Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,45
priest.
“It is possible, even for U.S. Marshals. Come, let us break for lunch. The men will wish to start back.”
He could only stare as the priest walked away. Love? Was he in love? He had been so sure when he asked Amelia to marry him, so crushed when she refused. Standing, he moved to the candles and, taking a long thin piece of incense, lit one in memory of his grandfather. Perhaps Father Tomas was right. Five years was a long time to try to remember. Listen to your heart.
****
Hours later, he eased Diablo to a stop at the livery in Cobb’s Crossing. Dismounting and drawing the reins over his horse’s head, he led him inside. Near the rear of the building, Trace could hear the slow and steady scrape of a rake against the earth.
“Is that you, Marshal?”
“It is,” he replied, lifting the stirrup and looping it over the horn so he might undo the thick leather strip of the girth. Diablo blew when it felt loose, and Trace slipped the saddle off and tossed it over the rail.
“Want a cloth to wipe him down?”
Trace looked to his left.
“Name’s Mack, remember? We met when you brought the Thornton gal in.”
“Ah.” Trace nodded. “Yes, you have a rag?”
“Keep some of the old towels from the hotel right here in the box beside each stall.” The man bent down and handed him one.
“Thanks.” Trace set to work wiping the dust from his horse.
“Looks like you two had a pretty long day,” Mack said as he stroked Diablo’s head.
Trace focused on his job and didn’t answer.
“It was quiet here, too. Not a soul out of the ordinary came through. But I did hear some of the drivers quit at Thornton’s.”
Trace’s ears burned with the news. He moved around to the other side of his horse and folded the rag over. “You don’t say.” He tried to keep his voice under control.
“Yep.” Mack sighed. “Some of the men didn’t want to work for a petticoat outfit.”
“Humph.” With a grunt, Trace began to move the cloth over the horse’s rump. “And did she try to persuade them not to go?”
Mack chuckled. “She sure did, but didn’t do no good. Them fools left anyway. Had it been me, I’d a stayed just to have her smile at me every mornin’.”
Trace stood up tall and glared.
“I, I didn’t mean anything.”
Relenting, Trace asked, “Is the sheriff still in town?”
Mack nodded. “Yep, saw him go to the saloon about an hour ago.”
“See that Diablo gets a good ration of oats.”
“Sure thing.” The stable hand took hold of the reins and led the horse toward the stall.
Chapter Eleven
Mary Rose sat down at the table and pulled the sling over her head. It had been a rough day. She’d tried to put down a riot of men tossing their resignations on her desk. She’d addressed them and watched their scornful glances as they turned and walked away. Alone, she could allow herself to feel the inner turmoil threatening to tear her apart. Threading her fingers through her hair, she leaned her elbow against the table and tried to regain her strength.
She was tired, so darn tired she could just about spit. With her right hand, she reached up and rubbed the soreness in her left shoulder. For the hundredth time today, she wished Daniel were here to tell her what to do.
“Not even a week and already I’m seeing trouble.”
She felt her whole life sinking, dissolving into a whirlpool of despair. She sniffed and rubbed her hand beneath her nose. “Damn you, Marshal. This is all your fault.” She thought about the two men who’d quit. They were her best drivers, quitting not because they deemed the job given to them too difficult but because she was a woman.
Eyes closed, she recalled their words. “Ain’t right for a growed man to be taking orders from a woman. You call me when you get some man to run this place.” Her eyes flew open and, jaw clenched, she stared at the tablecloth. The marshal’s prophetic words rang in her head.
In a fit of anger, Mary Rose brought the flat of her hand down upon the table. “They weren’t even hot-blooded men,” she fumed aloud. “In fact, they didn’t wait around long enough.” Her voice broke into sobs, unable to finish the sentence. No, she would not fold. Oh, she’d been dealt a hard hand, but she was a Thornton. “Thornton’s don’t quit,” she whispered to the darkness.