chapter Fifteen
Sliding his arm from under her head, Trace watched Mary Rose nestle beside him, sleeping in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Her soft breath blew across his chest. Trace stroked the damp strands of hair on her forehead and tried to understand the emotions that rushed from his groin to his heart, then resounded to his brain. He hadn’t given his heart to any woman since that dark-haired angel of Satan had stolen it.
Mary Rose had come to him willingly and given him the ultimate gift. It was not in his nature to deflower virgins. Rising as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her, he walked toward the window and leaned against the wall. From his vantage point, no one could see him, yet he could savor the breeze against his heated skin.
“What am I to do with you?” he murmured. Looking over his right shoulder, he studied the copper-headed nymph in his sheets. Honor dictated he should have pulled out, left the bed, refused to take her. A deep breath filled his lungs. But he hadn’t. No, the feel of her, the cries of wanting, urging to finish—he took the coward’s way out.
Now he must do the right thing. He took a deep breath and inhaled their musk still lingering in the air. He had done as Father Tomas asked. He had followed his heart. Yet so many questions remained. Did he love her? Could he love anyone else?
Closing his eyes, the image of Amelia filled his mind. His first love. Her supple body wrapped in the sheets as he burst through the door. His brother scrambling out from under her, and the anger that followed. When he’d asked her why, she laughed. Even now, the humiliation of being cuckolded hurt.
His eyes opened, and he glanced at Mary Rose. Somehow, she’d found a way around the stone wall he’d erected and thought impenetrable. At this moment, he could not imagine waking up without her by his side. But could he say he loved her?
Pondering how to make it right, he leaned upon his forearm and studied the movement along the street. They would marry, of course. He would not shame her and let others whisper behind her back. He would take time off from his duties and see her set in place as his wife on the ranch he owned just south of Republic.
“You are thinking too hard.”
Trace turned. Mary Rose moved to him without bothering to conceal her luscious body. The soft bounce of her round, firm breasts released the lustful monster hiding in his soul. Gazing down at the curve of her hip, to the silken curls at the juncture of her thighs that hid his delight, he could feel his body grow hard without a single brush of her finger.
Her head tilted as she studied him, as if she grasped the knowledge of his carnal thoughts. He nearly blushed.
“Woman,” he growled and pulled her to him. Her hair tumbled against his shoulder and the brush of her lips against his chest made him shiver. His hands roamed down her back to cup her bottom. She pressed closer. Feeling the points of her breasts against his skin, he sighed. “My little minx, what shall I do with you?” he asked, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.
Her bright face glowed as she looked at him. He knew what she wanted. He knew what he wanted, but there were things that needed discussion. Leaning down, he kissed the tip of her nose. She threaded her hand into the hair at the back of his head, then tipped her chin up and caught his mouth. Her tongue swirled around his lips, and he forgot reason. They waltzed back toward the bed, where her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and their lips parted.
“Rand will be returning soon,” he told her as she lay back upon the bed.
“Then we must be quick,” she sighed.
He bent down to kiss her. She pulled at his waist. Her thighs spread. His member glided into folds. Warm, moist, and so willing, she clutched him, pulling him deep. His hands grasped her legs and wrapped them around his waist, making his entry more pleasurable for them both, his lips brushing her cheek, the taste of her skin a delight.
He whispered in her ear, “When we marry, we will do this every night.” Instead of moving with him, he felt her go still, and he drew his head back to gaze into her face.
Her eyes widened. In the depth of those deep pools of blue, he read the confusion. What had he said? Her legs pulled away from him and she wiggled free. Trace’s ardor cooled.
“Marriage?” she gasped.
He heard the question, the disbelief in her voice. To his astonishment, she wrapped the sheet around her, hiding the sight of her body from his view. Had he been wrong about her?
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she rose to pick up her discarded clothing.
“What is wrong?”
She shook her head and dropped the sheet. With her back to him, Mary Rose pulled on her drawers, tied the ribbon, and slipped her camisole over her head. Trace could only stare.
“Mary Rose…” He began to walk around the bed toward her. “I said I am to marry you. Have you no answer?”
She drew her chemise over her head and dampened her lips. “I heard you,” she replied.
His heart skipped a beat. “And you’ve not answered.”
She shook her head.
He felt his heart plummet to his feet. “No?”
“No, I haven’t answered,” she whispered.
“Why?”
He watched her swallow before she replied, “Are you doing this because you feel it’s the right thing to do? Or is there another reason?”
“Querida,” he whispered. His hand slid around her neck and he pulled her to his chest. “I asked because I wanted to and because it is the right thing to do.” Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up to look into her eyes. “What troubles you?”
The color in her cheeks faded, and Trace watched her chin tremble. “I need to know that you, when we—” She halted her thoughts and took a deep breath.
“It’s for the right reasons,” he said, and let his hands fall to his side. His joy in asking her was replaced with anger and hurt. “It is right. I will get Father Tomas, and we will seal our vows. You will see it is right,” he said with an emotional detachment.
“Right? Right for you or right for me?”
He turned and unleashed his anger on his clothes, yanking them onto his body. “We must do what is right before God. I realize you have not had time to think. Take this afternoon, and we will talk tonight. I will pick you up at five for dinner at the hotel.”
“An afternoon. How generous of you, Marshal. You want to marry me because I was a virgin.” She stood quietly in the room, her arms folded about her body.
“I will marry you because it is the right thing to do.” Trace knew he sounded sharp. He wished he could take the bitter edge from his words. He sighed and walked over to her. His hands on her arms, he moved his palms up and down, hoping to bring warmth back to her body. “I am doing this, my Irish Rose, not because I took your virtue, but because I wish it.”
She glanced up. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Softening, he smiled. “I told you the other day we would come together. Nothing can stop us, and nothing can keep us apart. You will be my wife.” He kissed her gently. “Now hurry, for Rand will be returning. I will wait for you downstairs.” Leaving her with a smile, he went down the stairs to unlock the front door.
****
The thrill, the glow of romance, faded in an instant. Mary Rose turned and picked up her blouse, drawing it across her arms. He was offering her marriage because of his blasted honor. She knew it, even though he didn’t admit it. She sat down heavily on the bed and ran her hands over the rumpled sheets.
She might have believed him if he’d said he loved her. The words “let me make love to you” didn’t have the same ring. She sighed and slid a slipper onto her foot. It had been so easy to give her heart. Why didn’t he? What had that woman done to so crush his heart that he could not say those simple words, I love you? Lying back across the bed, she closed her eyes and crushed his pillow to her chest.
She wanted to breathe in the scent of him. Could she marry without his words of commitment? Her breasts prickled against her blouse, and she knew the truth. Yes, I could marry him, and every night I could lie with him, making love, holding on to whatever happiness I could find, and praying one day he would feel the same.
Below her, the door opened, and she heard the sound of Trace’s voice speaking to Rand. Mary Rose stood and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt, then tucked her blouse in at the waistline. There was no doubt in her mind that her face would tell Rand what they had been doing. She ran her fingers through her hair and did her best to push it back into place. With one last look in the small mirror on the wall, she moved quietly down the stairs.
Halfway down the stairs, she paused. The voices were louder, and she pushed her hair behind her ears as if that would allow her to better hear what was said.
“So, did you get things worked out?” Rand’s voice drifted up to her.
“We will marry,” Trace answered. “No one will dare confront a marshal’s wife.”
Her throat tightened. Oh, yes, things worked out the only way you saw them. She sighed quietly, putting aside the rankled feelings that made her shoulders grow tense.
“Any sign of the army?”
“Tomorrow,” the sheriff replied. “I expect him here on the stage sometime around noon.” She heard the sound of papers being shuffled and smelled coffee. “Do you think the army might put up some fuss if those rifles aren’t found?”
“Don’t know.” Trace’s voice carried around the corner of the hallway. “The government in Austin is pretty messed up with all the reconstruction heads. Why?”
Rand’s chair squeaked. “We may have a problem.”
“How so?”
Her knees went weak.
“The bank manager came by to see me today while I was at the hotel. It seems he’s heard some rumors that the army might place some sort of lien on her business.”
“Make her pay for the rifles? Don’t worry. It makes no difference. Once we are married, the business can be sold to make up the cost. As my wife, she will not need to work.”
Something struck her square in the stomach. The world spun. She settled down against the steps and hugged her skirt close to her legs. The main room of the sheriff’s office grew silent.
“Have you talked to her about this?” Rand questioned. “She’s a mighty strong woman. I can’t see her just giving up and selling.”
“When we marry, she will have much to do. She is a woman. She will forget this foolish notion of business.”
“Perhaps.” The sheriff groaned. “But I think you might have a tiger by the tail on this one, Marshal.”
She came to her feet and brushed away the dampness that had somehow found its way to her cheeks. She needed to stop this conversation before she heard any more. Moving back to the landing, she stomped heavily down the stairs so her footsteps would be heard. Plastering a smile on her face, she swung around the corner and through the doorway with a glance at Trace.
He stood by the stove, holding a cup of coffee, but when he saw her, he put the cup down and crossed to her side. “Mary Rose.” His voice was low and possessive.
His arm slid around her waist, and she steadied her nerves and relaxed in his grasp, then allowed him to pull her close. With her eyes closed, she enjoyed the brush of his silken lips against her cheek. For a brief moment, she was back upstairs, in his arms, under the spell of his skillful manipulation. Just as quickly, he pulled back, and the spell broke.
“Trace,” she whispered before facing the sheriff.
Rand Weston looked away. She noticed the slight tinge of red to his cheeks. Yes, everything that had happened upstairs seemed to be an open book.
“Sheriff, did I hear you say something about the officer from the fort?” she managed to ask.
He looked up, said, “Yes,” and repeated what he’d told Trace.
“I see. Well, if it will help bring all this to a close, that will be wonderful.” She turned and looked up at Trace. His glance masked, she wondered what information she had not heard.
“Let me walk you back to the freight office,” he replied, moving toward his hat on the chair.
She brought her hand up against her arm. She felt cold and alone. An emptiness filled her stomach where before there had been only exhilaration. “I-I think I’d like to go home, please.”
Her statement seemed to cause the room to still. She glanced over at Sheriff Weston. His pencil paused in midair, and she followed his glance to Trace, who stood by the doorway. “It’s nearly four. I need to get some things done at the house. On the way, we can walk over to the freight office and tell Mr. Gentry to close up.”
She watched Trace moved toward her, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and pushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “Yes, I—well,” she stammered, then blurted out the only thing that came to her mind. “You said you wanted to take me to supper. I thought I’d change.”
She watched the relief flow through him.
“Yes, yes, of course, my dear,” he replied, offering her his arm.
She tucked her hand into his elbow, a part of her yearning for the use of that little word querida. For some reason, “dear” from his mouth did not give her the same chills and anticipation. How sad, she thought, as they moved toward the door.
“I will return,” he told the sheriff as he ushered her out the door.
Although she stepped into the sun she felt cold, as if her soul lay bare. Her eyes closed and, with a tilt of her chin, she brought her face fully beneath the warmth of the beams, yet even they didn’t feel warm enough to soothe the chill from her bones. His hand found the small of her back and, before she could stop it, a flinch tremored through her.
“Did I scare you?”
Her eyes opened. “I wasn’t expecting it,” she replied in all honesty.
He took her elbow between his fingers and guided her down the boardwalk. Her body felt drawn to him. She glanced down, yet there were no visible signs of rope or barbed wire to link them. But the brand was there—the brush of his leg against her hip, the precision of their steps. If she were to lay a hand upon his chest, no doubt their hearts beat as one. Yet the grain of sand that rubbed her raw was the leader in the fence being built between them. All because he refused to say the words she deeply needed to hear: “I love you.”
“I will find a priest and we will marry.” The words echoed in her mind. She dampened the edge of her lips with her tongue and gave a shy glance beneath her lashes to the man beside her. The swell of her heart filled her with yearning. If only she could turn back those hands of time and somehow get him to say those all-important words.
“We are here.”
His words jolted her out of her reverie. Mary Rose glanced around and found herself standing before the freight office. Oddly, she had no desire to go in. Her hesitation must have been noticeable.
“Do you want me to walk you inside to tell Gentry?”
She turned. “No.”
His face took on a puzzled expression. She gave a nervous laugh. “What I mean is, I’d like for you to wait while I give Mr. Gentry some closing instructions. When we leave here, I would like to get some things and go over to the hotel.” She felt a blush creep up her neckline. “For a bath.”
Instead of being upset, he took her hand. “Of course,” he agreed, as if this happened every day. “Go speak to Mr. Gentry. I will wait here.”
With a nod of her head, Mary Rose moved up the steps, crossed the platform, and saw the door still closed. A look through the glass panel told her the office seemed empty. She took a step back, but no sign was on the door. Grasping the handle, she turned it and entered.
****
Trace watched her climb the steps and disappear into the shadows toward the office. The loud banging of a hammer drew him, and he moved across to the open barn where two men were busy taking the hubs off the wagon wheels and liberally applying grease.
His shadow blocked the light, and the men looked up. The large man swinging the heavy hammer narrowed his gaze. “Can I help you?”
“Marshal Castillo,” Trace replied.
The two men exchanged a glance. The second man rose from his crouched position. Trace could see they were making a consolidated front.
“I’m here to find Daniel Thornton’s killer. Can you tell me about Moe Horne?”
“Moe drove for the company. He was sort of a solitary fellow.”
He nodded. “Did he live around here?”
“Had a room over at Lucille’s. With him dead, I reckon she’ll be cleaning out his things sometime today.”
Lucille’s? He turned the name over in his thoughts, then remembered seeing the boarding house down past the saloon. “Thanks.” With a nod and a touch of his brim, he began to turn away, then swung back and gestured toward the wagon. “Tell me, do you do that before every run?”
The men looked down at the wagon joint now fully exposed. “Most drivers take care of their own equipment. Daniel kept the supplies, and we maintain the equipment.”
He nodded. “So you’d know where you were going? I mean, whether it was a long haul or short?”
“Yeah,” the second man replied. “We’d get a list of runs for the week, with the destinations.”
“How’d you get ’em?”
“Gentry would give them out at the end of the week, with the pay.”
“So Gentry knew.”
The tall man shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t privy to that. I know the envelopes were sealed, so I assumed Mr. Thornton did it.”
Trace nodded. “Yes, makes sense.”
“Marshal?” Mary Rose’s voice called out.
“Gents,” he nodded again and walked away. Interesting, he thought as he walked toward where she stood. “Find Mr. Gentry? Will he lock up?”
She gave a nod.
“Then, are you ready?”
“Yes, please.”