Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(3)

Moving to the left, she lifted her leg over the edge of the seat box and found the wheel hub. With her brother’s help, she climbed down, then brushed the crease out of her riding skirt. She stretched her back and glanced over to find Moe staring. Heat flared in her cheeks, and she looked away. Concentrate on the sunlight hitting the leaves, she told herself.

“Does get a bit cramped,” Daniel replied, reaching beneath the seat to pull out a pair of canteens and an oilskin bladder. “I’m going to get water for the animals. You might want to stretch your legs, but don’t go too far. Moe, keep your distance and check your team.”

Mary Rose watched her brother disappear down the path that led to the spring. Disposing of her hat, she brushed her hair back with her hand as a thought crossed her mind. With Daniel being at the water’s edge, no one was here with her and Moe. She didn’t relish being left alone with the big teamster. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a shaky smile. “I-I’ll leave you to this and see if my brother needs any help.” She hurried to the slope cut in the embankment, giving only one quick look back, to find Moe’s eyes on her, before she disappeared down the incline toward the spring.

****

The smooth earthen wall pushed the afternoon heat away from the spring and back toward the clearing. “Daniel,” she called out, hearing the gurgle of the water below the beaten path. “Daniel?” When he didn’t answer, a wave of panic rushed over her. “Dan—” His voice cut her short.

“Over here.”

Mary Rose paused and took a calming breath. Relieved, her steps grew in confidence as she rounded the side of the red clay walls and found him kneeling beside a clear pool of water.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling a large oilskin bladder from the spring.

Mary Rose opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.

“Go on, darlin’,” he urged, turning on the Irish charm.

With a sheepish expression and feeling more sixteen than twenty-three, she spoke. “You’ll think me foolish.”

Her answer made him chuckle. “Won’t be the first time.”

“I-I just didn’t like being left alone with Mr. Horne,” she replied. “So I thought I’d see if you needed help.” Despite her attempt to sound nonchalant, Mary Rose felt the rise of heat to her cheeks.

Yet Daniel said nothing. His facial expression filled with a deep understanding. “He’s a good man, Mary Rose. Others never gave him a chance.”

She gave a shake of her head in hopes of dispelling her fears. “I’ll trust your judgment for now, Daniel Michael Thornton. But, one day, you’ll have to listen to a woman’s instincts.”

“Ah, there’s me good lass.” His imitation broad Irish brogue sounded just like their father. Stepping over to her, he pulled a smaller canteen from his shoulder and held it out. “I can always do with a bit of help.” He smiled and held out a second canteen. “Fill this one for me, and I’ll go and water the horses.”

“Sure.” Taking the canvas-covered container, Mary Rose moved to the water’s edge and crouched down as he had. Her right hand reached out and stroked the pond’s surface before pressing the container below it. A slow procession of bubbles moved to the surface and popped as water replaced air. Behind her, her brother’s footsteps faded up the trail.

Yet that nagging fear wouldn’t leave her. She shivered, thinking about Moe’s advance. Good man or not, he made her nervous. She’d have to talk to Daniel about him once they reached the fort. At least she’d be free of his company in two days.

Pulling the canteen from beneath the water, she groped for the cork. Still fumbling with the stopper, she rose and moved toward the path. As the incline increased, she heard the sounds of hoofbeats and voices raised in surprise. Mary Rose stopped. Her hand still fixed upon the mouth of the canteen, she listened. Another shout. This time there was no mistaking her brother’s cry of alarm. A tremor of terror ran through her. A frantic horse neighed, and the air was shattered by the blast from a gun.

“Daniel!” she cried out, rushing forward, dropping the canteen.

In her haste, her feet slipped on the clay. With a bone-jarring drop, she fell to her knees. Clawing at the ground, she scrambled to her feet and finished the climb. But as she burst into the open she ground to a halt. Heart pounding in terror, she gazed at the ragtag group of renegades surrounding the wagon. A whiff of smoke drifted up from the barrel of a rifle as a man turned away. A pair of legs with thick hobnail boots protruded from the back of the wagon.

“Run!”

Daniel’s shout startled her. She glanced in his direction as he wrenched his arms free and threw himself toward the man with the gun.

“Daniel!” She charged forward. A shrill Apache war cry stopped her. A menacing face flashed before her, and a gun butt thudded against her cheek. The wind knocked out of her, she fell to her knees, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Mary Rose!” Daniel’s shout brought her to her senses. She needed to run!

Clambering to her feet, she heard a rifle fired. Something hot slammed against her shoulder, shoving her backward. Her feet grew rubbery. She stumbled over them repeatedly. Turning, she grasped for the cottonwood and fell short.

Cloth ripped as the branch caught her sleeve while, in the distance, she heard Daniel’s voice shouting her name. Someone was running toward her. Then another shot echoed, and his shriek shattered the air. Her breath came in hard gasps at the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears, drowning out all sounds, and Mary Rose could feel herself fall as her knees folded.

The ground was where the sky should be. Beyond the gathering darkness, a woman cried out. At the last moment, she realized the voice was her own. The wind flew from her lungs as her shoulder collided with the earth. Pain ripped through her left side. She could feel her body slide, greased by the soft soil. Bits and pieces of sound drifted over her, filtered by her own ragged breathing. She was dying.

Her vision narrowed. As the darkness closed in, she heard a deeper voice, eerily familiar, say, “I told you, not the woman.” With a deep, ragged breath, she let the beckoning emptiness become her friend, and she embraced it.





Chapter Two

A hot breeze stirred the southwest Texas air, and beads of sweat curled lazily past the bones of Trace’s back. He could feel the full strength of the sun as it pressed its rays upon the earth. The moisture gathered along the sides of his face clamped the stray ends of his shoulder-length hair to his skin. Removing his hat, Trace Castillo lifted his head to glance at the sun hanging overhead. The heat turned the leather of his saddle into a hot griddle. Yes, a cold drink, a fine woman, and some shade would be in order. Perhaps they could make him forget the conversation he’d had with Rand Weston. But where can I find such a willing woman?

Those words conjured up the beauty from yesterday. He wished he hadn’t gotten close enough to see those blue eyes spark when he told her man to put her on the stage. Now the vision of her haunted him, and he wondered if he’d used good reasoning. He ran his hands along the inside of his hatband and recalled the tilt of her lips as they pulled into that pout. No doubt she thought it gave her power over men. Maybe other men, but not him.

Those lips, he decided, may have looked like heaven but would be lethal poison to kiss. Experience had taught him the bitter lesson of what a woman hell-bent on power could do. No good would come of dwelling on a woman like that. He sighed. Ever since his entanglement with Amelia, he had avoided such women. Sought pleasure, yes, but he’d vowed never again to be placed under a spell.

With a sigh, he lifted his arm and pulled the sleeve across his brow in a futile attempt to remove the perspiration before it slithered into his eyes and set them on fire. Settling the hat back on his head, he tightened his grip on the reins, signaling his horse to move on.

The trail ran along the backside of a dry wash and then climbed gently to a broad flat meadow, good grazing land for the surrounding ranches. Those cattle had attracted men who swung a wide loop in the first place and gave the track its name, Rustlers’ Way. Taking the path at a slow and steady walk, he tilted his head to allow the deep shadow of his hat to cover his face. If any eyes were watching, he appeared to be just a vaquero, nodding off in the heat of the day. “Cottonwood Springs is not too far away. I think you and I will pause for a much-needed drink.” His horse flicked its ears in response.

He swerved to the path on the right and took a deep seat as the trail sloped down. Another rivulet of perspiration inched toward the belt of his low-slung trousers. Gripping the loose cotton of his chambray shirt, he shifted it away from his damp skin.

For a moment, he almost didn’t catch it. Yet it stirred again. A cold breath of apprehension wrapped its long fingers around the nape of his neck and lifted the hairs along his shoulders. Trace’s heart gave two quick beats.

Something wasn’t right. A new level of alertness traveled along his body and transferred to his horse, which sensed the change. The animal’s head rose, ears pitched forward, and he felt the gelding’s muscles dance. “Easy,” he murmured, placing a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Keeping his voice low, he pulled his hand back and grazed the leather safety on his .45. It sprang free.