****
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.
A quick glance at the stove and she discovered the firebox empty, which only compounded her fatigue. Too weary to consider lighting it, she decided to make do with a bit of cheese and bread for supper. She pushed away with a sigh and crossed to the pie safe, where she pulled out the ingredients for her supper. With a knife from the rack, she made her slices and laid them on a plate, then broke off a piece of the sharp cheddar, plopped it in her mouth, and chewed slowly.
“What am I going to do?” She voiced aloud the concern that ran through her mind. Carrying her bread and cheese, she moved to the front of the house. At first, she wasn’t sure where her feet were leading her. Nevertheless, she turned to the small room off the parlor, Daniel’s room. Moving to the desk, Mary Rose lifted a match from the container he always kept beside the lamp. Her fingers removed the globe and struck the match to light the wick.
She settled into the chair and glanced to her right, a smile tugging at her lips as she looked at his prized maps hanging on the walls. Her gaze traveled closer to the desk and focused upon the second drawer. She reached out and touched the brass handle, slipped her fingers beneath, and slowly opened it. She cringed as the wood squeaked in protest. Nestled in the shadows, the family strong box held the mystery she’d placed inside that morning.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle and placed the box on the desk before her. She ran her hand beneath the blotter and pulled out the key. The metal sparkled in the light of the lamp. She inserted the key and gave it a turn. The lid snapped and jumped free. Ignoring the gold coin, she pushed it aside and removed the folded papers she’d place there earlier in the day.
With a balled fist, she pressed the papers open in hopes of taking the creases out. It made no sense, none at all, but there it was, copies of deposits into an account at the bank.
But why?
Why did he tear these pages from a ledger and place them in an envelope?
Did he intend to mail them? If so, to whom?
The pounding of her temples began, and using her good hand, she placed a finger against her brow and rubbed in slow circles, hoping to ease the pain. The more she stared, the worse the pain became. “There’s nothing I can do now but find out why,” she sighed. With a tired breath, she folded the papers and put them back in the strongbox. With the box locked and put away, she stood and blew out the lamp.
Outside the window, a branch snapped. Mary Rose froze. Heart racing, she backed away from the moonlight streaming in the window through the lace curtain and flattened herself against the wall, her throat so dry she couldn’t swallow. Staring, she watched and waited.
In the silence, she could hear the air exiting her lungs. Fearing whoever was outside could hear it too, she clamped her mouth shut and stared at the moonlight dancing on the windowpane. In the upper right of the bottom window, a dark shadow crossed, blocking the moon’s rays. Eyes widening, she slid down the back wall, hoping the desk might hide her presence. As she peered over the top, the outline of an arm became clearly visible. Someone had been watching her.
Perspiration dotted her upper lip. She glanced around for some sort of weapon, anything to defend herself. Nothing was available. Then she recalled the derringer Daniel kept in the small drawer in the center of the desk. Head bent low, crouching, she shuffled closer to the chair and eased it back. Her hand shook so badly she thought the drawer would never open.
Her ears picked up every sound. Fear magnified the intensity. With her heart pounding, she pulled the gun from its hiding place and brought it down beside her. The weapon felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Daniel had shown her once how to open it. Did she recall the steps?
The fear inside her body made her fumble. She closed her eyes and forced herself to grow calm enough to flip the barrel. One bullet still lodged in the chamber. Ever so gently, she closed it tight and pressed back against the wall, hoping whoever stood on the other side of the glass hadn’t heard the click that sounded as loud as thunder to her. Looking up, she saw the shadow was still there.
Should she shoot? Could she kill a man?
The image of her brother’s body lying cold upon the ground in a pool of his own blood surrounded her. Mary Rose stared at the shadow, willing it to go away. When it didn’t, she stood, her back against the wall, and aimed.
****
Knowing that his horse was well taken care of, Trace made his way to the saloon. A light burned outside, and laughter poured into the street. Stepping onto the boardwalk, he could see Rand sitting at a table nursing a beer.
As Trace pushed through the swinging doors and joined him, Rand looked up and placed his mug on the table. “Evening. You just get in?”
“Rode in about twenty minutes ago.”
“Pull up a chair and join me.”
He took a seat as the barmaid sashayed past, taking Rand’s order for another beer. “You not expecting trouble?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Not really. Beats looking at wanted posters.” He glanced at Trace’s face and the smile faded. “So, how did the ride go?”
“No problem, not even a dust devil.”
Rand shifted in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Interesting.”
Trace nodded in agreement. “How about here?”
“Nothing.” The sheriff sighed. “I did hear that some of the drivers over at Thornton’s quit.”
“So did I. Mack at the livery told me. Do you think we need to keep a closer eye on Mary Rose? Someone might be up to trouble.”
Before Rand could speak, the saloon girl returned with a cold beer. “Thank you, Sue,” he said, placing a dollar on her tray.
Trace pulled the mug across the scarred wooden tabletop. “You know, these always taste better when someone else buys.”
Rand gave him a reproachful look. “Don’t get used to it. Got a wire that the man from Fort Ewell should come in sometime tomorrow.”
Trace nodded and turned his glass around, staring at the amber-colored liquid. Behind him, the door of the saloon opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sheriff sit forward, a look of astonishment flashing across his face. “Well, will you look at that?”
Trace turned, craning his neck to get a look at the rough pair who moved through the room.
“Those are the two fools who quit Thornton’s,” Rand said.
The corner of Trace’s mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, from what I hear, they won’t work there just because she’s a woman.”
As they watched, the two men took their drinks and crossed over to a nearby table. Turning back to Rand, Trace blocked them from his mind as Rand changed the subject.
“I’ll be riding out to show the officer what we’ve found so far. You think he’ll tell us anything about the government going after her money?”
Trace took a sip of his beer, holding it in his mouth for a moment, letting the fermented hops clear the dust from the back of his throat before he swallowed. “Depends,” he replied, “on what the government’s take is. It will be either her fault or an act of the Almighty. I’m hoping to hear from a friend of mine with the Texas Rangers. His patrol is the closest to the Rio. They might have picked up on Mexican stirrings.”
Someone jostled his arm. He glanced up as a man swayed passed.
“Sorry, partner,” he mumbled.
Trace nodded.
A chair slid across the floor and Trace heard the cowboy speak. “You boys no longer working for the Petticoat Freight Company, I hear.”
The men behind him snorted, their disdain barely masked in their reply. “Gave that chit notice this afternoon. Demanded my pay, too.”
Trace felt the hackles rise across the back of his neck. The beer he had halfway between the table and his lips lowered.
“Don’t let ’em get to you,” he heard Rand say under his breath. But it was too late. He flattened his palms on the table. He didn’t care for coarse language about women, but this was his woman. The woman lodged beneath his skin, that he could not get rid of. His ears strained to capture the reply.
“I’ve never worked for a female, and I won’t start now.” The driver followed his statement with a vulgar laugh. “Unless that sweet piece of meat is under my covers.”
Trace felt his gut tighten. Fury rose, and he pushed away from the table before his friend could stop him. The man across the other table saw him first. He knew his face must be thunderous, for the color drained from the driver’s face as he reached a hand over and tugged on the other’s sleeve.
“What?” the second man growled.
“Gentlemen.” His voice was low. It reverberated deep in his chest like the warning growl from a mountain lion just before it pounced on its prey. “I don’t believe I like what I’m hearing.”
The driver with his back to Trace grunted and turned. “This is a private conversation, Marshal. I don’t recall asking you to join in.”
Trace’s right hand lashed out, grasping the open neck of the man’s shirt and twisting it tight against his throat. With his left hand, he palmed the pistol that rested lightly on his hip and, pulling back the trigger, leveled it at the other two. The eyes of the men widened at the speed of his draw. Pausing to rein in his temper, Trace waited until the last notes from the off-key piano faded away.
“Private conversation?” he questioned. “If so, why did I hear it?”
“We got a right to work for who we want,” the man in Trace’s grasp challenged.
“That may be true, but from now on you keep your filthy comments to yourself.”
“Who made you her keeper?”
“I did,” he hissed and twisted the fabric just a bit tighter until the driver’s eyes bulged. “Is that understood?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man rasped.
Trace straightened, letting the fabric fall free of his hands, and eased his .45 back into its holster. “If I find Miss Thornton being harassed by anyone, you’ll be the first I come looking for.” He made sure as he spoke that he caught each man’s eye. Under his gaze, they squirmed. “Enjoy your evening.” He tossed a dollar onto the table and walked outside.
Standing in the shadows, away from the lighted doorway, he took a deep breath. He’d just announced to the world that he was Mary Rose’s protector.
Had he lost his mind?
His hands moved to his hips, and Trace stared down at his boots. He knew deep down he wouldn’t have it any other way. The doors behind him opened and then clicked together as they swung closed.