Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,2

they wanted was to see this nice young lady slap your face.”

Moe glanced back at her, a pained expression shadowing his good eye. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

“Let her go.”

Moe glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. His hand flew from her arm, as if holding it scalded his palm. Indeed, the big man seemed ashamed and hung his head to study his boots.

“That’s it.” The man’s voice, soothing and calm, seemed to steady the giant. “See, it was easy.”

Moe’s shoulders slumped. He focused on the ground. “They told me she wanted to ride with me. They said it would be all right.”

Mary Rose pulled her forearm close and rubbed where his hands had been. The stranger stepped next to Moe and extended his hand.

“You did the right thing. That’s all that’s important.”

Moe glanced back at her. Mary Rose schooled her features and tried to hide her anxiety.

“Mary Rose,” she heard Daniel call from the door of the general store.

Twisting to glance over her shoulder, she couldn’t help but give a sigh of relief as he pushed through the onlookers to her side.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from her to the cowboy beside Moe.

“Just a misunderstanding,” the cowboy responded, placing a reassuring hand upon Moe’s shoulder. “Go on and see to your team. I’ll have a talk with those fellows. They won’t give you any more trouble.”

Moe nodded and sent a harsh glare at the men across the way.

“Did he hurt you?” Daniel inquired in a low voice.

“No.” Mary Rose shook her head. “He frightened me. This gentleman stepped in and soothed the situation.”

“Just doing my job.” The cowboy touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat. “If you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice,” he said, looking straight at Daniel, “Never bring a woman on a run. They’re always a source of trouble.”

Mary Rose’s jaw dropped. “How dare you!” She gasped, taking a step to confront him. “I have as much right as any man to ride on our wagons.”

“Mary Rose…” Daniel said.

The eyes that had been so clear blue suddenly turned icy. The cowboy’s stare made her shiver. “Ma’am. Go home and tend to your knitting. Let a man handle this job from now on.” He touched his hat.

Her eyes narrowed. Raising her chin, she confronted him. “I’m Mary Rose Thornton, and I own half these rigs.”

Her words rolled off his back like water off a duck. “Commendable,” he drawled. “But it’s still no place for a woman. Next time, take the stage.” With a nod, he sauntered away.

Her mouth widened in outrage. “Who does he think he is?” she demanded of Daniel.

“My dear sister, didn’t you see the star? He’s a U.S. Marshal,” Daniel replied.

Mary Rose stared at the departing back, her mouth agape.

****

Sheriff Randall Weston stepped out of his office and watched the crowd slowly disperse. Trace Castillo swaggered across the dusty street in his direction as if nothing had happened. Shifting the toothpick in his mouth to the other side, the sheriff looked to the teamster climbing up to the box of his wagon and the young man helping the woman aboard the second. The jingle of Trace’s spurs was the only sound to break the stillness of the late afternoon as he stepped onto the low-slung porch in front of the sheriff’s office. Rand stepped aside without question as Castillo brushed past. Then he turned on his heel to follow the marshal inside.

“I should have known if there was trouble your face would turn up.”

Trace looked up from pouring a cup of coffee. “You have it all wrong, Rand.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I didn’t find the trouble. It found me.”

Rand laughed. “I’ll say it did, but you’ve turned yourself around pretty good. That star looks like it belongs.”

Trace glanced down at the shiny metal pinned to the left breast of his cotton shirt. The letters U. S. Marshal looked back at him, and a sense of pride puffed out his chest a bit more. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

Rand moved around to his chair and took a seat. “Your folks would be proud.”

Trace lifted his cup and thought about his folks. Their deaths by the hands of rogue bands of Mexican outlaws and renegade Apaches had sent him on a path of murderous revenge, stopped only when Randall Weston had taken him under his wing. He took a deep sip of the strong brew and turned to face his mentor. “You didn’t