Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(5)

The sound continued, something biting deep in the earth, a soft swoosh, and a pause as it ripped the dirt away. Torn between wanting to play dead and wanting to know, her heart beat with rapid thuds. Please, God, let me wake up, she prayed. The process seemed so simple; however, opening her eyes meant dislodging the weights that pressed them closed. Her tongue brushed across her lips.

“Help me,” she tried to say. Her words were garbled, unrecognizable from her scratchy throat. She swallowed and hoped for enough moisture to help the raw feeling. “Help me.” She called one more time, drawing from the deep reserve of strength close to her soul. “Help.”

The small stones under someone’s feet crunched as footsteps approached. An odd jingle filled the air. She recognized the roll of a spur.

“Mrs. Thornton?”

She couldn’t recognize the deep male voice, but she knew she’d heard it before.

“If you can, open your eyes. You are safe.”

Safe. The word made her his to command. Unsure of anything except the sound of his voice, she grasped his urging as a lifeline. Holding on to the need to find an end to this nightmare, she battled the sluggishness of her soul. Her lashes parted from her cheek and, at the first glimmer of light, she fought harder. Bit by bit, her eyes opened.

“Yes,” he encouraged her. “Open them.”

Slowly, the color of life filled in, and then, to her delight, a face, his features framed by strands of dark hair the color of the night. A strong square jaw, bronze-skinned, emerge. Moving up the face, her gaze settled on eyes the color of the sky at dawn, so sharp, so crystal blue they seemed to hold her own reflection. Eyes that appeared warm, genuine, honest, and filled with concern. Those eyes—his eyes—gazed back.

Something deep inside her somersaulted and took hold of her heart, making it beat with a rapid rat-tat-tat against her ribs. If death was indeed nearby, here stood her guardian angel ready to walk her through the pearly gates. She watched as his lips pulled back to reveal a dazzling smile of satisfaction. “Welcome back.”

“Back?” Her questioning word sounded as hazy as she felt. Where had she been?

He reached beside her and held up a canteen. “Water?”

Her throat seemed raw and inflamed. “Yes, please,” she croaked.

His fingers were cool and comforting against the warmth of her neck as his hand slid behind her head. He lifted her slightly and her shoulder came alive with the stings of ten thousand bees. A gasp stumbled from her lips.

“Easy. I know it hurts.”

Her lashes brushed against her cheek as she squeezed her eyes shut, but not before a tear coursed down her cheek.

“Open,” he said gently.

She felt the lip of the spout touch her bottom lip, and her mouth opened for the reward of cool water. She held it for a moment, then swallowed. The chill of spring water bathed her throat as it meandered down. With the process accomplished, he laid her head back and watched as she opened her eyes again. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

He sat back on his haunches and replaced the stopper. Sunlight caught something metallic on his shirt. Intrigued, she stared at the star that hung on his chest. Her brow furrowed. They had met. She was sure.

“You remember?”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to forget. Her gaze rolled around the clearing. Nothing moved. She looked past the charred wagon, caught the mound of fresh dirt. Her eyes widened as her heart forgot to beat. She swallowed, but nothing would go past the lump in her throat. Her glance turned back to his face. He stared back without emotion. In those dark depths, she discovered the ugly truth.

She took another deep breath and opened her mouth as a rush of remembered sounds assaulted her mind—Moe’s remarks, then her brother’s voice shouting her name, the bark of a rifle, and her own screams. Mary Rose cried out and her eyes shut against the wave of nausea that followed.

“Mrs. Thornton?” His voice, tinged with worry, called to her.

She felt his warm hand take hers, and he covered it with his other. Her eyes opened and she found he’d drawn it to his chest.

Her brother’s name tumbled from her lips. “Daniel,” she whispered.

He shook his head. A deep pain seared across her chest.

His voice, clipped, laced with ire, filled her ears. “You are the only survivor.”

She wondered why his anger seemed directed at her. It wasn’t her fault, or Daniel’s. Her heart lurched, and the tremble that had started in her chin grew stronger. “No.” The shattered word slipped from her mouth. “Please, no!”

Tears moved one after another as the loss of her brother settled across her shoulders. Too numb to move, she felt something brush her cheek as his fingers swept away her sorrow.

“I am sorry, so sorry for your loss,” he said.

What could she do? What else could he say? What else could anyone say?

Taking her silence for acceptance, the marshal spoke again. “Let’s get you into town. Claiborne is too far away. It will be easier to go to Cobb’s Crossing.”

“I can’t go,” she began in a weak protest. Her eyes darted around, looking for a way out of this dilemma. “I can’t go home and leave him here, not alone.”

“I have buried them, Mrs. Thornton.”

Her soft sobs filled the space behind his words. Her brother lay in the ground, dirt filling his nostrils, covering his skin, nothing to protect him from the scavengers. Now the tears came in earnest. Somehow, she found herself cradled against a solid chest.

“Come, I will take you from this place of misery,” he crooned. One hand stroked her hair. “Hush, hush, there was nothing you could do.”

Mary Rose tried to compose herself. So many questions flooded her mind. Her brow furrowed. “I have—” She took in a shattered breath. “My wagons? Where are my wagons?”

“One wagon only,” he replied. “And that one burned. The other is now gone.”

Anger replaced hurt. Almost everything they had worked for was now vanished or destroyed. As quickly as it came, she felt the fight fade and become despair. It hurt too much to care, to think. She stared at the deep red Texas soil and mumbled, “It’s all gone.”





Chapter Three

Trace glanced at the woman sitting on the ground, all her fight and bluster from yesterday gone, her despair all too easy to read. The focus of her gaze locked on the mound that held the body of her loved one beneath the Texas soil. A part of him ached for the hurt she’d suffered; the other half wished her husband were still alive—so he might throttle him for putting her through this ordeal.

He didn’t have the luxury of letting her rest and regroup. They needed to move on. The sooner he got her to town, the quicker he would be released of his burden. She needed a doctor. His rude attempts had served enough to stop the bleeding, yet he worried about infection. Leaning down, he pulled the cinch tight and stood to remove the stirrup from the saddlehorn. While she rested, he had gone back, made two crude crosses from plain pieces of broken crate. The piece with the markings he placed safely into his saddlebags.

Now at her side, he crouched down to her eye level, and she swung her gaze toward him, away from the graves.

“What will happen now?” she asked, deep anguish filling her voice.

One look into her wounded blue eyes and the urge to protect her nearly stole his breath. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, but her haunting stare tore at his soul. “We get you to town and to a doctor.”

Her gaze moved back to the graves. “He teased me about the red paint, you know,” she sniffed. “He said no self-respecting Irishman would be caught d-dead in that despicable color.”

Trace heard her swallow roughly before she continued.

“And now…” Her voice trailed off.

He watched the dark, smoky lashes fall to her cheek, followed by a ragged breath. His stare hardened. “You mustn’t think about such things,” he advised.

The lashes rose. Eyes damp with unshed tears gazed up at him. “How do I not?” Her chin trembled. “My vanity...”

“Had nothing to do with this,” Trace interrupted, his voice stern enough to make her jump. He could see her glance that begged him for some sort of absolution. Yet he didn’t have it to give. Instead, he dug his hands into his pockets in search of his knife. His next actions would bring her even more pain, and he hated himself for it.

Pulling his pocketknife out, Trace opened the blade. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the nervous glance. He paused and looked into the haunted eyes whose gaze darted to his hands.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Don’t move,” he assured her. “I’m going to cut off this sleeve.” He inserted the blade in the stitching around the shoulder and placed his fingers in the slit. With one good yank, the stiffened fabric fell away.

“Your arm will be better if it’s not moved,” he explained. “This won’t be fancy, but it will work.” He could only wonder what she was thinking as he grabbed the top of the sleeve with both hands and ripped it in two. Tying the ends together, he fashioned a crude sling.