Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (10 page)

He yawned again and folded his arms behind his head. A soft breeze stirred the curtains as he thought about the woman he’d just left. The rich color of her eyes, the cream of her skin, stirred him in ways no other woman since Amelia had. His thoughts recalled the kiss and the lingering taste of honey still on his lips. She’d leaned into him, and the mere memory of the warmth of her body and fullness of her breasts sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. As the kiss ended, he’d felt her lips open, offering him an invitation to explore.

Had he taken the chance, he not only would have plundered her mouth, but as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow he’d have completely satisfied them both. Thinking about those endless pleasures, his body grew hard. With a curse, he flipped himself over and closed his eyes. Yet he knew sleep would not come easy.
Damn those copper curls.

****

Mary Rose’s reluctance to eat drew the attention of both the Widow Hatfield and Doc Martin. After pushing the food around her plate once more, she gave up with a sigh and laid the fork beside the plate. She hated not being more enthused about the meal, considering how much effort must have gone into its making.

“Dear…” The widow’s soft voice broke through her thoughts as the woman laid a hand upon her arm. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed and gave a twist of her lips, hoping her mouth resembled a smile. “I’m fine,” Mary Rose lied. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

The widow tilted her head, and her gray eyes turned sharp. “It’s that young man,” she said. “That Marshal Castillo. He said something to upset you.”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “He was quite polite.” Glancing up, she caught the intense gaze from the doctor across the table. Mary Rose closed her eyes for a beat in order to get her irritation under control before trying to explain. “Please.” Her voice took on a plea, begging them both to listen. “Let’s not read any more into it than this. My life has changed. I have so much on my mind, I’m just not hungry.” She paused again. Her voice took on a husky note. “I’m a bit overwhelmed, that’s all.”

Plucking the napkin from her lap, she dropped it beside her plate and rose. “Mrs. Hatfield, as always, your meals are delicious. But I just can’t eat right now.”

“Perhaps later.” She heard the widow’s wounded reply.

“Perhaps,” she answered, exhaustion lancing her words. “If you’ll excuse me.” Her voice nearly broke as she took several cautious steps toward the other room. Behind her, the widow’s whispers grew.
Please
, she begged.
Don’t let her follow me
. A chair scooted back. Her shoulder hunched with the fear that footsteps and a misguided hand of condolence might follow. To her surprise, she heard Doctor Martin’s voice.

“Sit down, Minerva. Let the child be.”

Mary Rose raised her eyes toward the ceiling and silently thanked God for the intervention. Her steps took on purpose as she moved across the parlor and entered the room where she had been staying. With the door closed, only then did she breathe a sigh of relief. Alone. She was finally alone, with a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

Her lips wobbled. She placed a steadying hand on the chair arm and sat down more heavily than she intended. Mary Rose shook her head. How, in a room surrounded by others, did she feel so alone?
A
soft thin sigh escaped her lips much like the steam that erupted from a teakettle before it boils, and she hid her face behind the palm of her hand.

“Overwhelmed” was an understatement. Her very soul had been wounded. It took several more deep breaths before she could press her fingers against her forehead and massage the pounding there. This wasn’t a proper place or time for her to lose herself into hysterics, not when her life seemed to be hurtling out of control. So many things had been taken from her, so many decisions made for her as if people were afraid she might break.

“This is my life.” Her voice rang in the darkness. And, for the first time, she came to grips with being alone.

“Why is this happening to me?” She’d been a dutiful member of the faith. Confessions once a month, mass every morning, ever since her mother had dragged both Mary Rose and Daniel to the mission in San Antonio regularly. Where had she gone wrong? With her palm, she brushed away the dampness on her cheeks.

With her entire family gone, Mary Rose sat alone and waited for some divine voice to tell her what to do. But there was none. No heralding by angels, no golden light, no voice echoing from above. Only darkness. The urge to shake her fist at the sky was overpowering, but to do so might risk a thunderbolt.

Instead, she made a vow to fight. “Fine, I’ll find my own way,” she whispered. “I’ll not be stopped. I’m capable of making my own way, even if I have to do so alone. I will have justice for my brother.”

She sat, staring out the window yet seeing nothing. Her mind numb, she waited, not knowing for what. Her only companion was the constant thump of her heart. Minutes turned to hours. As the last rays of sunlight faded into the night sky, she heard a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she replied with defeat.

“Mary Rose,” the widow’s soft voice called from the small opening.

“Come in, Mrs. Hatfield.”

The crack widened and the widow peeked in. “Sitting in the dark, child?”

Mary Rose took note of the gentle voice. Good manners dictated she should apologize for her abrupt behavior. Instead, she kept silent.

“I suppose you do have a lot on your young mind.” It was as close to an apology as she was going to get for the smothering the woman had done.

“Just a bit,” she answered, reluctant to give up more.

Daniel’s voice whispered in her ear.
Bend your foolish pride, Mary Rose, for tomorrow will be a long, hard day
.

“I’m leaving. I thought if you wanted help getting ready for bed?” The widow left the invitation open.

Swallowing hard, Mary Rose gave in. “Please. I would like that.” The widow’s face relaxed as she softly closed the door and bent to light the lamp.

****

The darkness of the night came and went. Mary Rose slept fitfully, due to the dull pain of her shoulder and the knowledge of what the day would bring. Now, as the afternoon arrived, the dreaded hour was at hand.

“Are you ready?”

She turned. Doc Martin stood in the middle of the room, dressed in his good dark suit, his face scrubbed to shining. She shook her head, for it would do no good to lie. Rising from the chair, Mary Rose used her good hand to press against her middle. She hoped the action against the dark calico of her dress would quell the rising butterflies churning in her stomach.

“You look very nice,” he pronounced, stepping forward to press something into her hand. “I know a few things about women. A good woman needs a handkerchief twice in her life, one for a funeral, and the other for her wedding.” He sighed. “I wish to heaven it were the second.”

She blinked and folded the cloth between her fingers, her throat too thick to reply.

“I know you won’t admit you need it, but stick it inside the sling.” He paused. “In case.”

A blush crept up her neck. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He took her hand and pulled it beneath his arm, releasing it as he opened the new door the marshal had installed that morning. Mary Rose stepped onto the porch and blinked at the bright sunshine.

A scrape of boots against the boards of the porch turned her attention to the left, and her mouth opened in surprise, as Trace Castillo stood waiting. The tan of his skin contrasted sharply with the white shirt he wore beneath the dark Spanish jacket, and her fingers yearned to touch his chin.

She hoped her small smile let him know how glad she was to see him. He stepped closer, so that she had to look up to gaze into his eyes. A slight breeze stirred, and she picked up the scent of hotel soap and bay rum from the barbershop.

“I hope you don’t think it forward that I’ve come to walk with you—” His mouth twisted bitterly on the next words—“to the cemetery.”

“Of course not,” she replied.

He crossed to her side. Lifting her free hand, he pressed his lips to her knuckles before tucking her arm beneath his. Her fingers brushed the starch in the fabric and felt the warmth of the muscles below. In the distance, the mournful sound of the church bell began to toll, prodding them to move. “Watch your step,” he cautioned and held her steady until she planted her feet firmly on the ground. She glanced behind to Doc Martin as Trace slipped his wide-brimmed hat on his head.

“You two walk on. I see the Widow Hatfield coming.”

Mary Rose stepped forward with the marshal by her side. Taking a quick glance, she noted he had shaved and gone so far as to have his hair trimmed to just above his collar. “You look very nice,” she murmured, wondering why she needed to say anything at all.

“Thank you.” He smiled, and her stomach flipped.

Moving down Main Street, it struck her as odd that none of the stores were open. From the general store to the Feed and Seed, the doors were shut and a closed sign sat visible in each window. Turning at the hotel, her steps ground to a halt. The churchyard was filled to capacity.

“It seems the entire town has turned out,” Trace murmured.

Her heart twisted.

“See,” Doc Martin’s voice whispered from behind. “I told you, a man is known by the value of his friendship.”

She looked over her shoulder at the doctor and Mrs. Hatfield, her vision blurred by the shimmer of unshed tears. Trace’s hand came over hers. She turned and looked at him.

“If you are ready?”

She breathed deeply and gave a nod.

They moved to the graveyard in silence. A few people stepped from the covered walkways and joined behind them. The closer they came, the tighter her grip became on the marshal’s arm. He sensed her need and drew her fingers further down until his hand closed over hers. His body transferred his deep strength to her, and she clung to it as they passed the open wagon containing two coffins side by side.

“Stop, please,” she whispered.

Trace paused. Her grip on his arm eased, and she moved to the back of the wagon. She looked up at Mr. Malone. “Which one?”

“The one on the right.”

Her hand trembling, Mary Rose placed her palm upon the coffin and closed her eyes. As the last deep ring of the bell echoed, she whispered a prayer, “Mother Mary, blessed be your name. Accept unto heaven my brother, Daniel Michael Thornton, your faithful servant.” Then, leaning down, she pressed her lips against the wood.

Her knees grew weak as she drew back and reached out to steady herself. A hand found hers. Another pressed its warmth to her waist. Without looking, she knew both belonged to Trace. Following his lead, she made her way into the churchyard, where two fresh graves stood open.

Reverend Phelps opened his Bible. “The Lord says there is a time for all seasons; a time to be born and a time to die.”

Mary Rose stared at the dark yawning hole. The rest of the minister’s words of comfort were a blur. Someone picked up a handful of dirt and pressed it into her palm.

“Lord, we commend the spirit of Daniel Michael Thornton to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said Reverend Phelps as she stepped up to the hole.

Six men stood, ropes gripped tightly in their hands. She turned her hand over, releasing the clay. The dirt fell with a thump onto the top of the plain wooden pine box, and slowly they lowered Daniel the rest of the way into the ground.

It was done.

It was final.

Daniel was gone and she stood alone.

Chapter Eight

He stood against the wall of her parlor and watched as one by one she spoke to each person who walked through the door and extended their condolences. Mary Rose Thornton possessed a unique calmness almost to the point of regality, her shoulders squared, her face serene. It seemed to him this woman was comforting those who mourned with her instead of the other way around.

She must be exhausted, he mused, for she had waited until both graves were covered before allowing him to escort her home. By the time they reached the yellow wood-framed home, the ladies of the town had moved the furniture around to accommodate the crowd streaming in to pay their respects. Trace took a deep breath. The aroma of fried chicken filled his nostrils and made his stomach rumble. He cast a glance at the dining room table. Numerous pieces of the succulent meat heaped two huge platters. He smiled, wondering if any barnyard fowl was left within a five-mile radius.

“Eat something, Marshal. You’ve had a long day too.”

He glanced in the direction of Mary Rose. “So has she,” he replied.

The Widow Hatfield sighed. “Yes, but she won’t stop until each person is greeted.” She paused, and he looked over at her. Her lips were shadowed by the beginnings of a grin. “Perhaps you can pull her away for a while?”

He grunted with skepticism. “I doubt she will listen to anything I have to say.”

The widow’s mouth twitched again. “I think you need a bit more confidence in your abilities.”

His brow puckered, and she gave a wink before moving on. His glance moved from her to the young woman near the door. With a sigh, he crossed the room, weaving through groups of people talking quietly among themselves. As he moved to her, he watched Caleb Gentry enter and sweep his hat from his head.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gentry.” Mary Rose extended her hand, and the freight clerk took it. “And for handling things until I can get back on my feet.”

“Miss Thornton, you needn’t worry,” Caleb reassured her.

Under Trace’s watchful gaze, she offered him a smile. “Still, it goes beyond what you need to do.”

“I hope you’ll be back soon?” he replied, leaning forward.

Trace found himself searching the man’s hands, looking for a wedding ring.