Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose
Page 9
He could feel the movement of her hand as it arched from his chest to the side of his neck. The brush of her fingertips stoked the flames of his desire. He nibbled along her bottom lip, then trailed his mouth across her cheek until she pressed hard against him. A soft sigh led to a moan as he moved back to her mouth and slid his tongue to part the lips she willingly opened.
God forbid, he craved her, wished to devour her, and when she curled her tongue against his, Trace thought he would lose control. Blood pounding in his ears, he managed to pull his lips away. Holding her tight, he listened to their ragged breathing as she clung to him for support.
“Mary Rose, Mary Rose.” He repeated her name, pressing soft kisses to her temple, her nose, her other cheek.
Her breathing deepened, and he felt her pull slowly back, her hand pushing against his chest as she regained her balance. The swell of her bosom strained the calico she wore. Her eyes, still heavy with passion, struggled to open. But, when they did, she stared at him, her cheeks filling with color and her face with confusion. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips made swollen by his actions.
“Do not go back to the freight office,” he said.
If he had thrown a bucket of ice water over her, her expression couldn’t have grown more distant. Then her shock gave way to anger and, before Trace had time to react, her open palm made contact with his left cheek. The sound broke the silence like a clap of thunder.
Her eyes wide in a blaze of female indignation, she snapped, “Your duty here, Marshal, is over.”
Trace drew himself up straight. He deserved that, he supposed, but he had needed to demonstrate how easily a man could break down her defenses. Meanwhile, she turned on her heel and stomped away. His eyes followed her across the yard and into the house. Only when the door slammed did he look away, his mouth grim.
“On the contrary, my job has just begun,” he called out.
****
Mary Rose leaned against the kitchen door and waited for her knees to regain their strength. A flurry of butterflies swirled in the pit of her belly as she wiped her lips in an effort to make his kisses no more than a memory.
“Mary Rose?”
She jerked her hand away from her face. Her eyes blinked wide as Doctor Martin looked down at her. “Are you all right?” He moved toward her. “You look a bit flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she answered, her tone sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.
His brows knitted together as his gaze ran over her. “Perhaps you need to lie down. Folks will understand.”
She jerked to attention. Her mouth pressed into a firm line. “I do not wish to lie down. I do not need people hovering over me like I’m some sort of glass doll who will break if someone shouts ‘boo.’ I am going back into that room to greet the guests who came to remember my brother and raise a glass to his passing, and I don’t care who knows or what anyone happens to think. My brother deserves a proper send-off and, by all that’s holy, it will be what Daniel gets.”
With an angry swish of her skirts, she was gone.
In her wake, Doc Martin could only scratch his head. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered aloud.
“Doc?” Rand Weston entered the room from the front of the house. His face wore an expression of disbelief. “I just passed Miss Thornton,” he began.
“Yes, you did.” Doc replied. “Madder than a wet hen, I suspect.”
The sheriff nodded as he crossed the room. Both men stood and stared out the kitchen windows, watching a lone figure cram a wide-brimmed Stetson on his head before he stalked off.
“That the marshal?”
“Yep,” Rand murmured.
“Hm,” Doc Martin mused. “Perhaps we might need a word with Mr. Malone.”
“The undertaker?”
Doc nodded. “Could be we need to have him measured for his own pine box.”
Sheriff Rand Weston looked at the empty doorway, then back to the window. The corner of his lips turned up in a knowing smile. “Could be, Doc, could be.”
****
Mary Rose lingered in the shadows of the hallway to watch the people meandering around in small groups, their voices low as if afraid to awaken the dead. She needed to get a hold of her emotions and put them into concealment until this was done. Closing her eyes, she mentally counted to ten, yet it did little to quell the rush of feelings that five minutes alone with that insufferable U.S. Marshal stirred to a maelstrom.
“Oh, there you are, dear.” The Widow Hatfield smiled. “Did you and that nice young man have a good talk?”
Mary Rose’s eyes grew cold. “Aye, we talked.”
“Oh, good,” the widow replied, missing the angry tone. “Now, you get some food before you pass slam out.”
Before she could protest, Mary Rose found a luncheon plate shoved into her hand, holding a dollop of potato salad and a chicken leg.
“There now, go on and find a place to sit.” The widow pushed her along and turned to the next person in line. “Land sakes, Earl, is that your youngest?”
A sigh escaped Mary Rose’s lips as she wandered across the room toward an empty chair near the fireplace. Once seated, she had to admit it felt good to be off her feet. Picking up the chicken leg, she took a dainty bite, only to find it tasted like sawdust. Without a napkin to spit the mouthful into, she was forced to chew and swallow, which nearly gagged her.
“Would some tea help?” a male voice questioned.
She cut her eyes toward the speaker and relaxed. Caleb Gentry held out a delicate china cup.
“The Widow Hatfield is in her element,” he observed.
“Yes,” Mary Rose agreed. Accepting the tea, she took a sip, washing the chicken down. “She enjoys having something to do.”
“Or someone to fuss over.”
Caleb’s remark made her chuckle.
“May I?” he asked, shifting his gaze to the stool beside her.
“Be my guest,” she replied, and he took the seat.
How awkward he looks. With his knees drawn to his chin because of the height of the stool and the length of his legs, he reminded her of a frog ready to leap. “Surely, you can’t be comfortable.”
Gentry looked at her, a genuine expression of happiness on his face. “Don’t mind me,” he told her. “As a child, the corner and I were good company.”
She smirked. “It must be a male trait, for Daniel often did the same.” A beat of her heart went by and the image of her brother as a child fluttered across her mind. She could almost see his mischievous grin and the way his sun-kissed hair was always drooping over one eye. Oh, how she missed him. “I-I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb murmured. “It’s going to be a big change, Miss Thornton. I’ll do everything I can to help things run smoothly.”
“I’m sure you will, Mr. Gentry. Thank you.”
“I told Sheriff Weston and the marshal yesterday I’d have the invoices together and sent over. I just had to find them all first. You know Daniel sometimes didn’t get all his papers filed.”
The sympathetic grin on her face froze. “Invoices?”
Caleb nodded. “Why, yes, ma’am. The two of them came to me yesterday morning asking what was in the wagons.”
Yesterday. A wave of apprehension coursed through her. She’d questioned Daniel about the crates stuffed beneath the seats when she discovered them. Her brow furrowed. What was it he’d said? “Leave the crates alone, Mary Rose. Don’t go poking your nose in where it don’t belong.” Now she suspected she should have done more.
“Miss Thornton?”
Giving her mind a mental shake, she looked over at Caleb. “I’m sorry. I, I lost my train of thought. You were saying?”
He searched her face as he spoke. “I said, I put copies of the invoices in the files and took the sheriff the originals.”
“You did?”
“Yes, ma’am. This very afternoon, right before the services.”
Mary R
ose managed to swallow the lump in her throat. “Wh-who’d you give them to?”
“Sheriff Weston.” he replied. “The marshal wasn’t there. He was off getting a bath and shave.”
She dampened her lips with the moist end of her tongue. She’d have to get a look at those invoices. She needed to figure out what Daniel was up to. Deep in thought, Mary Rose filed away the image of Trace beneath the willows, his eyes filled with hunger and want. Taking a deep breath, she hated the next question that sprang to her lips. “Do you recall what those invoices listed?”
Caleb Gentry leaned over. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I remember.” He nodded. “Those two crates held rifles, new rifles sent from Austin, Miss Thornton, bound for Fort Ewell.”
Her brows arched. “Are you sure?” she hissed.
“As positive as I can be. The letter was signed by the Secretary of State, in big bold letters.”
Stunned, Mary Rose sat back. Why had Daniel deemed it necessary to keep it a secret that they were hauling rifles for the army? Were there other things he’d conveniently forgotten? A deepening knot of tension pulled at her brow.
“Miss Thornton?” The sound of her name drew her back to the present. “You sure you’re all right?” Caleb asked.
Her mouth lifted in a friendly expression, masking the foreboding that left her ill at ease. “I, I’m tired.”
“Perhaps we all should leave. You need rest after being injured. Shall I get Doctor Martin?” He rose as if to step away.
“Wait.”
Caleb paused.
Mary Rose gave him a shaky smile. “I need to speak.”
“Let me take your plate and cup,” he offered.
“I’ll need my cup,” she sighed, surrendering the plate of nearly untouched food. He took her elbow and helped her rise. Moving to the center of the room, she stood alone, gathering her thoughts and summoning her courage.
“Pardon.” She spoke, and the low murmur of voices stilled. With all eyes upon her, Mary Rose continued. “I’d like to thank each and every one of you for stopping by.” She slowly circled to take in the gazes of friendship and sympathy. “Daniel Thornton was a fine young man.” Her smile trembled. “A good brother and a good friend.”
Her eyes caught the movement as a tall figure stepped through the front door. She would know those shoulders anywhere. Her palm burned as she recalled the heat of his skin beneath the starched white of his cotton shirt. She pressed her lips tight for a moment and could still taste him there, from the coffee he had this morning to the hickory of the bacon he’d consumed with it. If she breathed deep, no doubt the scent of bay rum would invade her nostrils.
“A good businessman,” she continued, her voice a bit brighter than it should have been as she watched the marshal turn to stare.
“Hear, hear,” someone called out.
Trace’s eyes met hers and their gazes locked. Mary Rose smiled. “Yes, hear, hear.” Her gaze spontaneously moved to the person who spoke. “Today, we buried Daniel Michael Thornton’s body, but not his spirit. As long as Thornton Freight stays in business, my brother’s dream stays alive.”
She glanced back. The marshal’s eyes glittered ominously in her direction. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and met his accusing gaze without flinching. “So, come tomorrow, Thornton’s Freight business will reopen at noon, ready to serve the fine residents of Cobb’s Crossing and beyond.” She lifted her cup. “To Daniel.”
Voices echoed the cry. “To Daniel.”
She circled again, holding the cup high to acknowledge their toast. A smile came readily to her lips. Finishing the circle, a look of triumph on her face, she searched for the marshal. Let him tell her Thornton’s was no place for her. The people of the town told her differently. Her eyes caught a movement in the shadows, and the screen door slammed. The thrill of victory fell from her face. A cold hand gripped her heart as she realized Marshal Trace Castillo had walked out. Why, now, did she feel as if she’d lost the best thing in her life?
Chapter Nine
Trace squinted at the invoices and yawned. As tired as he was, he needed something to keep his mind off the tactical display Mary Rose had staged in her parlor yesterday. He blew out a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his face. Unable to shake the image of her defiance, he gave a growl and pushed his chair from the desk. He stood and stretched before crossing over to the front windows.
The shadows from early morning had yet to dissipate, lingering just a bit longer before the heat of the day overruled their existence. Across the way, he could see her house, the door still closed. Trace wondered if she’d slept any better than he had. The thought of her in a bed conjured up the image of that glorious hair, a gossamer gown, and little else. His body stiffened as his mind played with erotic images.
Still lost in his thoughts when the door opened, he scrambled from the window to pick up a mug as Rand Weston walked in. Rand’s footsteps paused at the door, and Trace mentally drew the familiar image of him hanging his hat upon the peg. His friend’s gaze burned a hole in the center of his back.
“Pour me a cup of that substitute you call coffee,” Rand said.
Trace filled a second cup with warm coffee from the pot he’d made earlier that morning. Turning, he watched Rand amble across the floor to his desk and, with a grunt, settle behind it. The sheriff picked up the information lying there and stared at it.
Trace placed a cup beside the sheriff’s right hand and took his seat. “Did the freight wagon get an escort?”
“Yep, sent the bouncer from the saloon along. Thanks,” he replied without looking up as he slid his fingers into the handle, then pulled the cup to his lips for a drink. “Anything I should know?”
Trace took the time to sit in the chair across from him, then shrugged. “Not much,” he replied. “The usual supplies, flour and tobacco for the fort store. Some female doodads, things you’d normally see.”
“Then what is it we’re not seeing?” the sheriff asked, setting his cup beside the papers and lifting them up one by one for perusal.
“It’s the very last page. About a third of the way down,” he said. The papers rattled as Rand sifted through them. “I nearly missed it.”
He watched the sheriff put his fingers on the last invoice page and run his hand down the column of descriptions. He paused abruptly and looked up.
“Guns!” His widened eyes stared at Trace.
“Not a good thing, amigo. With what is going on in Mexico at this moment, it could only fan the fires along the border.”
“But it doesn’t seem that Daniel is hiding the fact,” Rand observed with a bit of surprise.
“No, but then again, why? Why didn’t he ask for an army escort? Why take his sister? Did he plan on selling them?”
Rand shook his head, his face a mask of bewilderment. “How many rifles?” He glanced back at the papers.
“Twenty-five in each case.” Trace replied. “Two cases in all, so at least fifty rifles.”
“That’s a lot of uncertainty.”
“Underneath you will find a note from the Adjutant General of the State of Texas, asking the major to put the cargo into the field.”
“Into the field,” the sheriff repeated, flipping the invoices over and reading the notes. “This shipment is not a good thing to fall into the wrong hands.”
“No, it isn’t. Every citizen along the border of the Rio Grande and Mexico should worry about their safety.”
Rand sat up and thumped the papers with his index finger. “I think I’ll telegraph the fort. They have a new commander. A spit-and-polish from back east. I want to let him know what’s going on. Come on, son. We’ll send the telegraph, and then breakfast is on me.”
Trace placed his cup on the desk and followed Rand out the door and across the street to the hotel. Stepping inside, he blinked after the brightness and adjusted to the shadows.
“Morning, Sheriff,” a silken female voice called from the front desk.
Looking up,
Trace watched Rand move toward a brunette in a sedate blue dress.
“Elaine, I need to send a message to the fort.”
“’Course.” She nodded and flipped the latch, lifting the edge of the counter up so she could pass through. “Follow me.” They fell into step, moving toward a small room just off the main entryway. Trace noted the word “Stenographer” carved on the plaque on the door.
“Here you go,” she said, and shoved a pad toward Rand. As he scribbled his note, she moved to the seat behind the desk where the telegraph sat secured.
“Elaine, I’d like you to meet Marshal Castillo.” Rand gestured with a jerk of the pencil over his shoulder.
“Marshal.” She smiled.
Rand shoved the pad back.
“You want to wait for confirmation?” she asked, her fingers tapping out the message.
“I’ll wait.”
She completed her task and tore the message from the pad, handing it back to the sheriff. “How’s Mary Rose?”
“Holding up,” Rand replied.
Trace’s mouth soured and the woman chuckled. He gave her a sharp glance, and she raised a hand in defense.
“Pardon, Marshal, but you just look like you got a mouthful of something you didn’t like.”
“Don’t mind him, Elaine. Seems Mary Rose’s announcement yesterday about the freight company put a burr under his blanket.” The sheriff grinned and stuck the paper into the pocket of his vest.
She grew sober. “I heard.” Trace watched her turn toward him, her eyes laden with sympathy. “I was a bit surprised,” she said. “But look at me. I’m no one to talk. You’d best either find something to occupy your mind or take a job with the freight company.”
Before he could reply and defend himself, the key began to strike. She grabbed the pencil and sat down to copy the message coming through the line. With a sigh, she pulled the reply from the pad of paper and handed it to Rand.
His mouth formed a thin line. “They’re sending someone down. This might complicate things.” He looked at the woman across from him. “I need to keep this quiet.”
She nodded. “My lips are sealed.”
“You’re a good woman,” Rand remarked.