Trace watched the man untie Diablo and lead him away. Shifting his bundle, he walked through the door. A voice behind him spoke. “I’d ask you to shut the door, but there’s not much left to shut.”
Swiveling, he pulled the rifle’s stock into his hand and leveled the gun from his waist, his finger on the trigger.
Doc Martin stood in the doorway. His eyes wide, he paused for a moment to raise one eyebrow. “If you weren’t a U. S. Marshal, I’d say hired killer is more the mark. Remind me to call out next time,” he said.
Trace lowered the rifle and took a cleansing breath. “Sorry. Habit.”
The doctor took a step into the room and pushed closed what was left of the door.
“How’s Miss Thornton?”
“She’s resting.”
Trace walked to the door to see for himself. Only one lamp remained lit, the wick turned down so only a faint yellow light flickered over her features. Staring at her, his gut knotted as if he’d been kicked by a mule.
“I will sit with her tonight.” He turned and looked at the doctor, daring him to challenge his right to keep her company.
Doc Martin tossed the towel he was holding over his shoulder and stared back. His eyes reflected the same strong will. “It’s a good thing you’re a man of the law, ’cause right now,” he said with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the patient’s room, “that woman is going to need someone to lean on and keep her safe. Don’t take it on, son, unless you’re up to the job.”
Trace swallowed, digesting everything the doctor said—or, more importantly, left out. A foot out of line and the good doctor would delight in exacting his own pound of flesh. “I’ll keep her safe,” he replied, knowing that one misstep would send him out of town faster than Santa Anna’s retreat.
The doctor narrowed his eyes. “You do that, young man, you do that.”
Trace watched him walk away. He glanced back at the door. A large crack ran the length of the wood and would have to be repaired. He strode over and positioned the pieces of the broken jamb back in place as best he could. Tomorrow he’d ask Rand where to find a carpenter. With that done, he moved to the room where she lay.
He paused in the doorway and watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath the quilt. A part of him couldn’t deny the draw she had on his heart. He could attribute it to the soft feel of her curves when she’d collapsed in his arms or the way she’d tucked her head against his shoulder when he cradled her body on the horse. Whatever it was, he felt the need, as a man, to protect this innocent woman.
Laying his saddlebags on the floor, Trace pulled an armchair closer to her bedside and angled it so he could watch the door, removed his hat and tossed it on top of his things, and settled down for the night. Right hand propping up his chin, he stared down at her and recalled Rand’s words: “You think she’s like Amelia, cunning and black-hearted.”
Damn right. Amelia had sworn she loved him, until he refused to pick up the cause for those wanting a monarchy to return to Mexico. Oh, how quickly she’d switched sides. How easy it had been for her to climb into his brother’s bed and turn his family against him.
“Why should I care what happens to you?” he whispered. The only answer he received was the soft womanly sigh that escaped her lips as she turned her head upon the pillow. His eyes drawn to the arc of her swanlike neck, he watched the steady beat of her heart along the vein there. Despite his inner protest, Trace reached out and took her hand. His sensitive fingertips could feel the gentle thump of his own heart join in tandem with hers, and it seemed to calm the rush of his emotions.
I must be mad. His hand fell, and he brushed his shirt, making sure no bonds were there. Yet something remained. A connection stronger than any rope, any strand of barbed wire, any blacksmith’s chain made, and it scared him. He’d be a fool not to admit it. Her hand moved from the covers to lie beside her cheek. Trace stared at it with envy, oddly wishing it were again clasped within his own.
****
Mary Rose sensed she wasn’t alone. The smell of peppermint, wood smoke, and something male roused her closer to consciousness. A sixth sense told her this was not her room or her bed. Still, an overwhelming sense of peace stole over her, and she knew she was safe. Her eyes still closed, she began to take stock of herself, beginning with her toes.
She stretched, and her legs and feet responded. However, when she moved her arms, the tingling sensation grew to pain along her left shoulder. She moaned and brought her right hand up. It collided with another. The slap of flesh, punctuated by a male voice, brought her instantly awake.
“Do not move, Miss Thornton.”
She stilled. The wild beat of her heart thumped and shuddered to a stop. “Wh-who…” Her voice cracked.
“Sh,” the voice spoke again. “Trace Castillo. Do you remember?”
Mary Rose did remember. The man on the trail, the one who brought her back to town, the one whose arms had held her safe and secure when her world ended. Oh, yes, she remembered. Her lashes rose from her cheek, and his face came into view.
His cheeks and strong jaw were shadowed by the stubble of a beard, but the taut line of his lips relaxed when she smiled. His blue eyes held her spellbound. She should speak, yet her throat felt dry. Swallowing, she managed, “We meet again.”
Visibly, he relaxed, the tension loosening in his broad shoulders. Her heart thumped and picked up speed as the edges of his eyes turned up when he smiled.
“It is I who have the pleasure, señorita,” he replied.
The low timbre of his voice set her nerves trembling and caused her heart to strike at an unusual rhythm. She looked away, afraid he might see her blush.
“I’m at Doc Martin’s,” she said recognizing the Spartan decorations and the picture of a sulky race on the far wall between the cabinets.
“Yes.”
She swallowed painfully again.
He leaned over and reached toward the nightstand. “Let me get you some water.”
Mary Rose watched his hands move to pour enough water into a glass for a good swallow.
“Take this slow,” he told her.
His strong fingers slid beneath her curls and lifted her head as he brought the glass to her lips. Pain flared against her temples, and she closed her eyes in response.
“Drink,” he commanded softly.
She opened her mouth to the cool water and let it bathe her throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered as he laid her head back onto the pillow. With a sigh, she gazed across to the window and noticed the pale golden light beginning to stretch across the sky. Her heart filled with foreboding. “What day?”
“Day?”
Her mind still muddled, she flicked her tongue over her lips and rephrased the question. “How long have I been here?”
“I brought you in late yesterday evening,” he told her.
“One day,” she whispered. “One day, and yet so much has changed.” Without warning, Mary Rose felt her eyes prick with tears. She clenched her jaw and filled her good hand with the fullness of the quilt. She would not cry.
“Let me get the doctor,” she heard him say.
Yes, she thought, get him, for I have much to do. Hearing him leave, she took a moment to let the events of yesterday wash over her. A deep ringing hollow of emptiness filled her, pressing all the joy from her soul. Daniel was gone. He lay beneath the dirt, killed for a reason she couldn’t fathom.
She let go of the quilt, balled her good hand into a fist, and stuffed it into her mouth to keep the sob from bursting forth. No, no, she told herself, there will be time enough for tears later. Right now, she needed to retrieve her brother’s body from the mound at Cottonwood Springs. Her brother would not lie beneath the dirt like a common criminal. Daniel deserved to be buried good and proper in a churchyard.
She touched the simple cotton gown someone had provided. One glance around the room proved her clothing wasn’t in sight. Using her right arm, Mary Rose pushed back the co
vering and attempted to ease her body into a sitting position. Her breath came in sharp, hard gulps, her lungs burning as if she’d run from the springs all the way back to Claiborne. At the edge of her hairline, dots of perspiration formed, and her skin felt cold and clammy. She gave a little shake of her head. She was weak as a kitten.
One leg peered from beneath the covers, and she let it dangle over the edge of the bed. The cotton gown rode up, exposing her calf. If she could just turn, she’d be able to put both feet on the floor. The springs creaked. She pulled the uncooperative arm across her body and winced.
“You can do this, Mary Rose.” She heard Daniel’s voice clear and strong, as if he were in the room.
“Mary Rose Thornton,” Doctor Martin’s voice boomed, and she nearly plunged face first off the bed. Her gaze moved to the doorway and the doctor’s stern frown.
“What in Sam’s hill do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“I’m getting up,” she spit back and glared with her own fierce determination. “And I’m going to bring my brother’s body home.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Doctor Martin bellowed. He marched toward the bed. His stern eyes scolded her as he bent down and swung her leg back onto the mattress.
She cried out, feeling her body fall off balance. Doctor Martin slid a hand to her back to steady her.
“Wait a minute,” she hissed.
The doctor ignored her protest and took hold of the sheet, tucking it back in place as she continued to sputter. Undaunted, she pushed her hair from her face as the doctor leaned close. Nose to nose, his pout rivaled hers, each daring the other to try to move.
Her chin jutting in defiance, she boldly met his eyes. “I’m not about to let my brother lie cold beneath the Texas soil without so much as a coffin to soothe his bones or a few good words to help his soul cross over.”
“Now, you Irish hothead, you listen to me. There are plenty of men in this town who can and will take care of that little chore for you. You are going to keep your body in this bed for at least another twelve hours. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I won’t have you passed out in the street.”
Her lips pulled together, but she could feel the tears threaten to dissolve her composure. At this moment, she didn’t know which she hated more, Doc Martin or being a woman. “I’ll not be beholden to any man,” she snapped. “Daniel’s the only family I’ve got left.”
“Had left,” the doctor corrected.
Her eyes grew damp with tears. “’Twas a low blow, even for the likes of you,” she hissed.
“I’ll go.”
Her head snapped to look at the doorway and stare at the man standing there.
“I’ll go,” Trace repeated. “Under one condition—you follow the doctor’s orders.”
Stunned, she bit her bottom lip and considered his offer. “You’d go for me?” She wondered why he bothered to get involved. Despite her apprehension, her heart ached for this man to take control. His gaze lanced through the last of her defenses despite his authoritarian manner. Following a deep breath, his words spoke to the heart of the matter. “I buried them. I should be the one to bring them back to town.”
She opened her mouth but found no reason to protest.
“Good, that’s settled,” Doc Martin answered. “Now we’ll compromise. You be a lady and talk nice without using your tongue as a branding iron, and I’ll bring you breakfast.”
From where she lay, Mary Rose could see the hint of laughter on the doctor’s face. She wanted to wipe away his smirk and that of the marshal, as well. Instead, she gave a short nod and focused upon the quilt. An awkward silence filled the room. Her fingers picked at the stitching along one seam. A moment later, the doctor cleared his throat, and she looked up.
With a wink, he added, “And no sparking.”
Her mouth dropped open. She glared at him and felt the burn of the heat racing up her face. From experience, she knew the color of her cheeks now matched the copper-colored streaks of her hair. Before she could sputter an indignant reply, Doc Martin walked away.
Her eyes cast daggers at the doctor’s retreating back, but she waited until he left the room before giving the marshal a glance. “He is being overprotective.”
“He cares about you,” Trace replied. He leaned against the doorway, his manner still aloof.
“Humph,” she grumbled, still a bit cross at the highhanded manner.
“Humor him.”
Mary Rose glanced up and found herself bedazzled by the man’s genuine smile. “It is not an excuse, but it will do.”
He stepped closer to the bed. “It is what makes sense, senorita. I should go.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her thoughts turned to the details that needed her attention. “The undertaker’s place is behind the Tomahawk Saloon. Tell him you need a box, a good box.” Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “This is a man’s job. You must rest. I’ll come back by later.”
She opened her eyes as a tear traversed her cheek and, just as quickly, she brushed it away. He turned, and she heard the odd jingle of spurs she’d come to trust. On an impulse, she snagged the edge of his sleeve. He paused.
“I’m obliged to you, Marshal Castillo.” Her tone was brisk and businesslike. She prayed he would not see past her false bravado.
He turned, and she lost her grip on his sleeve, only to find his hand now holding hers. His fingers gave a little squeeze. She looked up to find genuine warmth emanating from his face.
“I’ll be back.” Then, to her surprise, he leaned down and pulled her hand to his lips.
His touch was feathery and light. She stared as his mouth skimmed over her knuckles, and her heart lurched as if she stood on the rim of a canyon, waiting to fall. Her stomach plunged, rolling, to her feet when he let go and walked to the doorway. He paused and she gazed at his face, where the right side of his mouth lifted in a tempting come-hither taunt. “Until later, Señorita Thornton.” Something inside her careened over the edge and beckoned her heart to follow.
Chapter Five
Stepping outside, Trace took a deep breath and felt a chink in his armor give way. He had wanted to see her smile—a face like that should have dimples. Of course, a prudent man would walk away. Trace Castillo had never been that. In his veins ran the blood of two proud races. Half of him belonged to the Spanish conquistadores. His other half stood at the walls of the Alamo to defend Tejas against overwhelming odds as General Santa Anna’s army attacked. He would not run from this challenge but meet it head on. He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway, a grin pushing at his lips. What a beautiful challenge it was.
Hands to hips, he did his best to relax. It was bad enough her blue eyes made him dizzy. But when his name rolled from her lips, he wanted to hear that from beneath him, on soft sheets, with that copper hair streaming in molten waves across the pillow, as he pressed his lips to the pulse of her neck.
Trace blew the air from his lungs. She would be a distraction from his work. Nothing more, he assured himself. Yet, just now, when she needed help, he’d jumped at the opportunity to perform this task. He gave a gruff chuckle. “Like some errant knight in blasted shining armor.”
He swung off the porch and strode down Main Street in the direction of the business side of town. It stood to reason places like that would be kept away from the few homes nestled to the north. He tipped his hat as he passed two women on the boardwalk and took note of their admiring glances. There, across from the blacksmith and the livery, stood a huge two-story establishment painted in bold colors of green and red. Above the doorway hung a sign clearly labeling the place as the Tomahawk Saloon. Behind it, he would find the undertaker.
Heading closer, he heard a catcall from the upper floor. “Well, hello, sugar,” a deep-throated voice called to him.
Trace paused, tilted his head for a better view through the shadows of the upper porch, and watched a buxom, honey-haired beauty sashay toward th
e rail. Her flowered wrapper pulled tight and strained against the swell of the flesh beneath. She turned a hip against the rail, then leaned her back against the post. A seductive smile softened her lips.
Trace touched his hat. “Ma’am.”
“Um.” She smacked her lips. “The sights in town keep getting better. You just come in, handsome?”
“Came in yesterday,” he replied and turned to continue on his way.
“Well, the fun starts around eight. You come on by and tell ’em Lori sen’ cha.”
He looked back over his shoulder and saw her bare leg hanging over the side, swinging against the breeze. Instead of dwelling on her enticement, Trace gave a nod. However, his mind turned to a delightful daydream of his own invention, that of his hand upon the creamy skin of Mary Rose. He could imagine his hand stroking her thigh while he watched those blue eyes turn to velvet. He stopped and swallowed. Such musings were not appropriate. He grasped the door handle of the undertaker’s establishment.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he grumbled. Perhaps this woolgathering came from lack of sleep. No one said staying awake all night, sitting in a chair, would pass for a good eight hours’ sleep in a bed. With a shake of his head, he turned the handle to venture inside.
The atmosphere of the room was opposite of that outside. The sunshine and warmth became subdued against the pallor of death. Two types of pine boxes sat on sawhorses for display inside the whitewashed room. He removed his hat out of courtesy to those lost and walked toward the low counter at the back as a tall, slim man with a waxy complexion pushed back the dark curtains to greet him.
“I’m Mr. Malone, the undertaker. How may I help you, sir?” His deep voice echoed around the room.
“I wish to purchase two pine boxes,” Trace began, and filled him in on the need of additional men to bring back the bodies from the spring.
“I’m sure we can accommodate your request,” Malone said.
“I’ll be going with you to show you where the bodies are buried,” he replied, at which the undertaker’s brows rose.
Mr. Malone paused for a moment to digest the information before he continued. “It will take me about an hour to round up a few men. Where would you like to meet?”
Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Page 5
