Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(16)

Her knees grew weak as she drew back and reached out to steady herself. A hand found hers. Another pressed its warmth to her waist. Without looking, she knew both belonged to Trace. Following his lead, she made her way into the churchyard, where two fresh graves stood open.

Reverend Phelps opened his Bible. “The Lord says there is a time for all seasons; a time to be born and a time to die.”

Mary Rose stared at the dark yawning hole. The rest of the minister’s words of comfort were a blur. Someone picked up a handful of dirt and pressed it into her palm.

“Lord, we commend the spirit of Daniel Michael Thornton to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said Reverend Phelps as she stepped up to the hole.

Six men stood, ropes gripped tightly in their hands. She turned her hand over, releasing the clay. The dirt fell with a thump onto the top of the plain wooden pine box, and slowly they lowered Daniel the rest of the way into the ground.

It was done.

It was final.

Daniel was gone and she stood alone.





Chapter Eight

He stood against the wall of her parlor and watched as one by one she spoke to each person who walked through the door and extended their condolences. Mary Rose Thornton possessed a unique calmness almost to the point of regality, her shoulders squared, her face serene. It seemed to him this woman was comforting those who mourned with her instead of the other way around.

She must be exhausted, he mused, for she had waited until both graves were covered before allowing him to escort her home. By the time they reached the yellow wood-framed home, the ladies of the town had moved the furniture around to accommodate the crowd streaming in to pay their respects. Trace took a deep breath. The aroma of fried chicken filled his nostrils and made his stomach rumble. He cast a glance at the dining room table. Numerous pieces of the succulent meat heaped two huge platters. He smiled, wondering if any barnyard fowl was left within a five-mile radius.

“Eat something, Marshal. You’ve had a long day too.”

He glanced in the direction of Mary Rose. “So has she,” he replied.

The Widow Hatfield sighed. “Yes, but she won’t stop until each person is greeted.” She paused, and he looked over at her. Her lips were shadowed by the beginnings of a grin. “Perhaps you can pull her away for a while?”

He grunted with skepticism. “I doubt she will listen to anything I have to say.”

The widow’s mouth twitched again. “I think you need a bit more confidence in your abilities.”

His brow puckered, and she gave a wink before moving on. His glance moved from her to the young woman near the door. With a sigh, he crossed the room, weaving through groups of people talking quietly among themselves. As he moved to her, he watched Caleb Gentry enter and sweep his hat from his head.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gentry.” Mary Rose extended her hand, and the freight clerk took it. “And for handling things until I can get back on my feet.”

“Miss Thornton, you needn’t worry,” Caleb reassured her.

Under Trace’s watchful gaze, she offered him a smile. “Still, it goes beyond what you need to do.”

“I hope you’ll be back soon?” he replied, leaning forward.

Trace found himself searching the man’s hands, looking for a wedding ring.

“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.