The paper crackled as he opened it and scanned the first few lines. Two phrases caught his attention, darkening his scowl. Sheriff Randall Weston…in regard to the missing shipment... The scrape of a boot sounded. His lungs tightened and his breathing grew harsh. Using his knee, he nudged the desk, and the stack of letters fluttered to the floor as the young officer returned.
“Oh, pardon me,” Augustus bent to pick up the scattered letters.
“Captain?”
He glanced over the insignia on his shoulders. “I must have stepped too close, studying the map.” He stood, shuffling the letters in his hand and placing the partially read note at the bottom. “Your mail.”
The young enlisted man held out a stiff hand to take them as the general stepped into view.
“Trouble, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, General, sir.” The lieutenant leveled a cold eye in the captain’s direction. “The general will see you now, sir.”
Augustus brought his heels together with fine West Point precision and gave a slight bend at the waist.
“Do step in, Captain. We have much to discuss.”
Ignoring the lieutenant’s accusing stare, Augustus stepped inside the general’s office.
“Close the door, will you? We wouldn’t want our conversation to fall on others’ ears.”
Augustus closed the door and turned. “What can I do for you, General?” He watched his commanding officer take his seat at the desk. Yes, put something between us, you coward. You enjoy hiding behind things.
“Captain, I called you here for some unpleasant business.”
“Sir?” He measured his response to sound contrite and worried.
The general leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “As you know, the Secretary of War has authorized some new rifles to be shipped to our fort.”
“Yes, sir, I believe I remember you saying that at our last briefing.” Play it cool, he reminded himself. Let the fool sink his own command.
“Yes. The quartermaster has been awaiting the shipment from Cobb’s Crossing. He tells me your wife hails from there.”
“Cobb’s Crossing, yes, sir.”
“Perhaps, you have heard of the freight company?” He pulled a few papers from his desk. “Thornton Freight. I believe you know the owners, Daniel Thornton and his sister?”
Augustus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, yes, sir, I do. My wife grew up with them. The sister stood with us when we wed.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told,” the general mused and leaned back, placing the paper on his desk.
“It seems the shipment has turned up missing.”
Augustus blinked. “Missing, you say? I don’t understand. I mean, I know the Irish are an unruly lot, but not even they would try to undermine the United States Army.”
The general’s brow rose. He pursed his lips, then with his index finger tapped a white sheet of paper. “It seems that the freight wagon was attacked by an unknown party.”
“Attacked!” Augustus gasped.
“Both Daniel and his driver were killed.”
He let the information flow over him as he stood in stunned disbelief. “Both?”
“Both,” the general repeated.
“I can’t believe it.” Augustus walked across the room. “Who would do such a thing? I mean, I know things have been tough, but…”
The general motioned to the chair. “Sit down, Captain. I’m sure this is quite a blow.”
Dragging his feet, Augustus moved toward the chair and sat down heavily. “Daniel was bringing his sister to stay with my wife for a few days.” He looked up. “My wife is with child.”
“Yes, I had heard. Captain Wallace, the reason I called you here today is to help redeem your career.”
“My career?” He glanced up.
“The cargo they were carrying consisted of two crates of weapons sent in secret by the Secretary of War. Somehow, someone found out. The last thing the army wants is for fifty rifles to fall into the hands of renegades or Mexican bandits, which may have already happened. I have little confidence in the sheriff or this friend of his, Marshal Castillo. I want you to get to the town, find those perpetrators, and bring them back for military justice.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” He stood. “Sir, you don’t suppose this is all a ruse, do you? The Thorntons selling the weapons, then being caught in a double cross?”
“We won’t know for sure until you find out. Take time to tell your wife what has happened. I want nothing to stand in the way of you doing your job. Is that understood?”
Augustus listened to the icy tone of the commander’s voice, and his blood boiled.
“Make no mistake about this, Captain. You fail, and your career in the United States Army is at an end.”
“I understand, sir. I understand all too well.” Drawing himself up, Augustus Wallace saluted, then marched out the door. He held his tongue until he reached the barn behind the parade ground, where a searing mass of obscenities flowed from his lips. How dare that man threaten him? He brought his gloves down against his legs with a snap. However, he’d take care of that complication just as he had all the rest. He was too close to making the deal. Too close to finally getting his due. He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t let a snip of a girl, his wife, or some U.S. Marshal stand in his way. Not now, not ever.
****
Trace walked in behind Rand and slammed the door. The glass in the office windows rattled in his wake as he crossed to the chairs in front of Rand’s desk and plunked down in one. Rand took his seat and leaned back to study the man across from him as the air bristled with anger.
“I guess it’s a good thing there were no dogs in the street.” The sheriff sighed as he leaned forward, picking up the papers on his blotter. “You’d have kicked them and enjoyed the howl.”
Trace scowled. “She’s lying.”
“Oh?” The sheriff’s brows rose.
“If anyone knows a liar, Rand, it’s me.”
The sheriff gave a rough chuckle. “And how did you come to that assumption?”
Trace drew a deep breath and thought about all the lies he’d believed when delivered from a succulent red mouth. He bolted from the chair and began to pace.
“You’re thinking about Amelia again.” Rand sighed. “Mary Rose is no Amelia.”
“So you say. I shall reserve judgment,” he snarled, and changed the subject. “Didn’t you see the hurry she was in?”
“I saw a scared woman.”
“Scared of what?” Trace hissed as he paced. “What was in that freight office that sent her away with her tail between her legs?”
Rand picked up his pencil and stared at the papers. “I don’t know,” he complained. “Maybe she was running from you.”
Trace stared at the sheriff as the words ricocheted in his mind. His brow furrowed, and he paused. His mind crowded with the memory of her kiss, the searing heat that erupted in his veins as his hands moved through her hair and the way her body molded to his as if they were made for one another. With a growl, he shoved the chair out of his way and stomped toward the door.
“Going somewhere?” Rand called out.
“I’m going to do some investigating,” he snapped.
“While you’re at it, why not accompany the wagon run to the mission. I’ll keep an eye on Mary Rose.”
Trace left the office. The stomp of his boots raised the hackles of his spurs. Their jingle, like the low growl of a dog, sent passersby scurrying for distance. Trace didn’t stop until he reached the livery. Bending low beneath the railing of the corral, he slid through and walked toward his mount.
Diablo stood against the side of the enclosure, gazing into the distance. “Come here, boy,” he coaxed, and with a snort the horse trotted over to him. He placed a hand below the animal’s long mane and gave him a reassuring pat. “Let’s take a ride,” he murmured. With a toss of his head, the horse followed him into the stall that opened inside the stable.
Trace clo
sed the door and slipped the bridle over his head before he tossed the blanket and saddle onto his back. The girth tightened, he pushed open the inside door to the stall and led Diablo into the center hallway, where he encountered the liveryman coming out of his office.
“Howdy, Marshal. You ain’t leavin’, are ya?”
“Nope. Going to accompany the freight run,” he replied, mounting and gathering the reins into his hand. With his forefinger and thumb, he reached into his pants pocket and tossed the man a five-dollar piece. “Keep my stall ready. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Yes, sir.” The man nodded.
Trace gave the animal his head, and they moved toward the door. A thought hit him and he pulled Diablo up short. “Let me know who leaves and who comes in while I’m gone.”
“Sure,” the man replied.
With a touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, Trace tapped Diablo with his spurs, and the horse sprang to life.
Following the trail toward the spring, he came across one of Mary Rose’s wagons. “Mind if I ride along?” The driver shrugged.
As he rode behind the freight wagon, Rand’s words continued to circle around his head: She was running from you. Why did he get the sinking feeling the sheriff was right? Could she be frightened of him? But why? He eased back on the reins and brought his horse to a slow steady jog. Why her? What was it about Mary Rose that he couldn’t shake?
Diablo slowed to a walk and blew. Deep in thought, Trace absentmindedly placed a hand on the horse’s neck. He could see her, the frightened figure behind the cottonwoods, the tilt of her chin when she was furious, and those damn eyes. It was as though some unseen hand reached into his chest and constricted his heart. No, he would not become emotionally involved with a woman, not ever again.
****
The sun stood overhead as they reached the mission.
“Whoa,” he said, and his horse stopped. Dismounting, Trace walked toward the priest who was directing the men to open the doors of the mission storage and help unload the wagon.
“Afternoon, Father,” he replied, removing his hat.
The priest turned, his eyes wide in surprise. “Trace Castillo. It has been a long time.” He held out his hand and they shook. “Miguel, careful with that flour,” the priest called, looking past Trace’s right shoulder.
Trace glanced back and watched the mission worker ease it over his shoulder before moving inside.
“So, what are you doing now? We heard you had taken the oath and become a U.S. Marshal. Or have you given up the star to work for Thornton’s?”
“Me?” He glanced at the wagon. “No, I’m riding as security.”
“Problems?” the priest asked.
Trace took a deep breath. “Yes, you could say that.” He felt the priest’s gaze and wondered if he could see inside his soul.
“Hm.” Father Tomas nodded. “Let me help the men here, and then we will talk before you leave.” Left to his own devices, Trace walked into the mission’s chapel to pay his respects.
Built in the early years when the land was Spanish Territory, the chapel’s adobe walls kept the heat outside. Trace paused at the bowl of holy water, dipped his fingers in, and made the sign of the cross. Depositing a coin in the donation box, he moved toward the altar and paused. The sunlight beaming in from the small window above the entryway illuminated the statue of the Virgin Mary behind the simple wooden table.
The last time he’d been in a church he’d stood waiting for Amelia to come down the aisle. She’d sent her brother to deliver the news. He’d entered, dressed in his uniform, and boldly announced that his sister would not marry a man who would not support Don Porfirio Diaz. Humiliated, Trace had turned away, staring at the statue, until one by one the guests began to file out.
His jaw twitched, teeth clenched, as he recalled the dishonor. But that had been just the beginning. His eyes closed. A week later, he’d gone to his brother’s home to borrow vaqueros for a roundup and found her in his brother’s bed. She’d laughed at him, told him what a fool he’d been to follow his mother’s pathetic side of the family and believe he would be accepted into Texas society. She begged him to join their cause, to help reunite Tejas to Mexico, where it belonged.
He’d never known such savage anger as that which roared through his veins. When his brother entered the room, they fought, and it had taken four men to tear them apart. However, the damage had been done. He’d left Mexico and vowed never to return.
The door behind him opened, and light flooded the chapel. He turned to see Father Tomas move toward him.
“So, come, sit down. I hear there was trouble with the Thornton Company?”
Trace moved to a bench and took his seat beside the priest. He began by explaining the incident at Cottonwood Springs and his involvement with Mary Rose.
“I’ve known both Mary Rose and Daniel for a number of years now. This is such a shame. And you have no clue as to why?”
He shook his head. “None.”
Father Tomas’s gaze scrutinized him. “But there is more, perhaps?”
He nodded. “I am drawn to her.”
“Mary Rose?” The priest nodded. “I am not surprised.”
Trace hung his head. “She invades my thoughts, my nights.” He took a deep breath. “I seem to know when she is in the street or in a room. No matter what I do to stop it, we find ourselves drawn together like two bulls fighting. What is worse, she appears nervous around me.”
“Are you nervous around her?” the priest asked.
“I am angry. She frustrates me with this desire to run a freight company.”
“And why do you think that? Could it be she challenges your preconceived notions about women?”
“She is exasperating.”
“Well, my son, most women are.”
“You aren’t helping.”
The priest chuckled. “My dear friend, I think you need to look into your heart.” He reached out and touched Trace’s chest. “Tell me, how long has it been since your debacle with Amelia?”
“Five years.”
Father Tomas folded his arms. “Describe her to me?”
“Amelia?”
“Don’t argue, Trace. Describe her.”
“Well, she has black hair,” he began.
“Most Mexican women do. But was there something special about it?”
Trace’s brow furrowed in thought. “Just long black hair.”
“All right.” The good Father took a breath. “Now, tell me about Mary Rose.”
Trace closed his eyes and thought about her at the funeral. “Her hair is the color of the copper tiles on the roof of the mission, and her eyes are the deepest blue one can imagine. When she smiles, two dimples frame her lips.”
The priest chuckled, and Trace opened his eyes, feeling foolish.
“I think perhaps you have answered your own question.” Father Tomas stood and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “The heart is a fickle thing, my son. But if we listen with an open mind, it can lead us to wonderful things—like love.”
“Love?” Trace’s eyes widened and his head jerked to look at the priest.
“It is possible, even for U.S. Marshals. Come, let us break for lunch. The men will wish to start back.”
He could only stare as the priest walked away. Love? Was he in love? He had been so sure when he asked Amelia to marry him, so crushed when she refused. Standing, he moved to the candles and, taking a long thin piece of incense, lit one in memory of his grandfather. Perhaps Father Tomas was right. Five years was a long time to try to remember. Listen to your heart.
****
Hours later, he eased Diablo to a stop at the livery in Cobb’s Crossing. Dismounting and drawing the reins over his horse’s head, he led him inside. Near the rear of the building, Trace could hear the slow and steady scrape of a rake against the earth.
“Is that you, Marshal?”
“It is,” he replied, lifting the stirrup and looping it over the horn so
he might undo the thick leather strip of the girth. Diablo blew when it felt loose, and Trace slipped the saddle off and tossed it over the rail.
“Want a cloth to wipe him down?”
Trace looked to his left.
“Name’s Mack, remember? We met when you brought the Thornton gal in.”
“Ah.” Trace nodded. “Yes, you have a rag?”
“Keep some of the old towels from the hotel right here in the box beside each stall.” The man bent down and handed him one.
“Thanks.” Trace set to work wiping the dust from his horse.
“Looks like you two had a pretty long day,” Mack said as he stroked Diablo’s head.
Trace focused on his job and didn’t answer.
“It was quiet here, too. Not a soul out of the ordinary came through. But I did hear some of the drivers quit at Thornton’s.”
Trace’s ears burned with the news. He moved around to the other side of his horse and folded the rag over. “You don’t say.” He tried to keep his voice under control.
“Yep.” Mack sighed. “Some of the men didn’t want to work for a petticoat outfit.”
“Humph.” With a grunt, Trace began to move the cloth over the horse’s rump. “And did she try to persuade them not to go?”
Mack chuckled. “She sure did, but didn’t do no good. Them fools left anyway. Had it been me, I’d a stayed just to have her smile at me every mornin’.”
Trace stood up tall and glared.
“I, I didn’t mean anything.”
Relenting, Trace asked, “Is the sheriff still in town?”
Mack nodded. “Yep, saw him go to the saloon about an hour ago.”
“See that Diablo gets a good ration of oats.”
“Sure thing.” The stable hand took hold of the reins and led the horse toward the stall.
Chapter Eleven
Mary Rose sat down at the table and pulled the sling over her head. It had been a rough day. She’d tried to put down a riot of men tossing their resignations on her desk. She’d addressed them and watched their scornful glances as they turned and walked away. Alone, she could allow herself to feel the inner turmoil threatening to tear her apart. Threading her fingers through her hair, she leaned her elbow against the table and tried to regain her strength.
Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Page 11