Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(41)

“Mr. Clark?” he repeated.

She glared at him. “I believe I spoke clearly. I expect to see Mr. Clark. Now.”

The door behind him opened, and Howard Clark stood framed in the doorway.

“Mr. Clark,” she began and pushed past the wooden railing that separated the two spheres. “We need to talk.”

He reached behind the door and drew his coat from the rack, slipping his arm inside. “Miss Thornton,” he began.

She caught the sharp glance between the two men.

“Let me extend the bank’s condolences on the loss of your—”

“Everyone is so graciously extending their sympathies,” she said. Then her finger stabbed through the air like a knife, forcing him to take a step back. “What I need from you is the release of my funds. I hear from my drivers that you have refused my script.”

A blush crept up and tinged not only the man’s cheeks but the top of his balding head, as well. “Miss Thornton, please lower your voice and step into my office so that we may talk.”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t want this discussed in public.”

Head held high, she marched into the confines of his office and waited for him to close the door.

“Mr. Clark—”

“Miss Thornton,” he interrupted. “Won’t you take a seat?”

“I don’t think I’ll be staying for that length of time, sir. I want answers, so do be quick.” She waited while he moved to his chair, and only then did she sit down.

“Miss Thornton, as you know, your brother tragically lost his life last week trying to deliver a shipment to Fort Ewell.”

“I think the world is aware of that.”

“Yes.”

She studied the banker as he clasped his hands together and placed them on the desk. Did he even sweat? The window behind him was closed, and the stifling air threatened to suffocate her.

“Miss Thornton, your company is liable for the damages to the shipment. Are you aware of that?” the banker asked.

“I know the sheriff and the marshal are trying to recover the merchandise,” she replied.

“Do you know the value of the shipment lost?”

“No,” she replied. She made a mental note to correct that when she returned to the freight office.

Mr. Clark reached for a file on the corner of his desk. “According to the marshal, the value of a shipment like that exceeds fifteen hundred dollars.” He closed the file. “What exactly was your brother carrying?”

She felt perspiration dot her upper lip. How dared he give out that information to the bank manager? “My brother’s shipment is confidential.”

“Yes, well, that may well be.” Mr. Clark closed the file. “Your account has a mere eight hundred dollars in it, and that notwithstanding the money to pay the funeral cost.”

Mary Rose felt her mouth grow slack.

“If the federal government chooses to sue for the loss of its ‘supplies,’ then you lack the funds to pay for it, Miss Thornton. Word on the street has it a high-ranking official is being sent to take up the matter.” He looked up and folded his hands across the file on his desk. “That, I’m afraid, makes you a liability to our customers here at the bank.”

“But we made a profit last year,” she gasped.

“True, but you painted wagons.” He flipped through the pages again. “And there were other costs.”

“My drivers get twenty dollars for their meals and care of the horses. That’s a promise. I can’t expect them to pay out of their pocket when it’s in their contract with us,” she explained.

“Then I suggest you take that money out of your petty cash.”

“My petty cash was deposited in your bank this morning. Perhaps, you’d like to give it back?” she asked, one eyebrow sliding up.

He gave a tired sigh. “Miss Thornton, you know we can’t do that.”

She scooted forward and placed a hand upon the desk. “Then, let me have forty dollars for the run,” she said, with a smile upon her lips. “My script has been good in the past.”

“Your brother’s script, Miss Thornton. Right now, our bank needs to see you bring in several successful runs before we bring up the idea of backing a woman running a business.”

“You loaned money to Miss North to open a store, only last week. Why am I so different?” she demanded.

“Miss North runs a millinery shop. Ladies need hats. Ladies buy from ladies. Men ship goods. They do not enter business deals with women or ship goods via a woman’s company.”

Her smile faded from her lips. In defeat she bit out, “So I can’t get the money till I bring in a run, and I can’t send the men off on the run till I get the money.”

“I suppose that’s it.” The banker coughed and rose. “Come back when you have made a good two hundred dollars, and we’ll see if we can’t work out a line of credit for you.”

She stared at him. Numbly, she rose to her feet. “All because I am a woman?”

“Because you are a woman and, most importantly, because we have to make sure you won’t fail.” He smiled.

“Even if your policies set me up to do so,” she hissed. “And who do I have to thank for this treatment?” When he didn’t answer, she filled in the name for him. “Marshal Castillo and his cohort Sheriff Weston, I suppose?”

“Now, now, they were just doing their job, to ask about your financial records, Miss Thornton. Everything is under suspicion until they find a motive.”

“ ‘They find a motive’?” she snarled. “More like until Marshal Castillo gets his way. If he thinks this little scheme of his will get me to the altar, he has another think coming.”

She stormed to the door.

“Miss Thornton,” Mr. Clark called out.

“Save your breath, you vulture,” she snapped, and let the door slam against the wall. Its reverberations were heard loudly enough that all movement in the bank ceased. Mary Rose stared at each of the faces gazing back at her. Tears threatened, but she steeled herself, marched across the room, and let herself out.

In the strong daylight, her good arm wrapped around her bad, she let her lost gaze wander up the street and back. What was she going to do? There was some money in the cashbox at home, but was it enough? For that matter, how was she going to pay for the funeral? Her head pounded. Looking across the street, she caught sight of a dark head bent in conversation with Sheriff Weston.

She felt her anger ignite. “You’ll not be getting away with this, Castillo,” she whispered. “If this is what you call control, then be prepared for war.” Stepping off the boardwalk, she crossed the street toward the hotel, looking for a piece of the man she believed responsible for telling the bank the government might see fit to garnish her company.





Chapter Twenty

Trace glanced at the grandfather clock standing as a silent sentinel against the grand staircase in the lobby of the hotel. Its hands, poised at quarter to ten, moved slowly, laboriously, marking time. He sighed audibly.

“Stage is a bit late,” Rand remarked from beneath the brow of his hat.

Trace looked over at the sheriff, slouched in one of the prim white rockers that lined the covered porch where visitors were welcomed to town. “Is that unusual?” he asked.

“Nope,” Rand Weston muttered. “But after all that’s happened this week, who knows what normal is.”

Stepping over to the doorway, Trace leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched a pair of cowboys ride by. The midmorning sun’s migration crept slowly and persistently toward their side of the street. It would not be long before its fingers would slip in and rob the lobby of its coolness.

“Now, that’s interesting.”

His ears noticed Rand’s comment. He looked up the street, thinking the stage would pull into view. “What?” he asked. There seemed to be nothing on the horizon.

“That.” Rand gave a jerk of his head toward the other end of the street.

He turned and glanced at the activity to the south. He didn’t catch it at first. Then, a woman grabbed her child out of the way, and he saw her coming.

“Thought you told her to stay put till someone came and got her.”

“You heard right,” Trace remarked dryly.

Mary Rose Thornton was doing everything he’d specifically asked her not to. His eyes roamed her figure. Her strides, long and purposeful, made the edges of her skirt dance, kicking up clouds of dust in her wake. She marched on, dodging a horse and wagon skittering a half step toward the boardwalk a few businesses down.

His brow knotted. Could she be angry? Hadn’t he worked those differences out, taking her into his arms yesterday and then again this morning? True, he had put a burr under her saddle blanket by telling people about their engagement. But, like a green-broke filly, she needed to grow used to the fact they were to marry.