Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose

by Tessa Berkley

  “When you are in my home, there is a cook to help us.”

  She looked up. Her motions stopped and she glared at him. “We aren’t going through this again, are we? I think we’ve proved marriage is a foolish idea.”

  “This matter has been settled,” he told her. “We will wed. The sooner it is done the better.”

  “No.” She pushed down on the dough a little harder.

  “No? I do not understand. I can give you so much more. You will live the life of comfort.”

  “My life is here. My company is here,” she retorted. “You are a marshal. They make little more, if any, than Sheriff Weston does. I will work. I am not a fool.”

  “Being a U.S. Marshal is not all I am.”

  “I will not be some object to be set upon a shelf and brought down just so people can look and say, ‘Oh, my, what a charming wife Marshal Castillo has.’”

  “You will have much to do. There is a ranchero to run. My home is almost like a small city. You will be queen of the land.”

  “I don’t want to be queen,” she hissed.

  “Let’s not mar the day talking about this now,” he replied. “I will wash for breakfast. Your stove will be warm soon.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “But I will not go along with this. As soon as the killer is caught, I will return your ring. This betrothal is no more than make-believe.”

  Trace crossed the space between them and glared at her. “The ring I put on your finger will stay. You shall marry me with all the bindings and trappings, until death do us part. You were made for me and no one else, my sweet enchantress. Deny it if you want. Your body will not.”

  “Why you pompous a—” Before she could finish, his lips were upon hers, punishing her mouth, igniting the flame. She felt heady as his lips moved to the side of her neck. Lost in the undeniable magnetism of his administrations, her hand moved to the back of his neck, and she buried her fingers, caked with dough, in his hair. Oh, how sublime his kisses were. His tongue swirled lazy circles along the vein where her blood pounded like liquid fire. She could feel her thighs grow damp as she wished something else was between them.

  When at last their kiss broke, he spoke in a deep husky voice that sent shivers up her spine. “You are the fire to my soul,” he murmured and kissed her once again. “You will be my wife. Whether you want to or not, you cannot deny what your body feels for me any more than I can deny my want for you.”

  She tried to resist, but the warmth of his lips and the pleasure of his tongue tracing her mouth as he kissed her one last time proved too great. With a moan, she kissed him back.

  “See, was that so bad?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I will take care of your every need,” he promised.

  “What I need,” she sighed, drawing back, “is for you to remember God made woman from Adam’s rib to walk beside him, not to walk behind or be left out.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I will wash. There is much to do.”

  She watched him turn and go, clumps of flour tangled in his dark hair. Her heart twisted. What he said was the truth. She couldn’t deny the desire, the need her body had for him. But it troubled her—would it be enough? Rand’s words suddenly filled her mind: Would you be ready to make that commitment? She licked her dry lips. Moving to the sink, she grabbed the pump handle and, with one stroke, sprayed water into the dishpan and rinsed her hands. God, nothing was settled; everything bubbled in turmoil.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she exclaimed, drying her hands. “That man could test the will of Job.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  They ate in silence, each sending the other smoldering looks that bounced between loathing and desire. She wanted to squirm in her chair. Instead, she did her best to ignore his heated looks. The walk to the freight company became a test of wills, neither of them giving in to conversation. They had just passed the general store when they heard Rand shout.

  Pausing, they waited for him to trot over from the telegraph office, a white paper held tightly in his hand.

  “Got some news?” Trace asked.

  “Yep.” Rand handed him the paper before turning his attention to her. “Morning, Mary Rose, nice day.” He tipped his hat.

  She glared at him and turned, pretending to look at something the manager of the general store placed on the table on the other side of the plate glass. It proved interesting to stand and stare at the window. The light refracting against the earth cast a mirror image on the surface. How easily she could find out what they were talking about without having to butt in. Just like that proverbial fly on the wall, she mused.

  Her brow furrowed. She heard the words Eagle Pass. Inching closer, she strained her ears to hear the rest of their conversation.

  “You can see from the reply the man didn’t fit Daniel’s description.”

  “Nor did he fit Moe’s.”

  Trace was reading the telegram. She itched to get her hands on it. She moved closer.

  “An older man nearing fifty.” He sighed. “Whoever this is, he’s staying away from town.”

  In the reflection, she watched the sheriff nod. “But that means someone in town must be keeping an eye on things,” he replied.

  Startled, she stumbled, catching her toe on the edge of a table holding baskets of potatoes. One small container turned over, and the vegetables plummeted to the boardwalk. Embarrassed, she bent to pick them up. Both men ceased their conversation to help.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, juggling red-skinned potatoes and slipping them back into the basket. Looking up, she caught a suspicious glance from Trace. “I, I was just thinking about having some for dinner,” she explained.

  She watched as he handed Rand back the note. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told the lawman. “How much for these potatoes?” he asked the clerk.

  “Fifty cents.”

  Trace fished in his pockets, removed the two bits, and handed the clerk the coins before he took the basket and gave it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, avoiding his glance.

  “I’ll be back over to the office as soon as I see my future wife to the freight office,” he called to Rand.

  “Future wife?” The clerk glanced up.

  Mary Rose wanted to sink through the boards.

  “So that’s why you bought that ring yesterday.” The clerk’s face broke into a grin.

  Her embarrassment turned to anger, and she wanted to slap the self-righteous smirk off the man’s face.

  “Congratulations!” He pumped Trace’s hand and then hers so hard the basket and its contents shook.

  Finally they were able to untangle themselves from the well-wisher and, with Trace’s hand on her arm, they continued on their way.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Did I?” He tried to act surprised, but she noted the smug twist to the edge of his mouth.

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  “Oh?” One brow rose as he led her across the street, nodding to the women they passed. “I’ve learned in my lifetime that a general store can spread information faster than any old biddy.” They paused at the end of the boardwalk and glanced back.

  She followed his line of vision and noted the clerk talking excitedly to the women inspecting the tables. They turned to glance in their direction, and Trace looked at her and smiled.

  “You are loathsome, Castillo,” Mary Rose spit through her clenched teeth. Unfortunately for her, he was also right. By evening, the entire town of Cobb’s Crossing would know she wore his ring.

  “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” he asked, leading her toward the side street where the freight office lay.

  “To let the town know.” She disentangled her arm. “And you think that’s going to make me agree to this marriage?”

  “I think this will let whoever is watching you know that he cannot touch you without my wrath.”

  “If he killed my brother, do you think he’s g
onna think twice about one man?”

  To her amazement, his smile broadened. “Remember, Querida, I am not only a man but a U.S. Marshal.”

  She had only begun to reply when Caleb stepped out onto the platform of the freight office.

  “Morning, Miss Thornton, Marshal.”

  She glanced up at him. “Good morning, Mr. Gentry. Has the first run gone out?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a short run to Claiborne. One driver only, no cost.”

  “Excellent,” Trace replied. “Mr. Gentry, will you escort my betrothed to the office?”

  “Trace,” she hissed under her breath. “This has gone far enough.”

  “Betrothed!” The clerk seemed shocked.

  “Yes,” he replied. She felt him slide his arm around her waist and pull her close. She glanced up at him with a glare to shrivel a snake, but he merely smiled down at her. “Mary Rose has agreed to become my wife.”

  ****

  Still stewing over the conversation she’d unwillingly been a part of, she slammed papers around on her desk. How dare he announce to the world that they would marry! Her hopes of not telling anyone were blown away. Moreover, to make matters worse, every time she rose from the desk, Caleb Gentry found a way to hover at her elbow. She stared at the paperwork before her. Scheduling routes had never been her idea of fun, but at least she and Gentry had the small runs organized and were ready for the rest of the week.

  Outside the open doors of the freight office, she could hear the driver’s grunts as he loaded the wagons for another short run. She read over the notes. Claiborne had been Moe’s favorite run. She’d let a new driver take that. This run to the rail head required more skill. Whom had she signed up as drivers? She scanned the papers and located two names, Ian Holt and Shawn Rivers. Both men had come with Daniel from San Antonio to Cobb’s Crossing. They could keep it together. Mary Rose’s trust grew that things would all work out well.

  Folding the map, she slid it into the leather pouch each driver carried and secured the strap in the buckle. Then she rose, patted the bundle, and walked to the doorway with it in hand.

  “Miss Thornton.” Gentry stood as she moved into his view.

  “Just going to meet the drivers.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” he murmured, closing the books.

  “It’s no more than ten feet, Mr. Gentry. Surely no one will ride in and carry me off in that space,” she protested.

  “All the same.” He smiled. “The marshal gave me my orders.”

  “Yes he did, didn’t he.” She sighed and continued out to the loading dock, knowing he wasn’t far behind.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” she greeted, interrupting their labors. “Your packet.” She held out the leather pouch. The driver closest stepped away from the wagon and took it.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you staying with the company, Mr. Rivers, Mr. Holt. Do you have the twenty dollars for the journey?”

  The two drivers exchanged glances. A feeling of insecurity washed over her. She felt the pounding start in her temple. “Mr. Holt, is there a problem?”

  Ian Holt tossed the rope on top of the canvas covering the red wagon and swaggered to stand near the other driver. “Well, if you’re gonna be askin’, I’ll tell you, lass.”

  “Please do.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “It seems the bank wasn’t too happy this morning to redeem the conscript signed by Mr. Gentry over there.”

  She glanced back at her clerk. Gentry wouldn’t meet her eyes. She felt as if someone had slowly begun to pull the rug out from under her feet and she couldn’t get her balance. Glancing back at the angry faces of the drivers, she spoke. “I apologize for this.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Gentry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please pull the money out of petty cash, so these men can have the funds they’ll need for the journey.”

  “I can’t,” he answered, his voice small, tinged with embarrassment.

  Her arms fell as she turned in dismay to stare at the clerk, who looked away. “What do you mean, you ‘can’t’?”

  She watched his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallowed. “I put the money in the bank this morning.”

  She gasped, dumbfounded. “We’ve no cash on hand?”

  “No, ma’am,” he stammered.

  She turned back and stared at her drivers. “I’ll have your money in just a few minutes.” Moving toward the steps that led down to the ground, she stopped, hearing the footsteps behind her. With a turn, she gave the clerk a chilling glare. “Mr. Gentry, from now on, we will keep a reasonable sum on hand.”

  “Yes, Miss Thornton,” he mumbled.

  She moved down the stairs. “Gentlemen, I’ll be right back.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Thornton.”

  Mary Rose paused.

  “But we’ll be needin’ our pay. This here is our last run. Shawn and meself are gonna be leaving Thornton’s.”

  She felt the second footfall. “Let’s not make a hasty decision. Let me get you the money. Things will work out.”

  “Aye, miss, see if you can,” Shawn replied, his skepticism visible. “But we’ll still be leavin’. Working for your brother was one thing, but we can’t be expected to work for a woman for nothin’, no matter how far back our ties go.”

  What could she say? These men had worked long hard hours this week. They deserved their cash incentive to drive for her. “I understand, but let me see if I can get your money before you make this final decision.” The two men looked at the ground. “Please,” she whispered. She waited for a moment, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  Finally, Ian nodded. “All right, miss, we’ll see if you can move the miser’s heart.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. When she heard Gentry’s shoes hit the step behind her, fury rose in her veins. Turning, her eyes flashing, she dared him with a heated stare to take one more step. “Don’t. Don’t you dare follow me.”

  “But the marshal said—”

  “I don’t care if a company of herald angels urged you to sprout feathered wings and charge into the gates of Hell. You stay here.”

  She turned on her heel and stomped away.

  ****

  Pushing open the doors of the only brick structure in the town of Cobb’s Crossing, Mary Rose barged through and drew a deep breath, one hand on her hip. The cool shadows of the bank lobby held few customers. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the clerk nearest to the manager’s door rise. Narrowing her glance, she locked her gaze upon him. Caught short, he drew his papers up against his chest for protection as she advanced toward him.

  “Mr. Benton, I’d like to speak with Mr. Clark.”

  “Mr. Clark?” he repeated.

  She glared at him. “I believe I spoke clearly. I expect to see Mr. Clark. Now.”

  The door behind him opened, and Howard Clark stood framed in the doorway.

  “Mr. Clark,” she began and pushed past the wooden railing that separated the two spheres. “We need to talk.”

  He reached behind the door and drew his coat from the rack, slipping his arm inside. “Miss Thornton,” he began.

  She caught the sharp glance between the two men.

  “Let me extend the bank’s condolences on the loss of your—”

  “Everyone is so graciously extending their sympathies,” she said. Then her finger stabbed through the air like a knife, forcing him to take a step back. “What I need from you is the release of my funds. I hear from my drivers that you have refused my script.”

  A blush crept up and tinged not only the man’s cheeks but the top of his balding head, as well. “Miss Thornton, please lower your voice and step into my office so that we may talk.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you don’t want this discussed in public.”

  Head held high, she marched into the confines of his office and waited for him to close the door.

  “Mr. Clark—”

  “Miss Thornton,” he interrupted. �
��Won’t you take a seat?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be staying for that length of time, sir. I want answers, so do be quick.” She waited while he moved to his chair, and only then did she sit down.

  “Miss Thornton, as you know, your brother tragically lost his life last week trying to deliver a shipment to Fort Ewell.”

  “I think the world is aware of that.”

  “Yes.”

  She studied the banker as he clasped his hands together and placed them on the desk. Did he even sweat? The window behind him was closed, and the stifling air threatened to suffocate her.

  “Miss Thornton, your company is liable for the damages to the shipment. Are you aware of that?” the banker asked.

  “I know the sheriff and the marshal are trying to recover the merchandise,” she replied.

  “Do you know the value of the shipment lost?”

  “No,” she replied. She made a mental note to correct that when she returned to the freight office.

  Mr. Clark reached for a file on the corner of his desk. “According to the marshal, the value of a shipment like that exceeds fifteen hundred dollars.” He closed the file. “What exactly was your brother carrying?”

  She felt perspiration dot her upper lip. How dared he give out that information to the bank manager? “My brother’s shipment is confidential.”

  “Yes, well, that may well be.” Mr. Clark closed the file. “Your account has a mere eight hundred dollars in it, and that notwithstanding the money to pay the funeral cost.”

  Mary Rose felt her mouth grow slack.

  “If the federal government chooses to sue for the loss of its ‘supplies,’ then you lack the funds to pay for it, Miss Thornton. Word on the street has it a high-ranking official is being sent to take up the matter.” He looked up and folded his hands across the file on his desk. “That, I’m afraid, makes you a liability to our customers here at the bank.”

  “But we made a profit last year,” she gasped.