Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (26 page)

“If he killed my brother, do you think he’s gonna 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.

“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.