pleading with him once again to open his little mouth and try when the flap of her wagon opened and she saw Kirby Kingsley's face. Her body stiffened as she prepared to do battle for the child in her arms.

“Damien told me you found a baby?”

She tightened her arms around the infant and nodded.

“How old is it?”

She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “I'm not sure. I think not more than a few months.”

Kingsley shook his head. “Scotty's calling this Noah's ark. Just how many more orphans were you planning to adopt?”

Her eyes met his in the flickering light of the oil lamp. She couldn't suppress a small shudder, waiting for some kind of angry ultimatum. Instead, a small twinkle in his eyes jolted her expectations.

“I'm not—I mean … they seem to find me,” she stammered with a bit of a quaver but a lot of defiance.

“Damien says you're trying to find someone to milk that damn cow.”

She nodded.

“For an Indian baby?” he asked. “You know what kind of trouble you're inviting?”

“Everyone keeps wanting to tell me,” she replied.

“I've spent half my life fighting Indians,” Kingsley said. “So have most of the people in Texas. And other places I could name.”

“Not this baby,” she declared. “Your nephew Damien said that nits make lice. Is that your belief, too?”

“No, it isn't,” he said steadily. “Legs is one of my best hands. Ornery as hell but as loyal as they come.” His voice was soft, almost soothing.

It was too much. She didn't want this man's sympathy. She didn't want his understanding. She didn't want to like him. Gabrielle fought the tears welling behind her eyes.

“I'll milk the damn cow,” he said. “Isn't as if I've never done it before. Did my share of milking when I was a knee-high to a grasshopper. Be interesting to see if I still have what it takes.”

Before she could say anything, Kingsley disappeared, the canvas wagon flap falling back into place behind him.

Stunned, Gabrielle could only stare at the spot where he had stood. Kirby Kingsley would milk a half-wild cow for an Indian baby no one wanted. Would a cold-blooded murderer care about an Indian child—or any child, for that matter?

Her stomach did somersaults. Had she been so very wrong all this time? And Drew Cameron so very right? If she
were
wrong, how could she ever explain to Kingsley what she'd suspected of him.

The baby in her arms whimpered, and she lowered her head to whisper to him. “You'll be all right, little one. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Warmth settled deep inside her as the crying stopped and the baby looked up at her with great, dark, solemn eyes. The warmth curled around her heart and squeezed. The child was so small, and yet he gazed at her with such wonder and unconditional trust.

And soon he would have milk to drink, a safe place to sleep. And love. She'd make sure he had that. Since her parents had died, she'd had a great deal of love inside her, aching to be spent.

She would have liked to spend a great deal of it on Drew Cameron, but she despaired that he ever would allow it. He was so hard, so cynical—yet so incredibly tender and compassionate. Unfortunately, he was also completely unforgiving.

Gabrielle sighed and turned her attention to making a simple bed for the baby in a large box that had held tins of fruit Pepper had brought along for special occasions. She lined it with flour sacks to make a soft mattress, then laid the baby in it, covered him with her folded blanket, and climbed out of the wagon.

Kirby Kingsley was squatting next to Sammy's mother as one drover clutched the mother's head, trying to keep her still, and a second held back the bleating calf. Every time Kingsley pulled a teat, the cow tried to kick him, and he moved quickly to avoid her hooves as several of the men whooped and hollered.

Finally, Hank stepped up. “Come on, boss, let a real farmer do it.”

“Real farmer, hell,” Kingsley muttered, avoiding another hoof. “I was milking cows before you were born.”

“Mebbe so,” Hank said, “but 'pears you've lost the touch.”

The cow kicked again, this time overturning the pan holding a trickle of milk.

Kingsley rose in evident disgust and invited Hank to try his hand at the task. He winked at Gabrielle, and she recognized his ploy for what it was. He knew very well how to milk a cow.

Hank knelt, and she watched his hands tug and squeeze until a steady stream of milk started filling the pan. When the level rose to halfway up the pan's side, he stopped. Dodging the cow's hooves, he handed the pan to Gabrielle with a deep bow. “There you go, ma'am.”

“Ain't no way to milk a cow,” grumbled an onlooker. “You just let me do it tomorrow.”

“Ah, you couldn't get milk from an already full pail.” another said. “I'll do it tomorrow, Miss Gabrielle.”

“We'll wager on it,” said another, resorting to the drover's time-tested method of settling disputes.

Gabrielle's eyes found Kingsley's. His eyes were smiling, although his lips were in their usual grim, straight line. And she knew she would have no dearth of milkers from now on.

She nodded. She owed the rancher. Again.

During the following week, the baby no one had wanted became everyone's baby. Perhaps it had been Kingsley's tacit approval, or the child's own sweet, docile personality. Whatever the reason was, the child thrived. Because Gabrielle had been called Two-Bits, Drew had jokingly referred to the babe as Ha'Penny. And the name had stuck, even though Gabrielle had wished for something more dignified.

“How's the Ha'Penny?” Hank would inquire when he rode in.

“C'mon, Ha'Penny, smile,” Shorty would tease.

“Ha'Penny been eating awright?” asked Terry. “If that bottle I rigged up for him wears out, just let me know. I've got a second pair of gloves you can use … ten nipples.”

Even Damien's frown disappeared as he watched the Penny gurgle and smile at Honor, who kept a cautious eye on him.

The drovers, Gabrielle realized, seemed to love children. And they clearly worshiped women. She guessed they all wanted homes and families someday, so they were making do with what they had. Which meant that someone was always playing with Ha'Penny.

Everyone but the Scotsman. Although he had handled the babe with such ease and tenderness that first afternoon, he'd shied away since. To Gabrielle, it seemed as clear as a Texas summer day that he feared any kind of intimacy or attachment. And she wondered for the first time whether it was her lies that kept him away … or whether they were only an excuse.

But why would he need an excuse? What—or who—had hurt him so badly that he couldn't even allow himself to get close to a baby?

She vowed to herself to find out. The question was, When? Her responsibilities were multiplying at a dizzying rate. Ha'Penny ate every three or four hours, and she couldn't leave him at any time. She had to look after Sammy and the other calves. Billy was always whinnying for attention. And she had a horde of demanding drovers to feed, doctor, and pacify.

Gabrielle had never dreamed a person could do so much, or that a life could be so full. She had thought hers full when she'd been traveling and performing with her parents, then with her father, but she'd never experienced the deep satisfaction she did now. She'd never felt the kind of joy she did when Ha'Penny smiled at her, or Honor wagged his tail and nuzzled her, or Sammy butted her for attention.

Or when a pan of beans satisfied the drovers. Or when a cup of coffee brought a masculine grunt of approval.

Or when the Scotsman gave her that searching look that, lately, held the faintest hint of … of what? Approval? She could only hope.

Bleached buffalo bones. Thousands of them dotted the trail as the drive reached the last crossing of the Cimarron River.

Drew had never seen anything like it. He never wanted to see anything like it again. Such desolation left him with a sickening sense of waste.

Both he and Kirby were silent as they rode ahead of the herd. After numerous arguments with his nephews and Drew, Kirby had reluctantly begun taking one or the other of them with him when he rode ahead to plan campsites.

“Old maids,” he had called all of them. But they had pointed out that too many ranchers were depending upon him for him to take foolish chances, and finally he'd conceded that they were right.

Drew never took his eyes from the rolling plains, always looking for a telltale flash of sun glinting off gun metal. His gut told him that the danger Kirby had attracted was still real and immediate.

And gnawing at him were his suspicions about Gabrielle. He worried that by keeping her secret from Kirby he might be betraying a friend, or worse, increasing the danger to both of them.

Kirby stopped at the riverbank. “The Cimarron,” he said. “We're not far from Kansas now. And Caldwell. We can get supplies there.”

“No more Indians?”

“Probably not,” Kirby said. “But we'll face angry farmers instead, and they can be every bit as dangerous.”

Drew stared across the shallow riverbed. In three weeks—four, perhaps—they would be in Abilene, and he'd have decisions to make.

Kirby had one now.

“Are you going to try to find a new cook?” he asked.

Kirby gave him a sly half-smile. “Interested in the outcome, are you?”

Drew didn't want to be. He knew he—and probably Kirby—would be better off if Gabrielle took her growing flock and left the drive. But where would she go with an Indian child—never mind the horse and the dog? And what would happen to all the calves she'd rescued along the way? Who else would have the patience to tie colored rags to mother and calf so they could be reunited each night?

Who else would make him feel so alive?

“You haven't answered the question,” Kirby persisted.

Drew sighed heavily. “Aye,” he admitted wryly. “I guess it does.”

“I'm still trying to figure her out,” Kirby admitted. “But the drovers seem content enough, and it'll be hard as hell to find a decent cook this late in the drive.”

“Aye,” Drew responded.

“I've noticed you've been avoiding her,” Kirby said.

“I have no intention of … being involved with a woman,” Drew said after a moment's silence. “Nor do I wish to dally with the marrying sort.”

“And you think Gabrielle's the marrying sort?” Kirby asked with amusement.

“Aye, she's a lady, for all those foolish clothes.”

“Some very strong emotion must have driven her to wear them,” Kirby said thoughtfully. “I should like to see her in a dress. I think she's probably very pretty.”

Jealousy, still unfamiliar and uncomfortable, snaked through him, and he knew Kirby noticed, because he chuckled.

“Don't worry, my friend. If I felt free to marry, there's a lady back home.”

If I felt free …?
Meaning?

Drew knew the question must have been plain in his expression, for Kirby gave him a shrug and a sigh of resignation.

“I did something long ago that could come back to haunt me someday,” he said. “It's kept me from marrying, from having children. I've got some old ghosts living with me. And as long as they're still around, I'll inflict them on no one else.”

Old ghosts. Drew recalled his discussions with Gabrielle about what had happened twenty-five years earlier.

Feeling awkward and embarrassed and horribly presumptive, he began, “If you don't mind, I'd like to hear about those ghosts of yours.”

Kirby studied him for a moment. “Hell, I've kept it a secret too long. Maybe if I hadn't …” He clamped his lips shut, hesitating. But then, he continued slowly. “Twenty-five years ago, I was real hungry like I thought young Gabe Lewis was. And I had a kid brother to look after. There weren't any jobs. Cattle weren't worth anything then—there were too damn many of them and no way to ship them. I took up with three other boys about my age. We ran wild as hell, most of it out of just plain misery. We robbed drunks coming out of saloons, filched goods from the stores. Then one of my cohorts suggested we rob a bank. It would be easy, he said.”

Kirby heaved a sigh. “To make a long story short, a clerk was killed. All of us, including my brother Jon, who was holding the horses outside, are equally responsible under the law. Ain't no time limitation on murder,” he said. “All of us could still hang.”

They could still hang, you see. All of them.
Drew's heart thudded in his chest as Gabrielle's words echoed in his brain. Bloody hell, she'd been right. And as other things she'd told him raced through his mind, he went cold all over despite the blistering heat.
My father … was killed … I was with him. The gunman shot at me, too.…

Bloody,
bloody
hell!

Fighting for control over his voice, Drew asked Kirby, “Do you think that … old robbery could be behind the recent attacks on you?”

Kirby shot him a scowling glance. “Someone trying to silence me, you mean? I thought about that. But I don't know where the other three men are. And, dammit, it's been nearly twenty-five years. I probably wouldn't recognize them if I did see them.”