chapter Three
Trace glanced at the woman sitting on the ground, all her fight and bluster from yesterday gone, her despair all too easy to read. The focus of her gaze locked on the mound that held the body of her loved one beneath the Texas soil. A part of him ached for the hurt she’d suffered; the other half wished her husband were still alive—so he might throttle him for putting her through this ordeal.
He didn’t have the luxury of letting her rest and regroup. They needed to move on. The sooner he got her to town, the quicker he would be released of his burden. She needed a doctor. His rude attempts had served enough to stop the bleeding, yet he worried about infection. Leaning down, he pulled the cinch tight and stood to remove the stirrup from the saddlehorn. While she rested, he had gone back, made two crude crosses from plain pieces of broken crate. The piece with the markings he placed safely into his saddlebags.
Now at her side, he crouched down to her eye level, and she swung her gaze toward him, away from the graves.
“What will happen now?” she asked, deep anguish filling her voice.
One look into her wounded blue eyes and the urge to protect her nearly stole his breath. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, but her haunting stare tore at his soul. “We get you to town and to a doctor.”
Her gaze moved back to the graves. “He teased me about the red paint, you know,” she sniffed. “He said no self-respecting Irishman would be caught d-dead in that despicable color.”
Trace heard her swallow roughly before she continued.
“And now…” Her voice trailed off.
He watched the dark, smoky lashes fall to her cheek, followed by a ragged breath. His stare hardened. “You mustn’t think about such things,” he advised.
The lashes rose. Eyes damp with unshed tears gazed up at him. “How do I not?” Her chin trembled. “My vanity...”
“Had nothing to do with this,” Trace interrupted, his voice stern enough to make her jump. He could see her glance that begged him for some sort of absolution. Yet he didn’t have it to give. Instead, he dug his hands into his pockets in search of his knife. His next actions would bring her even more pain, and he hated himself for it.
Pulling his pocketknife out, Trace opened the blade. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the nervous glance. He paused and looked into the haunted eyes whose gaze darted to his hands.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Don’t move,” he assured her. “I’m going to cut off this sleeve.” He inserted the blade in the stitching around the shoulder and placed his fingers in the slit. With one good yank, the stiffened fabric fell away.
“Your arm will be better if it’s not moved,” he explained. “This won’t be fancy, but it will work.” He could only wonder what she was thinking as he grabbed the top of the sleeve with both hands and ripped it in two. Tying the ends together, he fashioned a crude sling.
“I’m going to tie this around your neck.” Leaning forward, he lifted the mass of unruly curls off her neck and placed the sling over her head. So close, he could see a dusting of freckles across her pert nose, and looking up he found her gaze upon him. Ill at ease from her earnest attention, he adjusted the material against her skin.
“You’re upset,” she murmured.
“I am angry that you were hurt. Your husband received fair warning that you belonged on the stage. He didn’t listen. Now this.” The ends of his mouth pulled in displeasure. “There, now, let’s get this arm in, and we’ll go back to town.”
He grasped her arm at the wrist and elbow, and his fingertips brushed across the soft skin of her arm. He took note of the anxiety in her face. “It may hurt.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Just try to breathe,” he reminded her as he eased the arm across the cloth.
She inhaled sharply and let out a shuddering groan that cut him to the quick, but in a moment it was done.
“If you’re ready, I’ll help you get to your feet.”
She gave a small nod. Standing, he moved around to the other side. “Put your good arm around me.”
She did and leaned into him. “He is not my husband, you know.”
Trace’s heart thudded against his chest. He braced her with his shoulder, and her arm crawled to his neck. He wasn’t her husband. A flicker of hope somehow found its way to his chest. He couldn’t think about it now. He had a job to do. Encircling her waist, he placed the other arm beneath her knees. “On the count of three. One…two…” He felt her hand gather the fullness of his shirt. “Three.” She came up into his arms with a startled cry and buried her head into his shoulder.
“It’s almost over,” he murmured against her hair as he moved to his horse and lifted her to the saddle. “Swing your leg over.”
He held her waist while she drew her leg clumsily over the horn. “Now hold on, while I get aboard.”
He placed a hand on the pommel and one on the cantle behind her.
“I don’t recall your name.”
Trace paused and looked up. Her face seemed flushed and her eyes shimmered. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stop his heart from turning over and plummeting to his boots. “My name is Trace Castillo. I’m a U.S. Marshal, at your service,” he replied, with a tilt of his head in a bow.
“I’m Mary Rose Thornton,” she said. “And I’d like to go home.”
She moved her leg forward and allowed him to get a better foothold in the stirrup as he swung on board.
“Steady,” he called to his mount, letting him adjust to the weight of two upon his back. With his body behind her as support, she leaned against him, his arms encircling her waist as he took up the reins. Even with the smell of dried blood that remained, there was a sense of something special, something womanly about her that resonated with his soul. He swallowed as her rounded bottom snuggled against his groin. A woman who would want a man to lean on.
The star he wore pinned upon his chest pressed against his skin. The words from his pledge, “to protect the citizens of Texas,” cut straight to his heart, giving his own personal creed deeper strength. For no one shot a woman on his watch and got away with it. After all, he was born a Texan, he had chosen to be a marshal, but he was first and always a man.
****
The long ride neared its end. Trace eased his horse on down the broad dirt street of the town of Cobb’s Crossing. The lavender dusk of early twilight shrouded the buildings set back against the cottonwoods. He leaned forward and whispered into Mary Rose’s ear, “We’re here.” He looked at her cheek and watched her jaw work, but she was too exhausted to speak. Her only recourse was to nod.
“Hang in there,” he whispered and took a tighter hold on her waist, drawing her close. Riding down the street, he could see lamps lit in the houses to chase away the gloom. Of all the times he needed someone, this time the street seemed empty. Halfway down, he caught sight of a few men loitering in front of the two-story hotel across from the general store. He pulled back on the reins and Diablo stopped. The men rose from their seats and came to the edge of the boardwalk.
“Hey,” one of them shouted. “That the Thornton gal?”
Trace turned his gaze toward them. “I’m in search of the doctor’s office. Can you tell me which way?”
“Doc’s office is just across the street.” The man pointed. “On the other side of the general store.”
Trace glanced in the indicated direction and saw a smaller building nestled to one side, painted white, with a picket fence. The windows were dark. “Is he in?”
“Doc Martin’s probably over at Martha’s Café, gettin’ a bite to eat.”
“Go get him,” Trace commanded.
The second man stepped closer and peered at the woman. “Say, what happened?”
Trace’s jaw clenched. They’d know soon enough, just not from him. “Sheriff?” he asked.
“Eatin’ too, I ’spect.” The first man scratched his jaw. “Who might you be?”
“I didn’t say.” He leveled a cool hard stare at the man who had been doing all the talking. “Get ’em.” Reining his horse in the direction of the little white house, he tapped his heels.
“Go on,” he heard one of the two men whisper, and feet scurried off in the opposite direction. Trace heard the second man step down from the porch as Diablo walked toward the house.
“You need some help?”
“I’ll get by.” Trace hated his words were clipped, but he needed to take care of the woman he held in his arms.
The man ran a few steps and caught up with him. “Nice family, those Thorntons.” The man fell into step beside Diablo.
“Family?” Trace wondered if there were members he’d have to call on to inform them of the death.
The man beside him gave a quick nod. “She and her brother run the freight office.”
He didn’t look forward to having to tell a mother or a wife about the loss of her son or husband, nor did he relish the idea of explaining how the man’s sister became injured. News like that usually got a man a fist in the face, or worse. The man beside him continued to talk.
“Both of ’em were hard workers, building a business from the ground up. Say,” he exclaimed in surprise. “You didn’t bring in nobody else, did ya?”
Trace pulled his mount to a stop at the hitching rail. His ears ached from the man’s rambling. He dropped the reins on the horse’s neck and ignored the question. “Hold my horse.”
“Yes, sir.” The man hurried to the horse’s head and gripped the bridle.
He didn’t have time for the town’s gossip. Seeing the man steady Diablo’s head, Trace concentrated on getting the woman down as gently as possible.
“Miss Thornton…” He paused. “Can you hear me?”
Beneath his gaze, her lips parted, and he heard her give a rough swallow. Raising his hand, Trace brushed back the damp hair from her cheek. Beneath his fingers, unnatural warmth radiated from her skin. His anxiety increased.
“Can you sit forward?”
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.”