Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose(7)

“Can go for it right now.” The man disappeared.

Trace looked down on the unconscious form of the young woman. On the table beside the bed lay a small hand towel. He picked it up and mopped the perspiration from her brow. “You’re going to be just fine.”

She sighed and turned her head toward him, licking her dry lips. Trace stared. He wanted to see those soft blue eyes look to him. To his sorrow, they remained closed. Footsteps echoed in the back of the house, and a metal door squeaked. The man who followed him must be building a fire to heat the water.

Trace marveled at the girl’s pluck to have made it this far. Reaching out, he trailed the back of his forefinger along her damp cheek and pulled a copper curl aside. “If only all women could be this uncomplicated,” he murmured.

A second set of footsteps echoed in the house, and he heard a voice boom out, “What’s going on here, Clyde? Mack interrupted my dinner, and now my door’s been busted down.”

“Miss Thornton’s been hurt. You need to talk to that feller in there.”

“In here?” The older man questioned as he entered and gave Trace a hawkeyed look. He took a step, his eyes narrowed below his white bushy brows, unsure of what to expect. “I’m Doctor Martin.” Trace watched his gaze roll over him and pause at the star on his chest.

Dressed in a dark suit, the portly gentleman ignored the questions that might be tumbling through his mind and instead stripped his jacket off. “You want ta tell me what happened?” he asked, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

“Found her shot,” Trace replied. It seemed prudent to use only the information needed until he spoke to Rand.

Doctor Martin turned with a hard glare. Trace felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar as the doctor’s eyebrows arched toward what was left of his hairline.

“I see,” he replied, and stepped to the bed to lift the edge of her torn sleeve. Grimacing, he shot Trace another glare. “Did the bullet go through?”

“Cut a deep path along her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Got your water,” Clyde called out, bringing in a pitcher.

“Pour some in the bowl,” the doctor said as he moved to the cabinet. “Clyde, heat another pot and sterilize these instruments for me.”

“Will do,” he replied. Taking the towel-wrapped bundle, he left the room.

Trace’s feet seemed glued to the floorboards. He stared down at Mary Rose, a feeling of uselessness overtaking him. Behind him, he could hear the clink of bottles as the doctor rummaged around his cabinet. “Come here, young man.” Grunting from the effort, Doc Martin brought out a tall brown bottle and pulled the cork from the neck. “Son, I want you to pour this over my hands.”

He stepped over and took the proffered bottle.

“It’s my last bottle of good Kentucky bourbon.” He glanced back at the woman, and Trace followed his gaze. “But it will kill the germs.” Doc Martin placed his hands over the basin. “All right, pour,” he said.

Trace tilted the bottle and poured the liquor across the man’s hands and wrists while the doctor rubbed them together.

“I know, seems a shame.” He nodded to indicate he’d finished. “But, it’s the one thing we learned in that late great unpleasantness. Germs kill quicker than we do.” He jerked his head in the direction of the towels on the counter. “Hand me one.”

As Doc Martin wiped away the liquor, Trace felt his intense gaze studying his face. “I can see you wear a star, but, for the record, who are you?”

“You won’t remember him, Doc. That’s Trace Castillo,” Randall Weston said as he stepped into the room and leaned against the doorway. “From down near San Antonio.”

“He’s the one that you tell followed you around?” Doc Martin acted surprised.

“One and the same, only he’s a U.S. Marshal now.” Rand glanced over at the unconscious girl, and his expression grew grim. “Where’d this happen?”

“Out at Cottonwood Springs,” Trace replied. “Found her hurt. Her brother and Moe Horne are both dead.”

Rand’s face blanched. “Perhaps you and I need to find some place to split words as soon as the doctor’s finished.”

Doc Martin looked at the sheriff. “Can you get Clyde to head over to Widow Hatfield’s? For the sake of common decency, I’ll need a woman to help me.”

Rand turned and, half in and half out the doorway, said, “I’ll go. I saw her peeking through the lace curtains when I hurried over.”

As the sheriff left, Trace stepped out of the doctor’s light.

“Hand me those scissors on the counter and light the lamp on the other side of the bed.”

Following the doctor’s order, he handed the scissors to him before lighting the second kerosene lamp. The scissors bit through the material with a snap. “Any idea who did this?”

“Nope. I was riding back from the Willard place and found them.”

“Hey, Doc, got yer hot water here,” Clyde called out, coming through from the kitchen.

“In the basin,” he ordered. Looking back at Trace, he gestured toward her boots. “Best get those boots off her.”

While the doctor moved to instruct Clyde on where to put the water, Trace crossed to the foot of the bed.

So small. She barely took any room on the single bed. He noticed the dark circles marring her cream-colored skin beneath those long, smoky lashes and the copper-colored curls that streamed across the pillow. Bending over, he ran his hand up the long brown leather of her riding boot and broke the leather’s hold to pull them from her legs.

As he worked, Trace filled his mind with the thoughts about the men who would do such a thing to a defenseless woman like her. Why would they have singled her out? What possibly could this innocent have done? For now, he would appoint himself her protector, and he would be the one to exact retribution for this injustice. He held on to the second foot for just a moment, then eased her other leg back down to the covers.

Doc Martin came back across the room, his hands ruddy pink from another wash. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Trace’s stomach looped in knots as the doctor, with a twitch of his jaw, lifted the first bandages off. “She gonna be all right?” he asked, his hands tightening against the metal of the foot rail.

Doc Martin looked up and gave him a fatherly evil eye. “I think she’ll make it, barring infection. It will be a tough few days.” He looked back at Mary Rose but asked Trace, “You plan on sticking around?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here. I have too many questions and not enough answers,” Trace replied.

Their conversation was cut short by a cry from the other room. “Land sakes,” a woman’s voice echoed. “Where is that lamb?”

Like a small whirlwind, the Widow Hatfield barreled into the room and paused. “John Martin, you called?”

“Wash up, Louisa. I’ll need your assistance. I’ve got a wound to cauterize.”

“Wash up, indeed.” She harrumphed and moved toward the wash pan.

Trace caught Rand’s glance and backed away from the bed. He hated leaving the woman, but with a deep breath he moved toward the doorway. “You,” he said, spying Clyde. The man jumped. “Follow me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stepping out to his horse, he slid his Winchester from the scabbard and tossed it to Clyde, who caught it with both hands. “It’s got two shots,” he told him. “One for a warning and the second to put a bullet between the eyes of the first person you don’t know that comes to that door.”

“Only two?” Clyde asked.

Trace looked at him with a cold-eyed stare. “You won’t need a third. By that time, I’ll be here.”

Clyde’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed the information. “I’ll just go and sit in the doorway, there.” He pointed.

“You do that.” Trace agreed. “You just do that.”





Chapter Four

Like most lawmen, short on sleep, Rand preferred his coffee strong, hot, and black. Trace could feel the heat from the cup as it was placed before him. Using an old army trick, he dropped a spoon into it to absorb the heat. That action brought a chuckle from Rand as he settled into the chair across from the desk. “You think that will help?” he asked, gesturing with his own mug toward Trace’s cup.

“Can’t hurt,” Trace replied, sitting back to let it cool. “Your coffee is legendary.”

“So I’ve been told,” Rand agreed. He took a breath and grew somber. “You want to tell me how all this happened?”

“I followed your lead and went out to the Willard place,” he began. “On the way back to town, I came up to the range from Rustler’s Way and spotted smoke rising from the spring. I rode in to investigate and found the two men dead, a wagon still on fire, and Miss Thornton hiding in the scrub trees along the spring.”