Scotsman Wore Spurs by Patricia; Potter

labor.
    Kirby sighed. His friendship with Cameron scared his nephews. They had always expected to take over his spread and now they sensed a challenge to that natural assumption. That Drew Cameron wanted no part of it would never occur to them.
    What did occur to Kirby was that the competition might be good for his nephews. He didn’t want to think that he was using a man who had saved his life.
    So he thought of Laura instead. Pretty Laura whom he could never have.

Chapter Four
    â€œHead ’em up and move ’em out!”
    The call started at the front of the sprawling, brown mass of horned cattle and moved in two directions around the perimeter of the herd, until it reached the back.
    Riding drag, the worst possible position on the drive, Drew received the call last, and by the time it reached him, the very earth rumbled with movement and the plain itself appeared to be moving. Great clouds of dust swirled from thousands of hooves, and all of it seemed aimed directly at his face. He pulled up his bandanna for protection, but he couldn’t cover his eyes. He knew his clothes would be brown with new dirt within an hour.
    He didn’t know how his horse stood the unremitting assault, but the pinto seemed to take it in stride. They had been on the trail five days now, and he and the pinto, his horse of choice, had finally reached an understanding. At least, Drew thought they had.
    His mind had been wandering a bit when a cow, straggling at the back of the herd, suddenly broke away and veered to the left. The pinto veered after it and Drew was nearly unseated. He gave his head a shake to clear it. No more daydreaming about the green fields and grouse-filled woods of Scotland. He had to pay attention every moment.
    The horse turned sharply again, and this time Drew anticipated the move and flowed with it. Within seconds, the wayward cow had been driven back to the main herd, and the pinto settled back into an easy walk. Drew settled in for another long and grinding day.
    By midmorning, he was shifting restlessly in the saddle, wishing to bloody hell he could dismount and walk awhile. Walking was a sacrilege to most cowboys, but his body had yet to resign itself entirely to sitting in a saddle eighteen hours a day. The eager anticipation that had rippled through him that first morning, when the drive commenced, had since drained away. His sense of adventure had dimmed as dust, dirt, and heat enveloped him like a malevolent cloud.
    Heat. He felt it to the marrow of his bones. The Texas sun was nothing he’d ever experienced—big and bold and burning—and he wondered how anyone ever got used to it. Scotland had three temperatures: cool, cold, and freezing. Based on the past five days, he decided that the Texas counterpart was hot, hotter, and roasting. But today felt especially miserable; the heat was accompanied by a suffocating humidity that hadn’t been there yesterday.
    His own discomfort made him wonder how Two-Bits was faring. Despite the temperature, the lad still clung to his preposterous garb. The other hands, who were all down to the minimum necessary to protect their bodies from occasional branches and brush, were taking bets on how many days it would be before the cook’s louse shed his layers of clothing.
    Drew couldn’t help but feel sympathetic, as well as grateful, toward Gabe Lewis. The lad had saved him from being the cowhands’ favorite target, taking all the joshing and pranks upon himself. And, God knows, he gave the hands enough to tease him about. His own initial suspicion of Two-Bits had faded to almost nothing; no villain, no matter how young, could possibly be as inept. He’d have been in jail, or dead, with his first unlawful act.
    Stories already abounded about the louse’s incompetence, and Two-Bits had been banished to the sole duty of collecting cow chips. No one was betting that he wouldn’t find a way to fail at that, too. The lad would have