When everyone was awake and fed, and the camp was packed and ready, Drew mounted the pinto for the morning’s river crossing and rode to the bank. There he waited, his job being to control the cattle once they started across. The chuck and hoodlum wagons would go first, with Jake taking them across one at a time. No one trusted Two-Bits with a crossing yet.
The river was not very deep, but the current was fast. Jake got the chuck wagon over easily, then returned for the hoodlum wagon. Drew watched Gabrielle hand Jake the reins of the mule team, then scoot over on the bench to hug her dog, whom she had tucked between her and Jake.
The wagon made it to the middle of the wide river, then seemed to get stuck. The word quicksand flashed through Drew’s mind, and his heart skipped a beat. Jake snapped the whip and the mules plunged ahead. But the wagon didn’t budge. Jake gave it another try, the mules strained in their harness, and, suddenly, the wagon simply keeled over onto its side. Drew watched in horror as both Gabrielle and the dog slid off the bench, into the river.
He didn’t think about how angry he was, or how hurt. He didn’t think of anything except that she couldn’t swim. He kicked the pinto forward, plunging into the water, at the same time he caught a glimpse of Kirby, on the opposite bank, doing the same.
When he reached the overturned wagon, Drew prayed that she hadn’t been pinned beneath it as he dived off his horse and into the muddy water. He came up empty-handed and looked around. He saw the dog climbing out on the far bank, but Gabrielle wasn’t with him. Then, downstream, he spotted a dark head, bobbing above the surface.
“Bloody hell!” he swore, throwing his arms above his head and swimming as fast as he could toward her. But just when he thought it was hopeless, that she was moving too fast away from him, he saw her gain a foothold. Stumbling, she made her way to the other bank and struggled out of the water.
Her hat was missing, and so was her coat—or perhaps she’d surrendered it to the current, realizing it was weighing her down. In any case, as she stood on the bank, shaking the water out of her eyes, her cotton shirt plastered itself to her body, revealing for all to see her decidedly feminine figure.
“Bloody hell,” he swore again, standing in the river, watching helplessly as the scene unfolded.
Five men on horseback were lined up on the bank in front of her, staring, astonishment plain on their faces. Then Kirby emerged from the water to meet her—and stopped dead, a yard away, his eyes riveted to her dripping form.
Drew didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish by sheer virtue of his presence, but he swam like hell for the bank. As he climbed out, he saw Gabrielle register her predicament, then stumble away. He started to go after her, hesitating when he was met with Kirby’s accusing gaze. Knowing he’d have to face the trail boss soon or later, he chose later, and strode after Gabrielle.
He caught up with her a hundred feet or so from the riverbank, beneath a small grove of trees.
“Gabrielle, are you all right?” he asked.
She gave him a sketchy nod, half-turning away from him. His gaze skimmed over her. She looked no worse for wear, save that she was coughing a little and wouldn’t meet his gaze. Dripping wet, without her coat, she looked exposed and horribly vulnerable, and it didn’t help at all when she wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a protective gesture. Drew wished he had something on to give her—a jacket, an extra shirt. He had to settle for simply standing beside her.
They both watched as the drovers righted the hoodlum wagon and got it up the bank. At some point in the process, the dog came looking for Gabrielle, getting as close as possible before shaking himself, thereby spraying muddy river water in all directions. Gabrielle’s flock increased when Sammy and his mother arrived, having made the crossing. The calf came right to Gabrielle, gently butting her.
Drew was on the verge of smiling, thinking whimsically that it was as if Gabrielle’s animals were all seeking her approval at how well they’d done. But then Kirby arrived, and it was plain that he was not amused.
He spoke directly to Drew. “You knew about this?”
“Aye,” Drew said.
“This have anything to do with last night?”
Drew didn’t answer.
“Sonofabitch,” Kirby muttered. “You, my friend, can plan on riding drag from here to Abilene.”
Then he turned his wrath on Gabrielle, who, Drew thought, looked a little like a half-drowned puppy.
“And you, young lady,” he growled, “I’ll have an explanation from you as soon as we get the cattle across.” He started toward his horse, then stopped, turning back to Drew. “You stay with her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want both of you near the wagons until all the cattle cross.”
“I’m more valuable with the herd,” Drew protested.
“A goddamn woman,” Kirby muttered to himself. “Didn’t used to be this blind.”
“She’s a bloody good actress,” Drew sympathized wryly.
“Yeah, and what else is she?” Kirby growled.
Drew resented Kirby’s implication—and the sudden blaze in the rancher’s eyes. He guessed he understood it, though. What kind of woman, indeed, would hire onto a trail drive for three months, with eighteen men?
Bloody hell. He still hadn’t figured that out for himself.
“Stay with her,” Kirby ordered again, then strode off to deal with his herd.
Reluctantly, Drew followed a crestfallen Gabrielle to the hoodlum wagon that had been pulled up beneath a few trees. He felt like part of the Pied Piper’s brood as he walked in a path made of river water behind a cow, its calf, and a sodden dog.
Damn the woman. Yet, he reluctantly admitted to himself his anger had been tempered by stark fear for her. His heart had stopped when he’d seen her tumble into the river, and it hadn’t started beating again until she’d climbed safely out onto hard ground. He might be angry. He might be wounded to the quick at being used by her. And he certainly didn’t trust her as far as he could have thrown her.
But he still cared about her. He didn’t want to see her hurt. If she’d died in the river, a part of him would have died, too.
Feeling as confused as Gabrielle looked, Drew swore creatively as he reached the chuck wagon. She stood there, all five feet three inches of her and probably less than a hundred pounds, with her back stiff and her chin lifted in determination. The woman was all grit.
“I’m sorry,” she said to him, most of her bravado gone.
Drew frowned in bewilderment. “You’re apologizing to me for nearly drowning?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry I’ve placed you in this … awkward position with Kingsley.”
Drew snorted. “Why be sorry now?”
“He’s your friend,” she said simply, a tear hovering at the corner of one blue eye.
“That didn’t matter before.”
The lower lip quivered, and Drew watched her try to bite it into submission.
“It does now,” she said.
He wanted to believe her. But wanting didn’t make it so. Turning away from her, he watched the drovers herd the cattle into the river.
A small sigh seemed to ruffle the air behind him. He could almost see her shoulders slump. Disappointments of a lifetime kept him from turning to her. Past betrayals stiffened his resolve.
“Drew?” Even her voice trembled. God, it was killing him, not to turn around and sweep her into his arms. He didn’t do it. But he did turn back to face her, giving her what he hoped was a look of cool indifference.
“I—I … you …” she stuttered, more tears forming at the edge of her eyes.
“Yes?” he asked icily, though his heart was thumping hard enough to be heard across the river. He wanted to kiss those trembling lips, wrap his arms around the sodden clothes that continued to drip.
“Yesterday …” she began again.
Drew closed his eyes and, again, he felt the heat of her, the desire, the need, the pure want that had exploded into glorious splendor before he w
as so quickly tumbled back to earth.
Feminine fingers tentatively touched his arm. He wanted to respond, to savor their warmth. She’d made him feel whole for the first time in his life. Whole and wanted and needed.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. Maybe at any other time, he would have believed the earnest, desperate plea he saw in her eyes. Maybe he would have believed that she was truly sorry and honestly cared for his needs and feelings in this mess she’d created. But he had something she wanted now, something she needed.
“I won’t give you away,” he said curtly. “I’ll back your lies just so I can prove you wrong. Is that what you want?” He wheeled around without waiting for an answer, without waiting for a chance to be trapped, to be used again.
He heard her whispered “no,” as he strode away, heading down toward the river. He was barely aware that the dog was following him, tail tucked between his legs.
There was a polecat in the woodpile.
Kirby Kingsley fumed inwardly as he went about managing the river crossing. Profound disappointment filled him. He’d trusted Drew Cameron as he’d trusted few other people in his life. He didn’t like to think that the man had brought along a woman for his own private amusement, but he couldn’t think of another explanation.
Still, it made no sense. Hiding a woman on a cattle drive simply didn’t fit what he knew of Drew Cameron’s character. The man was as honest as any Kirby had ever met, sometimes painfully so.
That led him to blame the woman. What kind of witch was this “Gabe Lewis”? If she wasn’t Cameron’s woman, what was she doing here? Or did she have something to do with those two ambushes? He couldn’t dismiss the nagging thought that they had something to do with the crime he’d committed so many years ago.
He banished the thoughts from his mind. The only thing that mattered now was getting ten thousand cattle across a river. As he went after a heifer that had started drifting downstream, Kirby thought that the damned drive had been cursed from the get-go—and now he knew why.
Gabrielle spent the day making pies and loaves of bread by the dozen, and beans that were seasoned exactly like Pepper’s—or nearly so. She put out the blanket rolls from the hoodlum wagon to dry, then took an inventory of the dried goods in the chuck wagon. And in between tasks, she made sure there was plenty of fresh coffee in the pot available for the drovers, who continued to stop by all day to grab a cup.
She tried, in effect, to make herself indispensable. She didn’t want to leave the drive and not entirely because she wanted justice.
She would have given almost anything if she’d thought Drew would just trust her again. She had little hope of that, however, and prayed only that she could make him not hate her. If she had to leave the drive, she knew she would never see him again. And he would always believe the worst of her. She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
She thought of telling the truth now, immediately, simply facing Kingsley with all of her suspicions. But what if he were guilty? Chances were excellent that he and his nephews, who undoubtedly would back him, were good with their guns. They might try to silence Drew as well as her, and Drew wouldn’t stand a chance against all three of them.
On the other hand, if she accused Kingsley of being a murderer in front of all the hands and it turned out that he was innocent, Drew would never forgive her.
It seemed hopeless. No matter what she did, she was damned to lose Drew—and possibly her life.
And she most fervently did not want to die. When she’d started out on this trip, she hadn’t cared about anything save killing the man who had killed her father. But, as she’d said to Drew, somewhere along the way, things had changed. She didn’t feel as if she were alone in the world anymore. Here, on the cattle drive, she’d found a sort of place for herself. She had men to feed and animals who needed her. And, if he only would let her, she had a man who she suspected needed love as badly as she did.
At the moment, that man was standing at the top of the rise overlooking the river, a silent, solitary figure. Keeping an eye on him from a distance, Gabrielle tried to imagine what he was thinking as he watched the activity from which he’d been banned. His last words had held such bitterness: “I’ll back your lies just so I can prove you wrong.”
She didn’t want him to lie for her, didn’t want him to compromise his rock-hard integrity for her sake. Didn’t want him to feel torn apart by conflicting loyalties.
She understood about loyalty, having felt an intense allegiance to her parents; moving as they had from city to city, from performance to performance, she’d had little opportunity to form other lasting friendships. In a few short weeks, she’d come to feel deeply loyal toward Drew. Whatever she did now, she had to find a way not to betray him. Nothing else—not justice or revenge or anything else—mattered more.
Throughout the day, Gabrielle bore the inquisitive looks of drovers as they came in for coffee or hardtack before returning to the river. Their looks didn’t bother her; she was accustomed to worse. And she was enormously glad to be rid of the dirty, hot coat and the tattered hat. Her clothes dried on her body, and as her hair turned into a cap of wispy curls, she brushed it, feeling free and light.
When supper was over and she had enough pies for the next two or three days—and she could find no more duties to perform—Gabrielle dusted the flour off her hands and went to sit on the riverbank to watch the last cattle cross. By the time the crossing was complete and the herd was grazing a half mile from camp, dusk had settled over the prairie. The sky turned blood red, the colors violent and clashing.
Suddenly, Gabrielle became aware of a presence behind her and swung her head around. Kingsley stood above her, his shirt damp with sweat, his cheeks dark with bristle, his eyes cold. He looked every inch a killer.
“I want an explanation,” he said. “You’re obviously not in need of a job.” His gaze went over her assessingly, even insultingly, as she rose. “I suspect you could find one in any saloon.”
She could, and she had, but she wasn’t ready to tell him that. Besides, it wouldn’t matter to him what kind of a job it might be; he obviously preferred to believe the worst. From the corner of her eye, she saw Drew approaching.
Kirby held up a hand, stopping him.
“Was it Scotty who brought you along,” he asked her, “to keep his bedroll warm?”
Her eyes opened wide. The thought that she might have planned all this only to be with a man was absurd. And it was just about the last accusation she had expected.
“No!” she exclaimed. “Drew didn’t even know until—”
“Until?”
“Until the trip to Willow Spring. I fell in the water then, too,” she said defiantly, her mind working feverishly. How much, or how little, could she get away with telling Kingsley?
“Weeks,” Kingsley said, visibly angry. “He’s known for weeks and kept it from me. He had no right.”
Guilt flooded her. She’d had no right drawing Drew into her conflict. “I told him someone was after me. That my life was in danger. I begged him not to tell anyone, that you might make me leave the drive.”
“You were right about that much,” Kingsley said. Then he paused. “Is it true that you’re being pursued?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Someone tried to kill me.”
He was silent a moment. “Scotty does have a gallant streak,” he mused aloud.
“He wanted to tell you. He wanted me to tell you, but I made him promise not to.”
Kingsley’s furious gaze seemed to cut right through her. “A cattle drive’s no place for a woman.”
“I have no place else to go,” she said desperately.
“How about the law?”
She couldn’t tell him that she’d already been to the law, had, in fact, accused him. “They won’t help.”
“You sure the law isn’t looking for you?”
A slight, almost sympathetic note crept into his voice, startling her. In fact, everything about the conversation s
tartled her. She had expected accusations, dire suspicions, threats—things that a man who murdered might say or do. Instead, his angry eyes were actually beginning to twinkle.
She swallowed. She had been preparing herself to tell Kingsley the truth, to confront him with her suspicions if she could minimize the risks. But he wasn’t asking the dangerous questions, and everything she had told him thus far was true.
“Can I stay?” she asked.
He hesitated, assessing her, then simply nodded. “Until I can find a regular cook,” he said. “And then we’ll see.”
His mouth edged into an unexpectedly charming smile. “Poor bedeviled Drew,” he murmured, then turned away, leaving Gabrielle feeling more perplexed than ever.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite the inconvenience and indignity of it all, Gabrielle found herself fervently wishing for the good old days of being Two-Bits. Whatever scorn Drew seemed to harbor for her now, it was a feeling obviously not shared by the other drovers.
During the past three days since her gender was revealed, Gabrielle had been courted, fussed over, and cosseted. She had ceased being insignificant Gabe Lewis and was, instead, an object of intense and fascinated male interest.
She had received a sample of what was coming the very evening of the fateful river crossing. While she had been adding wood to the fire, one of the drovers rushed to her side, took it from her, and fed the fire himself, leaving her empty-handed and stunned. Before she could form a protest, ornery Hank Flanigan, who—a lifetime ago—had wagered his hat against hers in the Kingsley bunkhouse, approached her shyly. His face pink under a thatch of hair the color and texture of hay, he had shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, his shabby hat in hand. Then, he’d shyly thrust it at her.
“You’ll be needing a hat, ma’am. Miss. I mean, well, you’ll just be needing a hat, that’s all.”
Another man had shuffled up to her. “Sorry we gave you a rough time, ma’am. We was just joshing.”
“You be needing any help,” Legs had chimed in, “you just call me.”
Scotsman Wore Spurs Page 21