Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose - By Tessa Berkley Page 0,6

sigh, he lifted his arm and pulled the sleeve across his brow in a futile attempt to remove the perspiration before it slithered into his eyes and set them on fire. Settling the hat back on his head, he tightened his grip on the reins, signaling his horse to move on.

The trail ran along the backside of a dry wash and then climbed gently to a broad flat meadow, good grazing land for the surrounding ranches. Those cattle had attracted men who swung a wide loop in the first place and gave the track its name, Rustlers’ Way. Taking the path at a slow and steady walk, he tilted his head to allow the deep shadow of his hat to cover his face. If any eyes were watching, he appeared to be just a vaquero, nodding off in the heat of the day. “Cottonwood Springs is not too far away. I think you and I will pause for a much-needed drink.” His horse flicked its ears in response.

He swerved to the path on the right and took a deep seat as the trail sloped down. Another rivulet of perspiration inched toward the belt of his low-slung trousers. Gripping the loose cotton of his chambray shirt, he shifted it away from his damp skin.

For a moment, he almost didn’t catch it. Yet it stirred again. A cold breath of apprehension wrapped its long fingers around the nape of his neck and lifted the hairs along his shoulders. Trace’s heart gave two quick beats.

Something wasn’t right. A new level of alertness traveled along his body and transferred to his horse, which sensed the change. The animal’s head rose, ears pitched forward, and he felt the gelding’s muscles dance. “Easy,” he murmured, placing a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Keeping his voice low, he pulled his hand back and grazed the leather safety on his .45. It sprang free.

Off in the distance, where the image blurred like water, a thin spiral of black smoke rose in the warm air above a grove of cottonwood trees. Overhead, a gathering of birds, as dark as the night, rode the currents in a sinister lazy circle. Trace’s mouth ran dry, and the chill in his blood turned to ice.

“I am thinking this is not a good thing.”

At his horse’s snort, he grasped tight the reins between his fingers and gave a light touch with his heels. Diablo sprang to life, and Trace leaned low as the horse raced along the trail.

Galloping around the edge of the clearing, the only thing that greeted him was the sickly sweet odor of decomposition. He reined his horse into a sliding halt, stepping from the stirrups to the ground in a single fluid motion as if he and the animal were one blur of movement. Gun drawn, his stance braced, Trace eyed the perimeter. The whispers of a thousand dangers prickled his body until his skin crawled as if alive, yet nothing moved.

Alert, he stepped over to inspect the carnage. A lone wagon lay on its side, still smoldering. Through the flicker of the flames, he could see the once proud red paint peeled back and blistered by the heat, leaving only the blackened wood behind. Two bodies lay motionless, one near the front of the wagon, the second behind, only his booted feet visible. Between them, the wagon’s contents were strewn across the ground.

“Madre de Dios,” he whispered.

With a wary eye, he moved toward the closest body and knelt down. Trace grimaced and noted a bullet wound in the man’s chest. He hoped it had ended the driver’s life before someone brutally scalped him. Making the sign of the cross first, he reached over, lifted the edge of the man’s jacket, and found a brown wallet against the victim’s unmoving chest.

A feeling of dread twisted his gut. He flipped the wallet open and a string of curses poured from his lips. On the leather, embossed in gold print, he read the name Daniel Thornton. Trace rose, his heart pounding against his chest. Of course, the man with the woman would attract attention. Now, where was she?

He hurried to the second victim. His presence stirred the angry buzz of the bottleflies trying to get their fair share of the dark blood staining the soil. Trace drew his arm over his nose as he stepped close and peered down. To his relief, it was another man, most likely the second driver, the one called Moe Horne, killed in the same