Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(14)

Mary Rose didn’t have an answer. He stared at her for a second more, and then she watched as he bent, picked up his hat, and strode to the door. Her heart ached, as he never once glanced back. Shoulders filling the doorway, he went through and walked away. Her hand moved to cover her cheek and the skin he had touched. It felt warm, as if he’d left some mark behind.

“It should be the other way around, Marshal Castillo. What are you doing to me?” she said aloud, but there was no one there to answer.





Chapter Seven

Trace opened the door of the sheriff’s office and found Rand busily writing his report. The lawman paused and glanced up. “Sit down, Marshal, before you fall. I’ve seen better color on a dead man.”

In truth, he knew it was an apt description. “Thank you for the compliment,” he remarked with a bit of dry humor.

Rand chuckled and put down his pencil. “There’s a pitcher of water upstairs and some clean sheets on the cot. Tomorrow I’ll take you over to the hotel and arrange for a hot bath. I left some bacon and hardtack on the edge of the stove.”

Trace hung his hat on the peg by the door and ambled over to pick up his meager meal. It wasn’t a steak, but it would keep his belly button from making friends with his backbone. Gingerly, he touched the plate, drawing his fingers back in haste at the heat.

“Dishtowel on the side,” Rand called.

“Thanks.” Folding it, he wrapped it around the edges of the dish and hurried to the corner of the desk. “Coffee fresh?”

“Made it this morning, while you were out. Sit down, and I’ll get you a cup.”

Trace placed the plate on the desk and eased his tired bones into the straight-backed chair. Rand’s boots scuffed across the plank floor as he made his way to the stove.

“Gentry come back yet with those invoices?” Trace inquired.

“No, I expect him in a bit.”

He heard Rand lift the enameled pot, and the liquid gurgled into the cup. Breaking off a piece of the bread, he popped it into his mouth.

“Here you go.” For good measure, Rand plunked a spoon into the cup and set it at his elbow.

Chewing the hard-crusted bread, Trace gave a nod and watched Rand move back to his desk to sit down. Using his left hand, he pointed at the paper. “Your report on the incident at Cottonwood Springs?”

He nodded. “Yeah, before I forget anything, I want to put down the facts as I know them. I need you to write a statement, as well.”

“Right,” Trace agreed, and took a sip of the infamous brew.

“How’d it go with Miss Thornton?”

Glancing up, Trace caught the sharp eyes of the lawman drilling into him. He shifted the food in his mouth and gave a noncommittal response. “Good.”

Rand raised a brow. “Just good?”

Ignoring him for a moment, Trace dipped the bread in his coffee and weighed his response. “She agreed to a graveside service, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Now it was his turn to stare back. He did not intend to tell Rand or anyone else how his guard slipped and he’d kissed her.

“It was,” the sheriff answered and picked up his pencil. “I’m thinking I want you at her side during the service. It’s bound to get out that she’s alive. It wouldn’t hurt to put some quiet protection around her.”

“All right,” he replied, and put the last of the bread into his mouth. What Rand said made sense. She’d be an easy target for a sharpshooter. While his friend made more notes, he glanced about the neat office and spied his saddlebags next to the gun rack. “Rand,” he jerked his head toward his bags. “Inside the right bag, you’ll find something interesting.”

The sheriff looked up and scooted his chair back, then rose to get the leather bags. “Right one?”

“Yeah, I found that behind the wagon, next to Moe's body.”

Rand sat down to undo the buckle and then pulled out the piece of wood wrapped in a rag. Uncovering the fragment of crate, he ran his fingers over the lettering. “What do you make of it?”

Trace swallowed. “I’m hoping the numbers will match one of those on the invoices from the freight company.”

“If not?”

He sat back, cup in hand. “If not, then our friends stopped along the way to pick up something they didn’t want anyone to know about.”

The sheriff’s face grew grim. “Listen here,” he hissed. “Friend or no, I’ve told you already the Thorntons are good people.”

Leaning forward, Trace placed his cup on the table. “Look, Rand, I’m not saying they aren’t. I’m just saying we don’t always know what goes on in a man’s backroom or in a woman’s mind. Did they have money problems? Did Daniel Thornton gamble?”

To his relief, Rand paused. “He might have played a hand or two of cards once a month. I’d see him from time to time in the saloon enjoying a beer, but he wasn’t one to drop a chunk of cash.”

Trace rose. “To clear his name, we’ll need to check the bank accounts.”

“To clear his name? I don’t believe Daniel would be able to pull a fast one like stealing from his own company.”

Trace yawned. Fatigue seemed to be winning. He couldn’t remember how long he had been up. It seemed like weeks.

He heard Rand’s voice. “Top of the stairs. I’ll wake you early in the morning. I’ve got to arrange for a rider to accompany a freight run this afternoon.”

Taking his cup of coffee with him, Trace rose. “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it,” the sheriff answered. “Let’s just get to the bottom of this. If Mary Rose ever finds out you’ve doubted her brother, there will be more than hell to pay.”

Trace didn’t reply as he left the office, pausing long enough to scoop up his saddlebags and toss them over his shoulder. Following the short hallway between the two cells, he found the stairs that led up to the second floor. His boots sounded hollow as he took the steps upward. Rand had left a lamp turned low, casting a few shadows around the room. Dropping his bags at the foot of the cot, he made his way to the dresser and turned up the wick to garner a good look at his new surroundings.

The room above the sheriff’s office was more like a loft, running the length of the brick building. There were few luxuries, just a low three-drawer chest with a pitcher and bowl for a washstand, and a single cot. It was sparse not because of modesty but because the space allowed nothing more. Trace could handle this. It beat sleeping on the cold hard ground.

At least it had good ventilation. One window faced the back of the building, the other faced the front and gave a view to see anyone who approached.

With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the cot and heard the springs sing out from his weight. He pulled off his boots and dropped them at the foot of the bed, then stood to undo his gun belt. Leaning to the side, he looped it around the bedpost, within easy reach should it be needed. A tug of his hands pulled his cotton shirt overhead, and he gave it a shake before he draped it over the footboard.

Unlike most men, he didn’t wear the full innerwear, preferring, instead, to leave his chest bare. Moving to the washstand, he poured water into the bowl and did his best to cleanse the dirt from his torso. With that done, he stepped to the bed, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid them from his legs. Clad only in soft white cotton long-john pants, Trace tossed back the sheets and lay down.

He yawned again and folded his arms behind his head. A soft breeze stirred the curtains as he thought about the woman he’d just left. The rich color of her eyes, the cream of her skin, stirred him in ways no other woman since Amelia had. His thoughts recalled the kiss and the lingering taste of honey still on his lips. She’d leaned into him, and the mere memory of the warmth of her body and fullness of her breasts sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. As the kiss ended, he’d felt her lips open, offering him an invitation to explore.

Had he taken the chance, he not only would have plundered her mouth, but as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow he’d have completely satisfied them both. Thinking about those endless pleasures, his body grew hard. With a curse, he flipped himself over and closed his eyes. Yet he knew sleep would not come easy. Damn those copper curls.

****

Mary Rose’s reluctance to eat drew the attention of both the Widow Hatfield and Doc Martin. After pushing the food around her plate once more, she gave up with a sigh and laid the fork beside the plate. She hated not being more enthused about the meal, considering how much effort must have gone into its making.

“Dear…” The widow’s soft voice broke through her thoughts as the woman laid a hand upon her arm. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed and gave a twist of her lips, hoping her mouth resembled a smile. “I’m fine,” Mary Rose lied. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”