Free Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose by Tessa Berkley Page B

glass with a neat two fingers’ worth towards him.
    “To Daniel Thornton,” he mumbled and lifted his glass.
    Following the sheriff’s lead, Trace did the same, repeating the words as their glasses clinked. Rand tossed back the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar, his eyes watering as he swallowed.
    “I suppose I could blame it on the heat,” he gasped as he poured himself another shot. “I didn’t expect them to be so bad.”
    Trace took a sip of his own drink. “We haven’t had a lot of time to discuss their condition.” He ran his tongue along his lips, tasting the rich woody flavor of the whiskey. “I told the undertaker to nail those lids closed.”
    Rand stared at his drink. “Probably for the best.”
    “I thought so,” he agreed and brushed the thoughts of Mary Rose’s objections from his mind.
    The sheriff whirled, his face as fierce as anytime Trace had known him. “I want you to promise me you’ll never let her come near that undertaker. I want those bodies in the ground so fast she won’t have time to demand to see ’em.”
    Finishing off his drink, Trace caught the tense expression in the mirror behind the bar, and his voice hardened. “You have my word. She will never see those 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