Pulling the hat down over her forehead, she grimaced at the smell still emanating from the sweat-band. Then she gathered her courage about her like a cloak and turned once more to face the mirror.
Enter Gabe Lewis.
Gone was Gabrielle Parker, beloved and protected daughter of James and Marian Parker. Daughter of a criminal, if she believed what her father had said in his last communication to her. And how could she not believe her father’s own words?
The hurt returned. The deep anguish that her frantic activities had tried to bandage over. The anger. The thirst for justice and retribution.
Her hand reached out and clasped the letter that was never far from her, the letter and the newspaper article her father had left in his trunk for her. She’d been sent to that trunk by his last, dying words: “In the trunk … letter … explains it all …” Mustering the last of his strength, he’d clutched her arm, whispering, “The article. Kingsley. It’s him. Davis. Danger for …” The words faded, then he made one more mammoth effort to speak. “Leave … Texas. Promise.”
She hadn’t had a chance to make that promise, and she had no intentions of leaving Texas, especially after finding the letter her father had written and left alongside a newspaper article. It was, as much as anything, a confession as well as a warning. Undoubtedly the accompanying article had prompted him to write it. Sensing danger, perhaps even fearing for his life, he’d wanted her to know the truth. The letter was dated the day before he’d been shot, and he’d marked the envelope “to be opened upon my death.” She’d hadn’t believed the contents at first, though she couldn’t deny the handwriting was his.
He’d always been larger than life to her, his laughter hearty and his eyes twinkling. He’d been a loving husband, a wonderful father, and a man who would give his last dime to someone in need. It was impossible to reconcile her image of her father with the man his letter described. Impossible to believe he had been friends with the likes of the men he said he once rode with.
And yet, by her father’s own admission, he’d committed acts that had forced him to leave Texas and that had kept him away for twenty-five years. Throughout that time, he’d harbored a terrible secret.
It was obvious to her, now, that James Parker had paid for the sins of his youth all his adult life. Finally, he’d paid for them with his death. Now, in her grief and anger—and her guilt that it had been she who had brought him back to Texas when he’d obviously not wanted to come—Gabrielle believed it was up to her to make sure her father’s killer paid for his sins as well. Why, dear God, had she begged him to make this trip when the offer was made? Why?
But she had, and now he was dead, and the law could care less. She’d directly accused the man named by her father—a man named Kingsley—but the sheriff had laughed it off. Kirby Kingsley, he’d said, was a man of substance and power; he would not even approach the man about the charge, not on the word of an entertainer.
Gabrielle fingered the newspaper article and read the headline once more. Her hands shaking as she held the paper, she stared almost blindly at the headline, though she knew it by heart. KINGSLEY TO TAKE HERD NORTH.
The article, which included an artist’s sketch of a man named Kirby Kingsley, was nearly a column long. Her eyes scanned the words without really reading them, but they were already burned into her mind. Given what she now knew, she had no doubt that the article had been the cause of her father’s uncharacteristic, anxious state in the days before his death. For her, it was the cause of overwhelming guilt. She understood, now, why her father hadn’t wanted to come west, and she wished, with utter futility, that he had rejected her pleas. If he had, he would still be alive. It was her fault that he was dead, and she was learning all too quickly that grief compounded by guilt was nearly unbearable.
She was left with one choice: if her father’s murderer was to be brought to justice—and it was inconceivable to her that he would not be—she would have to deliver him herself. She had no idea how, but she knew she had to do something.
The article, after so many readings, had provided her with the means. Kirby Kingsley was planning a cattle drive. Composed of cattle from many ranches in the central Texas area, it was reported to be one of the largest drives ever attempted. Kingsley would trail boss the herd from a point south of San Antonio to the railhead in Abilene. Drovers were being hired.
She would become one of those drovers.
She could do it. She knew she could. She had played enough male roles to know the swagger, to know exactly how to lower her voice and imitate the language of a cowhand. And although Gabe Lewis didn’t look like much, she’d seen enough cowboys to know they came in all sizes, and many were as young as fourteen or fifteen. Children grew up fast in the west.
Her one real disadvantage, she knew, were her riding skills. She could ride—barely. She had precious little experience, having traveled mostly by train and coach, but her father had insisted that she learn, at least, the basics. He’d also insisted that she learn to use a pistol for self-protection. One never knew, he said, when one might need to know how to sit a horse or use a firearm to protect one’s self.
Her lips thinned to a grim line, and her resolve hardened. She would get hired. And she would carry out her plan. She would discover the truth, even if she had to use her gun to force it. The powerful Kirby Kingsley would pay for her father’s death. So would his hired gun. Though she hadn’t seen the killer’s face, she felt she’d seen enough to identify him: an uncommonly tall man with cat-like grace and a band of silver on his hat. She would find both of them and force a confession if necessary, perhaps even take justice into her own hands.
She did not care about the price she might have to pay. With grief and guilt still raging inside, the future seemed an enormous black void. Her dreams—her father’s dreams—of singing in a great music hall were shattered and she couldn’t seem to piece them back again.
Taking a deep breath, Gabe Lewis gave the brim of his awful hat a final downward yank. He stuffed the little money he had into his pockets, tucked the bundle of discarded clothing under his arm and left the room. He needed one final prop before the play could begin.
He needed a horse.
Drew Cameron stretched out in the comfortable chair, nursing an excellent brandy and pondering his future.
For a while, he hadn’t thought he had one. He’d almost died from loss of blood, then from an infection. But Kirby Kingsley had simply refused to allow him to die. Having made sure he had the best medical help available, Kirby himself had stayed by his bed day and night. Kirby said it was the least he could do for the man who’d saved his life.
Perhaps, Drew thought, it was saving each other’s life that accounted for the odd kindship that had developed between them. Odd because they were so different. Drew, a ne’er-do-well who had been raised with the trappings of wealth among the Scottish aristocracy. Kirby, a hardworking dour rancher who had known only grinding poverty as a boy and young man. Drew cared about little, was attached to no one. Kirby cared deeply about his ranch, his cattle, his brother, his nephews; he felt extremely proprietary about all of them.
Still, the similarities between them seemed to override their differences. Both had been basically discarded as youngsters. And both had rebelled in ways that had injured themselves. The mutual recognition of kindred souls was there, and in the two months that Drew had been at the Kingsley ranch, the Circle K, he’d found the kind of friend, perhaps even the father, he’d never thought he’d have.
During late-night talks over drinks, Drew often sensed a sadness and loneliness in Kingsley. But tonight Kirby was positively morose.
“Still thinking about the ambush?” Drew asked.
“It’s unsettling to know someone wants you dead,” Kirby said, frowning.
“You think whoever it was might try again? It’s been two months.”
“I’d know a lot better if those three hadn’t got away.”
“Two of them are probably still in no sh
ape to try again,” Drew said.
“I wish that made me feel better,” Kingsley said. “But if they were hired guns, whoever paid them to kill me could just as easily hire others.”
Drew was silent. He wished he’d heard more: a name, a town, something.
“And I worry about the ranch. If anything happened to me …”
Drew tried to reassure him. “Nothing’s happened for two months, and your brother, Jon, seems capable.”
“He knows animals. He doesn’t know business, or men, and he never will. And my nephews? Hell, Damien has potential, but he’s too hotheaded … and greedy. And Terry, he’s like Jon. Good-natured but easily led. I’ve worked too damn hard to have everything destroyed.”
Drew couldn’t disagree with Kirby. As a gambler, Drew studied men: their strengths and weaknesses. Kirby was pure steel; his brother clay.
“Go with us,” Kirby said suddenly. “You want to learn cow. There’s no better way.”
Stunned at the invitation, Drew thought Kirby couldn’t be serious. He tried to give his friend a graceful way out of the impulsive suggestion. “Kane O’Brien’s expecting me.”
Kirby shrugged off the excuse. “If you want to learn the cattle business, you won’t find a better classroom than a cattle drive.”
And O’Brien would probably be relieved, Drew thought. His brother-in-law had called in a debt in asking O’Brien to take him on. The last thing O’Brien was likely to want—or need—was a tenderfoot in the way.
“Think of it this way,” Kirby said, reading Drew’s thoughts. “I really want you.”
“’Tis the why of it, I’m wondering,” Drew said, his brogue deepening. “I’m no drover.”
Kirby was silent for a moment. “I trust you,” he finally said.
The simple declaration touched and pleased Drew. Few people in his life had trusted him. Nor had he trusted many people.
With the first tiny spark of excitement flickering inside him, he rapidly considered the consequences of his disappearing on the trail for the next several months. Kirby had already written on his behalf to Kane O’Brien, saying he’d been wounded and was recovering nicely at the Circle K. It would be easy enough to cancel his visit. Other than that, he had no commitments, no obligations.
Yet he felt compelled to argue. “I don’t think your nephews would be pleased.” Damien was to be second in command, and Damien didn’t like him. Drew had seen the signs of growing resentment as Kirby spent so much time with his wounded guest.
“That’s their problem,” Kirby said. “The fact is I would like you at my back. You’re a fair hand with a rifle.”
“Ah, that. Every Scotsman is familiar with a sporting weapon. I had a bit of luck, no more. And you noticed I’m sure, I’m not much good at ducking.”
“No,” Kirby said dryly. “We’ll have to work on that.”
“I’ve never done much but toss a pair of dice. You know I don’t know anything about driving cattle.”
Kirby eyed him with amusement. “You said you used to race in steeplechases, and I’ve watched you ride the last several days. I don’t think there’s a damn beast you can’t ride, though you’ll have to get accustomed to the moves of our cutting horses. You can learn the rest. And the sound of your voice alone is worth the pay,” Kirby added.
Drew was confused.
“I heard you sing one day. Nothing soothes restless cattle like a mellow voice.”
“I can provide ye with a few Scottish battle songs,” Drew said wryly, “and little else.”
Kirby chuckled. “Hell, I would be the only trail boss ever to have a Scottish lord as a cowhand. And I’d wager the Circle K that underneath that noble skin lies a true Westerner.”
Drew forced a smile. “My title is the least thing I possess to commend me.”
His bitterness must have been plain. Kingsley was silent for a moment, then said, “I know you have guts, that you risked your life for a stranger’s. That says a hell of a lot to me. And I know you’re thinking about raising cattle,” Kingsley continued. “You can cut out fifty as your share when we reach Kansas City. Keep them as seed for your own herd or sell them.”
“That’s above the going rate,” Drew observed.
“The going rate usually doesn’t include my life.”
“I need no reward for that.”
“You think my life is worth so little?”
Drew felt his resistance weaken further. He wanted to go on the drive. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. He’d heard the horror stories—dust, storms, flood, Indians, outlaws. He harbored a curiosity about this exacting land that permitted few mistakes. It was his chance to prove, not only to Kirby but also to himself, that he was more than a clever gambler. Yet he was apprehensive. He had disappointed nearly everyone. He didn’t want to disappoint this man.
“And Damien and Terry?” he asked. “What will you tell them?”
Kirby’s lips thinned. “I hire. They don’t.”
The last thread of resistance broke. “Then I accept,” Drew said.
He’d played the rake the past fifteen years, consciously trying to destroy his family name, the title, and everything to do with Kinloch. It had been his revenge on the man who’d made his mother’s life—and his own—a living hell. But there had always been an emptiness, a vast lonely place where his heart should be. Revenge hadn’t filled it. Neither had gaming or drinking or whoring.
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.
Marshal and the Heiress Page 33