Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(13)

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Mary Rose needed to walk, to pace. The wagon had returned, and it seemed like hours had passed, yet still no sign of the marshal. She sat down on a delicately carved velvet chair in Doctor Martin’s parlor and stared at the door, willing him to come. She could hear pots and pans banging in the kitchen, and every once in a while the sounds were punctuated by the widow’s voice or the doctor’s words. She did her best to ignore them.

Looking down, she fingered the heavy cloth of her wrapper, wishing there was time to dress and meet him properly. She looked a mess, and she knew it. The widow had tried to tame those wild curls of hers by pulling them to the nape of her neck in a clip. Rebellious as always, a few strands made their way out and hung gracefully in spirals by her cheeks. She wondered why it even mattered. Yet, deep down, the yearning to look her best for this man had taken root.

Had she changed? She was still the same Mary Rose Thornton, part owner of Thornton Freight, but something deep inside had shifted. The marshal had awakened the womanly side of her that had for so long lain dormant, refreshing her senses and shifting them close to the surface. Blowing out a breath, she willed her thoughts to focus on nothing as she closed her eyes and let her mind go blank.

In the shadows, behind her lashes, she heard it. The crunch of boots and the chink of silver spurs. Her stomach rolled as the sound moved across her skin; goose bumps prickled her flesh. Her ears echoed with the sound, and her breathing increased as it drew closer. Her heart skipped a beat at the telltale thump of a foot upon the porch. Her eyes opened wide and she rose from the chair.

His soft knock unleashed a flutter of butterflies to circle in her belly. She glanced toward the kitchen, but no one appeared. She smoothed the fabric of her clothing with her good palm, then walked to the door. Reaching out to grasp the doorknob, she noticed the slight tremble of her fingers. Breathe, you fool, she reminded herself, and tried to steady her hand. Another light knock reverberated through the wood.

“Just a second,” she called. Her hand closed around the knob, and she opened the door.

There he stood with his head bent; his thick dark hair slicked back as if he’d just dampened it to make it stay. Her breath caught as he tilted his head and the bronze skin over the aristocratic features of his face caught the light. He stood before her, a charred but familiar hat in his hand and his blue eyes laden with sadness. A few lines of worry creased his brow. Foolish words of surprise slipped from her lips before she had time to recall them. “Marshal, you came back.”

“I am a man of my word,” he replied. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped back and pulled the door wider to allow him to enter. As he walked through the door and she caught the scent of sandalwood and warm earth, her heart skipped a beat.

He glanced down and held out the charred hat. “I found this.”

She stared at the remains of her hat. “Thank you.” She took it from him and examined its burnt edges and smoke-smudged crown. “It seems so odd that I should look at this with such a sentimental heart.”

“No, not at all,” he took a breath. “I would advise you to put it away and not dwell on its memories.”

She glanced at him, her curiosity piqued.

“At least until you are stronger,” he added.

She lifted the edges of her mouth a smidgen. “You are probably very right. Please, won’t you have a seat?”

He moved toward the parlor, and she used the time it took to close the door to regain her equilibrium. She looked at the hat, then placed it aside, not wishing for him to see how it unnerved her. Being careful not to make too much noise, she crossed the room to her chair. The last thing she wanted was Widow Hatfield to waltz in and interrupt. He had come to see her, and there were things they needed to discuss. “Won’t you sit down?” She nodded toward the sofa. “You must be exhausted. I hear you sat with me last night.”

The edges of his eyes mirrored his smile. She liked that. “You are our star witness,” he replied, then waited for her to sit before he perched on the edge of the horsehair sofa. “The doctor’s chair is not as comfortable as a bed,” he agreed. “But I have slept on worse.”

“I’m sure.”

Awkwardness filled the silence between them. There wasn’t an artful or diplomatic way to ask. Mary Rose took a breath and said, “Were you able to find them? Their, their bodies?”

“Yes.”

She could hear the relief in his word. It empowered her to continue. “The undertaker has them?” She watched him nod. “I suppose I should go and make the arrangements. I thought a small church service would be—”

“No.”

Her lungs contracted. She stared for a moment, processing the word, and then her brows arched.

His mouth became firm, and his eyes glanced down at his feet.

“No,” he repeated once more, in a kinder manner. “There will be no church service.”

A bit of anger laced her soul. “No service,” she repeated with a bite to her words. “You come in and tell me how to bury my own brother?”

“Miss Thornton.” His voice spoke with underlying firmness, and her anger twisted. “Your dead needs to be buried, and as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t...” she began.

Seeing her bewilderment, he continued. “Your brother should be buried,” he began again. “The body has already begun—” Words failed him. He stared at his hat, still clutched in his right hand. He let out a pent-up breath, then laid the hat on the sofa next to him. “I am not doing this well,” he said.

Suddenly she realized what he hesitated to say. Daniel’s body had begun to decay. Her hand fluttered against her lips. Mary Rose shuddered at the thought. She needed time to adjust, to think. She stood and turned away as a raw pull tugged at her heart. “I-I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered.

“Miss Thornton…”

She heard him rise and step close. His hand touched her shoulder, and her skin warmed to his touch. Only a few inches separated them. Her gaze found his mouth, then those warm blue eyes. Her anger faded, replaced by something she couldn’t describe. As she stared, the dark onyx of the rim grew wider, the color deepened. His hand rose from her shoulder to cradle her cheek. Instinctively, she turned into it, savoring his tenderness.

“Forgive my stumbling words.” His husky voice was like cool water soothing away the raw ache of her loss. “Both Sheriff Weston and I feel it best to have a graveside service tomorrow afternoon.”

A tear slid from her eye. His thumb whisked it away.

“Mi Querida,” he whispered.

His breath brushed softly past her skin as he drew her close. She reached out and pressed her palm against his chest. Her fingers picked up the thump of his heart, and hers slowed to beat in unison. Her lashes swept to her cheek, and she inhaled a shattered breath as his lips touched the path of her tear with a soft, feathery kiss.

As if anticipating his next move, she dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue and heard a low rumble generate from his chest. Ever so lightly, his lips moved across hers. From one edge, near a dimple, he traced along the smooth lines of her mouth to the other side and back again, nibbling, tasting, and bringing her joy. She could feel the change in her body. The rapid staccato of her heartbeat filled her ears as she leaned in to him.

Beneath the cotton of her gown, her breasts seemed to grow heavy. He slid his tongue along the opening of her mouth, and fire erupted just below the pit of her belly. Without instruction, she tilted her head to give him better access and prepared to surrender to this treat. Much to her disappointment, he pulled away. A soft cry wrenched from her lips. Her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt as she brought strength back to her weakened knees. Her eyes still closed, she could hear him take his own ragged breaths and felt the warm brush of his breath as it passed her cheeks.

“I should not have done that,” he mumbled.

Liar, she thought, but caught his look of chagrin. She looked down at her hand and released the crumpled fistful of cloth she’d held tight.

“Let us speak no more about this.”

“Yes.” She moved to put a chair between them. “This was an accident. I was overcome with grief,” she rationalized. “I don’t usually throw myself at men.” She watched his stony facade slip into place.

“You will let the dead rest?”

“I will speak to the undertaker about the service.”

His voice let out a low growl of disapproval. She held up her hand. “A graveside service and a wake after.” Her eyes met his, and she could see him relax.

“Done,” he agreed. “I will send him here.”

“There is no need, I am fit enough to—” Her smile faded.

“There is no room for discussion. I will send him to you.”

He moved toward her as if drawn by some magical force. She held her breath, waiting against hope that he would kiss her again. Instead, he stared into her eyes and then brushed her cheek with his fingers. His brow puckered as he spoke. “What are you doing to me?”