Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(10)

She opened her mouth but found no reason to protest.

“Good, that’s settled,” Doc Martin answered. “Now we’ll compromise. You be a lady and talk nice without using your tongue as a branding iron, and I’ll bring you breakfast.”

From where she lay, Mary Rose could see the hint of laughter on the doctor’s face. She wanted to wipe away his smirk and that of the marshal, as well. Instead, she gave a short nod and focused upon the quilt. An awkward silence filled the room. Her fingers picked at the stitching along one seam. A moment later, the doctor cleared his throat, and she looked up.

With a wink, he added, “And no sparking.”

Her mouth dropped open. She glared at him and felt the burn of the heat racing up her face. From experience, she knew the color of her cheeks now matched the copper-colored streaks of her hair. Before she could sputter an indignant reply, Doc Martin walked away.

Her eyes cast daggers at the doctor’s retreating back, but she waited until he left the room before giving the marshal a glance. “He is being overprotective.”

“He cares about you,” Trace replied. He leaned against the doorway, his manner still aloof.

“Humph,” she grumbled, still a bit cross at the highhanded manner.

“Humor him.”

Mary Rose glanced up and found herself bedazzled by the man’s genuine smile. “It is not an excuse, but it will do.”

He stepped closer to the bed. “It is what makes sense, senorita. I should go.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her thoughts turned to the details that needed her attention. “The undertaker’s place is behind the Tomahawk Saloon. Tell him you need a box, a good box.” Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “This is a man’s job. You must rest. I’ll come back by later.”

She opened her eyes as a tear traversed her cheek and, just as quickly, she brushed it away. He turned, and she heard the odd jingle of spurs she’d come to trust. On an impulse, she snagged the edge of his sleeve. He paused.

“I’m obliged to you, Marshal Castillo.” Her tone was brisk and businesslike. She prayed he would not see past her false bravado.

He turned, and she lost her grip on his sleeve, only to find his hand now holding hers. His fingers gave a little squeeze. She looked up to find genuine warmth emanating from his face.

“I’ll be back.” Then, to her surprise, he leaned down and pulled her hand to his lips.

His touch was feathery and light. She stared as his mouth skimmed over her knuckles, and her heart lurched as if she stood on the rim of a canyon, waiting to fall. Her stomach plunged, rolling, to her feet when he let go and walked to the doorway. He paused and she gazed at his face, where the right side of his mouth lifted in a tempting come-hither taunt. “Until later, Señorita Thornton.” Something inside her careened over the edge and beckoned her heart to follow.





Chapter Five

Stepping outside, Trace took a deep breath and felt a chink in his armor give way. He had wanted to see her smile—a face like that should have dimples. Of course, a prudent man would walk away. Trace Castillo had never been that. In his veins ran the blood of two proud races. Half of him belonged to the Spanish conquistadores. His other half stood at the walls of the Alamo to defend Tejas against overwhelming odds as General Santa Anna’s army attacked. He would not run from this challenge but meet it head on. He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway, a grin pushing at his lips. What a beautiful challenge it was.

Hands to hips, he did his best to relax. It was bad enough her blue eyes made him dizzy. But when his name rolled from her lips, he wanted to hear that from beneath him, on soft sheets, with that copper hair streaming in molten waves across the pillow, as he pressed his lips to the pulse of her neck.

Trace blew the air from his lungs. She would be a distraction from his work. Nothing more, he assured himself. Yet, just now, when she needed help, he’d jumped at the opportunity to perform this task. He gave a gruff chuckle. “Like some errant knight in blasted shining armor.”

He swung off the porch and strode down Main Street in the direction of the business side of town. It stood to reason places like that would be kept away from the few homes nestled to the north. He tipped his hat as he passed two women on the boardwalk and took note of their admiring glances. There, across from the blacksmith and the livery, stood a huge two-story establishment painted in bold colors of green and red. Above the doorway hung a sign clearly labeling the place as the Tomahawk Saloon. Behind it, he would find the undertaker.

Heading closer, he heard a catcall from the upper floor. “Well, hello, sugar,” a deep-throated voice called to him.

Trace paused, tilted his head for a better view through the shadows of the upper porch, and watched a buxom, honey-haired beauty sashay toward the rail. Her flowered wrapper pulled tight and strained against the swell of the flesh beneath. She turned a hip against the rail, then leaned her back against the post. A seductive smile softened her lips.

Trace touched his hat. “Ma’am.”

“Um.” She smacked her lips. “The sights in town keep getting better. You just come in, handsome?”

“Came in yesterday,” he replied and turned to continue on his way.

“Well, the fun starts around eight. You come on by and tell ’em Lori sen’ cha.”

He looked back over his shoulder and saw her bare leg hanging over the side, swinging against the breeze. Instead of dwelling on her enticement, Trace gave a nod. However, his mind turned to a delightful daydream of his own invention, that of his hand upon the creamy skin of Mary Rose. He could imagine his hand stroking her thigh while he watched those blue eyes turn to velvet. He stopped and swallowed. Such musings were not appropriate. He grasped the door handle of the undertaker’s establishment.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he grumbled. Perhaps this woolgathering came from lack of sleep. No one said staying awake all night, sitting in a chair, would pass for a good eight hours’ sleep in a bed. With a shake of his head, he turned the handle to venture inside.

The atmosphere of the room was opposite of that outside. The sunshine and warmth became subdued against the pallor of death. Two types of pine boxes sat on sawhorses for display inside the whitewashed room. He removed his hat out of courtesy to those lost and walked toward the low counter at the back as a tall, slim man with a waxy complexion pushed back the dark curtains to greet him.

“I’m Mr. Malone, the undertaker. How may I help you, sir?” His deep voice echoed around the room.

“I wish to purchase two pine boxes,” Trace began, and filled him in on the need of additional men to bring back the bodies from the spring.

“I’m sure we can accommodate your request,” Malone said.

“I’ll be going with you to show you where the bodies are buried,” he replied, at which the undertaker’s brows rose.

Mr. Malone paused for a moment to digest the information before he continued. “It will take me about an hour to round up a few men. Where would you like to meet?”

“Meet me at the sheriff’s office,” Trace replied.

“Shall I bill the County for these items?”

“No,” He started to say the bill should be sent to the Thornton Freight Company, as Mary Rose wanted. Instead, he replied, “I’ll be in to pay the bill tomorrow.” He watched the pencil in the man’s hand still.

“Very well, I’ll have things ready for you then,” Malone murmured and tore the note from the pad. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Making his way back to Main Street, Trace heard his name called. Rand Weston stepped from the back of the livery and made his way toward him.

“I just stopped at Doc’s. He told me you’d come here.”

Trace smoothed his hair back and placed his hat on his head. “Yeah, I promised Miss Thornton I would bring the bodies home.”

“Understood,” the sheriff grunted. “Look, I’m headed over to the freight office, if you’d like to come along.”

“Sure.” He nodded and fell in step alongside the sheriff.

As they walked the long narrow dirt street, Trace noted that no rail spur ran to town. A person had to either ride in and out or take the Overland Stage from the hotel. They crossed the street beside the general store and took a small road toward the rear of the town. The road widened, and he caught a glimpse of a single-story low-slung building situated near a few trees. One wagon sat in front, unloaded, painted bright red with yellow trim. A huge covered porch ran the length of the building’s side, providing the comfort of shade. He looked up at the bold letters: Thornton Freight Company.

“Would have thought such a bright red an odd color for a freight office,” Trace mumbled.

“Most would.” Rand explained with a chuckle. “Her idea. She said people would remember it better if it was different.”