Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(22)

As he rode behind the freight wagon, Rand’s words continued to circle around his head: She was running from you. Why did he get the sinking feeling the sheriff was right? Could she be frightened of him? But why? He eased back on the reins and brought his horse to a slow steady jog. Why her? What was it about Mary Rose that he couldn’t shake?

Diablo slowed to a walk and blew. Deep in thought, Trace absentmindedly placed a hand on the horse’s neck. He could see her, the frightened figure behind the cottonwoods, the tilt of her chin when she was furious, and those damn eyes. It was as though some unseen hand reached into his chest and constricted his heart. No, he would not become emotionally involved with a woman, not ever again.

****

The sun stood overhead as they reached the mission.

“Whoa,” he said, and his horse stopped. Dismounting, Trace walked toward the priest who was directing the men to open the doors of the mission storage and help unload the wagon.

“Afternoon, Father,” he replied, removing his hat.

The priest turned, his eyes wide in surprise. “Trace Castillo. It has been a long time.” He held out his hand and they shook. “Miguel, careful with that flour,” the priest called, looking past Trace’s right shoulder.

Trace glanced back and watched the mission worker ease it over his shoulder before moving inside.

“So, what are you doing now? We heard you had taken the oath and become a U.S. Marshal. Or have you given up the star to work for Thornton’s?”

“Me?” He glanced at the wagon. “No, I’m riding as security.”

“Problems?” the priest asked.

Trace took a deep breath. “Yes, you could say that.” He felt the priest’s gaze and wondered if he could see inside his soul.

“Hm.” Father Tomas nodded. “Let me help the men here, and then we will talk before you leave.” Left to his own devices, Trace walked into the mission’s chapel to pay his respects.

Built in the early years when the land was Spanish Territory, the chapel’s adobe walls kept the heat outside. Trace paused at the bowl of holy water, dipped his fingers in, and made the sign of the cross. Depositing a coin in the donation box, he moved toward the altar and paused. The sunlight beaming in from the small window above the entryway illuminated the statue of the Virgin Mary behind the simple wooden table.

The last time he’d been in a church he’d stood waiting for Amelia to come down the aisle. She’d sent her brother to deliver the news. He’d entered, dressed in his uniform, and boldly announced that his sister would not marry a man who would not support Don Porfirio Diaz. Humiliated, Trace had turned away, staring at the statue, until one by one the guests began to file out.

His jaw twitched, teeth clenched, as he recalled the dishonor. But that had been just the beginning. His eyes closed. A week later, he’d gone to his brother’s home to borrow vaqueros for a roundup and found her in his brother’s bed. She’d laughed at him, told him what a fool he’d been to follow his mother’s pathetic side of the family and believe he would be accepted into Texas society. She begged him to join their cause, to help reunite Tejas to Mexico, where it belonged.

He’d never known such savage anger as that which roared through his veins. When his brother entered the room, they fought, and it had taken four men to tear them apart. However, the damage had been done. He’d left Mexico and vowed never to return.

The door behind him opened, and light flooded the chapel. He turned to see Father Tomas move toward him.

“So, come, sit down. I hear there was trouble with the Thornton Company?”

Trace moved to a bench and took his seat beside the priest. He began by explaining the incident at Cottonwood Springs and his involvement with Mary Rose.

“I’ve known both Mary Rose and Daniel for a number of years now. This is such a shame. And you have no clue as to why?”

He shook his head. “None.”

Father Tomas’s gaze scrutinized him. “But there is more, perhaps?”

He nodded. “I am drawn to her.”

“Mary Rose?” The priest nodded. “I am not surprised.”

Trace hung his head. “She invades my thoughts, my nights.” He took a deep breath. “I seem to know when she is in the street or in a room. No matter what I do to stop it, we find ourselves drawn together like two bulls fighting. What is worse, she appears nervous around me.”

“Are you nervous around her?” the priest asked.

“I am angry. She frustrates me with this desire to run a freight company.”

“And why do you think that? Could it be she challenges your preconceived notions about women?”

“She is exasperating.”

“Well, my son, most women are.”

“You aren’t helping.”

The priest chuckled. “My dear friend, I think you need to look into your heart.” He reached out and touched Trace’s chest. “Tell me, how long has it been since your debacle with Amelia?”

“Five years.”

Father Tomas folded his arms. “Describe her to me?”

“Amelia?”

“Don’t argue, Trace. Describe her.”

“Well, she has black hair,” he began.

“Most Mexican women do. But was there something special about it?”

Trace’s brow furrowed in thought. “Just long black hair.”

“All right.” The good Father took a breath. “Now, tell me about Mary Rose.”

Trace closed his eyes and thought about her at the funeral. “Her hair is the color of the copper tiles on the roof of the mission, and her eyes are the deepest blue one can imagine. When she smiles, two dimples frame her lips.”

The priest chuckled, and Trace opened his eyes, feeling foolish.

“I think perhaps you have answered your own question.” Father Tomas stood and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “The heart is a fickle thing, my son. But if we listen with an open mind, it can lead us to wonderful things—like love.”

“Love?” Trace’s eyes widened and his head jerked to look at the priest.

“It is possible, even for U.S. Marshals. Come, let us break for lunch. The men will wish to start back.”

He could only stare as the priest walked away. Love? Was he in love? He had been so sure when he asked Amelia to marry him, so crushed when she refused. Standing, he moved to the candles and, taking a long thin piece of incense, lit one in memory of his grandfather. Perhaps Father Tomas was right. Five years was a long time to try to remember. Listen to your heart.

****

Hours later, he eased Diablo to a stop at the livery in Cobb’s Crossing. Dismounting and drawing the reins over his horse’s head, he led him inside. Near the rear of the building, Trace could hear the slow and steady scrape of a rake against the earth.

“Is that you, Marshal?”

“It is,” he replied, lifting the stirrup and looping it over the horn so he might undo the thick leather strip of the girth. Diablo blew when it felt loose, and Trace slipped the saddle off and tossed it over the rail.

“Want a cloth to wipe him down?”

Trace looked to his left.

“Name’s Mack, remember? We met when you brought the Thornton gal in.”

“Ah.” Trace nodded. “Yes, you have a rag?”

“Keep some of the old towels from the hotel right here in the box beside each stall.” The man bent down and handed him one.

“Thanks.” Trace set to work wiping the dust from his horse.

“Looks like you two had a pretty long day,” Mack said as he stroked Diablo’s head.

Trace focused on his job and didn’t answer.

“It was quiet here, too. Not a soul out of the ordinary came through. But I did hear some of the drivers quit at Thornton’s.”

Trace’s ears burned with the news. He moved around to the other side of his horse and folded the rag over. “You don’t say.” He tried to keep his voice under control.

“Yep.” Mack sighed. “Some of the men didn’t want to work for a petticoat outfit.”

“Humph.” With a grunt, Trace began to move the cloth over the horse’s rump. “And did she try to persuade them not to go?”

Mack chuckled. “She sure did, but didn’t do no good. Them fools left anyway. Had it been me, I’d a stayed just to have her smile at me every mornin’.”

Trace stood up tall and glared.

“I, I didn’t mean anything.”

Relenting, Trace asked, “Is the sheriff still in town?”

Mack nodded. “Yep, saw him go to the saloon about an hour ago.”

“See that Diablo gets a good ration of oats.”

“Sure thing.” The stable hand took hold of the reins and led the horse toward the stall.