Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (11 page)

“I plan on coming in sometime tomorrow,” Mary Rose told him, “so we can begin to sort through this mess.”

Trace felt his blood rush to his ears. Had the woman gone loco? Did she think she could step into her brother’s boots and run a company? Holding himself in check, he placed a hand against her waist.

She turned.

“May I speak with you a minute, Miss Thornton?” he whispered and sent Gentry a proprietary glare. The clerk backed away. Trace turned his attention to the woman at his side. He watched those lush blue eyes search his face. For a moment, there were only the two of them. Then she looked away. He followed her gaze to the people moving toward the doorway.

“Can it wait?”

Trace looked at Gentry’s departing back. “No.”

Her eyes flared at his emphatic tone. A momentary look of confusion crossed her face. As quickly as it came, it was forgotten.

“Yes, of course,” she whispered, and stepped back.

With his hand upon her back, Trace guided Mary Rose through the throng, into the kitchen, and out the back door into the yard.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Trace spied a bench partially hidden beneath the boughs of a willow tree. “Over there.” He motioned with his hand and escorted her to the bench. “Sit.”

She sat down and looked back. “What is so important, Marshal, that you brought me out here, away from my guests?”

“Miss Thornton,” he began, “Do you think it’s advisable to return to the freight office?”

The air filled with a stunned silence. “Excuse me?” she whispered. He detected a hint of laughter with her disbelief. When he didn’t speak, her eyebrow rose in mild contempt. Trace’s mouth pulled to a straight line.

“You have experienced the tragic loss of your brother, whom you clearly adored, not to mention being injured. Surely, you don’t expect to walk into—”

Her hostile glare stopped him cold. “Go on.”

He recognized the trace of contempt in her voice. Her eyes were cold and stormy, and he knew he stood on dangerous ground. But she was being pigheaded, and he intended to prove his point. “A freight office is a place where men hang out, rough men. The type of men who would walk over you as soon as look at you.”

She rose to her feet and stood nose to nose with him. The faint scent of vanilla surrounded them as, eyes ablaze, she lashed her words like a whip. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my right to work,” she hissed. “My brother may be dead, but I own that freight company. It is my blood, my sweat, my life!”

“Your life,” he scoffed. “Your death, Miss Thornton, if you keep up with this foolhardy attempt.”

She flashed him a look of disdain. “You pompous windbag.” Her nostrils flared and color crept into her cheeks. “Don’t you preach to me! I intend to honor my brother’s memory by making Thornton’s the best freight company in Texas.”

Her fire set his blood aflame. Any other woman would have run in the opposite direction. In defiance, she stepped closer, glaring up at him, the color of her eyes deepening from blue to deep indigo. In their depths a sparkling of fire leaped and could not go unchallenged. Unable to control his movements, Trace reached out and grasped her by the waist, his broad hands nearly spanning her middle.

“Oh, yes.” His words tumbled over his lips, deep, throaty, and laced with desire. “You’ll make a name for yourself. Every unmarried man, every scoundrel, and every hot blood in southwest Texas will turn up on your doorstep. They will watch the tilt of your head, the sway of your skirts, and try to catch the shimmer of fire in that fine head of hair.”

Beneath his stare, her eyes widened. Not from fear, but with understanding of what his words meant. He searched her face but didn’t hold back. “They won’t stop there,” he continued, pulling her toward him. “Not until they have a taste of heaven.” He felt the warmth of her hand upon his chest setting the skin below it aflame as she tried to push him back. Ignoring the pressure, he leaned closer. Her mouth opened to signal a protest, and before she had time to stiffen her arm and push him away, his lips descended upon hers.

Her lips quivered. His lips kept the pressure steady, blistering a trail over her seductive mouth. As the kiss deepened, he heard her sigh, and his tongue captured it, tracing the line of her lips from corner to corner. His arms reached to gather her into his embrace with the need of being closer. One hand slid up and threaded into the rich curls at the nape of her neck. The other supported her back as he tilted to get a better angle for their lips. Nothing in heaven could taste this good.

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 Rose 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.”