Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose

by Tessa Berkley

  He stepped forward and boldly took hold of her hand, sliding his other arm around her waist as she stumbled. “You’re wounded,” he said and, instinctively, drew her close.

  Her face tilted up, and her eyes searched his, their faces mere inches apart. He stared into the depth of that velvety blue as it shimmered with tears—and became lost.

  “Easy now.” He spoke softly, so low that only she could hear, and brought his hand up to sweep away the tendril of copper that lay pressed against her cheek.

  Trace could make out the telltale rise and fall of her chest. Her mouth upturned seemed to beg for his lips. He shouldn’t, but he leaned closer anyway. Her eyes closed, and she swooned against him. “Querida,” he rasped, and scooped her boneless form into his arms to carry her up to the clearing.

  Her lips parted with a soft sigh as he laid her body on the ground away from the carnage at the wagons. “Mrs. Thornton,” he called out again. When she didn’t respond, he put his hand to his mouth, clasped the supple leather of his gloves between his teeth, and pulled his fingers free.

  Laying two fingers against the delicate skin on the side of her neck, he gave a sigh of relief as the steady thump of her heartbeat graced his fingertips. He cut a glance back over his shoulder at the bodies. Trace prayed she had not wandered closer and found the dead. Whoever did this may not have realized she’d survived. She must have spent last night hiding in that thicket. He retrieved his canteen, pulled the bandana from his pocket, and tilted the container to dampen the cloth. A brush across her lips and, to his relief, her mouth parted with a soft sigh. “Good,” he said softly, before his eyes moved to the ragged hole in her blouse. Grimacing, he did his best to pull the matted cloth away from her fragile skin, and she let out a low moan. Trace swore under his breath and cursed her husband as his fingers moved to the buttons.

  “Forgive me,” he told her. Working quickly, he undid the top two buttons of her shirt and swept the cloth, plus the strap of her chemise, from her shoulder. A dark, jagged wound cut across it. The bullet had dug deep, but it hadn’t lodged in her shoulder. Easing her flat, he doused his kerchief with water and did his best to clean the wound.

  As he dabbed at the dried blood and felt the skin beneath his fingers quiver, his own blood boiled with resentment. He poured more water on the cloth and ground his teeth together in hopes of freeing himself from his anger. “It will be all right, Mrs. Thornton, it will be all right,” he repeated, and wondered who he was trying to reassure, the unconscious woman or himself.

  ****

  Mary Rose ached as if every bone in her body had been shaken loose. A repetitive sound drew her back through the labyrinth toward consciousness. With an urgency she could describe only as fear, she fought through the dark fog that enveloped her and tried to move. A groan of pain broke through her lips to accompany the deep throb in her shoulder.

  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.

  “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.