Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose

by Tessa Berkley

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Castillo’s Fiery Texas Rose

  by

  Tessa Berkley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Castillo’s Fiery Texas Rose

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Tessa Berkley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Angela Anderson

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-695-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-696-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my friends,

  who held my hand every step of the way

  and refused to let me give up.

  Bless you for your faith in me.

  To Nan Swanson,

  who generously gave me a chance.

  Chapter One

  Whoever brought a woman along on a freight run was asking for trouble, Trace Castillo mused as he sat on the porch of the sheriff’s office. Enjoying the shade, he watched the shenanigans going on across the street. Hell, trouble might liven up the little town of Cobb’s Crossing. It didn’t matter how it turned out; he had a front row seat to watch the mess unfold.

  He lifted one foot, placed it against the post, and leaned back to enjoy the show as he caught sight of the freight driver, Moe Horne, making his way across the street toward two loaded wagons. He’d run into Moe a couple of times. He wasn’t a bad man. However, his size and quick anger made him volatile, easy to manipulate when plied with sufficient alcohol. Trace wondered if that had been the case today.

  Moe stepped off the boardwalk and looked back at the group of saloon regulars who stood half hidden in the shadows. One of them waved him onward. Trace shifted his gaze and calculated the direction of the target. Of course, it would be that woman, the one standing in front of the general store beside the freight wagon as if she owned it.

  With a tilt of his head, he looked from under the brim of his Texas flat-top to give her a better appraisal. When the wind blew just right, he could make out her petite frame beneath the billowing white blouse, all rounded out like a nice little filly. Mother Nature’s fingers lifted the hem of her split riding skirt to reveal a pair of shapely legs encased in brown leather boots. He’d estimate that bundle of trouble stood a little over five feet. She seemed intent on the tack of her animals while waiting for the man he’d seen disappear inside.

  To her credit, she wasn’t one of those women who dressed to the height of fashion while traveling from town to town. No bustle or heavy skirts. She used common sense about the rigors of the trail and dressed accordingly. His mouth curved in a wicked grin. How he’d loved to have a peek beneath that wide-brim Stetson she wore, to see what color her eyes were.

  He’d gotten a tantalizing glimpse of a copper-colored curl or two. However, right now, he had to content himself by watching the seductive twitch of the fabric covering the soft curves of her hips. His smile faded, however, as Moe’s body blocked his view. Irritated, his mouth stretched into a thin line and his eyes hardened.

  ****

  Mary Rose Thornton listened to the sounds of the town stirring behind her and focused her attention on the team of bay draft horses hitched to the bright red wagons emblazoned with gold lettering that proclaimed them the property of the Thornton Freight Company. She moved her hands along the tack, making sure the buckles and straps had not strained. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she brushed her fingers over the sun-burnished hides of the horses. Daniel would be through soon with the owner of the general store, and they’d set out again toward Claiborne. Engrossed in her task, she didn’t realize anyone stood behind her until she turned.

  She blinked in surprise and took a step back to gain some space. “Mr. Horne,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  Moe Horne would never be called handsome. A large man, his arms looked thick as fence posts, his hands so massive the only things similar would be the hammers used by the local blacksmith. But, by far, his most unnerving feature was the milk-white eye contained within the scar that ran the length of his face, from temple to chin. She swallowed as one side of his mouth lifted in a warped grin.

  The gaze of his good eye moved up her body, pausing at the curve of her hip in the riding skirt before moving on to the swell of her breasts against her blouse. She blinked. Mary Rose wanted nothing more than to pull her arms across herself and hide as much as possible from his leering view. She watched his look move to her face, and the hunger she saw made her blood chill. She took another step back. Her hip brushed the trace on the wagon, and the lead horse stepped to one side, rattling the chains.

  With nowhere else to go, she drew herself up straight and addressed the problem. “Mr. Horne, state your business.” Her words were curt, made even crisper by the bite of her Irish brogue. She would not tolerate being ogled by any driver, no matter how important he was to turning a profit.

  “I came to see if you needed anything,” he replied, lifting his hand.

  Her eyes left his face to follow his movement as he placed the hand on the harness two inches away from her left shoulder. Mary Rose found it hard to breathe. His foot moved forward, pressing his body closer. The odor of stale sweat filled the air, and her stomach churned. Trapped by his towering figure, she attempted to get away with a turn of her back, in hopes he’d understand her dismissal.

  “I’m fine,” she said. Maybe if she didn’t have to look at him it would ease her nervousness. She tried to focus on the harness again. Across the street, she heard two men snicker. Mary Rose looked into the plate-glass windows of the store but couldn’t see her brother.

  “A little lady like you shouldn’t have to check a harness.”

  Moe’s voice sounded closer. She glanced at the shaft loop that held the trace. Gravel crunched beneath his hobnailed boots, and she shivered as his hot breath brushed against the side of her neck.

  “You smell good.”

  Panic seized her when a second arm dropped to her right. The urge to flee overwhelmed her and, with sudden agility, she ducked down, slid beneath, and backed two steps away.

  “Mr. Horne, I believe you’ve overstepped your boundaries.”

  He
smiled and rubbed a hand across his grimy clothing. “You’re a nice lady.”

  “Mr. Horne.” She dampened her lips and placed a hand upon the lines of the first horse. “You need to check your rig. Mr. Thornton will be along momentarily, and we’ll be ready to move out.”

  “You wanta ride with me?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Horne. I don’t want to ride with you,” she told him curtly. “In fact, I think I’ve had just about enough of this conversation.” Turning, Mary Rose crossed in front of the team. She heard his boots scratch against the sand as he plodded after her. Two more steps and she’d be on the boardwalk near the door to the store. Daniel would see her. Too late! A hand grabbed her elbow and, despite herself, Mary Rose screamed.

  “I want you to ride with me,” Moe said.

  Her eyes widened. Mary Rose drew back in fear, pulling her arm up, hoping to break his grasp. The laughter erupted louder than before from the gallery across the way. She glanced over to see a small crowd had gathered. Heat roared into her cheeks. She didn’t fancy being the center of attention. Despite her attempts to get free, she could not peel his vise-like grip from her arm.

  Would no one step in to help her? Her heart rose in her throat. A deep baritone voice silenced the sounds around them.

  “Let the lady go.”

  Mary Rose looked past Moe’s twisted face as the crowd parted to reveal a man, tall and broad-shouldered, in the center of the street. A blue cotton shirt clung to the well-made shoulders. His wide chest narrowed to his hips, where the double holster was slung low and tied to muscular thighs by thin leather rawhide strips. Her mouth went dry.

  “The lady said she didn’t want to ride. Let her go,” he repeated.

  Moe glanced at the intruder and back at her. The corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes grew sullen. “She wants to ride. She’s just playin’ hard to get.”

  Mary Rose bit her lip as the words chilled her blood. Alarmed, she opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. Beneath the gray shadows of the stranger’s hat brim she caught the flash of eyes so blue they stole her breath away. Mesmerized, she saw his quick glance of reassurance as he continued to talk.

  “Who told you that?” the man asked. He turned and glanced over his shoulder, and her gaze followed his look. “You mean those three fellows over there?”

  Moe redirected his attention across the way to the three men at the front of the crowd. The men gazed at their feet and fell silent.

  “Hm, I thought so,” the cowboy murmured. “Those three men take delight in getting others in trouble.”

  Moe’s brow furrowed. “They said they were my friends.” His grip on her arm relaxed, and Mary Rose’s tension ebbed. The rate of her heart steadied, and she waited for Moe to move away.

  “You bought the drinks, so of course you became their friend,” Trace continued moving a step closer. “What they wanted was to see this nice young lady slap your face.”

  Moe glanced back at her, a pained expression shadowing his good eye. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

  “Let her go.”

  Moe glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. His hand flew from her arm, as if holding it scalded his palm. Indeed, the big man seemed ashamed and hung his head to study his boots.

  “That’s it.” The man’s voice, soothing and calm, seemed to steady the giant. “See, it was easy.”

  Moe’s shoulders slumped. He focused on the ground. “They told me she wanted to ride with me. They said it would be all right.”

  Mary Rose pulled her forearm close and rubbed where his hands had been. The stranger stepped next to Moe and extended his hand.

  “You did the right thing. That’s all that’s important.”

  Moe glanced back at her. Mary Rose schooled her features and tried to hide her anxiety.

  “Mary Rose,” she heard Daniel call from the door of the general store.

  Twisting to glance over her shoulder, she couldn’t help but give a sigh of relief as he pushed through the onlookers to her side.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, looking from her to the cowboy beside Moe.

  “Just a misunderstanding,” the cowboy responded, placing a reassuring hand upon Moe’s shoulder. “Go on and see to your team. I’ll have a talk with those fellows. They won’t give you any more trouble.”

  Moe nodded and sent a harsh glare at the men across the way.

  “Did he hurt you?” Daniel inquired in a low voice.

  “No.” Mary Rose shook her head. “He frightened me. This gentleman stepped in and soothed the situation.”

  “Just doing my job.” The cowboy touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat. “If you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice,” he said, looking straight at Daniel, “Never bring a woman on a run. They’re always a source of trouble.”

  Mary Rose’s jaw dropped. “How dare you!” She gasped, taking a step to confront him. “I have as much right as any man to ride on our wagons.”

  “Mary Rose…” Daniel said.

  The eyes that had been so clear blue suddenly turned icy. The cowboy’s stare made her shiver. “Ma’am. Go home and tend to your knitting. Let a man handle this job from now on.” He touched his hat.

  Her eyes narrowed. Raising her chin, she confronted him. “I’m Mary Rose Thornton, and I own half these rigs.”

  Her words rolled off his back like water off a duck. “Commendable,” he drawled. “But it’s still no place for a woman. Next time, take the stage.” With a nod, he sauntered away.

  Her mouth widened in outrage. “Who does he think he is?” she demanded of Daniel.

  “My dear sister, didn’t you see the star? He’s a U.S. Marshal,” Daniel replied.

  Mary Rose stared at the departing back, her mouth agape.

  ****

  Sheriff Randall Weston stepped out of his office and watched the crowd slowly disperse. Trace Castillo swaggered across the dusty street in his direction as if nothing had happened. Shifting the toothpick in his mouth to the other side, the sheriff looked to the teamster climbing up to the box of his wagon and the young man helping the woman aboard the second. The jingle of Trace’s spurs was the only sound to break the stillness of the late afternoon as he stepped onto the low-slung porch in front of the sheriff’s office. Rand stepped aside without question as Castillo brushed past. Then he turned on his heel to follow the marshal inside.

  “I should have known if there was trouble your face would turn up.”

  Trace looked up from pouring a cup of coffee. “You have it all wrong, Rand.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I didn’t find the trouble. It found me.”

  Rand laughed. “I’ll say it did, but you’ve turned yourself around pretty good. That star looks like it belongs.”

  Trace glanced down at the shiny metal pinned to the left breast of his cotton shirt. The letters U. S. Marshal looked back at him, and a sense of pride puffed out his chest a bit more. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  Rand moved around to his chair and took a seat. “Your folks would be proud.”

  Trace lifted his cup and thought about his folks. Their deaths by the hands of rogue bands of Mexican outlaws and renegade Apaches had sent him on a path of murderous revenge, stopped only when Randall Weston had taken him under his wing. He took a deep sip of the strong brew and turned to face his mentor. “You didn’t call me all the way to Cobb’s Crossing to talk about old times.”

  “No, I didn’t. Have a seat.” Rand motioned to the chair facing his desk.

  Trace crossed the office, eased his frame into the sturdy wooden chair, and focused his cool eyes on the man across from him. “What is so all-fired important that you couldn’t handle it on your own and had to send for the likes of me?”

  “Rumor has it a friend of yours is up to his old tricks.”

  “My friend?” Trace took a moment to remove his Stetson. Tossing the hat into the chair next to him, he brushed back thick dark hair that spoke of his half-Mexican heritage and tried to t
hink to whom Rand might be referring.

  Under his watchful gaze, the sheriff walked toward the gun cabinet, pulled out the keys to unlock the doors, and reached inside. Trace felt his heart thud to a stop as Rand brought out a Springfield rifle and laid it on the desk in front of him.

  “Where did you get this?” he rasped. Reaching out, he wanted to pick up the rifle and examine it. His hand stopped just above the scarred wooden stock. A whirl of voices, cries of pain and terror, echoed in his mind. His hand trembled as Rand’s words brought him back to the present.

  “Found it out at the Willard place ten days ago.”

  Trace picked up the rifle. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stared down at the length of silver hair just beneath the feather tied to the barrel. “Old Puma’s rifle,” he murmured. Slowly, he brought his eyes level with Rand’s. “But Puma’s dead. I know. I buried him.”

  Rand nodded. “But someone is stirring up the Mescaleros and others along the border. Ten days ago, someone attacked the Willards’ place and killed everyone. The only thing I found was Old Puma’s rifle and a mess of unshod pony tracks. I figure whoever left that was asking for you.”

  ****

  From beneath the creak of the wagon came the soft shush of the wheels as they rolled against the loose earth. Mary Rose breathed in the warm spring air and thought how good it was to be alive. The soft sweep of the breeze pulled a copper curl from beneath her broad Arizona Stetson. Using a gloved hand, she swept the lock of hair back from her face and sighed with contentment.

  Daniel hadn’t said anything, yet the twitch of his jaw told her he was less than pleased with what had happened back in town. No sooner had he spoken to Moe than he’d shoved her onto the box beside him and they’d headed out of town.