Marshal and the Heiress

by Potter, Patricia;

  “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.<
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  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.

  He immediately dismissed the idea as absurd. Doubtless, the last few months in Scotland, during which he’d worried constantly that he would lose the sister he had just found, had made him overly cautious and far too suspicious. A man he’d never suspected—a trainer of horses—had proved to be a murderer and kidnapper. The experience had been a bitter reminder that people and things were often not what they seemed.

  Draping an arm over the top of the stall, he asked, “Where are you from?”

  Lewis continued brushing his horse. “Places.”

  An answer Drew himself had given frequently. He nodded. The boy’s business was his own until proved otherwise.

  “The bunkhouse is the next building. Take any cot that doesn’t look occupied,” Drew said, knowing there were several empty ones.

  “When do we leave?”

  Drew heard an anxious note in the boy’s voice. “In two days.”

  “What do you do?” Lewis put down the brush and turned to look at him, meeting his gaze fully for once. His eyes were almost too blue to be real and they were filled now with cold anger.

  Drew shrugged. “Just a cowhand. And if I want to stay that way, I’d better get back to work.”

  Drew turned and walked away. He could feel those blue eyes boring holes into his back. His spine tingled with the enmity he’d felt and wondered what he’d said, or done, to cause it.

  What the bloody hell, anyway. The lad was none of his business.

  Gabrielle watched Drew Cameron leave the barn. She had almost swallowed her tongue when she’d first seen him. He was uncommonly tall and lean. He had the same build as the shadowy figure who had killed her father and shot at her. Granted, Cameron’s hat bore no band of silver. And he limped. The killer had moved like an alley cat, silent and sleek, as he’d disappeared into the shadow from which he’d appeared. But perhaps Cameron’s limp had developed only recently. And he might own more than one hat.

  In truth, what made Gabe most suspicious about the Scotsman had more to do with his manner. He’d said he was “just a cowhand,” in that distinctive Scottish brogue.

  Just a cowhand. She didn’t believe it for a second. He was a lot more than a cowhand if she was any judge of people. In her experience, which admittedly was limited, cowhands were uneducated and easygoing. Drew Cameron was obviously well educated and, despite an easy smile, radiated a certain intensity.

  Kirby Kingsley didn’t treat him like another cowhand either. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something in the way Kingsley and Cameron communicated with each other spoke of a bond that went deeper than that of boss and hired hand.

  And dear God, but Cameron was handsome. His hair was a tawny, light brown that shimmered in the sun, and his eyes were golden, with flecks of brown and green and gray. Some would call them hazel, but that didn’t begin to describe their unique color. Like his hair, his eyes appeared to shimmer with gold, to flash, even dance—as if he were amused at something only he understood.

  No, Drew Cameron might be acting the part of cowhand at the moment, but he was a lot more than that.

  And Kingsley? A shiver raced up Gabe’s spine, and she reached, almost unconsciously, to pat Billy’s neck, seeking the only source of warmth and comfort available to her.

  Kingsley wasn’t at all what she had expected. She had thought he would be brash and loud and mean as a snake—a wild, reckless sort of man: an image conjured from the descriptions in her father’s letter. But then, her father hadn’t been wild and reckless, not apparently since his youthful days. And, she realized, that she hadn’t taken into account the passage of time. Twenty-five years obviously had changed her father, and it must have changed Kingsley as well.

  Kingsley was rich, now, and influential. Power and wealth probably went a long way toward disguising wild and reckless tendencies. But underneath the confident veneer, she was convinced, his heart was still wicked. His eyes were cold, almost completely without emotion, as was his voice. She could still hear him saying that her horse ought to be put down; he’d said it as unfeelingly as he might have ordered a worn-out fence ripped out and burned for fuel.

  She had no idea why he had agreed to hire her. It had been clear at the beginning that he hadn’t wanted to do it, and she’d sat there on Billy’s back, certain her plans of getting Kingsley away from his ranch before seeking justice were hopeless. She’d been on the verge of pulling the Colt out of the coat pocket and confronting him then and there. The temptation had been almost overwhelming. Simply looking at him, being in his presence, had made her head spin and the entire world seem sort of hazy and unreal.

  Then, before she’d lost her last shred of self-preservation, Drew Cameron had intervened. As much as she hated to think she owed her success to a man who might have killed her father, she was certain it had been Cameron’s softly spoken words that had changed Kingsley’s mind. Another reason to wonder about the relationship between the two men.

  Gabrielle buried her face against her horse’s neck and released a ragged sigh. He was a bag of bones, which is why she called him Billy, for Billy Bones—a fact she hadn’t been inclined to admit to the tall Scottish drover. She would have given up her new job—and her chance to get Kingsley—if he’d insisted she leave Billy behind to be slaughtered. The horse was all she had. She ran her hand down the horse’s neck and he trembled. When she’d gone looking for a horse to buy, she hadn’t expected to become so thoroughly and instantly attached to one. But then she’d seen Billy, with his sad, hopeless eyes.

  The liveryman had gone straight past him, but she’d hesitated.

  “You don’t want that one. He’s done for. Cowpoke just left him here. Be best just to put him down.”

  “How much?” she’d asked.

  “Hell, you can have him,” the man said. “Five dollars for a saddle. But he won’t last a day.”

  But Billy had lasted. She had purchased some oats and had ridden him slow and easy and the horse had looked at her with a kind of gratitude that made her heart break open a little further. He was hers, and she was going to make him well. Kirby Kingsley be damned.

  Giving Billy a final pat, Gabe made sure he had water. She added more oats to his feed, then headed for the bunkhouse.

  “Don’t need no help.” Pepper was adamant. “And I don’t want no kid getting in my way.”

  Kirby held his tongue and thought about the best way to pursue this topic. Fact was Pepper was the best trail cook in Texas, and he would do anything to keep him. A good cook could make or break a drive. Drovers often worked fourteen to eighteen hours a day in heat, pouring rain, and every other plague known to m
an; they demanded good food and good doctoring, and the cook was responsible for both.

  “You were complaining yesterday about too much to do,” Kirby reminded him gently.

  “That was jest complainin’, and you know it,” Pepper said, his whiskers quivering with indignation. “You think I’m too old, you jest say so and hire someone else.”

  “I don’t want anybody else. You know I went looking all over Texas to find you.” He hesitated. “Truth is the kid needs a job.”

  Pepper narrowed his eyes. “You going soft, Kingsley?” He was the only man in the Kingsley employ that called the owner—and trail boss—by his last name with no courtesy preceding it.

  “No, I’m not going soft,” Kirby said, hoping to God it was true. “It just seemed a good idea since your rheumatism has been flaring up.” It was more than that, he knew. He wanted to help Gabe Lewis because he knew what it was like to be desperate for money, for work of any kind—and unable to find it. Twenty-five years ago, no one would give him a job. He had been taking care of his younger brother, and they both were so damned hungry they would do anything for a meal. Anything.

  “Won’t share my wagon with him,” Pepper growled.

  Kirby breathed in relief. It seemed the argument was won. “He can travel in the hoodlum wagon and sleep with the rest of the hands,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll put him wrangling. Doesn’t seem too good at horses, but maybe in a few weeks …”

  “Probably no good at cooking either.”

  Kirby thought Pepper was probably right. But the kid could learn. “You’ll be doing me a favor,” he replied.

  Pepper scowled. “I ain’t no nursemaid.”

  Kirby chuckled. There would be no misunderstanding about that. Pepper was as irascible as a coyote in a locoweed patch, and he would give the boy a hell of a time. But if the boy survived that, Kirby reckoned he could survive anything. It would be interesting to see whether Gabe Lewis had as much grit as his mouth had bravado.

  Chapter Three

  Gabrielle’s worst fears were realized as dusk came. She’d gotten through supper fairly well. Large containers of stew had come from the kitchen and the hands had gathered outside to eat. She’d stood in line for her share, enduring the curious looks and teasing from the drovers; then she’d taken her plate to a spot under a solitary cottonwood, where the others left her alone to eat in peace.