Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,43

a deep breath and thought about all the lies he’d believed when delivered from a succulent red mouth. He bolted from the chair and began to pace.

“You’re thinking about Amelia again.” Rand sighed. “Mary Rose is no Amelia.”

“So you say. I shall reserve judgment,” he snarled, and changed the subject. “Didn’t you see the hurry she was in?”

“I saw a scared woman.”

“Scared of what?” Trace hissed as he paced. “What was in that freight office that sent her away with her tail between her legs?”

Rand picked up his pencil and stared at the papers. “I don’t know,” he complained. “Maybe she was running from you.”

Trace stared at the sheriff as the words ricocheted in his mind. His brow furrowed, and he paused. His mind crowded with the memory of her kiss, the searing heat that erupted in his veins as his hands moved through her hair and the way her body molded to his as if they were made for one another. With a growl, he shoved the chair out of his way and stomped toward the door.

“Going somewhere?” Rand called out.

“I’m going to do some investigating,” he snapped.

“While you’re at it, why not accompany the wagon run to the mission. I’ll keep an eye on Mary Rose.”

Trace left the office. The stomp of his boots raised the hackles of his spurs. Their jingle, like the low growl of a dog, sent passersby scurrying for distance. Trace didn’t stop until he reached the livery. Bending low beneath the railing of the corral, he slid through and walked toward his mount.

Diablo stood against the side of the enclosure, gazing into the distance. “Come here, boy,” he coaxed, and with a snort the horse trotted over to him. He placed a hand below the animal’s long mane and gave him a reassuring pat. “Let’s take a ride,” he murmured. With a toss of his head, the horse followed him into the stall that opened inside the stable.

Trace closed the door and slipped the bridle over his head before he tossed the blanket and saddle onto his back. The girth tightened, he pushed open the inside door to the stall and led Diablo into the center hallway, where he encountered the liveryman coming out of his office.

“Howdy, Marshal. You ain’t leavin’, are ya?”

“Nope. Going to accompany the freight run,” he replied, mounting and gathering the reins into his hand. With his forefinger and thumb, he reached into his pants pocket and tossed the man a five-dollar piece. “Keep my stall ready. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Yes, sir.” The man nodded.

Trace gave the animal his head, and they moved toward the door. A thought hit him and he pulled Diablo up short. “Let me know who leaves and who comes in while I’m gone.”

“Sure,” the man replied.

With a touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, Trace tapped Diablo with his spurs, and the horse sprang to life.

Following the trail toward the spring, he came across one of Mary Rose’s wagons. “Mind if I ride along?” The driver shrugged.

As he rode behind the freight wagon, Rand’s words continued to circle around his head: She was running from you. Why did he get the sinking feeling the sheriff was right? Could she be frightened of him? But why? He eased back on the reins and brought his horse to a slow steady jog. Why her? What was it about Mary Rose that he couldn’t shake?

Diablo slowed to a walk and blew. Deep in thought, Trace absentmindedly placed a hand on the horse’s neck. He could see her, the frightened figure behind the cottonwoods, the tilt of her chin when she was furious, and those damn eyes. It was as though some unseen hand reached into his chest and constricted his heart. No, he would not become emotionally involved with a woman, not ever again.

****

The sun stood overhead as they reached the mission.

“Whoa,” he said, and his horse stopped. Dismounting, Trace walked toward the priest who was directing the men to open the doors of the mission storage and help unload the wagon.

“Afternoon, Father,” he replied, removing his hat.

The priest turned, his eyes wide in surprise. “Trace Castillo. It has been a long time.” He held out his hand and they shook. “Miguel, careful with that flour,” the priest called, looking past Trace’s right shoulder.

Trace glanced back and watched the mission worker ease it over his shoulder before moving inside.

“So, what are you doing now? We heard you had taken the oath