Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,44

and become a U.S. Marshal. Or have you given up the star to work for Thornton’s?”

“Me?” He glanced at the wagon. “No, I’m riding as security.”

“Problems?” the priest asked.

Trace took a deep breath. “Yes, you could say that.” He felt the priest’s gaze and wondered if he could see inside his soul.

“Hm.” Father Tomas nodded. “Let me help the men here, and then we will talk before you leave.” Left to his own devices, Trace walked into the mission’s chapel to pay his respects.

Built in the early years when the land was Spanish Territory, the chapel’s adobe walls kept the heat outside. Trace paused at the bowl of holy water, dipped his fingers in, and made the sign of the cross. Depositing a coin in the donation box, he moved toward the altar and paused. The sunlight beaming in from the small window above the entryway illuminated the statue of the Virgin Mary behind the simple wooden table.

The last time he’d been in a church he’d stood waiting for Amelia to come down the aisle. She’d sent her brother to deliver the news. He’d entered, dressed in his uniform, and boldly announced that his sister would not marry a man who would not support Don Porfirio Diaz. Humiliated, Trace had turned away, staring at the statue, until one by one the guests began to file out.

His jaw twitched, teeth clenched, as he recalled the dishonor. But that had been just the beginning. His eyes closed. A week later, he’d gone to his brother’s home to borrow vaqueros for a roundup and found her in his brother’s bed. She’d laughed at him, told him what a fool he’d been to follow his mother’s pathetic side of the family and believe he would be accepted into Texas society. She begged him to join their cause, to help reunite Tejas to Mexico, where it belonged.

He’d never known such savage anger as that which roared through his veins. When his brother entered the room, they fought, and it had taken four men to tear them apart. However, the damage had been done. He’d left Mexico and vowed never to return.

The door behind him opened, and light flooded the chapel. He turned to see Father Tomas move toward him.

“So, come, sit down. I hear there was trouble with the Thornton Company?”

Trace moved to a bench and took his seat beside the priest. He began by explaining the incident at Cottonwood Springs and his involvement with Mary Rose.

“I’ve known both Mary Rose and Daniel for a number of years now. This is such a shame. And you have no clue as to why?”

He shook his head. “None.”

Father Tomas’s gaze scrutinized him. “But there is more, perhaps?”

He nodded. “I am drawn to her.”

“Mary Rose?” The priest nodded. “I am not surprised.”

Trace hung his head. “She invades my thoughts, my nights.” He took a deep breath. “I seem to know when she is in the street or in a room. No matter what I do to stop it, we find ourselves drawn together like two bulls fighting. What is worse, she appears nervous around me.”

“Are you nervous around her?” the priest asked.

“I am angry. She frustrates me with this desire to run a freight company.”

“And why do you think that? Could it be she challenges your preconceived notions about women?”

“She is exasperating.”

“Well, my son, most women are.”

“You aren’t helping.”

The priest chuckled. “My dear friend, I think you need to look into your heart.” He reached out and touched Trace’s chest. “Tell me, how long has it been since your debacle with Amelia?”

“Five years.”

Father Tomas folded his arms. “Describe her to me?”

“Amelia?”

“Don’t argue, Trace. Describe her.”

“Well, she has black hair,” he began.

“Most Mexican women do. But was there something special about it?”

Trace’s brow furrowed in thought. “Just long black hair.”

“All right.” The good Father took a breath. “Now, tell me about Mary Rose.”

Trace closed his eyes and thought about her at the funeral. “Her hair is the color of the copper tiles on the roof of the mission, and her eyes are the deepest blue one can imagine. When she smiles, two dimples frame her lips.”

The priest chuckled, and Trace opened his eyes, feeling foolish.

“I think perhaps you have answered your own question.” Father Tomas stood and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “The heart is a fickle thing, my son. But if we listen with an open mind, it can lead us to wonderful things—like love.”

“Love?” Trace’s eyes widened and his head jerked to look at the