Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(4)

Off in the distance, where the image blurred like water, a thin spiral of black smoke rose in the warm air above a grove of cottonwood trees. Overhead, a gathering of birds, as dark as the night, rode the currents in a sinister lazy circle. Trace’s mouth ran dry, and the chill in his blood turned to ice.

“I am thinking this is not a good thing.”

At his horse’s snort, he grasped tight the reins between his fingers and gave a light touch with his heels. Diablo sprang to life, and Trace leaned low as the horse raced along the trail.

Galloping around the edge of the clearing, the only thing that greeted him was the sickly sweet odor of decomposition. He reined his horse into a sliding halt, stepping from the stirrups to the ground in a single fluid motion as if he and the animal were one blur of movement. Gun drawn, his stance braced, Trace eyed the perimeter. The whispers of a thousand dangers prickled his body until his skin crawled as if alive, yet nothing moved.

Alert, he stepped over to inspect the carnage. A lone wagon lay on its side, still smoldering. Through the flicker of the flames, he could see the once proud red paint peeled back and blistered by the heat, leaving only the blackened wood behind. Two bodies lay motionless, one near the front of the wagon, the second behind, only his booted feet visible. Between them, the wagon’s contents were strewn across the ground.

“Madre de Dios,” he whispered.

With a wary eye, he moved toward the closest body and knelt down. Trace grimaced and noted a bullet wound in the man’s chest. He hoped it had ended the driver’s life before someone brutally scalped him. Making the sign of the cross first, he reached over, lifted the edge of the man’s jacket, and found a brown wallet against the victim’s unmoving chest.

A feeling of dread twisted his gut. He flipped the wallet open and a string of curses poured from his lips. On the leather, embossed in gold print, he read the name Daniel Thornton. Trace rose, his heart pounding against his chest. Of course, the man with the woman would attract attention. Now, where was she?

He hurried to the second victim. His presence stirred the angry buzz of the bottleflies trying to get their fair share of the dark blood staining the soil. Trace drew his arm over his nose as he stepped close and peered down. To his relief, it was another man, most likely the second driver, the one called Moe Horne, killed in the same manner. Yet no sign of the woman.

Backing around the edge of the wagon, he began to search in a widening circle. The prints where ponies, both shod and unshod, had milled around, tearing up the ground before heading out, were obvious. Trace followed the direction of the tracks toward the desert, noting one wagon burned and one missing. Why? What were they carrying?

Rumors Rand had told him about the renegades moving along the border seemed to be true. If these were Mescalero raiders, he knew the price they took on their captives. He’d hate to think they’d taken the woman with them.

He stubbed his toe and looked down to see a broken piece of crate. The numbers burned into the wood leaped out at him: 4506, followed by the letter U and a partial letter he quickly assumed would be an S. He bent down and rescued it from the dirt. His gaze moved from the ground to a break between the trees, the footpath down to the spring. Something fluttered. Laying down the piece of wood, he rose carefully and walked toward the small cottonwood at the top of the path. A strip of white cloth fluttered in the breeze. His mouth ran dry.

She was in trouble. He knew it. As he moved to the path, he paused to remove the scrap from the snag, fingering the material. The soft cotton glided along his fingers. Material this delicate was something that wouldn’t chafe a woman’s skin. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled the scent of fresh flowers and store-bought soap. Trace’s worry increased. Thornton was a damn fool to bring that type of woman along, the type a man couldn’t keep his eyes off no matter how much he tried.

Keeping to the south side of the embankment, he stopped to examine the scuff marks in the soft dirt, marks as if someone had fallen. Beyond him, the gurgle of the water filled the echoing silence. At the turn in the path, booted footprints and the smudge from a hand marked the trail. Taking a deep breath, not knowing what to expect, he rounded the corner—but found no one.

Trace glanced back. It was easy to see the prints led in but not out. His gaze rolled over the shallow canyon. There was no way out. His brow furrowed as he thought of the places they might have hidden her body. A thicket of scrub bushes near the north end of the spring caught his attention. Praying he wouldn’t have to see that cream-colored skin beneath the clear water, he moved with slow, deliberate steps, looking for any sign of life.

A discarded canteen lay near the water’s edge. Crouching down, he picked it up by the strap and shook it. Still full. Over the sound of the gurgling water, he heard a boot scuff against a rock. Alert to someone’s presence, Trace felt a rush of adrenalin roar through his veins. He turned, gun leveled, ready for a fight. Instead of the dark menace of the Apache, a wounded pair of blue eyes stared back. He had found her.

Trace tried to relax, but the rush of air from his lungs burst across his lips in a startled gasp. Frightened by the sound, she faded back, the branches rattling as they closed around her. A sense of urgency nearly overwhelmed him. He needed to take it easy. Licking his dry lips, he slid his gun back into its holster.

“Ma’am.” He spoke in an even tone so as not to frighten her. “Are you all right?”

Her eyes, illuminated with fear, stared back. Yet she did not speak.

Smile, he told himself and pulled his lips back over his teeth in an easy manner. “You remember me? We met yesterday.” He paused, waiting for her to remember. “At Cobb’s Crossing.”

She stilled, her brow wrinkled in thought.

Trace moved closer. The jangle of his spurs drew her attention, and he watched her eyes widen. Stopping, he crouched down so they were at eye level, close enough for him to see the bruise at her chin and the dirt ground into the sleeve of her right shoulder.

“You are hurt.” He held out his hand. “Please, let me help you.”

He studied her face and watched those eyes contort in pain. The hurt cut at his heart. “Come.”

She pushed her way through the tangle of branches clumped together.

“That’s it.” He relaxed. “Come out—” Trace’s encouragement died upon his lips. As the shadows fell away from her, he glimpsed the bloodstains on her left side.

He stepped forward and boldly took hold of her hand, sliding his other arm around her waist as she stumbled. “You’re wounded,” he said and, instinctively, drew her close.

Her face tilted up, and her eyes searched his, their faces mere inches apart. He stared into the depth of that velvety blue as it shimmered with tears—and became lost.

“Easy now.” He spoke softly, so low that only she could hear, and brought his hand up to sweep away the tendril of copper that lay pressed against her cheek.

Trace could make out the telltale rise and fall of her chest. Her mouth upturned seemed to beg for his lips. He shouldn’t, but he leaned closer anyway. Her eyes closed, and she swooned against him. “Querida,” he rasped, and scooped her boneless form into his arms to carry her up to the clearing.

Her lips parted with a soft sigh as he laid her body on the ground away from the carnage at the wagons. “Mrs. Thornton,” he called out again. When she didn’t respond, he put his hand to his mouth, clasped the supple leather of his gloves between his teeth, and pulled his fingers free.

Laying two fingers against the delicate skin on the side of her neck, he gave a sigh of relief as the steady thump of her heartbeat graced his fingertips. He cut a glance back over his shoulder at the bodies. Trace prayed she had not wandered closer and found the dead. Whoever did this may not have realized she’d survived. She must have spent last night hiding in that thicket. He retrieved his canteen, pulled the bandana from his pocket, and tilted the container to dampen the cloth. A brush across her lips and, to his relief, her mouth parted with a soft sigh. “Good,” he said softly, before his eyes moved to the ragged hole in her blouse. Grimacing, he did his best to pull the matted cloth away from her fragile skin, and she let out a low moan. Trace swore under his breath and cursed her husband as his fingers moved to the buttons.

“Forgive me,” he told her. Working quickly, he undid the top two buttons of her shirt and swept the cloth, plus the strap of her chemise, from her shoulder. A dark, jagged wound cut across it. The bullet had dug deep, but it hadn’t lodged in her shoulder. Easing her flat, he doused his kerchief with water and did his best to clean the wound.

As he dabbed at the dried blood and felt the skin beneath his fingers quiver, his own blood boiled with resentment. He poured more water on the cloth and ground his teeth together in hopes of freeing himself from his anger. “It will be all right, Mrs. Thornton, it will be all right,” he repeated, and wondered who he was trying to reassure, the unconscious woman or himself.

****

Mary Rose ached as if every bone in her body had been shaken loose. A repetitive sound drew her back through the labyrinth toward consciousness. With an urgency she could describe only as fear, she fought through the dark fog that enveloped her and tried to move. A groan of pain broke through her lips to accompany the deep throb in her shoulder.