Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (5 page)

He watched her head roll as she opened her eyes and leaned to grasp the pommel. With a firm hand upon her back, he kicked free of the stirrups and scooted back. He let go long enough to slither off the rump of the horse and moved quickly to the side as she slipped from the saddle to pool in his arms. “It’s all right. I have you,” he whispered, and carried her boneless body past the stunned man to the doctor’s door.

He paused and looked back. “The door locked?”

“Yeah, Doc says...” The man never had a chance to finish.

Trace stepped up, shifted the burden in his arms, and raised his right leg. Lashing out, he kicked the door open, breaking the wooden panel and splintering the doorjamb.

“Hey! You can’t do that,” the townsman spoke up, following him into the house.

Instead of answering, Trace gave another order. “Light a lamp.”

The cold tone jerked the man to action. He scooted past, giving Trace a wide berth, mumbling under his breath. In moments, a match scrawled across the wood, burst into flame, and the yellow light from the kerosene lamp chased the shadows from the room.

“Where does he see patients?”

The man put the globe back on the lamp and pointed, “Room on the right.”

“Bring the light,” Trace ordered as he moved to the indicated room.

The light revealed a narrow poster bed covered by a patchwork comforter, a few glass cabinets, and a counter with labeled bottles across the back. The man placed the lamp on the nightstand and backed out of the way so Trace could lay Mary Rose upon the bed.

“We’ll need water,” Trace told him.

“Can go for it right now.” The man disappeared.

Trace looked down on the unconscious form of the young woman. On the table beside the bed lay a small hand towel. He picked it up and mopped the perspiration from her brow. “You’re going to be just fine.”

She sighed and turned her head toward him, licking her dry lips. Trace stared. He wanted to see those soft blue eyes look to him. To his sorrow, they remained closed. Footsteps echoed in the back of the house, and a metal door squeaked. The man who followed him must be building a fire to heat the water.

Trace marveled at the girl’s pluck to have made it this far. Reaching out, he trailed the back of his forefinger along her damp cheek and pulled a copper curl aside. “If only all women could be this uncomplicated,” he murmured.

A second set of footsteps echoed in the house, and he heard a voice boom out, “What’s going on here, Clyde? Mack interrupted my dinner, and now my door’s been busted down.”

“Miss Thornton’s been hurt. You need to talk to that feller in there.”

“In here?” The older man questioned as he entered and gave Trace a hawkeyed look. He took a step, his eyes narrowed below his white bushy brows, unsure of what to expect. “I’m Doctor Martin.” Trace watched his gaze roll over him and pause at the star on his chest.

Dressed in a dark suit, the portly gentleman ignored the questions that might be tumbling through his mind and instead stripped his jacket off. “You want ta tell me what happened?” he asked, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

“Found her shot,” Trace replied. It seemed prudent to use only the information needed until he spoke to Rand.

Doctor Martin turned with a hard glare. Trace felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar as the doctor’s eyebrows arched toward what was left of his hairline.

“I see,” he replied, and stepped to the bed to lift the edge of her torn sleeve. Grimacing, he shot Trace another glare. “Did the bullet go through?”

“Cut a deep path along her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Got your water,” Clyde called out, bringing in a pitcher.

“Pour some in the bowl,” the doctor said as he moved to the cabinet. “Clyde, heat another pot and sterilize these instruments for me.”

“Will do,” he replied. Taking the towel-wrapped bundle, he left the room.

Trace’s feet seemed glued to the floorboards. He stared down at Mary Rose, a feeling of uselessness overtaking him. Behind him, he could hear the clink of bottles as the doctor rummaged around his cabinet. “Come here, young man.” Grunting from the effort, Doc Martin brought out a tall brown bottle and pulled the cork from the neck. “Son, I want you to pour this over my hands.”

He stepped over and took the proffered bottle.

“It’s my last bottle of good Kentucky bourbon.” He glanced back at the woman, and Trace followed his gaze. “But it will kill the germs.” Doc Martin placed his hands over the basin. “All right, pour,” he said.

Trace tilted the bottle and poured the liquor across the man’s hands and wrists while the doctor rubbed them together.

“I know, seems a shame.” He nodded to indicate he’d finished. “But, it’s the one thing we learned in that late great unpleasantness. Germs kill quicker than we do.” He jerked his head in the direction of the towels on the counter. “Hand me one.”

As Doc Martin wiped away the liquor, Trace felt his intense gaze studying his face. “I can see you wear a star, but, for the record, who are you?”

“You won’t remember him, Doc. That’s Trace Castillo,” Randall Weston said as he stepped into the room and leaned against the doorway. “From down near San Antonio.”

“He’s the one that you tell followed you around?” Doc Martin acted surprised.

“One and the same, only he’s a U.S. Marshal now.” Rand glanced over at the unconscious girl, and his expression grew grim. “Where’d this happen?”

“Out at Cottonwood Springs,” Trace replied. “Found her hurt. Her brother and Moe Horne are both dead.”

Rand’s face blanched. “Perhaps you and I need to find some place to split words as soon as the doctor’s finished.”

Doc Martin looked at the sheriff. “Can you get Clyde to head over to Widow Hatfield’s? For the sake of common decency, I’ll need a woman to help me.”

Rand turned and, half in and half out the doorway, said, “I’ll go. I saw her peeking through the lace curtains when I hurried over.”

As the sheriff left, Trace stepped out of the doctor’s light.

“Hand me those scissors on the counter and light the lamp on the other side of the bed.”

Following the doctor’s order, he handed the scissors to him before lighting the second kerosene lamp. The scissors bit through the material with a snap. “Any idea who did this?”

“Nope. I was riding back from the Willard place and found them.”

“Hey, Doc, got yer hot water here,” Clyde called out, coming through from the kitchen.

“In the basin,” he ordered. Looking back at Trace, he gestured toward her boots. “Best get those boots off her.”

While the doctor moved to instruct Clyde on where to put the water, Trace crossed to the foot of the bed.

So small. She barely took any room on the single bed. He noticed the dark circles marring her cream-colored skin beneath those long, smoky lashes and the copper-colored curls that streamed across the pillow. Bending over, he ran his hand up the long brown leather of her riding boot and broke the leather’s hold to pull them from her legs.

As he worked, Trace filled his mind with the thoughts about the men who would do such a thing to a defenseless woman like her.
Why would they have singled her out
?
What possibly could this innocent have done
? For now, he would appoint himself her protector, and he would be the one to exact retribution for this injustice. He held on to the second foot for just a moment, then eased her other leg back down to the covers.

Doc Martin came back across the room, his hands ruddy pink from another wash. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Trace’s stomach looped in knots as the doctor, with a twitch of his jaw, lifted the first bandages off. “She gonna be all right?” he asked, his hands tightening against the metal of the foot rail.

Doc Martin looked up and gave him a fatherly evil eye. “I think she’ll make it, barring infection. It will be a tough few days.” He looked back at Mary Rose but asked Trace, “You plan on sticking around?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here. I have too many questions and not enough answers,” Trace replied.

Their conversation was cut short by a cry from the other room. “Land sakes,” a woman’s voice echoed. “Where is that lamb?”

Like a small whirlwind, the Widow Hatfield barreled into the room and paused. “John Martin, you called?”

“Wash up, Louisa. I’ll need your assistance. I’ve got a wound to cauterize.”

“Wash up, indeed.” She harrumphed and moved toward the wash pan.

Trace caught Rand’s glance and backed away from the bed. He hated leaving the woman, but with a deep breath he moved toward the doorway. “You,” he said, spying Clyde. The man jumped. “Follow me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stepping out to his horse, he slid his Winchester from the scabbard and tossed it to Clyde, who caught it with both hands. “It’s got two shots,” he told him. “One for a warning and the second to put a bullet between the eyes of the first person you don’t know that comes to that door.”

“Only two?” Clyde asked.

Trace looked at him with a cold-eyed stare. “You won’t need a third. By that time, I’ll be here.”

Clyde’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed the information. “I’ll just go and sit in the doorway, there.” He pointed.

“You do that.” Trace agreed. “You just do that.”

Chapter Four

Like most lawmen, short on sleep, Rand preferred his coffee strong, hot, and black. Trace could feel the heat from the cup as it was placed before him. Using an old army trick, he dropped a spoon into it to absorb the heat. That action brought a chuckle from Rand as he settled into the chair across from the desk. “You think that will help?” he asked, gesturing with his own mug toward Trace’s cup.

“Can’t hurt,” Trace replied, sitting back to let it cool. “Your coffee is legendary.”

“So I’ve been told,” Rand agreed. He took a breath and grew somber. “You want to tell me how all this happened?”

“I followed your lead and went out to the Willard place,” he began. “On the way back to town, I came up to the range from Rustler’s Way and spotted smoke rising from the spring. I rode in to investigate and found the two men dead, a wagon still on fire, and Miss Thornton hiding in the scrub trees along the spring.”

“Damn.” The sheriff shook his head. “This makes no sense. I’ve never known the Thorntons to have an enemy.”

“My guess, it was something in the wagons. Do you know what was in the shipment?”

Rand shook his head. “Nope, I haven’t talked to them in a while.”

Trace watched as he took a deep breath.

“How’d the men die?”

“Both were shot in the chest, then scalped.” Trace picked up his cup and took a sip of the strong brew to squash the bile in his throat. “Or so I hope.”

The room grew silent. With a voice laced in raw emotion, Rand said, “No man deserves to meet his Maker under those circumstances. Do you think she saw it?”

“I don’t think she saw the actual murders,” Trace replied. “I think she was shot and fell back down the slope toward the spring. She probably woke up later and found them. I bet that’s why she hid in the scrub.”

Rand shook his head. “I really wish she hadn’t seen her brother like that. In any case, we’re lucky something else didn’t happen to her. Perhaps there is honor among thieves?”

As Trace watched Rand, his mouth soured, and he put his cup down in disgust, recalling the fear he’d seen in her eyes. “I doubt it. Maybe what they found in those wagons was more important than her.”

Rand glanced over at him, face serious. “I gotta wonder, Trace. Both men being scalped, could it have been our group of renegades?”

In truth, he had been contemplating the same thing the whole way back from the spring. “It makes sense,” he agreed. “I could see both shod and unshod pony tracks.”

“But why take the wagon?” Rand sat back. “They usually haul between here and the fort with goods for the stores, mostly pretty doodads for the ladies.” He shook his head. “Just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Did Thornton know about the attack on the Willard place?”

Rand looked up. “I reckon so. Everyone in town came to the funeral.”

“Why would a man take a woman on a slow-moving freight wagon if he knew of such danger?” Trace murmured. He looked at the liquid in his cup and snorted.
No doubt she batted her lashes at him and pouted
. Yet it made little sense that her own brother would put her in danger.

Rising from his chair, he moved to the windows lining the front of the building and stared out. He paused and collected himself before glancing back at Rand with a sober expression. “Was this Daniel Thornton always irresponsible when it came to women, or was it just because his sister was used to getting her own way?”

“Hold on there, Marshal. Stand down.” Rand’s voice became stern.

“She was manhandled by the other driver here in the street just the other day,” Trace reminded him. “You saw that.”

“Moe Horne didn’t have sense enough to harm a woman,” the sheriff replied.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. The Thorntons gave him a job when others refused. Moe wasn’t exactly the smartest cookie in the box. I think that saber wound in the face did something to his mind. But Moe’s worked for them over a year now, and this is the first I’ve heard of him making a play for Mary Rose.”

Trace snorted. “You know how women are when they want their way. He might have felt justified in demanding she ride with him.”

“Get that hot end of your Spanish blood under control,” Rand barked. Rising, he stormed his way across the floor to confront him. “Daniel was no fool. She was as safe with him as on the stage.” The sheriff’s finger became a dagger poking into his chest. “That man loved his sister—practically raised her on his own. He’d never put her in danger.”

Rand abruptly stopped. His eyes narrowed. He stared straight at Trace. “But this isn’t so much about Mary Rose, is it?” The edges of his mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Unless you are putting her in the same box as Amelia?”