“No, not at all.”
Mary Rose withdrew the envelope. She stared at the plain brown front, then flipped it over and looked inside to make sure the papers were still there. Giving the back a lick, she sealed it and handed over the envelope. “This means a lot. Thank you.”
She watched Elaine slide the paper into the pocket of her apron. “I’ll lock it away as soon as we get downstairs.”
“And you’ll keep it between us?”
“Between us,” Elaine agreed, and paused. “Mary Rose, is there something you need to tell me?”
There it was, her opening. All she had to do was tell Elaine that someone had made deposits in an account under Daniel’s name. Yet she hesitated. Thoughts crowded in her mind. It couldn’t be Daniel. Could it? She bit her lip.
“Mary Rose?” Elaine’s hand reached out and touched her arm.
“No.” She gave a nervous smile. “Everything’s fine, just fine. Some things Daniel left for me. I-I don’t want to lose them.”
Liar, her conscience echoed. She waited in the hall while Elaine locked her door. As they descended the staircase, she noticed the lobby had several people milling about.
“Call on me,” Elaine said as she stepped forward. “For anything.”
With a nod, Mary Rose watched her hurry down the steps to take care of her customers, beginning with a gentleman who inquired about a room. She could see the back of Trace’s jacket as he stood off to her left, again locked in conversation with Sheriff Weston. Her soft footsteps went unheard as she drew near, and Rand’s comment stopped her cold.
“It makes no difference whose account the name is in. I hear the commander of the fort has sent for some big shot. Once he rolls in, they’ll garnish the freight company for the cost of the rifles.”
The room swirled about her. She reached for the banister, clutching it to stand up straight. The account. They know.
“I’ll handle Mary Rose,” she heard Trace remark. “You dig into who opened that account and how much was deposited.”
“Take care,” Rand warned.
She gave herself a mental shake. Placing a pleasant smile on her face, she cleared her throat and watched Trace look over Weston’s shoulder to her. He smiled. She did her best to respond in kind as he stepped to the bottom of the stairs and reached for her. “Is everything all right?”
No, she wanted to shout. Everything is not all right. “Fine,” she said softly, and gave him only a shy glance.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Mary Rose.”
Her head jerked in the sheriff’s direction. “Yes.” She gave a quick nod. “Thank you.” Her attention turned back to Trace. “Please, I’d like to go home. I’m rather tired.”
“Of course,” he answered. “Sheriff, you know where I am if you need me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mary Rose said nothing as they walked through the twilight toward her home. Her only thoughts were the words she’d overheard from Trace’s mouth, “I will take care of Mary Rose.” Did taking care of her mean keeping her in the dark? What account were they discussing?
“You’re very quiet tonight.”
Her eyes cut to the man walking beside her. Although they were close, he seemed miles away. “I’m tired,” she whispered.
His fingers pressured her elbow as they paused at the edge of the boardwalk to let a wagon pass. If only they could return to the room above the sheriff’s office and have things as they were. The warmth of his fingers brought her out of her melancholy thoughts, and he steadied her down the step.
“Maybe you’d best let Doc Martin check your shoulder,” he suggested.
“My shoulder?” she asked, confused.
“It’s been nearly a week. You may have overdone it.”
“I highly doubt that.” Her voice sounded a bit stiff. She needed to think things out before her anger overruled her head. “Sorry,” she said in apology for her gruff retort. “You may be right.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the nod of his head in agreement, and they stepped onto her porch. While he fished in the pocket of his trousers for her key, a momentary dread filled her being as she remembered the sight of her dress caught in the door of her wardrobe upstairs. Her heart beat heavily against her ribs as he held up the key.
“There we go,” he murmured, and the lock clicked.
Her eyes widened, expecting to see some bandit, a kerchief over his face, awaiting them. She reached out, but her hand missed his sleeve as he pushed the door open, and she stared into the yawning darkness.
“After you.”
She swallowed to relieve the pressure in her dry throat. She took a small step forward. Her slipper scuffed against the wood of the threshold, and her knees quivered beneath the satin folds of her gown. She pressed her lips together and realized she couldn’t just walk in. Carefully, so as not to arouse his suspicions, she asked, “Would you go in and light the lamp?”
To her relief, he didn’t complain. Instead, he acted as if her request was most reasonable. She watched him move past her to disappear in the darkness. All sorts of images flashed through her mind as her vivid imagination took over.
Her erratic heartbeat increased the pounding at her temples, and her nerves released a cold dampness across her body. In spite of herself, she shivered and pressed closer the bundle she held tight to her chest. Feeling ridiculous, she leaned forward and blew out a quiet breath. The rooms were dark, silent—one might almost say as silent as a tomb. She tried not to think about that.
“Marshal?” she hissed into the darkness. “You all right?”
A hush of nothingness echoed from the darkness. “Trace,” she called out, a hint of panic in her words. In the back of the house, she heard the sound of a match dragged along the pad.
“Trace,” her impatient voice asked once more. Her brow furrowed as the embryonic light grew in strength from the kitchen. The hair on her arms rose as she cried out demanding, “Trace, please answer me.”
A second later, she heard the warmth of his voice. “I’m here.”
She sagged against the doorjamb and collected herself before stepping into the parlor. “You should have gotten the lamp by the door,” she began as he approached. Yet as the lamplight illuminated the entryway, she could see the lamp was missing from the table. “I-I must have moved it,” she stammered.
She couldn’t look at Trace for fear he would see her anxiety. Even so, he sensed her nervous state. She heard him order her to wait while he checked the rooms. She watched him move toward Daniel’s office. Then, as he disappeared behind the wall, she watched the light from the lamp dance against the plaster, guiding his shadow across the room. Her hand at her throat, she waited an agonizing minute before he called out, “All clear.”
With a nod, she stepped inside and moved a half step toward the parlor. She could feel his glance and cast a quick look over her shoulder. His deep brooding eyes locked with hers. “I-I have another lamp, at the dining room table.”
She felt the need to put some distance between them. Moving quietly through the cluster of chairs and around the sofa, she focused on the lamp sitting on the mahogany highboy. Behind her, the thud of Trace’s boots followed. She put down her bundle and turned, removing the globe. “It’s so different, coming in at night,” she apologized. “Just let me get this lit.”
With both wicks burning, they sent the shadows running for cover. She glanced around the room and nothing seemed to be out of place. She felt herself relax with an audible sigh of relief.
“Querida, you were worried.” He stepped close and cupped her cheek with his palm.
The touch of his hand made the doubt she’d carried melt away. She leaned into the warmth and cast a tender look of forgiveness in his direction. “It’s just without—” She blinked back the sudden rush of emotion. Her voice hitched, and she found she could not speak.
“Without Daniel,” he finished for her.
She closed her eyes. “He was the only family I h
ad,” she said in self-defense.
“Until now,” he breathed, and she felt the rush of warm air against her skin.
Silence surrounded them. She could smell the scent of soap as he drew close. There wasn’t even the hint of surprise when his lips touched hers, releasing a slow burn of sensual hunger deep within. She opened her mouth, hungry for all he could give. He pressed against her, and she felt the length of his erection nudging against her skirts.
This was wrong, so very wrong. Torn between want and fear of losing her identity, she broke the kiss and took a step back. Her lashes lifted from her cheeks and she found him staring back, a look of confusion in his eyes.
“Is something wrong?”
Yes, she wanted to scream. You don’t love me. You are doing this for honor. Instead, she turned her face away from his prying eyes and crossed over to the corner of the table where she’d placed her things. “I’m just tired,” she lied. “Would you mind checking upstairs?”
“No, of course not.” Under her lashes, she watched him pick up the lamp. Then, following in his wake, she moved to the foot of the stairs.
“Wait here, until I am sure.”
She crushed the bundle of freshly washed clothes to her chest again as he moved up to the second floor. Her fingers grew stiff from clutching them so tightly. Moving to her brother’s study, she glanced at the bottom drawer. The edge leaned out. Someone had been here since she left the last time. She had been right to leave the papers with Elaine. Should she tell him?
Bits and pieces of his conversation with Rand repeated in her mind. The army was sending a general to deal with the situation. If they didn’t find the rifles soon, it surely meant they would press her for the money. She would have to check the company ledger and speak to the bank manager.
Overhead she heard the slow plod of Trace’s footsteps as he checked the rooms. His attention put her in a quandary. She had agreed to marry him so her honor wouldn’t be compromised. Her fingers lifted to her mouth and touched the trace of his kisses. At dinner, he had implied their lovemaking was stamped upon her face. She understood. Her body yearned for him to touch her, but she had to resist. If the army found something wrong, she could not expect him to pay.
The stairs groaned. She picked up the bundle and moved to the doorway. Slowly, he came into view.
“It is safe,” he replied as he stepped down beside her. “I left the lamp in your room.”
“Thank you, again,” she murmured as she gathered her skirts in one hand to step up. Brushing past, she felt his fingers on her arm. She paused and looked down.
“I can come up with you?”
Oh, how tempted she was to take him up on that offer. To know again his hands, his lips doing those things to her body, and the rush of ecstasy that left her breathless. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
His brow arched.
“You see,” she explained, “one lapse of judgment we might get away with. However, you are rather habit-forming, Marshal. Until we know if this marriage can be carried out, I suggest we not tempt fate.” She had moved to the landing when his voice called her to a halt again.
“There is no ‘if,’ my Irish Rose. This marriage will take place. You will be my wife.”
She turned and looked at him, anger raising its ugly head. There it was again, that attitude. “Because of my honor.” She ground her teeth and asked, “Can you think of nothing else but honor, honor, honor? I have had enough of honor! Honor didn’t save my brother. Now you expect me to accept a marriage for no other reason than honor, because you want me and I must warm your bed?”
His palm hit the banister. “I want you there because it is right.”
She closed her eyes and took another step. “Good night, Trace. You may sleep downstairs or use Daniel’s room, but I shall sleep alone.”
She made her way to the second floor with a heavy heart. If only he could say he loved me, I’d marry him so fast his head would spin. Behind her, his angry footsteps neared. She turned as his hands touched her arms. He pushed her against the wall of the hallway and kissed her in his fury.
The bundle she’d held tight in her grasp slipped from her fingers and bounced against her feet as his hands wrapped around her waist. She moaned as her thoughts were shattered by the hunger of his lips. Her hand went to his chest. She meant to push him away, but instead she encircled his neck and held him tight against her. This time, he was the one who broke the kiss, and his angry eyes gazed down at hers.
“You may say you don’t want me, but your body betrays you.”
Tears found their way into her eyes. She did want him, now and forevermore. But she had to have him on her terms. She had to have this man because he cared for her, not because he cared only for her honor. That wasn’t anything to base a lifetime upon.
“Let me go,” she whispered as a tear slid down her cheek. “I have agreed to your wishes, now you agree to mine. I will not give up my brother’s business. If you can’t understand that, then there is no marriage.”
His hands let go of her as if she were a hot branding iron. “You will not work as long as you are my wife.”
“Then perhaps it is wrong to consider me for your spouse.”
She watched him draw in a deep breath and step back. His eyes glittered. “We will discuss this in the morning.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” she replied. After bending to pick up her bundle, she moved to her doorway. “Good night, Castillo.” With one last look over her shoulder, she gently closed the door and left him standing there.
****
Sleep came in elusive spurts. One small burst, then worry pried her eyelids open. His name remained upon her lips. Hopeless, she sat up and swiped the grains of sand from her eyes. In the soft light of the moon, she watched the curtains dance in the cool night air. It called to her.
She rose, padded to the window, and looked down upon the silvery landscape. An overwhelming sense of sadness washed across her body. Why? A single tear slid across her cheek. Her life seemed to be unraveling. She’d lost her brother, her virginity, and now possibly her business, all in one week. It had to be a record, even for an Irishman.
Her hand drew into a fist as she thought about his insistence that she would sell. The freight business had sustained Daniel and her through the loss of their parents. It seemed wrong to give it up now. She wilted to her knees. Grasping the sill, she hung her head and prayed. “Holy Mother Mary,” she whispered. “Help me in my hour of need. I have sinned against God, but I love him.”
In the darkness, the words sent a shiver down her backbone. She did love him. The window was just high enough that she could fold her arms across and lay her head down. Her wound pulled. She ignored it. She was so tired, yet so many questions had no answers. It would be easy to let go and let him take over, but that would mean bending her stiff Irish neck.
If she were any other woman, she’d be giddy over the prospect of a wedding. Yet this felt wrong—and then again so right. Yes, she found Trace attractive. Her body responded to him like no other. Of course, her experience with love had been a kiss or two at a church social, but there had been no burning need.
Their lovemaking harbored no regrets. On the contrary, she’d enjoyed it. The admission of the guilty pleasure invited the devilish warmth to return. She sighed. Not only to her cheeks but lower, to that hidden place good girls didn’t touch.
Would it be so wrong to marry?
The question brought another sigh, but no answer. She stared at the twinkling stars until they faded in the pale light of morning with nothing resolved. As the morning light bathed her face, she heard the slam of the door across the hallway and jumped. She leaned her head over and listened to the angry stomp of his boots. No, she thought, he had not slept any better than she.
Rising, she moved back and spread up the bed. She might as well get this over with. Opening her wardrobe, she pulled out a calico dress and began to get herself ready for the day. Her arm still stiff, her movements
jerky, she could dress herself. After running the brush through her tangle of curls, she went out the door and down the stairway.
Pausing at the end of the steps, she listened to the sounds coming from the back of the house. Moving quietly, she made her way to the kitchen, where he’d left the back door ajar. Peeking past the door, she could see him stripped to the waist, chopping wood. His muscles rippled as he bent down and placed a single log upon the block. Eyeing his move, he lifted the handle with two hands and swung down. She flinched when the blade whacked the piece of wood square in the center. The timber coughed and then whined as he wiggled the blade.
Her gaze rolled over his shoulders as they took on a sheen from the humidity. Straining against his skin, they lifted the log attached to the ax blade, and when he sent it crashing down onto the block, the log split neatly in two. Her fingers ached to touch that bronzed skin. It proved to be sheer torture to watch. Yet when he turned around, she scurried from view and opened the pie safe in search of the ingredients to make biscuits.
The back door slammed. She peeked through the perforated holes in the tin of the pie safe. God, he was good enough to eat. She had to stop thinking these things. Focus, she reminded herself. His forward motion stopped when he saw her. Caught, she reached in, grabbed the tin of flour, the bag of salt, and the can of lard before she shut the door.
“Morning,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Morning,” she answered.
Good. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. She reminded herself to remain aloof and noncommittal. Placing the things on the table, she turned and reached for the bowl on the counter. They nearly ran into one another as he dropped the wood to the floor and prepared the stove for the morning meal. He bent over, and the low-slung waist of his trousers gapped. She caught sight of the swell of his hips. She closed her eyes. Concentrate on your job, Mary Rose.
Returning to the table with the bowl and sifter, she placed a cup of flour into the metal cylinder and cranked. Yes, she thought, that’s it. Take your anger out here. Doing her best to ignore the man in the room, she scooped a tablespoon of lard and dropped it in the dry ingredients, then poured in a cup of buttermilk from the larder, added a pinch of salt, and began to knead the mixture into dough. She could feel him watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Ignore him.
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