Following the sheriff’s lead, Trace did the same, repeating the words as their glasses clinked. Rand tossed back the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar, his eyes watering as he swallowed.
“I suppose I could blame it on the heat,” he gasped as he poured himself another shot. “I didn’t expect them to be so bad.”
Trace took a sip of his own drink. “We haven’t had a lot of time to discuss their condition.” He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the rich woody flavor of the whiskey. “I told the undertaker to nail those lids closed.”
Rand stared at his drink. “Probably for the best.”
“I thought so,” he agreed and brushed the thoughts of Mary Rose’s objections from his mind.
The sheriff whirled, his face as fierce as anytime Trace had known him. “I want you to promise me you’ll never let her come near that undertaker. I want those bodies in the ground so fast she won’t have time to demand to see ’em.”
Finishing off his drink, Trace caught the tense expression in the mirror behind the bar, and his voice hardened. “You have my word. She will never see those bodies.”
Rand nodded. “Good.”
Trace pushed the glass away and motioned for the barkeep. “Coffee. Make it hot.”
The sheriff glanced over with a curious expression.
“I will not go to a woman in mourning with whiskey on my breath,” he commented. “I am a man of honor.”
****
Mary Rose needed to walk, to pace. The wagon had returned, and it seemed like hours had passed, yet still no sign of the marshal. She sat down on a delicately carved velvet chair in Doctor Martin’s parlor and stared at the door, willing him to come. She could hear pots and pans banging in the kitchen, and every once in a while the sounds were punctuated by the widow’s voice or the doctor’s words. She did her best to ignore them.
Looking down, she fingered the heavy cloth of her wrapper, wishing there was time to dress and meet him properly. She looked a mess, and she knew it. The widow had tried to tame those wild curls of hers by pulling them to the nape of her neck in a clip. Rebellious as always, a few strands made their way out and hung gracefully in spirals by her cheeks. She wondered why it even mattered. Yet, deep down, the yearning to look her best for this man had taken root.
Had she changed? She was still the same Mary Rose Thornton, part owner of Thornton Freight, but something deep inside had shifted. The marshal had awakened the womanly side of her that had for so long lain dormant, refreshing her senses and shifting them close to the surface. Blowing out a breath, she willed her thoughts to focus on nothing as she closed her eyes and let her mind go blank.
In the shadows, behind her lashes, she heard it. The crunch of boots and the chink of silver spurs. Her stomach rolled as the sound moved across her skin; goose bumps prickled her flesh. Her ears echoed with the sound, and her breathing increased as it drew closer. Her heart skipped a beat at the telltale thump of a foot upon the porch. Her eyes opened wide and she rose from the chair.
His soft knock unleashed a flutter of butterflies to circle in her belly. She glanced toward the kitchen, but no one appeared. She smoothed the fabric of her clothing with her good palm, then walked to the door. Reaching out to grasp the doorknob, she noticed the slight tremble of her fingers. Breathe, you fool, she reminded herself, and tried to steady her hand. Another light knock reverberated through the wood.
“Just a second,” she called. Her hand closed around the knob, and she opened the door.
There he stood with his head bent; his thick dark hair slicked back as if he’d just dampened it to make it stay. Her breath caught as he tilted his head and the bronze skin over the aristocratic features of his face caught the light. He stood before her, a charred but familiar hat in his hand and his blue eyes laden with sadness. A few lines of worry creased his brow. Foolish words of surprise slipped from her lips before she had time to recall them. “Marshal, you came back.”
“I am a man of my word,” he replied. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped back and pulled the door wider to allow him to enter. As he walked through the door and she caught the scent of sandalwood and warm earth, her heart skipped a beat.
He glanced down and held out the charred hat. “I found this.”
She stared at the remains of her hat. “Thank you.” She took it from him and examined its burnt edges and smoke-smudged crown. “It seems so odd that I should look at this with such a sentimental heart.”
“No, not at all,” he took a breath. “I would advise you to put it away and not dwell on its memories.”
She glanced at him, her curiosity piqued.
“At least until you are stronger,” he added.
She lifted the edges of her mouth a smidgen. “You are probably very right. Please, won’t you have a seat?”
He moved toward the parlor, and she used the time it took to close the door to regain her equilibrium. She looked at the hat, then placed it aside, not wishing for him to see how it unnerved her. Being careful not to make too much noise, she crossed the room to her chair. The last thing she wanted was Widow Hatfield to waltz in and interrupt. He had come to see her, and there were things they needed to discuss. “Won’t you sit down?” She nodded toward the sofa. “You must be exhausted. I hear you sat with me last night.”
The edges of his eyes mirrored his smile. She liked that. “You are our star witness,” he replied, then waited for her to sit before he perched on the edge of the horsehair sofa. “The doctor’s chair is not as comfortable as a bed,” he agreed. “But I have slept on worse.”
“I’m sure.”
Awkwardness filled the silence between them. There wasn’t an artful or diplomatic way to ask. Mary Rose took a breath and said, “Were you able to find them? Their, their bodies?”
“Yes.”
She could hear the relief in his word. It empowered her to continue. “The undertaker has them?” She watched him nod. “I suppose I should go and make the arrangements. I thought a small church service would be—”
“No.”
Her lungs contracted. She stared for a moment, processing the word, and then her brows arched.
His mouth became firm, and his eyes glanced down at his feet.
“No,” he repeated once more, in a kinder manner. “There will be no church service.”
A bit of anger laced her soul. “No service,” she repeated with a bite to her words. “You come in and tell me how to bury my own brother?”
“Miss Thornton.” His voice spoke with underlying firmness, and her anger twisted. “Your dead needs to be buried, and as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t...” she began.
Seeing her bewilderment, he continued. “Your brother should be buried,” he began again. “The body has already begun—” Words failed him. He stared at his hat, still clutched in his right hand. He let out a pent-up breath, then laid the hat on the sofa next to him. “I am not doing this well,” he said.
Suddenly she realized what he hesitated to say. Daniel’s body had begun to decay. Her hand fluttered against her lips. Mary Rose shuddered at the thought. She needed time to adjust, to think. She stood and turned away as a raw pull tugged at her heart. “I-I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered.
“Miss Thornton…”
She heard him rise and step close. His hand touched her shoulder, and her skin warmed to his touch. Only a few inches separated them. Her gaze found his mouth, then those warm blue eyes. Her anger faded, replaced by something she couldn’t describe. As she stared, the dark onyx of the rim grew wider, the color deepened. His hand rose from her shoulder to cradle her cheek. Instinctively, she turned into it, savoring his tenderness.
“Forgive my stumbling words.” His husky voice was like cool water soothing away the raw ache of her loss. “Both Sheriff Weston and I feel it best to have a graveside service tomorrow afternoon.”
A tear slid from her eye. His thumb whisked it away.
“Mi Querida,
” he whispered.
His breath brushed softly past her skin as he drew her close. She reached out and pressed her palm against his chest. Her fingers picked up the thump of his heart, and hers slowed to beat in unison. Her lashes swept to her cheek, and she inhaled a shattered breath as his lips touched the path of her tear with a soft, feathery kiss.
As if anticipating his next move, she dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue and heard a low rumble generate from his chest. Ever so lightly, his lips moved across hers. From one edge, near a dimple, he traced along the smooth lines of her mouth to the other side and back again, nibbling, tasting, and bringing her joy. She could feel the change in her body. The rapid staccato of her heartbeat filled her ears as she leaned in to him.
Beneath the cotton of her gown, her breasts seemed to grow heavy. He slid his tongue along the opening of her mouth, and fire erupted just below the pit of her belly. Without instruction, she tilted her head to give him better access and prepared to surrender to this treat. Much to her disappointment, he pulled away. A soft cry wrenched from her lips. Her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt as she brought strength back to her weakened knees. Her eyes still closed, she could hear him take his own ragged breaths and felt the warm brush of his breath as it passed her cheeks.
“I should not have done that,” he mumbled.
Liar, she thought, but caught his look of chagrin. She looked down at her hand and released the crumpled fistful of cloth she’d held tight.
“Let us speak no more about this.”
“Yes.” She moved to put a chair between them. “This was an accident. I was overcome with grief,” she rationalized. “I don’t usually throw myself at men.” She watched his stony facade slip into place.
“You will let the dead rest?”
“I will speak to the undertaker about the service.”
His voice let out a low growl of disapproval. She held up her hand. “A graveside service and a wake after.” Her eyes met his, and she could see him relax.
“Done,” he agreed. “I will send him here.”
“There is no need, I am fit enough to—” Her smile faded.
“There is no room for discussion. I will send him to you.”
He moved toward her as if drawn by some magical force. She held her breath, waiting against hope that he would kiss her again. Instead, he stared into her eyes and then brushed her cheek with his fingers. His brow puckered as he spoke. “What are you doing to me?”
Mary Rose didn’t have an answer. He stared at her for a second more, and then she watched as he bent, picked up his hat, and strode to the door. Her heart ached, as he never once glanced back. Shoulders filling the doorway, he went through and walked away. Her hand moved to cover her cheek and the skin he had touched. It felt warm, as if he’d left some mark behind.
“It should be the other way around, Marshal Castillo. What are you doing to me?” she said aloud, but there was no one there to answer.
Chapter Seven
Trace opened the door of the sheriff’s office and found Rand busily writing his report. The lawman paused and glanced up. “Sit down, Marshal, before you fall. I’ve seen better color on a dead man.”
In truth, he knew it was an apt description. “Thank you for the compliment,” he remarked with a bit of dry humor.
Rand chuckled and put down his pencil. “There’s a pitcher of water upstairs and some clean sheets on the cot. Tomorrow I’ll take you over to the hotel and arrange for a hot bath. I left some bacon and hardtack on the edge of the stove.”
Trace hung his hat on the peg by the door and ambled over to pick up his meager meal. It wasn’t a steak, but it would keep his belly button from making friends with his backbone. Gingerly, he touched the plate, drawing his fingers back in haste at the heat.
“Dishtowel on the side,” Rand called.
“Thanks.” Folding it, he wrapped it around the edges of the dish and hurried to the corner of the desk. “Coffee fresh?”
“Made it this morning, while you were out. Sit down, and I’ll get you a cup.”
Trace placed the plate on the desk and eased his tired bones into the straight-backed chair. Rand’s boots scuffed across the plank floor as he made his way to the stove.
“Gentry come back yet with those invoices?” Trace inquired.
“No, I expect him in a bit.”
He heard Rand lift the enameled pot, and the liquid gurgled into the cup. Breaking off a piece of the bread, he popped it into his mouth.
“Here you go.” For good measure, Rand plunked a spoon into the cup and set it at his elbow.
Chewing the hard-crusted bread, Trace gave a nod and watched Rand move back to his desk to sit down. Using his left hand, he pointed at the paper. “Your report on the incident at Cottonwood Springs?”
He nodded. “Yeah, before I forget anything, I want to put down the facts as I know them. I need you to write a statement, as well.”
“Right,” Trace agreed, and took a sip of the infamous brew.
“How’d it go with Miss Thornton?”
Glancing up, Trace caught the sharp eyes of the lawman drilling into him. He shifted the food in his mouth and gave a noncommittal response. “Good.”
Rand raised a brow. “Just good?”
Ignoring him for a moment, Trace dipped the bread in his coffee and weighed his response. “She agreed to a graveside service, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Now it was his turn to stare back. He did not intend to tell Rand or anyone else how his guard slipped and he’d kissed her.
“It was,” the sheriff answered and picked up his pencil. “I’m thinking I want you at her side during the service. It’s bound to get out that she’s alive. It wouldn’t hurt to put some quiet protection around her.”
“All right,” he replied, and put the last of the bread into his mouth. What Rand said made sense. She’d be an easy target for a sharpshooter. While his friend made more notes, he glanced about the neat office and spied his saddlebags next to the gun rack. “Rand,” he jerked his head toward his bags. “Inside the right bag, you’ll find something interesting.”
The sheriff looked up and scooted his chair back, then rose to get the leather bags. “Right one?”
“Yeah, I found that behind the wagon, next to Moe's body.”
Rand sat down to undo the buckle and then pulled out the piece of wood wrapped in a rag. Uncovering the fragment of crate, he ran his fingers over the lettering. “What do you make of it?”
Trace swallowed. “I’m hoping the numbers will match one of those on the invoices from the freight company.”
“If not?”
He sat back, cup in hand. “If not, then our friends stopped along the way to pick up something they didn’t want anyone to know about.”
The sheriff’s face grew grim. “Listen here,” he hissed. “Friend or no, I’ve told you already the Thorntons are good people.”
Leaning forward, Trace placed his cup on the table. “Look, Rand, I’m not saying they aren’t. I’m just saying we don’t always know what goes on in a man’s backroom or in a woman’s mind. Did they have money problems? Did Daniel Thornton gamble?”
To his relief, Rand paused. “He might have played a hand or two of cards once a month. I’d see him from time to time in the saloon enjoying a beer, but he wasn’t one to drop a chunk of cash.”
Trace rose. “To clear his name, we’ll need to check the bank accounts.”
“To clear his name? I don’t believe Daniel would be able to pull a fast one like stealing from his own company.”
Trace yawned. Fatigue seemed to be winning. He couldn’t remember how long he had been up. It seemed like weeks.
He heard Rand’s voice. “Top of the stairs. I’ll wake you early in the morning. I’ve got to arrange for a rider to accompany a freight run this afternoon.”
Taking his cup of coffee with him, Trace rose. “Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it,” the sheriff answered. “Let’s
just get to the bottom of this. If Mary Rose ever finds out you’ve doubted her brother, there will be more than hell to pay.”
Trace didn’t reply as he left the office, pausing long enough to scoop up his saddlebags and toss them over his shoulder. Following the short hallway between the two cells, he found the stairs that led up to the second floor. His boots sounded hollow as he took the steps upward. Rand had left a lamp turned low, casting a few shadows around the room. Dropping his bags at the foot of the cot, he made his way to the dresser and turned up the wick to garner a good look at his new surroundings.
The room above the sheriff’s office was more like a loft, running the length of the brick building. There were few luxuries, just a low three-drawer chest with a pitcher and bowl for a washstand, and a single cot. It was sparse not because of modesty but because the space allowed nothing more. Trace could handle this. It beat sleeping on the cold hard ground.
At least it had good ventilation. One window faced the back of the building, the other faced the front and gave a view to see anyone who approached.
With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the cot and heard the springs sing out from his weight. He pulled off his boots and dropped them at the foot of the bed, then stood to undo his gun belt. Leaning to the side, he looped it around the bedpost, within easy reach should it be needed. A tug of his hands pulled his cotton shirt overhead, and he gave it a shake before he draped it over the footboard.
Unlike most men, he didn’t wear the full innerwear, preferring, instead, to leave his chest bare. Moving to the washstand, he poured water into the bowl and did his best to cleanse the dirt from his torso. With that done, he stepped to the bed, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid them from his legs. Clad only in soft white cotton long-john pants, Trace tossed back the sheets and lay down.
He yawned again and folded his arms behind his head. A soft breeze stirred the curtains as he thought about the woman he’d just left. The rich color of her eyes, the cream of her skin, stirred him in ways no other woman since Amelia had. His thoughts recalled the kiss and the lingering taste of honey still on his lips. She’d leaned into him, and the mere memory of the warmth of her body and fullness of her breasts sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. As the kiss ended, he’d felt her lips open, offering him an invitation to explore.
Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Page 7
