Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose (8 page)

Closing her eyes, she listened to the click-clack of Widow Hatfield’s wooden knitting needles as she added stitches onto the growing blue shawl. She’d told the sheriff that the marshal promised to bring her brother’s body and Moe’s from the spring. She wanted to remain awake for that. It was so important for her to regain control. She wanted to know that her brother’s body was back and that he’d be buried in the churchyard.

Mary Rose’s chest burned with raw emotion.
How can I carry on without my brother?
They were like a matched pair of horses. Both of them had been determined to see the freight business catch on and grow, and they were close, so close, to making it a success. Her eyes flashed open, and she stared at the ceiling.
Who can I get to drive?
Will they recover the missing wagon?
The dull ache behind her eyes began again. She blew out a deep breath and heard the widow’s needles come to a halt.

“You need anything, dear?”

She turned her face toward the widow’s round one and whispered, “No, I’m fine. I’d just like to get out of this bed.”

Mrs. Hatfield lifted the corners of her mouth. But no pleasant smile could hide the pity in her eyes. It drew Mary Rose’s wrath. She didn’t need sympathy. She needed someone to find the men who did this to her brother and to Moe. Bless her! She wanted revenge. She wanted those men to pay for destroying her life. She wanted to punish them the same way they had punished her.

“I’m right here if you need me or need a shoulder to cry on.” The widow remarked, picking up the pace of her needles.

The sound seemed to mark the passing of time. Mary Rose needed to think of persuasive arguments to get the marshal to help her find these men. If only she had two good hands. She sighed and laid her good arm over her face to shield it from the light.

“Ah, Mrs. Hatfield.” Doctor Martin’s voice made both women jump.

“Land sakes,” the widow gasped, her hand flying to her heart as she captured both needles in one hand. “You gave me quite a fright.”

“Pardon,” he replied.

Mary Rose moved her arm and watched as he came in and opened a cabinet, fishing out a square of blue material, and she caught the twinkle in his eyes, as if he’d startled the widow on purpose. “I’m thinking Miss Thornton might like to get up for a bit.”

Eagerly, she pushed back the covers and attempted to pull her body erect.

“Hold on there,” Doc Martin fussed. He and the widow helped her ease into a sitting position. Mary Rose could tell her heart raced, but it felt so good to be sitting upright.

“No black spots?” he asked, searching her face.

“None.”

With a nod, he leaned forward to tie the ends of the sling around her neck. “This may hurt,” he warned her as he eased her arm inside.

She held her breath. There was a bit of pull, but the pain seemed manageable. “I’d like my robe,” she said, looking over at the widow. “Would you go to my house and get it?”

“Of course, sweets.” The widow nodded. “I’ll bring a brush and a few things to make you look tidy, too. That nice young man will be stopping back by, won’t he?”

“Yes.” Mary Rose’s mouth pulled a bit downwards at the thought of his destination.

“Go ahead and get those things, Mrs. Hatfield,” Doc Martin told her. “I can get her over to the chair.”

She watched the widow leave and then returned her attention to the doctor, who seemed preoccupied, fiddling with the elbow end of the sling. “Whatever it is you are going to admonish me for, get it over with.”

Doc Martin looked up at her. His eyes held a father’s glare. “I’ve known you since you were a skinny filly, Mary Rose. You’ve been a bit too silent all morning. I’m here to tell you to put those notions out of your head about going after whoever killed your brother.”

“My family is my business. I want to bring those villains to justice.”

“You let the law handle this, my dear girl.” He waggled his finger just beneath her nose.

She reached up and swatted his hand away. “I’ve a business to run. I’ll let the law do their job, but I won’t stand for them to forget it, either.”

The doctor stepped back. “Fair enough. Let’s get you over to that chair for a bit. The widow’s brought some fried chicken for lunch. I hear it’s legendary.”

He helped her to stand, and with slow steady steps she reached the cushioned chair. Feeling a bit lightheaded, she turned, bent her knees, and sat. Her eyes closed for a count of ten and when she opened them, the room had stopped moving. Satisfied, she glanced up at the doctor and smiled. “It sounds like you’re testing the waters for a new wife?”

“Bite your tongue, young lady,” he snapped, but she noted he left whistling a tune.

Sitting there alone, she watched the scene outside her window. A few horses and their riders crossed the street as they made their way toward the other end of town. Along the boardwalk, she could see the foot traffic as the ladies of Cobb’s Crossing sought shade from the noonday heat. However, it was the creak of a wagon that garnered her alert attention.

She held her breath and watched the buckboard with two men move slowly across her field of vision. A sharp pain twisted against her heart as she caught a glimpse of the two pine boxes in the back. “I won’t let this go unchallenged, Daniel. I’ll bring them to justice.” She paused and took a ragged breath. “So help me, God, even if it takes my last breath.”

Chapter Six

Afternoon’s shadows were long as the undertaker’s wagon pulled back along the main street of Cobb’s Crossing. Trace swayed with the slow steady movement of the horses. Their hoofbeats against the earth pounded out a funeral dirge in heavy clops, a melancholy tune that called the citizens of Cobb’s Crossing to put away their livelihood and step to the edge of the boardwalk out of respect for the dead.

One by one, shop doors opened and people moved to line the street. Men removed their hats. Women held rambunctious children by the shoulders to keep them still. No man could earn any greater respect. It was evident that word of Daniel Thornton’s death had spread like a prairie wildfire throughout this small town.

All eyes concentrated on Trace and the badge he wore pinned to his chest. He kept his eyes focused on the hotel up ahead and watched Rand step off the porch, then head toward the undertaker’s. As sheriff, Rand would want to see the bodies and perhaps even have the doctor confirm the cause of death, even though it was quite evident. Then they would compare notes to see if any clues emerged.

The road broadened and branched off. A force stronger than his will power turned Trace’s gaze. The low white house stood out against the two taller buildings. His eyes raked the porch. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, until the door opened.

Trace felt his heart rise as she walked to the edge of the porch. With the doctor close by, Mary Rose’s foot moved down to the first step. The sunlight caught strands of hair, sending flames along the shades of copper. He wondered if her eyes searched for him or if she even cared. Yet he knew. He could feel the gaze of deep blue staring at him, making sure he’d done the right thing. He’d promised to see her as soon as the bodies were settled. A pledge like that a man didn’t soon forget, nor would she. Mr. Malone turned the wagon, and their long gaze ended.

Rand stood in quiet respect as they pulled to a stop in the alleyway. Trace swung down and fell in behind the two men hired by the undertaker to help remove the bodies. Reaching into the wagon, they grabbed the rope handles and pulled the pine box to them. Another set of boots came into view beside the wagon. He looked up to find the sheriff positioned at the other corner.

“This way, gentlemen.” Mr. Malone pushed the double doors wide so they could maneuver through. Working together, the four men carried the two caskets into the workroom one by one and placed them on the pine tables provided. Trace stared at the closed lids and paid his respects before stepping back.

Leaving the undertaker to do his work under the sheriff’s supervision, Trace headed for the open doors of the workroom, where the two workers stood, hats in hand. “Thank you, thank you both,” he murmured and shook both men’s hands. “Miss Thornton requested you be paid for your services.” He pressed a ten-dollar gold piece into each palm. “I would also like to remind you to keep what you saw to yourself.”

“Yes, sir, Marshal,” they both agreed.

“Thank you,” he replied again and watched the men walk off.

Just then Doc Martin came hurrying over to find Rand. They talked quietly for a moment before the doctor moved toward the boxes and Rand stepped away to await his findings. Holding his hat between his hands, Trace walked back to where the sheriff stood.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice. A nice thing to do,” Rand said.

Trace looked off out the doorway and pretended to be watching the street. “The least I could do.”

“Of course,” Rand replied. “The least you could do. I dare say you won’t even bother to tell her.”

Trace let the jab pass. They stood passively and waited until Mr. Malone looked over to them.

“Do you need to see the bodies any more, or can we close them up?”

Rand looked at Trace. He shook his head. In truth, he’d seen enough. Yesterday, when he found them, and then today when removing them from their temporary resting place to bring them back here. No, he wanted no further reminders.

“If the doc’s through, close them up.”

Behind him, he could hear the three men talking. He stared into the distance, thinking of Mary Rose, how she’d looked when he passed by. The agonized expression scrawled across her face. How could he find the words to question her about Daniel’s death?

The coarse words spilling from Rand’s mouth drew him back to the present. The sheriff stepped beside him and paused, his lips thin, his face a bit green. Even the strongest lawman felt his gut twist when he viewed a man who’d been so viciously mutilated. Trace understood and waited.

“I need a drink.”

With the sheriff in the lead, Trace fell into step behind him. Neither spoke as they moved to the porch surrounding the Tomahawk and pushed their way through the swinging doors. Inside, away from the sun, the shadows lay long and cool. Rand moved to the bar and motioned for the barkeep. “Two shots.”

Trace eased beside his friend and hooked the right heel of his boot against the brass rail. The whiskey gurgled from the bottle, and Rand shoved a shot glass with a neat two fingers’ worth towards him.

“To Daniel Thornton,” he mumbled and lifted his glass.

Following the sheriff’s lead, Trace did the same, repeating the words as their glasses clinked. Rand tossed back the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar, his eyes watering as he swallowed.

“I suppose I could blame it on the heat,” he gasped as he poured himself another shot. “I didn’t expect them to be so bad.”

Trace took a sip of his own drink. “We haven’t had a lot of time to discuss their condition.” He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the rich woody flavor of the whiskey. “I told the undertaker to nail those lids closed.”

Rand stared at his drink. “Probably for the best.”

“I thought so,” he agreed and brushed the thoughts of Mary Rose’s objections from his mind.

The sheriff whirled, his face as fierce as anytime Trace had known him. “I want you to promise me you’ll never let her come near that undertaker. I want those bodies in the ground so fast she won’t have time to demand to see ’em.”

Finishing off his drink, Trace caught the tense expression in the mirror behind the bar, and his voice hardened. “You have my word. She will never see those bodies.”

Rand nodded. “Good.”

Trace pushed the glass away and motioned for the barkeep. “Coffee. Make it hot.”

The sheriff glanced over with a curious expression.

“I will not go to a woman in mourning with whiskey on my breath,” he commented. “I am a man of honor.”

****

Mary Rose needed to walk, to pace. The wagon had returned, and it seemed like hours had passed, yet still no sign of the marshal. She sat down on a delicately carved velvet chair in Doctor Martin’s parlor and stared at the door, willing him to come. She could hear pots and pans banging in the kitchen, and every once in a while the sounds were punctuated by the widow’s voice or the doctor’s words. She did her best to ignore them.

Looking down, she fingered the heavy cloth of her wrapper, wishing there was time to dress and meet him properly. She looked a mess, and she knew it. The widow had tried to tame those wild curls of hers by pulling them to the nape of her neck in a clip. Rebellious as always, a few strands made their way out and hung gracefully in spirals by her cheeks. She wondered why it even mattered. Yet, deep down, the yearning to look her best for this man had taken root.

Had she changed?
She was still the same Mary Rose Thornton, part owner of Thornton Freight, but something deep inside had shifted. The marshal had awakened the womanly side of her that had for so long lain dormant, refreshing her senses and shifting them close to the surface. Blowing out a breath, she willed her thoughts to focus on nothing as she closed her eyes and let her mind go blank.

In the shadows, behind her lashes, she heard it. The crunch of boots and the chink of silver spurs. Her stomach rolled as the sound moved across her skin; goose bumps prickled her flesh. Her ears echoed with the sound, and her breathing increased as it drew closer. Her heart skipped a beat at the telltale thump of a foot upon the porch. Her eyes opened wide and she rose from the chair.

His soft knock unleashed a flutter of butterflies to circle in her belly. She glanced toward the kitchen, but no one appeared. She smoothed the fabric of her clothing with her good palm, then walked to the door. Reaching out to grasp the doorknob, she noticed the slight tremble of her fingers.
Breathe, you fool
, she reminded herself, and tried to steady her hand. Another light knock reverberated through the wood.