Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(39)

Would it be so wrong to marry?

The question brought another sigh, but no answer. She stared at the twinkling stars until they faded in the pale light of morning with nothing resolved. As the morning light bathed her face, she heard the slam of the door across the hallway and jumped. She leaned her head over and listened to the angry stomp of his boots. No, she thought, he had not slept any better than she.

Rising, she moved back and spread up the bed. She might as well get this over with. Opening her wardrobe, she pulled out a calico dress and began to get herself ready for the day. Her arm still stiff, her movements jerky, she could dress herself. After running the brush through her tangle of curls, she went out the door and down the stairway.

Pausing at the end of the steps, she listened to the sounds coming from the back of the house. Moving quietly, she made her way to the kitchen, where he’d left the back door ajar. Peeking past the door, she could see him stripped to the waist, chopping wood. His muscles rippled as he bent down and placed a single log upon the block. Eyeing his move, he lifted the handle with two hands and swung down. She flinched when the blade whacked the piece of wood square in the center. The timber coughed and then whined as he wiggled the blade.

Her gaze rolled over his shoulders as they took on a sheen from the humidity. Straining against his skin, they lifted the log attached to the ax blade, and when he sent it crashing down onto the block, the log split neatly in two. Her fingers ached to touch that bronzed skin. It proved to be sheer torture to watch. Yet when he turned around, she scurried from view and opened the pie safe in search of the ingredients to make biscuits.

The back door slammed. She peeked through the perforated holes in the tin of the pie safe. God, he was good enough to eat. She had to stop thinking these things. Focus, she reminded herself. His forward motion stopped when he saw her. Caught, she reached in, grabbed the tin of flour, the bag of salt, and the can of lard before she shut the door.

“Morning,” he said, his voice gruff.

“Morning,” she answered.

Good. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. She reminded herself to remain aloof and noncommittal. Placing the things on the table, she turned and reached for the bowl on the counter. They nearly ran into one another as he dropped the wood to the floor and prepared the stove for the morning meal. He bent over, and the low-slung waist of his trousers gapped. She caught sight of the swell of his hips. She closed her eyes. Concentrate on your job, Mary Rose.

Returning to the table with the bowl and sifter, she placed a cup of flour into the metal cylinder and cranked. Yes, she thought, that’s it. Take your anger out here. Doing her best to ignore the man in the room, she scooped a tablespoon of lard and dropped it in the dry ingredients, then poured in a cup of buttermilk from the larder, added a pinch of salt, and began to knead the mixture into dough. She could feel him watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Ignore him.

“When you are in my home, there is a cook to help us.”

She looked up. Her motions stopped and she glared at him. “We aren’t going through this again, are we? I think we’ve proved marriage is a foolish idea.”

“This matter has been settled,” he told her. “We will wed. The sooner it is done the better.”

“No.” She pushed down on the dough a little harder.

“No? I do not understand. I can give you so much more. You will live the life of comfort.”

“My life is here. My company is here,” she retorted. “You are a marshal. They make little more, if any, than Sheriff Weston does. I will work. I am not a fool.”

“Being a U.S. Marshal is not all I am.”

“I will not be some object to be set upon a shelf and brought down just so people can look and say, ‘Oh, my, what a charming wife Marshal Castillo has.’”

“You will have much to do. There is a ranchero to run. My home is almost like a small city. You will be queen of the land.”

“I don’t want to be queen,” she hissed.

“Let’s not mar the day talking about this now,” he replied. “I will wash for breakfast. Your stove will be warm soon.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “But I will not go along with this. As soon as the killer is caught, I will return your ring. This betrothal is no more than make-believe.”

Trace crossed the space between them and glared at her. “The ring I put on your finger will stay. You shall marry me with all the bindings and trappings, until death do us part. You were made for me and no one else, my sweet enchantress. Deny it if you want. Your body will not.”

“Why you pompous a—” Before she could finish, his lips were upon hers, punishing her mouth, igniting the flame. She felt heady as his lips moved to the side of her neck. Lost in the undeniable magnetism of his administrations, her hand moved to the back of his neck, and she buried her fingers, caked with dough, in his hair. Oh, how sublime his kisses were. His tongue swirled lazy circles along the vein where her blood pounded like liquid fire. She could feel her thighs grow damp as she wished something else was between them.

When at last their kiss broke, he spoke in a deep husky voice that sent shivers up her spine. “You are the fire to my soul,” he murmured and kissed her once again. “You will be my wife. Whether you want to or not, you cannot deny what your body feels for me any more than I can deny my want for you.”

She tried to resist, but the warmth of his lips and the pleasure of his tongue tracing her mouth as he kissed her one last time proved too great. With a moan, she kissed him back.

“See, was that so bad?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I will take care of your every need,” he promised.

“What I need,” she sighed, drawing back, “is for you to remember God made woman from Adam’s rib to walk beside him, not to walk behind or be left out.”

His eyes narrowed. “I will wash. There is much to do.”

She watched him turn and go, clumps of flour tangled in his dark hair. Her heart twisted. What he said was the truth. She couldn’t deny the desire, the need her body had for him. But it troubled her—would it be enough? Rand’s words suddenly filled her mind: Would you be ready to make that commitment? She licked her dry lips. Moving to the sink, she grabbed the pump handle and, with one stroke, sprayed water into the dishpan and rinsed her hands. God, nothing was settled; everything bubbled in turmoil.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she exclaimed, drying her hands. “That man could test the will of Job.”





Chapter Nineteen

They ate in silence, each sending the other smoldering looks that bounced between loathing and desire. She wanted to squirm in her chair. Instead, she did her best to ignore his heated looks. The walk to the freight company became a test of wills, neither of them giving in to conversation. They had just passed the general store when they heard Rand shout.

Pausing, they waited for him to trot over from the telegraph office, a white paper held tightly in his hand.

“Got some news?” Trace asked.

“Yep.” Rand handed him the paper before turning his attention to her. “Morning, Mary Rose, nice day.” He tipped his hat.

She glared at him and turned, pretending to look at something the manager of the general store placed on the table on the other side of the plate glass. It proved interesting to stand and stare at the window. The light refracting against the earth cast a mirror image on the surface. How easily she could find out what they were talking about without having to butt in. Just like that proverbial fly on the wall, she mused.

Her brow furrowed. She heard the words Eagle Pass. Inching closer, she strained her ears to hear the rest of their conversation.

“You can see from the reply the man didn’t fit Daniel’s description.”

“Nor did he fit Moe’s.”

Trace was reading the telegram. She itched to get her hands on it. She moved closer.

“An older man nearing fifty.” He sighed. “Whoever this is, he’s staying away from town.”

In the reflection, she watched the sheriff nod. “But that means someone in town must be keeping an eye on things,” he replied.

Startled, she stumbled, catching her toe on the edge of a table holding baskets of potatoes. One small container turned over, and the vegetables plummeted to the boardwalk. Embarrassed, she bent to pick them up. Both men ceased their conversation to help.

“Sorry,” she murmured, juggling red-skinned potatoes and slipping them back into the basket. Looking up, she caught a suspicious glance from Trace. “I, I was just thinking about having some for dinner,” she explained.

She watched as he handed Rand back the note. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told the lawman. “How much for these potatoes?” he asked the clerk.

“Fifty cents.”

Trace fished in his pockets, removed the two bits, and handed the clerk the coins before he took the basket and gave it to her.