“True, but you painted wagons.” He flipped through the pages again. “And there were other costs.”
“My drivers get twenty dollars for their meals and care of the horses. That’s a promise. I can’t expect them to pay out of their pocket when it’s in their contract with us,” she explained.
“Then I suggest you take that money out of your petty cash.”
“My petty cash was deposited in your bank this morning. Perhaps, you’d like to give it back?” she asked, one eyebrow sliding up.
He gave a tired sigh. “Miss Thornton, you know we can’t do that.”
She scooted forward and placed a hand upon the desk. “Then, let me have forty dollars for the run,” she said, with a smile upon her lips. “My script has been good in the past.”
“Your brother’s script, Miss Thornton. Right now, our bank needs to see you bring in several successful runs before we bring up the idea of backing a woman running a business.”
“You loaned money to Miss North to open a store, only last week. Why am I so different?” she demanded.
“Miss North runs a millinery shop. Ladies need hats. Ladies buy from ladies. Men ship goods. They do not enter business deals with women or ship goods via a woman’s company.”
Her smile faded from her lips. In defeat she bit out, “So I can’t get the money till I bring in a run, and I can’t send the men off on the run till I get the money.”
“I suppose that’s it.” The banker coughed and rose. “Come back when you have made a good two hundred dollars, and we’ll see if we can’t work out a line of credit for you.”
She stared at him. Numbly, she rose to her feet. “All because I am a woman?”
“Because you are a woman and, most importantly, because we have to make sure you won’t fail.” He smiled.
“Even if your policies set me up to do so,” she hissed. “And who do I have to thank for this treatment?” When he didn’t answer, she filled in the name for him. “Marshal Castillo and his cohort Sheriff Weston, I suppose?”
“Now, now, they were just doing their job, to ask about your financial records, Miss Thornton. Everything is under suspicion until they find a motive.”
“ ‘They find a motive’?” she snarled. “More like until Marshal Castillo gets his way. If he thinks this little scheme of his will get me to the altar, he has another think coming.”
She stormed to the door.
“Miss Thornton,” Mr. Clark called out.
“Save your breath, you vulture,” she snapped, and let the door slam against the wall. Its reverberations were heard loudly enough that all movement in the bank ceased. Mary Rose stared at each of the faces gazing back at her. Tears threatened, but she steeled herself, marched across the room, and let herself out.
In the strong daylight, her good arm wrapped around her bad, she let her lost gaze wander up the street and back. What was she going to do? There was some money in the cashbox at home, but was it enough? For that matter, how was she going to pay for the funeral? Her head pounded. Looking across the street, she caught sight of a dark head bent in conversation with Sheriff Weston.
She felt her anger ignite. “You’ll not be getting away with this, Castillo,” she whispered. “If this is what you call control, then be prepared for war.” Stepping off the boardwalk, she crossed the street toward the hotel, looking for a piece of the man she believed responsible for telling the bank the government might see fit to garnish her company.
Chapter Twenty
Trace glanced at the grandfather clock standing as a silent sentinel against the grand staircase in the lobby of the hotel. Its hands, poised at quarter to ten, moved slowly, laboriously, marking time. He sighed audibly.
“Stage is a bit late,” Rand remarked from beneath the brow of his hat.
Trace looked over at the sheriff, slouched in one of the prim white rockers that lined the covered porch where visitors were welcomed to town. “Is that unusual?” he asked.
“Nope,” Rand Weston muttered. “But after all that’s happened this week, who knows what normal is.”
Stepping over to the doorway, Trace leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched a pair of cowboys ride by. The midmorning sun’s migration crept slowly and persistently toward their side of the street. It would not be long before its fingers would slip in and rob the lobby of its coolness.
“Now, that’s interesting.”
His ears noticed Rand’s comment. He looked up the street, thinking the stage would pull into view. “What?” he asked. There seemed to be nothing on the horizon.
“That.” Rand gave a jerk of his head toward the other end of the street.
He turned and glanced at the activity to the south. He didn’t catch it at first. Then, a woman grabbed her child out of the way, and he saw her coming.
“Thought you told her to stay put till someone came and got her.”
“You heard right,” Trace remarked dryly.
Mary Rose Thornton was doing everything he’d specifically asked her not to. His eyes roamed her figure. Her strides, long and purposeful, made the edges of her skirt dance, kicking up clouds of dust in her wake. She marched on, dodging a horse and wagon skittering a half step toward the boardwalk a few businesses down.
His brow knotted. Could she be angry? Hadn’t he worked those differences out, taking her into his arms yesterday and then again this morning? True, he had put a burr under her saddle blanket by telling people about their engagement. But, like a green-broke filly, she needed to grow used to the fact they were to marry.
“She doesn’t look too happy.”
The corners of Trace’s mouth turned down. “No, she doesn’t,” he agreed, almost under his breath, as she stepped onto the porch.
Her shoulders straight, she glared at them both.
“Morning again, Mary Rose,” Rand remarked, pushing his hat up from his head. “Things going okay over there at the freight office?”
“Sheriff Weston.” Her words were clipped.
“Yes, sir, trouble,” he mumbled, and pulled his hat back down, leaving Trace to face the scornful wrath on his own.
The marshal fixed his gaze on her face and examined her expression. The fullness of her lips had disappeared into a thin line. Her eyes glittered with fire and made him want her all the more. “Mary Rose,” he said, “I thought we had an understanding.”
“Oh, an understanding, is it?” She spit the words out like a wildcat. He felt his blood warm to match.
“Was that ‘understanding’ before or after you talked to the bank manager?” She glanced at the sheriff. Rand sank deeper into the rocker. “Or did yesterday’s activities give you other ideas about me and my company and how to—what was it? Ah, yes—take care of me?”
He watched her color turn a higher shade of pink, then glanced at Rand, who stood and tipped his hat.
“Excuse me. This is where I get off. Marshal, you’re on your own.” With that, the sheriff abandoned Trace and shuffled off toward the far end of the porch out of hearing distance.
“What are you talking about, Querida?” he asked, stepping forward. She was mad, sputtering mad. If given room, she would begin to pace. He had thought that if he provided the fence, she wouldn’t bolt.
“Don’t you go sweet-talkin’ me.” she warned. Her Irish accent grew stronger with each passing moment. “Because you and your friend over there talked to the bank, they won’t accept my script. My funds are tied up until your investigation is over.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked as he edged down the porch to meet the stage.
“The money, my company’s money, is tied up in the bank because the manager is afraid the government will want restitution for its damaged goods.”
He watched her beautiful eyes fill with tears.
“Querida,” he whispered. “Do not worry. You will have no need of that company once we are married.”
“Is that all you can say?” Her angry eyes searched his. “I’ll have no need o
f my company? What about the drivers who are still owed their pay? The goods we still need to ship? Damn you, Castillo.” She turned away, wrapping her arms about her body and keeping her face from him.
“Mary Rose.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged them off. He tried to say something else, but the calls from the arriving stagecoach driver and the whine of the brake drowned out his words. She turned to leave, and his heart twisted. Knowing they should not part in anger, he stepped forward, but she anticipated his move and shrank back. When he reached for her wrist, it slipped through his fingers as she stalked away. He had made a half step to follow when he heard the stage driver call out, “Got a couple of passengers for you, Sheriff.”
Glancing back, he watched an officer of the U.S. Army step off the stage.
“Captain Wallace, nice to see you again,” Rand’s voice rang out.
Trace watched as the officer stepped forward and extended his hand. “Sheriff.”
The officer’s uniform might have been pressed only minutes before. Was this the same Captain Wallace that vouched for Moe?
“You were a little late, Tom,” Rand addressed the driver.
“Had to take it a bit slow,” the stagecoach driver replied as he reached into the coach. The stage tilted, and a woman stepped out.
“Well as I live and breathe, it’s Miss Penny,” Rand said.
He watched as the woman stepped across and drew her arm beneath the officer’s elbow. “Hello, Sheriff Weston.” Her smile lighted the features of her face.
“Last time I saw you, you were walking down the aisle.”
She blushed.
“Now, looks like you’ll be welcoming something else.” Rand looked between the two. “I take it congratulations are in order?”
Her hand moved over the fullness of her skirts, and Trace noted the roundness of her middle. She was with child.
“Yes, it was one of the reasons Mary Rose was coming to see me. I was terribly upset when I heard about her and her brother. I convinced my husband that I had to come.”
He noted that the captain looked none too pleased.
“Marshal Castillo, step over here a moment,” Rand called. Having no other choice, Trace moved toward the couple standing in the shade of the porch as the driver put down two bags.
“Let me introduce to you Captain Augustus Wallace and his wife, Penny.”
“How do you do.” The woman smiled.
He took her hand and bowed. “Ma’am. Captain Wallace.”
****
As she moved toward her home, Mary Rose wiped the tears from her face. No, she would not go down in defeat. She shoved the key into the lock, threw open the door, and stepped inside. Closing the door, she leaned on it for strength.
“Not fair,” she whispered to the quiet.
Daniel’s words floated over her. “Nothing in life is ever fair. If it was, then people would have no motive to try.”
“I’ve been tryin’, Daniel.” she sniffed.
With a soft sigh, she locked the door and moved toward his office. She sat down with a thump behind his desk and pulled open the drawer. Lifting out the cash box, she brushed away her tears and undid the lock. Beneath the papers lay some cash. She reached in with her hand, raking the loose bills into her grasp before spreading them out on the blotter. A quick count showed the sum to be a few dollars shy of one hundred.
Mentally she subtracted Mr. Gentry’s pay, then the forty dollars owed the drivers. With a trembling hand, she reached out and pulled that money into her palm. She spread the remaining cash across the blotter and counted. She stared in stony silence. There was a little over forty dollars left. She was still staring when a knock jolted her glance away.
“Mary Rose.”
Trace’s voice.
Folding the money she needed, she closed the top of the cash box. The knock resounded a second time, reminding her of his persistence. She placed the box back in the desk drawer and went to answer the door.
“Mary Rose, I know you are in there. Querida, open the door.”
She reached for the lock and realized she still had the cash in her hand. Rolling the bills together, she slid them up the sleeve of her blouse, next to her right wrist. Then she steadied herself, opened the door, and found herself staring straight into those blue depths.
“Mary Rose.” He seemed relieved.
“Can I help you?” She kept the reply stiff. She didn’t need his sympathy right now.
“Yes...” He paused and seemed to understand not to ask how she was. “There are friends of yours at the hotel. Sheriff Weston sent me to get you.”
“Really? Friends of mine at the hotel? Or is this an excuse to get into my home and search for something?” She looked away. It wasn’t her habit to be rude, but by heaven, he deserved it.
“I apologize, Mary Rose. If you’d like for me to go speak to the bank manager, I will.”
“Never mind. Who is this at the hotel?”
“A Penny Wallace,” he replied.
Penny. Her hand closed over her middle. “I was going to see her when—” She let the sentence hang. A movement of her arm and she felt the brush of the bills in her sleeve. “I’ve got to take something over to the freight office first.”
“Then I will escort you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the stern look on his face stopped her. “I won’t be but a moment.”
Stepping onto the porch, she locked the door of her house and, with Trace at her elbow, moved once again toward the freight office. She kept her steps brisk. She didn’t relish being alone with him, if for no other reason than his charm. A charm her body seemed to find so susceptible.
Even now the warmth of his hand and the light touch of his fingers scorched her skin through the calico. If she breathed deeply, the heart-stopping scent of bay rum and sandalwood would leave her breathless. Her tongue dampened her lips, and she wished it were his kisses, but her heart sat like a lump, refusing to feel.
They crossed the main street and headed toward the alleyway. Out of sight of the traffic, she felt a pull upon her sleeve and, tumbling off guard, she slid into his arms.
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“Well, at least you speak to me.”
“Marshal Castillo, I’m not here for conversation.”
“Nor am I.”
She caught his eyes moving toward her lips. No, she couldn’t let him kiss her. He had betrayed her. His actions at the bank were going to cost her the freight company, her livelihood, her future… She must resist.
Turning her head just in time, she felt his lips brush the side of her cheek. She closed her eyes and willed her body not to turn into jelly, but it was hard, so hard. Her soft body molded instantly to his hard planes. Burning warmth pooled below her belly near the juncture of her thighs.
His lips brushed toward her ear, and she shivered involuntarily as his warm breath teased. She placed a hand upon his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She leaned her head against his lips to regain her balance.
“We should not be here,” she whispered.
“No, we should be in your house, upstairs, alone.”
One hand left her waist and found its place below her chin.
“Doing things other than this,” he murmured, and then, tilting her head up, took possession of her lips.
She groaned, and reason flew from her mind as she gave in to returning the ardent strokes of his tongue as they seemingly tried to devour one another. Her heaving breasts created a delightful friction against her calico. The carefully created barrier to her heart trembled as her hands slid up his chest to the open collar of his shirt and she filled her fingers, holding his head at the right angle for hers.
When their lungs could stand no more, he pulled back and she opened her eyes, watching his tongue snake out, move over his lips, taking the last taste of her into his mouth.
“Mary Rose, we are made for each other. Our kisses show that. Whatever I have done
to make it wrong, please tell me how to right it.”
His words were like a bucket of water, cooling her ardor. “Don’t you know?” She searched his face for some sort of recognition. To her surprise, he seemed baffled by her question.
“You looked at our finances. You made a comment to the manager.” She watched his brow furrow. Her chin trembled, and she pushed away. “Finish your investigation, Marshal. Bring in my brother’s killer, and let me go.”
She walked away. Lifting her arm, she pulled it across her lips, wiping away the taste of him. Yet it would take a lifetime to remove the memory. Her ears didn’t pick up the sound of his spurs moving to stop her. With each step, her heart seemed to be breaking. She stopped at the loading dock steps and took a breath to calm her nerves.
A glance at the wagon showed her the drivers lounging with their backs against the wood. She sighed and reached her fingers into the sleeve of her shirt to grasp the roll of bills and pull them free. Her fingers separated the cost of the run from Caleb Gentry’s pay. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat was an obstruction. Nothing could be done, she reminded herself. Then, squaring her shoulders, she advanced toward the men.
“Gentlemen.” Their heads turned in her direction, and she held out her hand. The bills fluttered in the warm breeze. “Your forty dollars.”
They glanced at her in surprise. “Well, I’ll be,” Shawn exclaimed.
“I told you I’d get the money.” She stood quietly, awaiting a bolt from the heavens. When it didn’t come, she continued. “May I count on your help getting this shipment out?”
Ian reached out and took the bills from her grasp, handing one to Shawn. “Yep, we’ll be back come tomorrow evening.” He moved toward the wagon seat. “Miss Thornton, thanks for going the extra mile to get our money. You want us to wire the payment for this load when we get it?”
“No. Cash the check and bring the money back to me.”
“Will do,” he replied, and pulled his body into the box. Picking up the reins, he waved, and she stepped back to watch the wagon pull away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Page 21
