Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,25

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.

“Just a second,” she called. Her hand closed around the knob, and she opened the door.

There he stood with his head bent; his thick dark hair slicked back as if he’d just dampened it to make it stay. Her breath caught as he tilted his head and the bronze skin over the aristocratic features of his face caught the light. He stood before her, a charred but familiar hat in his hand and his blue eyes laden with sadness. A few lines of worry creased his brow. Foolish words of surprise slipped from her lips before she had time to recall them. “Marshal, you came back.”

“I am a man of my word,” he replied. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” She stepped back and pulled the door wider to allow him to enter. As he walked through the door and she caught the scent of sandalwood and warm earth, her heart skipped a beat.

He glanced down and held out the charred hat. “I found this.”

She stared at the remains of her hat. “Thank you.” She took it from him and examined its burnt edges and smoke-smudged crown. “It seems so odd that I should look at this with such a sentimental heart.”

“No, not at all,” he took a breath. “I would advise you to put it away and not dwell on its memories.”

She glanced at him, her curiosity piqued.

“At least until you are stronger,” he added.

She lifted the edges of her mouth a smidgen. “You are probably very right. Please, won’t you have a seat?”

He moved toward the parlor, and she used the time it took to close the door to regain her equilibrium. She looked at the hat, then placed it aside, not wishing for him to see how it unnerved her. Being careful not to make too much noise, she crossed the room to her chair. The last thing she wanted was Widow Hatfield to waltz in and interrupt. He had come to