Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose

by Tessa Berkley

  “A penny for your thoughts.” His voice invaded her privacy.

  She glanced over, the corners of her mouth lifting as she spoke. “Let’s not throw our money around recklessly, shall we?”

  “Always the miser, little sister.”

  She could hear the laughter in his voice and gave him a look of disdain. “I suppose I am, but I think I have a right.”

  Daniel glanced at her. “Well the price is free, but I need to know what happened back there between you and Moe.”

  She took a deep breath. “I did nothing wrong. I was checking the tack. Moe made a few improper advances. He had me by the arm until that man—er, the marshal—showed up.”

  “I spoke to Moe. I explained to him that you were my sister and I didn’t want him to be bothering you.” Daniel put a foot on the brake and eased back on the reins. Mary Rose grasped the brass rails and held on as they slowed. Behind them, the second wagon groaned to a stop. Turning, he called out to the driver behind them, “Moe, I want to turn the wagons in at Cottonwood Springs and let the team rest and get some water.”

  “Right, boss,” the big teamster’s voice echoed back.

  Mary Rose waited until her brother put the team in motion again to speak. “Do you think Moe Horne was the best man to draw for this trip?”

  Daniel cast a serious glance at her before he whistled for his team to lean into the traces and pull up the incline leading toward the high stretch of the mesa.

  “Moe’s a good teamster. I need his brawn should something happen to the wagons. I want to get there, and get there quick.”

  She glanced down at the rumps of the horses. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Dan.”

  “I know you didn’t.” He shifted both sets of lines into one hand and reached over to pat her arm. “Trust me, Mary Rose, to do the right thing.”

  “Aye, Dan, I do.” She offered him a winning smile and made herself content to count the number of jackrabbits scared up from the brush at the sound of the wagons. As smooth as the ride was, her heart gave a silent cheer when they pulled into the shade of the few cottonwood trees above the spring.

  “Whoa,” Daniel cried out, pulling the team to a stop and setting the brake. “Sit tight.”

  Mary Rose pushed her hat back off her head, allowing it to dangle by the latigo leathers held at her throat with a carved wooden bobble. Her brother looped the reins around the brake handle, climbed onto the wheel hub, and hopped to the ground with a grunt. “Your turn,” he murmured.

  Moving to the left, she lifted her leg over the edge of the seat box and found the wheel hub. With her brother’s help, she climbed down, then brushed the crease out of her riding skirt. She stretched her back and glanced over to find Moe staring. Heat flared in her cheeks, and she looked away. Concentrate on the sunlight hitting the leaves, she told herself.

  “Does get a bit cramped,” Daniel replied, reaching beneath the seat to pull out a pair of canteens and an oilskin bladder. “I’m going to get water for the animals. You might want to stretch your legs, but don’t go too far. Moe, keep your distance and check your team.”

  Mary Rose watched her brother disappear down the path that led to the spring. Disposing of her hat, she brushed her hair back with her hand as a thought crossed her mind. With Daniel being at the water’s edge, no one was here with her and Moe. She didn’t relish being left alone with the big teamster. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a shaky smile. “I-I’ll leave you to this and see if my brother needs any help.” She hurried to the slope cut in the embankment, giving only one quick look back, to find Moe’s eyes on her, before she disappeared down the incline toward the spring.

  ****

  The smooth earthen wall pushed the afternoon heat away from the spring and back toward the clearing. “Daniel,” she called out, hearing the gurgle of the water below the beaten path. “Daniel?” When he didn’t answer, a wave of panic rushed over her. “Dan—” His voice cut her short.

  “Over here.”

  Mary Rose paused and took a calming breath. Relieved, her steps grew in confidence as she rounded the side of the red clay walls and found him kneeling beside a clear pool of water.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling a large oilskin bladder from the spring.

  Mary Rose opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  “Go on, darlin’,” he urged, turning on the Irish charm.

  With a sheepish expression and feeling more sixteen than twenty-three, she spoke. “You’ll think me foolish.”

  Her answer made him chuckle. “Won’t be the first time.”

  “I-I just didn’t like being left alone with Mr. Horne,” she replied. “So I thought I’d see if you needed help.” Despite her attempt to sound nonchalant, Mary Rose felt the rise of heat to her cheeks.

  Yet Daniel said nothing. His facial expression filled with a deep understanding. “He’s a good man, Mary Rose. Others never gave him a chance.”

  She gave a shake of her head in hopes of dispelling her fears. “I’ll trust your judgment for now, Daniel Michael Thornton. But, one day, you’ll have to listen to a woman’s instincts.”

  “Ah, there’s me good lass.” His imitation broad Irish brogue sounded just like their father. Stepping over to her, he pulled a smaller canteen from his shoulder and held it out. “I can always do with a bit of help.” He smiled and held out a second canteen. “Fill this one for me, and I’ll go and water the horses.”

  “Sure.” Taking the canvas-covered container, Mary Rose moved to the water’s edge and crouched down as he had. Her right hand reached out and stroked the pond’s surface before pressing the container below it. A slow procession of bubbles moved to the surface and popped as water replaced air. Behind her, her brother’s footsteps faded up the trail.

  Yet that nagging fear wouldn’t leave her. She shivered, thinking about Moe’s advance. Good man or not, he made her nervous. She’d have to talk to Daniel about him once they reached the fort. At least she’d be free of his company in two days.

  Pulling the canteen from beneath the water, she groped for the cork. Still fumbling with the stopper, she rose and moved toward the path. As the incline increased, she heard the sounds of hoofbeats and voices raised in surprise. Mary Rose stopped. Her hand still fixed upon the mouth of the canteen, she listened. Another shout. This time there was no mistaking her brother’s cry of alarm. A tremor of terror ran through her. A frantic horse neighed, and the air was shattered by the blast from a gun.

  “Daniel!” she cried out, rushing forward, dropping the canteen.

  In her haste, her feet slipped on the clay. With a bone-jarring drop, she fell to her knees. Clawing at the ground, she scrambled to her feet and finished the climb. But as she burst into the open she ground to a halt. Heart pounding in terror, she gazed at the ragtag group of renegades surrounding the wagon. A whiff of smoke drifted up from the barrel of a rifle as a man turned away. A pair of legs with thick hobnail boots protruded from the back of the wagon.

  “Run!”

  Daniel’s shout startled her. She glanced in his direction as he wrenched his arms free and threw himself toward the man with the gun.

  “Daniel!” She charged forward. A shrill Apache war cry stopped her. A menacing face flashed before her, and a gun butt thudded against her cheek. The wind knocked out of her, she fell to her knees, trying to remember how to breathe.

  “Mary Rose!” Daniel’s shout brought her to her senses. She needed to run!

  Clambering to her feet, she heard a rifle fired. Something hot slammed against her shoulder, shoving her backward. Her feet grew rubbery. She stumbled over them repeatedly. Turning, she grasped for the cottonwood and fell short.

  Cloth ripped as the branch caught her sleeve while, in the distance, she heard Daniel’s voice shouting her name. Someone was running toward her. Then another shot echoed, and his shriek shattered the air. Her breath came in hard gasps at the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears, drowning
out all sounds, and Mary Rose could feel herself fall as her knees folded.

  The ground was where the sky should be. Beyond the gathering darkness, a woman cried out. At the last moment, she realized the voice was her own. The wind flew from her lungs as her shoulder collided with the earth. Pain ripped through her left side. She could feel her body slide, greased by the soft soil. Bits and pieces of sound drifted over her, filtered by her own ragged breathing. She was dying.

  Her vision narrowed. As the darkness closed in, she heard a deeper voice, eerily familiar, say, “I told you, not the woman.” With a deep, ragged breath, she let the beckoning emptiness become her friend, and she embraced it.

  Chapter Two

  A hot breeze stirred the southwest Texas air, and beads of sweat curled lazily past the bones of Trace’s back. He could feel the full strength of the sun as it pressed its rays upon the earth. The moisture gathered along the sides of his face clamped the stray ends of his shoulder-length hair to his skin. Removing his hat, Trace Castillo lifted his head to glance at the sun hanging overhead. The heat turned the leather of his saddle into a hot griddle. Yes, a cold drink, a fine woman, and some shade would be in order. Perhaps they could make him forget the conversation he’d had with Rand Weston. But where can I find such a willing woman?

  Those words conjured up the beauty from yesterday. He wished he hadn’t gotten close enough to see those blue eyes spark when he told her man to put her on the stage. Now the vision of her haunted him, and he wondered if he’d used good reasoning. He ran his hands along the inside of his hatband and recalled the tilt of her lips as they pulled into that pout. No doubt she thought it gave her power over men. Maybe other men, but not him.

  Those lips, he decided, may have looked like heaven but would be lethal poison to kiss. Experience had taught him the bitter lesson of what a woman hell-bent on power could do. No good would come of dwelling on a woman like that. He sighed. Ever since his entanglement with Amelia, he had avoided such women. Sought pleasure, yes, but he’d vowed never again to be placed under a spell.

  With a sigh, he lifted his arm and pulled the sleeve across his brow in a futile attempt to remove the perspiration before it slithered into his eyes and set them on fire. Settling the hat back on his head, he tightened his grip on the reins, signaling his horse to move on.

  The trail ran along the backside of a dry wash and then climbed gently to a broad flat meadow, good grazing land for the surrounding ranches. Those cattle had attracted men who swung a wide loop in the first place and gave the track its name, Rustlers’ Way. Taking the path at a slow and steady walk, he tilted his head to allow the deep shadow of his hat to cover his face. If any eyes were watching, he appeared to be just a vaquero, nodding off in the heat of the day. “Cottonwood Springs is not too far away. I think you and I will pause for a much-needed drink.” His horse flicked its ears in response.

  He swerved to the path on the right and took a deep seat as the trail sloped down. Another rivulet of perspiration inched toward the belt of his low-slung trousers. Gripping the loose cotton of his chambray shirt, he shifted it away from his damp skin.

  For a moment, he almost didn’t catch it. Yet it stirred again. A cold breath of apprehension wrapped its long fingers around the nape of his neck and lifted the hairs along his shoulders. Trace’s heart gave two quick beats.

  Something wasn’t right. A new level of alertness traveled along his body and transferred to his horse, which sensed the change. The animal’s head rose, ears pitched forward, and he felt the gelding’s muscles dance. “Easy,” he murmured, placing a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Keeping his voice low, he pulled his hand back and grazed the leather safety on his .45. It sprang free.

  Off in the distance, where the image blurred like water, a thin spiral of black smoke rose in the warm air above a grove of cottonwood trees. Overhead, a gathering of birds, as dark as the night, rode the currents in a sinister lazy circle. Trace’s mouth ran dry, and the chill in his blood turned to ice.

  “I am thinking this is not a good thing.”

  At his horse’s snort, he grasped tight the reins between his fingers and gave a light touch with his heels. Diablo sprang to life, and Trace leaned low as the horse raced along the trail.

  Galloping around the edge of the clearing, the only thing that greeted him was the sickly sweet odor of decomposition. He reined his horse into a sliding halt, stepping from the stirrups to the ground in a single fluid motion as if he and the animal were one blur of movement. Gun drawn, his stance braced, Trace eyed the perimeter. The whispers of a thousand dangers prickled his body until his skin crawled as if alive, yet nothing moved.

  Alert, he stepped over to inspect the carnage. A lone wagon lay on its side, still smoldering. Through the flicker of the flames, he could see the once proud red paint peeled back and blistered by the heat, leaving only the blackened wood behind. Two bodies lay motionless, one near the front of the wagon, the second behind, only his booted feet visible. Between them, the wagon’s contents were strewn across the ground.

  “Madre de Dios,” he whispered.

  With a wary eye, he moved toward the closest body and knelt down. Trace grimaced and noted a bullet wound in the man’s chest. He hoped it had ended the driver’s life before someone brutally scalped him. Making the sign of the cross first, he reached over, lifted the edge of the man’s jacket, and found a brown wallet against the victim’s unmoving chest.

  A feeling of dread twisted his gut. He flipped the wallet open and a string of curses poured from his lips. On the leather, embossed in gold print, he read the name Daniel Thornton. Trace rose, his heart pounding against his chest. Of course, the man with the woman would attract attention. Now, where was she?

  He hurried to the second victim. His presence stirred the angry buzz of the bottleflies trying to get their fair share of the dark blood staining the soil. Trace drew his arm over his nose as he stepped close and peered down. To his relief, it was another man, most likely the second driver, the one called Moe Horne, killed in the same manner. Yet no sign of the woman.

  Backing around the edge of the wagon, he began to search in a widening circle. The prints where ponies, both shod and unshod, had milled around, tearing up the ground before heading out, were obvious. Trace followed the direction of the tracks toward the desert, noting one wagon burned and one missing. Why? What were they carrying?

  Rumors Rand had told him about the renegades moving along the border seemed to be true. If these were Mescalero raiders, he knew the price they took on their captives. He’d hate to think they’d taken the woman with them.

  He stubbed his toe and looked down to see a broken piece of crate. The numbers burned into the wood leaped out at him: 4506, followed by the letter U and a partial letter he quickly assumed would be an S. He bent down and rescued it from the dirt. His gaze moved from the ground to a break between the trees, the footpath down to the spring. Something fluttered. Laying down the piece of wood, he rose carefully and walked toward the small cottonwood at the top of the path. A strip of white cloth fluttered in the breeze. His mouth ran dry.

  She was in trouble. He knew it. As he moved to the path, he paused to remove the scrap from the snag, fingering the material. The soft cotton glided along his fingers. Material this delicate was something that wouldn’t chafe a woman’s skin. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled the scent of fresh flowers and store-bought soap. Trace’s worry increased. Thornton was a damn fool to bring that type of woman along, the type a man couldn’t keep his eyes off no matter how much he tried.

  Keeping to the south side of the embankment, he stopped to examine the scuff marks in the soft dirt, marks as if someone had fallen. Beyond him, the gurgle of the water filled the echoing silence. At the turn in the path, booted footprints and the smudge from a hand marked the trail. Taking a deep breath, not knowing what to expect, he rounded the corner—but found no one.

  Trace glanced back. It was easy to see the prints led in but not out. His gaz
e rolled over the shallow canyon. There was no way out. His brow furrowed as he thought of the places they might have hidden her body. A thicket of scrub bushes near the north end of the spring caught his attention. Praying he wouldn’t have to see that cream-colored skin beneath the clear water, he moved with slow, deliberate steps, looking for any sign of life.

  A discarded canteen lay near the water’s edge. Crouching down, he picked it up by the strap and shook it. Still full. Over the sound of the gurgling water, he heard a boot scuff against a rock. Alert to someone’s presence, Trace felt a rush of adrenalin roar through his veins. He turned, gun leveled, ready for a fight. Instead of the dark menace of the Apache, a wounded pair of blue eyes stared back. He had found her.

  Trace tried to relax, but the rush of air from his lungs burst across his lips in a startled gasp. Frightened by the sound, she faded back, the branches rattling as they closed around her. A sense of urgency nearly overwhelmed him. He needed to take it easy. Licking his dry lips, he slid his gun back into its holster.

  “Ma’am.” He spoke in an even tone so as not to frighten her. “Are you all right?”

  Her eyes, illuminated with fear, stared back. Yet she did not speak.

  Smile, he told himself and pulled his lips back over his teeth in an easy manner. “You remember me? We met yesterday.” He paused, waiting for her to remember. “At Cobb’s Crossing.”

  She stilled, her brow wrinkled in thought.

  Trace moved closer. The jangle of his spurs drew her attention, and he watched her eyes widen. Stopping, he crouched down so they were at eye level, close enough for him to see the bruise at her chin and the dirt ground into the sleeve of her right shoulder.

  “You are hurt.” He held out his hand. “Please, let me help you.”

  He studied her face and watched those eyes contort in pain. The hurt cut at his heart. “Come.”

  She pushed her way through the tangle of branches clumped together.

  “That’s it.” He relaxed. “Come out—” Trace’s encouragement died upon his lips. As the shadows fell away from her, he glimpsed the bloodstains on her left side.