Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(24)

Trace nodded.

A chair slid across the floor and Trace heard the cowboy speak. “You boys no longer working for the Petticoat Freight Company, I hear.”

The men behind him snorted, their disdain barely masked in their reply. “Gave that chit notice this afternoon. Demanded my pay, too.”

Trace felt the hackles rise across the back of his neck. The beer he had halfway between the table and his lips lowered.

“Don’t let ’em get to you,” he heard Rand say under his breath. But it was too late. He flattened his palms on the table. He didn’t care for coarse language about women, but this was his woman. The woman lodged beneath his skin, that he could not get rid of. His ears strained to capture the reply.

“I’ve never worked for a female, and I won’t start now.” The driver followed his statement with a vulgar laugh. “Unless that sweet piece of meat is under my covers.”

Trace felt his gut tighten. Fury rose, and he pushed away from the table before his friend could stop him. The man across the other table saw him first. He knew his face must be thunderous, for the color drained from the driver’s face as he reached a hand over and tugged on the other’s sleeve.

“What?” the second man growled.

“Gentlemen.” His voice was low. It reverberated deep in his chest like the warning growl from a mountain lion just before it pounced on its prey. “I don’t believe I like what I’m hearing.”

The driver with his back to Trace grunted and turned. “This is a private conversation, Marshal. I don’t recall asking you to join in.”

Trace’s right hand lashed out, grasping the open neck of the man’s shirt and twisting it tight against his throat. With his left hand, he palmed the pistol that rested lightly on his hip and, pulling back the trigger, leveled it at the other two. The eyes of the men widened at the speed of his draw. Pausing to rein in his temper, Trace waited until the last notes from the off-key piano faded away.

“Private conversation?” he questioned. “If so, why did I hear it?”

“We got a right to work for who we want,” the man in Trace’s grasp challenged.

“That may be true, but from now on you keep your filthy comments to yourself.”

“Who made you her keeper?”

“I did,” he hissed and twisted the fabric just a bit tighter until the driver’s eyes bulged. “Is that understood?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man rasped.

Trace straightened, letting the fabric fall free of his hands, and eased his .45 back into its holster. “If I find Miss Thornton being harassed by anyone, you’ll be the first I come looking for.” He made sure as he spoke that he caught each man’s eye. Under his gaze, they squirmed. “Enjoy your evening.” He tossed a dollar onto the table and walked outside.

Standing in the shadows, away from the lighted doorway, he took a deep breath. He’d just announced to the world that he was Mary Rose’s protector. Had he lost his mind? His hands moved to his hips, and Trace stared down at his boots. He knew deep down he wouldn’t have it any other way. The doors behind him opened and then clicked together as they swung closed.

“You sure keep things spiced up.”

Trace glanced back. Rand stepped up beside him and slid his hat onto his head.

“Thanks for the backup,” Trace said.

Rand chuckled. “There were only three puny ones. When you haven’t got the gumption to handle that, it’s the day I’ll hand over my badge.”

“Humph,” Trace scoffed. “That will be a cold day in...”

“Never mind that,” Rand interrupted. “I’m heading back to the office. You comin’?”

He took a deep breath and glanced at the sheriff. “I’m thinking I might take a walk around to the other side of town.”

“Understood. Keep your nose clean.”

The sheriff disappeared into the shadows on the way to his office, and Trace stepped off the boardwalk and turned in the opposite direction, crossing toward the livery. He needed a good long walk to rid his mind of the images raised by the conversation he’d been privy to. He had warned her. Why didn’t she choose to listen? Deep down, he knew this was only the beginning. Other things would happen.

The town seemed quiet. He strolled along deep in thought, passing the hotel and the general store. Slowly, with each step, his anger cooled. He had just turned toward the sheriff’s office when a familiar pop echoed in the distance. In that instant, his blood ran cold. Trace paused. His brow furrowed. A gunshot. Without another thought, he hurried in the direction of the Thornton home.

****

Beyond the business section, the street lay empty.

Trace turned toward the row of houses and glimpsed a figure hurrying forward. “Halt!” The dark figure skidded to a stop. Gun drawn again, Trace approached. “Your name?” he commanded.

“C-Caleb Gentry.” The voice quavered.

Trace put away his gun. “Were you here a minute ago?”

“Yes,” he replied breathlessly. “I was headed back to the freight office. I wanted to check the doors again.”

“Did you see anyone? Hear anything?”

Caleb shook his head. “I, I didn’t see anyone, but I heard this pop. I was trying to figure out where it came from. I guess someone slammed a door.”

Trace nodded even though he didn’t believe Caleb’s words. “Yes, I just passed the freight office. Things are fine.”

“Good, good.” Caleb seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I think I will check on Miss Thornton, while I am so close.”

“Miss Thornton?” Caleb glanced back at the houses in the shadows behind him. “She’s probably asleep.”

“Then she will not answer my knock.”

Trace walked past the clerk. An odd sensation pressed against his back as if death had fingered him. He turned, but Gentry had disappeared. He stepped onto the porch and reached out to knock on the door. An explosion erupted behind the wood. As he leaped out of the way, a hot sting raked against his cheek, and he fell onto the porch floor, stunned.

Instinctively, he drew his weapon and scooted closer to the front of the house. Using his right hand, he fingered the scratch on his cheek and grimaced. He rubbed his fingers together and could feel the slick glide of blood lubricating his skin. His heart hammered, and he dampened his lips and called out.

“Whoever’s in the house, let her go. I’m a U.S. Marshal.”

He heard a gasp. His nerves stretched taut. “Mary Rose, if you’re all right, say so.”

The lock on the door clicked, and he pulled his legs beneath him and stood. Blowing out the deep breath he was holding, he raised his gun, ready for trouble. One chance. One chance would be all he had to rescue her. If they were using her as a hostage, she’d be thrust before them like a human shield. While they knew he’d be on the outside, they wouldn’t know where. Under the cover of darkness, the element of surprise would be his.

By the light of the moon, he made out the handle and watched it turn. Forgetting about the throb on his cheek, he braced his feet and made ready to snatch Mary Rose from their grasp. He licked away the nervousness from his lips as those sweet delicate fingers came into view. Ever so slowly, she extended her hand and pressed the screen door open.

Come, he begged in silence. Just a bit more and I have you.

Her arm slid through the silvery light, followed by the hem of her skirt.

That’s it. He eased a steadying breath through his pursed lips, then flexed his fingers around the handle of his pistol.

The door opened wider.

Trace seized his chance.

With his free hand, he reached across and grabbed her upper arm, snatching her toward him. A startled cry burst from her lips as she stumbled, and the motion sent her body waltzing around him in a whiplash fashion. He followed her lead, capturing her body against the side of the house, using himself as her shield. He pointed his gun at the dark opening and waited for the hail of hot lead to follow.

His ears grew accustomed to her ragged breath. He gave a quick glance and found her staring wide-eyed back at him. She opened her mouth to speak. He placed his palm there, silencing her.

Beneath his hand, her lips moved. He felt the tip of her tongue brush against his skin. A hot throb of sensation moved along his arm and straight to his groin. Had they not been in such a desperate situation, her actions would have been his undoing. He pulled his attention away from her, still listening intently for sounds inside her home. They must be waiting.

He firmed his grip around the bone handle of his pistol. Leaning forward, he felt her breast flatten against his chest, and through gritted teeth, he whispered, “I’m going inside. You run for the sheriff.”

Her head shook against him and she mumbled something against his hand.

“No,” he hissed. “You do as I tell you for once, Querida.” He hated being so harsh, but the last thing he wanted would be her following him into the house, perhaps getting herself killed. Taking a deep breath, Trace rushed through the doorway, all the while praying to God that his action would draw the fire of the men inside.