Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(37)

“You were right. The draft note you found in the bottom of Moe’s box belonged to a bank just east of the border. I telegraphed the sheriff near there, in Eagle Pass, and asked him to talk to the bank manager. He confirmed the name of the account was Daniel Thornton.”

“Of course, anyone could go in and say they were Daniel,” Trace mused. “Is there a way to confirm?”

“I plan on sending them a description of Daniel,” Rand replied.

An uneasy feeling stole across his shoulders. He could confirm it another way by finding the notation in the company’s books. He turned and looked at Mary Rose. “I don’t want to hurt her any more than I have to.” He glanced back to Rand.

“It will hurt her either way, son, but we’ve got to know.”

****

As he returned to the table, the women turned as he approached, and he could read the anxiety in Mary Rose’s eyes.

“Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

“Leaving so soon?” Elaine asked.

“I have a lot to do tomorrow,” Mary Rose explained. “Are my things still in your room?”

“Sure are. I’ll run up and help you get them together.”

Mary Rose glanced over her shoulder at Trace. “I won’t be but a minute.”

He nodded and came to the back of her chair. As he scooted it away, she rose, and with his hand upon her elbow, they made their way from the dining room. She caught up with Elaine at the door to her room upstairs.

“I had the laundry wash your clothing and wrap it,” Elaine explained, opening the door. Mary Rose followed her into the room and picked up the bundle in a plain brown wrapper on the table.

“Thank you.” She shifted the package to her other hip. “Oh.”

“Is something wrong?”

Putting down the bundle, she opened the strings to her reticule. How did she explain this without sounding the alarm? If someone was watching her movements, she reasoned, it might be best not to keep the papers in her home or even with her. Her fingers reached in and touched the envelope. “You have a safe here, correct?”

“Yes, I bought it in San Antonio.”

Mary Rose nodded. “I want you to keep something for me.”

“Me?” Elaine gasped and moved to stand beside her.

“I have some papers I’m just afraid I’ll lose,” she explained, hoping Elaine wouldn’t detect the lie. “I want you to keep them for me until I’m ready for them.” She looked over at her. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, not at all.”

Mary Rose withdrew the envelope. She stared at the plain brown front, then flipped it over and looked inside to make sure the papers were still there. Giving the back a lick, she sealed it and handed over the envelope. “This means a lot. Thank you.”

She watched Elaine slide the paper into the pocket of her apron. “I’ll lock it away as soon as we get downstairs.”

“And you’ll keep it between us?”

“Between us,” Elaine agreed, and paused. “Mary Rose, is there something you need to tell me?”

There it was, her opening. All she had to do was tell Elaine that someone had made deposits in an account under Daniel’s name. Yet she hesitated. Thoughts crowded in her mind. It couldn’t be Daniel. Could it? She bit her lip.

“Mary Rose?” Elaine’s hand reached out and touched her arm.

“No.” She gave a nervous smile. “Everything’s fine, just fine. Some things Daniel left for me. I-I don’t want to lose them.”

Liar, her conscience echoed. She waited in the hall while Elaine locked her door. As they descended the staircase, she noticed the lobby had several people milling about.

“Call on me,” Elaine said as she stepped forward. “For anything.”

With a nod, Mary Rose watched her hurry down the steps to take care of her customers, beginning with a gentleman who inquired about a room. She could see the back of Trace’s jacket as he stood off to her left, again locked in conversation with Sheriff Weston. Her soft footsteps went unheard as she drew near, and Rand’s comment stopped her cold.

“It makes no difference whose account the name is in. I hear the commander of the fort has sent for some big shot. Once he rolls in, they’ll garnish the freight company for the cost of the rifles.”

The room swirled about her. She reached for the banister, clutching it to stand up straight. The account. They know.

“I’ll handle Mary Rose,” she heard Trace remark. “You dig into who opened that account and how much was deposited.”

“Take care,” Rand warned.

She gave herself a mental shake. Placing a pleasant smile on her face, she cleared her throat and watched Trace look over Weston’s shoulder to her. He smiled. She did her best to respond in kind as he stepped to the bottom of the stairs and reached for her. “Is everything all right?”

No, she wanted to shout. Everything is not all right. “Fine,” she said softly, and gave him only a shy glance.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Mary Rose.”

Her head jerked in the sheriff’s direction. “Yes.” She gave a quick nod. “Thank you.” Her attention turned back to Trace. “Please, I’d like to go home. I’m rather tired.”

“Of course,” he answered. “Sheriff, you know where I am if you need me.”





Chapter Eighteen

Mary Rose said nothing as they walked through the twilight toward her home. Her only thoughts were the words she’d overheard from Trace’s mouth, “I will take care of Mary Rose.” Did taking care of her mean keeping her in the dark? What account were they discussing?

“You’re very quiet tonight.”

Her eyes cut to the man walking beside her. Although they were close, he seemed miles away. “I’m tired,” she whispered.

His fingers pressured her elbow as they paused at the edge of the boardwalk to let a wagon pass. If only they could return to the room above the sheriff’s office and have things as they were. The warmth of his fingers brought her out of her melancholy thoughts, and he steadied her down the step.

“Maybe you’d best let Doc Martin check your shoulder,” he suggested.

“My shoulder?” she asked, confused.

“It’s been nearly a week. You may have overdone it.”

“I highly doubt that.” Her voice sounded a bit stiff. She needed to think things out before her anger overruled her head. “Sorry,” she said in apology for her gruff retort. “You may be right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the nod of his head in agreement, and they stepped onto her porch. While he fished in the pocket of his trousers for her key, a momentary dread filled her being as she remembered the sight of her dress caught in the door of her wardrobe upstairs. Her heart beat heavily against her ribs as he held up the key.

“There we go,” he murmured, and the lock clicked.

Her eyes widened, expecting to see some bandit, a kerchief over his face, awaiting them. She reached out, but her hand missed his sleeve as he pushed the door open, and she stared into the yawning darkness.

“After you.”

She swallowed to relieve the pressure in her dry throat. She took a small step forward. Her slipper scuffed against the wood of the threshold, and her knees quivered beneath the satin folds of her gown. She pressed her lips together and realized she couldn’t just walk in. Carefully, so as not to arouse his suspicions, she asked, “Would you go in and light the lamp?”

To her relief, he didn’t complain. Instead, he acted as if her request was most reasonable. She watched him move past her to disappear in the darkness. All sorts of images flashed through her mind as her vivid imagination took over.

Her erratic heartbeat increased the pounding at her temples, and her nerves released a cold dampness across her body. In spite of herself, she shivered and pressed closer the bundle she held tight to her chest. Feeling ridiculous, she leaned forward and blew out a quiet breath. The rooms were dark, silent—one might almost say as silent as a tomb. She tried not to think about that.

“Marshal?” she hissed into the darkness. “You all right?”

A hush of nothingness echoed from the darkness. “Trace,” she called out, a hint of panic in her words. In the back of the house, she heard the sound of a match dragged along the pad.

“Trace,” her impatient voice asked once more. Her brow furrowed as the embryonic light grew in strength from the kitchen. The hair on her arms rose as she cried out demanding, “Trace, please answer me.”

A second later, she heard the warmth of his voice. “I’m here.”

She sagged against the doorjamb and collected herself before stepping into the parlor. “You should have gotten the lamp by the door,” she began as he approached. Yet as the lamplight illuminated the entryway, she could see the lamp was missing from the table. “I-I must have moved it,” she stammered.