Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(6)

“I’m going to tie this around your neck.” Leaning forward, he lifted the mass of unruly curls off her neck and placed the sling over her head. So close, he could see a dusting of freckles across her pert nose, and looking up he found her gaze upon him. Ill at ease from her earnest attention, he adjusted the material against her skin.

“You’re upset,” she murmured.

“I am angry that you were hurt. Your husband received fair warning that you belonged on the stage. He didn’t listen. Now this.” The ends of his mouth pulled in displeasure. “There, now, let’s get this arm in, and we’ll go back to town.”

He grasped her arm at the wrist and elbow, and his fingertips brushed across the soft skin of her arm. He took note of the anxiety in her face. “It may hurt.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Just try to breathe,” he reminded her as he eased the arm across the cloth.

She inhaled sharply and let out a shuddering groan that cut him to the quick, but in a moment it was done.

“If you’re ready, I’ll help you get to your feet.”

She gave a small nod. Standing, he moved around to the other side. “Put your good arm around me.”

She did and leaned into him. “He is not my husband, you know.”

Trace’s heart thudded against his chest. He braced her with his shoulder, and her arm crawled to his neck. He wasn’t her husband. A flicker of hope somehow found its way to his chest. He couldn’t think about it now. He had a job to do. Encircling her waist, he placed the other arm beneath her knees. “On the count of three. One…two…” He felt her hand gather the fullness of his shirt. “Three.” She came up into his arms with a startled cry and buried her head into his shoulder.

“It’s almost over,” he murmured against her hair as he moved to his horse and lifted her to the saddle. “Swing your leg over.”

He held her waist while she drew her leg clumsily over the horn. “Now hold on, while I get aboard.”

He placed a hand on the pommel and one on the cantle behind her.

“I don’t recall your name.”

Trace paused and looked up. Her face seemed flushed and her eyes shimmered. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stop his heart from turning over and plummeting to his boots. “My name is Trace Castillo. I’m a U.S. Marshal, at your service,” he replied, with a tilt of his head in a bow.

“I’m Mary Rose Thornton,” she said. “And I’d like to go home.”

She moved her leg forward and allowed him to get a better foothold in the stirrup as he swung on board.

“Steady,” he called to his mount, letting him adjust to the weight of two upon his back. With his body behind her as support, she leaned against him, his arms encircling her waist as he took up the reins. Even with the smell of dried blood that remained, there was a sense of something special, something womanly about her that resonated with his soul. He swallowed as her rounded bottom snuggled against his groin. A woman who would want a man to lean on.

The star he wore pinned upon his chest pressed against his skin. The words from his pledge, “to protect the citizens of Texas,” cut straight to his heart, giving his own personal creed deeper strength. For no one shot a woman on his watch and got away with it. After all, he was born a Texan, he had chosen to be a marshal, but he was first and always a man.

****

The long ride neared its end. Trace eased his horse on down the broad dirt street of the town of Cobb’s Crossing. The lavender dusk of early twilight shrouded the buildings set back against the cottonwoods. He leaned forward and whispered into Mary Rose’s ear, “We’re here.” He looked at her cheek and watched her jaw work, but she was too exhausted to speak. Her only recourse was to nod.

“Hang in there,” he whispered and took a tighter hold on her waist, drawing her close. Riding down the street, he could see lamps lit in the houses to chase away the gloom. Of all the times he needed someone, this time the street seemed empty. Halfway down, he caught sight of a few men loitering in front of the two-story hotel across from the general store. He pulled back on the reins and Diablo stopped. The men rose from their seats and came to the edge of the boardwalk.

“Hey,” one of them shouted. “That the Thornton gal?”

Trace turned his gaze toward them. “I’m in search of the doctor’s office. Can you tell me which way?”

“Doc’s office is just across the street.” The man pointed. “On the other side of the general store.”

Trace glanced in the indicated direction and saw a smaller building nestled to one side, painted white, with a picket fence. The windows were dark. “Is he in?”

“Doc Martin’s probably over at Martha’s Café, gettin’ a bite to eat.”

“Go get him,” Trace commanded.

The second man stepped closer and peered at the woman. “Say, what happened?”

Trace’s jaw clenched. They’d know soon enough, just not from him. “Sheriff?” he asked.

“Eatin’ too, I ’spect.” The first man scratched his jaw. “Who might you be?”

“I didn’t say.” He leveled a cool hard stare at the man who had been doing all the talking. “Get ’em.” Reining his horse in the direction of the little white house, he tapped his heels.

“Go on,” he heard one of the two men whisper, and feet scurried off in the opposite direction. Trace heard the second man step down from the porch as Diablo walked toward the house.

“You need some help?”

“I’ll get by.” Trace hated his words were clipped, but he needed to take care of the woman he held in his arms.

The man ran a few steps and caught up with him. “Nice family, those Thorntons.” The man fell into step beside Diablo.

“Family?” Trace wondered if there were members he’d have to call on to inform them of the death.

The man beside him gave a quick nod. “She and her brother run the freight office.”

He didn’t look forward to having to tell a mother or a wife about the loss of her son or husband, nor did he relish the idea of explaining how the man’s sister became injured. News like that usually got a man a fist in the face, or worse. The man beside him continued to talk.

“Both of ’em were hard workers, building a business from the ground up. Say,” he exclaimed in surprise. “You didn’t bring in nobody else, did ya?”

Trace pulled his mount to a stop at the hitching rail. His ears ached from the man’s rambling. He dropped the reins on the horse’s neck and ignored the question. “Hold my horse.”

“Yes, sir.” The man hurried to the horse’s head and gripped the bridle.

He didn’t have time for the town’s gossip. Seeing the man steady Diablo’s head, Trace concentrated on getting the woman down as gently as possible.

“Miss Thornton…” He paused. “Can you hear me?”

Beneath his gaze, her lips parted, and he heard her give a rough swallow. Raising his hand, Trace brushed back the damp hair from her cheek. Beneath his fingers, unnatural warmth radiated from her skin. His anxiety increased.

“Can you sit forward?”

He watched her head roll as she opened her eyes and leaned to grasp the pommel. With a firm hand upon her back, he kicked free of the stirrups and scooted back. He let go long enough to slither off the rump of the horse and moved quickly to the side as she slipped from the saddle to pool in his arms. “It’s all right. I have you,” he whispered, and carried her boneless body past the stunned man to the doctor’s door.

He paused and looked back. “The door locked?”

“Yeah, Doc says...” The man never had a chance to finish.

Trace stepped up, shifted the burden in his arms, and raised his right leg. Lashing out, he kicked the door open, breaking the wooden panel and splintering the doorjamb.

“Hey! You can’t do that,” the townsman spoke up, following him into the house.

Instead of answering, Trace gave another order. “Light a lamp.”

The cold tone jerked the man to action. He scooted past, giving Trace a wide berth, mumbling under his breath. In moments, a match scrawled across the wood, burst into flame, and the yellow light from the kerosene lamp chased the shadows from the room.

“Where does he see patients?”

The man put the globe back on the lamp and pointed, “Room on the right.”

“Bring the light,” Trace ordered as he moved to the indicated room.

The light revealed a narrow poster bed covered by a patchwork comforter, a few glass cabinets, and a counter with labeled bottles across the back. The man placed the lamp on the nightstand and backed out of the way so Trace could lay Mary Rose upon the bed.

“We’ll need water,” Trace told him.