Scotsman Wore Spurs

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Well, then,” he began, “I’d say a few lessons might be in order.”

  Her gaze flashed up to meet his.

  “I’ll teach you,” he said, throwing her completely off balance.

  She didn’t want him to teach her. She was already afraid of him, of how he made her feel, and every time he came near her, her fear grew.

  Feeling more than a little desperate, she protested, “But I don’t like guns.”

  “But Gabe Lewis would,” he said, his lips twisting into an amused smile.

  He had her there. And he knew it. Gabe Lewis would jump at the chance to learn to shoot.

  “But … why? I mean, what difference does it make if I know how—”

  “I think it’s fairly obvious what difference it makes,” he cut in, his voice as smooth as glass. “The past two days have proven beyond a doubt that, out here, one needs to know how to protect oneself. And if you own a gun, you should understand how it works and how to use it.”

  She could think of no argument that sounded even remotely sensible. She already knew she was beaten as she asked, “How do I know you’re any good?”

  One fair eyebrow shot upward. “I’m a Scot,” he said simply. “We learn to shoot almost before we can walk. Every gentleman knows how to hunt.”

  His tone as he said the word gentleman caught her attention; for an instant, his cool and casual voice had hinted at contempt.

  Carefully, she said, “You were a gentleman?”

  “That’s very debatable,” he replied, his smile disappearing.

  Through the layers of charm, she saw a deep bitterness that even he, who was so good at masking his thoughts and feelings, couldn’t hide.

  “I don’t think so,” she said softly. “I think you must have been a very fine gentleman.”

  He seemed taken aback. “Now, what makes you think that?”

  “The way you cared about Ace,” she said. “Not many of the others did.”

  He shrugged as if that meant little.

  “You believe in loyalty.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “And I thought I was cynical,” he said, the side of his mouth twitching again.

  “And you keep promises.”

  The half-smile evaporated instantly. “Is that a reminder?”

  “No,” she said. “A thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “I came bloody close to telling Kirby today, and I still might.”

  “You think I’m a danger to him?”

  “I don’t know what you are,” he replied. “And I don’t like puzzles.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, looking up at him through her lashes, a tiny smile curving her lips.

  She hadn’t been trying to seem seductive, only teasing. But for an instant, his eyes glittered brightly, his gaze holding hers in a look that made tendrils of heat curl through her. Then, however, his gaze skimmed over her, taking in the hat and clothes. And he grinned. She could have slapped him.

  “I’m bloody sure,” he said. But his eyes still held a hint of amber fire, and she knew he was seeing past the clothes that would have shamed a beggar to her real self. And he had seen quite a lot of her.

  Blushing, she looked away. Damn the man! Why did he have to confuse her so?

  “When we stop tonight,” he said, “I’ll take you for a shooting lesson.”

  Lord, were they back to that again?

  “But I don’t want—” She stopped short, having looked up to find she was talking to the air. He had walked away, his long legs carrying him quickly beyond hearing range—unless she shouted. Which she wasn’t about to do.

  “Sonofabitch,” she said, trying out the word for the first time. She’d heard it often enough lately. The cowhands used it rather like glue, to stick every other word together. They also used it to describe any and all troubles. In fact, she heard it so frequently that she didn’t even think of it anymore as an obscenity. It was a perfectly acceptable expression. Descriptive, too.

  “Sonofabitch,” she repeated. But, although it helped to vent her frustration, she discovered that swearing did nothing to alleviate it.

  Drew grinned as he walked back to the place he’d called his bed last night and gathered up his bedroll. Bloody hell, he enjoyed sparring with her.

  He felt better than he had all night, his suspicions about Gabrielle having been laid to rest—or nearly so. He didn’t think she had lied about her lack of shooting experience. And the distaste in her voice, when she said she didn’t like guns, definitely had been real.

  Later today, he would know for sure if she had told the truth. Oh, he knew she would try her damnedest to squirm out of their lesson, but he wouldn’t let her, if only because he’d meant it when he told her she should know how to protect herself. Kirby would agree with him on that, would even force it on the lad he knew as Gabe.

  As Drew tossed his bedroll into the back of the hoodlum wagon and got on with his duties for the day, he considered his ulterior motives in teaching Gabrielle the finer points of marksmanship. Of course, he would have to take her far enough away from camp that the cattle wouldn’t be spooked by the sound of gunfire. Far enough that the two of them would be alone.

  Far enough that he could kiss her again.

  The farther the cattle drive had moved across the plains, the fewer gullies and streams there were—and Gabe was finding it more and more difficult to maintain her privacy. Unfortunately certain functions still had to be performed.

  That morning, she relied upon her usual excuse—the search for wood—to disappear for a few minutes. But she had to walk quite a distance before she found a couple of stunted, mostly dead trees, and it occurred to her as she returned to camp that the lack of convenient shields might become an even bigger problem before the trip was over.

  But it wasn’t her lack of privacy that most concerned her at the moment. So far, she’d managed to wash her underclothes and her short hair in the hoodlum wagon with a pail of water, when everyone was asleep. If she had to, she’d come up with a way to take care of other personal matters.

  But the Scotsman … he was a far greater problem.

  He was like a dog with a bone. And she was the bone, much to her discomfort.

  What made it so completely intolerable was her reaction to him. She didn’t understand it. She had been courted in more cities than she could remember. Admirers had flocked backstage after performances, and invitations to dinner had been legion. Wealthy men. Handsome men. Influential men. But she’d never felt the kind of attraction for a single one of them that she felt for Drew Cameron—this fevered anticipation, with heart pounding, pulse throbbing, and blood quickening. All the clichés from books and plays had come alive inside her.

  As she helped Pepper get breakfast ready, she found herself both dreading and eagerly anticipating the end of the day, knowing she would see the Scotsman again. And that they would be alone. Her state of anxiety made her somewhat absentminded and earned her a scowl from Pepper, and she tried harder to shove her own troubles aside and focus on the task at hand.

  Pepper, she noticed, seemed to be complaining more than usual about his rheumatism, and he left more than usual for her to do. But then, she reasoned, he was also doctoring Kingsley, changing bandages and worrying over him like a mother bear over a cub, mumbling to himself as he did so.

  “People go gettin’ shot. Ain’t no civility no more,” he muttered as he puttered slowly about. “Ambush,” he added disgustedly.

  Kingsley, still on his bedroll by the chuck wagon, tried to move a little but pain added more creases to his lined face.

  “Shouldn’t be moving,” Pepper mumbled.

  “Got to go on,” Kingsley said and tried again.

  Sympathy warred with anger inside Gabrielle, as she watched him. She shouldn’t care about his pain, but she did. He’d lost a lot of blood, and the gash alongside his head was ugly. His head must hurt like th
e furies, and she was sure that even his smallest movement made it worse. Still he persisted, struggling to his feet, until he was upright, hanging on to a wagon wheel.

  His eyes were as hard as stones, his face harsh, and she wondered again what engendered the loyalty she’d encountered among his hands. Perhaps, she thought, because he was a hard man, a man who would do anything to hold on to what was his.

  The question was, What did anything include?

  After the hands had eaten, she hitched up the mules to the hoodlum wagon as one of the wranglers hitched mules to the chuck wagon, and both started out. The broad beam of the disreputable hat stayed low on her forehead, protecting her face from the sun. Looking at her gloved hands on the reins, she wondered whether they would ever be as they had been, smooth and without calluses.

  How could the Scotsman have any interest in her? Other than to have his questions answered, that is. And did she really want him to be interested in her as a woman? The questions bedeviled her throughout the long, hot, dry day.

  Sammy was in the back of the wagon, bawling his protest against the indignity. But he still couldn’t keep up with a ten-mile trek. Not yet. Even if he could wreak havoc in camp.

  Sammy. Think about Sammy. Think about the theater. Think about music. Don’t think about Kingsley. Don’t think about the Scotsman.

  Don’t think about how the devil she was going to persuade Drew Cameron that she didn’t know how to shoot a gun.

  Billy Bones was actually playful. Frisky. Spirited.

  Drew wondered about the changes Gabrielle had wrought upon the horse. It appeared to him that patience, food, and affection had produced nothing short of a miracle. He had been too occupied with his own duties, as well as thoughts of Gabrielle, to notice before, but as he watched the woman and the horse riding beside him, he catalogued the differences. Billy held his head high, his steps were quick and sure, not dragging as they had been when the two appeared at the Kingsley ranch nearly a month ago. His coat was sleek, and his eyes clear.

  And Gabrielle? Well, she still had a ways to go, but her seat had improved; she no longer appeared as if she was in danger of falling off at any second. And although she still looked like the ragamuffin he’d first glimpsed, he now noticed the straight back, the willful chin, and the fierce passion in her startling blue eyes.

  He longed to get his arms around her.

  They rode for a half hour before stopping, far enough away that noise wouldn’t stampede the cattle. Drew dismounted, then went over to Billy Bones and offered Gabrielle his hand.

  She hesitated, then gave it to him, slipping down into his arms. He enjoyed the feel of her against him, and his hands imprisoned her for a brief moment. She fitted there.

  Too well. He didn’t want to let go.

  She seemed to slide even closer to him, her disreputable hat hitting his chin. While one hand kept her imprisoned, the other released the tie under her chin and took the hat from her head, letting it glide to the ground.

  He could see her eyes now, the beautiful blue eyes that could make a man weak. Hell, they did make him weak. Her dark hair swirled in tendrils around her face, and he knew why she always kept the damn hat on. She looked utterly female to him now, and the confusion in her eyes made him feel protective. And lustful.

  It had to be magic, he thought, sorcery of some kind, that she practiced upon him, for he simply had never felt this way with any other woman. Tender and protective and, at the same time, nearly overwhelmed with desire. His hand brushed a curl from her face, and he knew she’d washed it recently. The texture was silk against his fingers, the softness of her skin irresistible.

  He leaned down, letting his lips brush hers, and her response stifled any scruples or reservations he had. Her lips were warmly inquisitive, and her hands circled his neck tentatively, her fingers creating rivers of fire that raged through him.

  His kiss deepened and her body pressed instinctively into his until the ache in his loins became agony. He wanted this woman, and he’d ceased to care if it was right or wrong, or if it made one whit of sense.

  The kiss became frantic, his tongue entering her mouth and searching, seducing until, suddenly, she jerked away.

  Staring up at him, panic filling her gaze, she took a quick, ragged breath. “Scotty …”

  “Drew,” he said. “My name is Drew.”

  She simply continued to stare at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of passion and fear.

  “Say it,” he said.

  “Drew,” she obeyed.

  He liked the sound of it. The husky quality of her voice was sensual, enticing.

  His thumb and index finger played with her chin, then ran up and down her cheek. “How did you do this?” he asked.

  “Do what?” The words were more like a sigh.

  “Darken your skin.”

  She worried her lip before answering. “A dye.”

  “How did you learn about it?”

  “An actress taught me.”

  “What else did she teach you?”

  Caution flickered in her eyes, and she lowered her gaze and tried to turn away.

  “Not this time, Gabrielle,” he said, his hand capturing her elbow and turning her back toward him. “What else did this actress teach you?”

  “To beware of men,” she said angrily, twisting to get away.

  He didn’t let go.

  “Too bad you didn’t pay attention,” he said silkily. “A trail drive is hardly a place to avoid them.”

  “I thought you were going to teach me to shoot,” she said, tugging her arm from his grasp.

  “I thought you didn’t want to learn.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “So did I. I would much rather do something else.”

  With her arms wrapped around her waist, she gazed up at him, and he saw in her eyes a thousand different things: fear and passion, defiance and longing. Mostly, though, he saw her confusion.

  His heartbeat quickened. She was smart and funny and full of grit, and he liked her. He liked her quite a lot, despite knowing that it was a bloody fool thing to do.

  He knew nothing about commitment, about caring deeply for someone. Most of all, though, he feared her secrets. He didn’t think he could survive the ruin inevitably caused by secrets and lies. Not again.

  Drew sighed. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to bed her. He ached to do it. And he could. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Yet, he hesitated. And finally he backed away, thinking as he did so that it was a bloody poor time to develop a conscience.

  “All right,” he said, drawing the pistol from his holster and holding it out to her.

  Gabrielle stared at it as if it were a rattlesnake, and he knew instantly that she’d been telling the truth. She really didn’t like guns.

  “I’ve got my own,” she said, and she turned, opening the flap of her saddlebag and pulling out her weapon.

  Drew’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. He didn’t know what he’d expected—probably a derringer, a lady’s gun, or some falling apart ancient pistol. But she turned back to him holding a Colt. Putting his own gun back into its holster, he took it from her and examined it to find that it wasn’t new but was perfectly serviceable and in excellent repair. It was also loaded.

  He emptied the bullets from the chambers and offered it back to her. Before she took it, she bent down, picked up her hat, and plopped it back onto her head. Then, with some hesitation, she took the gun from his hand, seemingly uncomfortable even holding it.

  “Just feel it,” he said. “Get comfortable with it.”

  “How can you ever be comfortable with a gun?”

  The question startled him. He’d never not been comfortable with a gun. Guns of various kinds always had been a part of his life. Hunting was often a social event. He’d never enjoyed it, but his father had made sure he acquitted himself well as a boy. As a man, he’d disdained hunting as he’d disdained so many things his father worshiped.

  “In thi
s country,” he said, “it appears a necessity.”

  “And in Scotland?”

  “A gentlemanly skill,” he said with self-mocking amusement.

  “The two seem at odds.”

  “Aye, they should be,” he said, his smile fading. “But that’s not the way of the world—not this world, in any event.”

  “Is America really so different from Scotland?”

  “Today it is,” he said. “Where I come from, shooting people is frowned upon.”

  “I think I would like Scotland,” she said.

  “Ah, but it has a bloody past.”

  “And we have a bloody present,” she said in a low voice.

  “Aye, but civilization will come. It always does,” he replied, watching her face.

  Grief. It darkened her eyes and tugged the corners of her mouth downward. It was real, and it was recent. He watched her struggle to regain control.

  “You sound disappointed,” she finally said.

  “Opportunity often disappears with the coming of civilization,” he replied. “With order comes rules.”

  “And you don’t like rules?”

  “Not much.”

  “And you’re looking for opportunity?”

  “Isn’t every man,” he said, then added, “and woman?”

  The air was sizzling between them. He was barely aware of the words being spoken. He couldn’t take his eyes from her.

  “And how far would they go … for opportunity?”

  “Ah, now that is a good question,” he said. His hand touched her chin. “How far would you go?”

  She moistened her lips, her eyes locked with his. Then, abruptly, she stepped back, as if burned, and turned her attention to the gun in her hand.

  “Are you going to show me how to use it?”

  She always changed the subject when he asked anything personal, and he was determined to get beyond that gate. “You haven’t answered my question. How far would you go, Gabrielle?”

  She looked at the gun. “I think you must have been a snake-oil salesman.”

  “Ouch,” he said. “You wound me. I do have a few standards, and wasting alcohol in such a fashion wouldn’t meet them. I’m an adventurer, yes. A gambler admittedly, even a rogue at times, but never a charlatan.”