Castillo's Fiery Texas Rose Read Online Free PDF

easy to read. The focus of her gaze locked on the mound that held the body of her loved one beneath the Texas soil. A part of him ached for the hurt she’d suffered; the other half wished her husband were still alive—so he might throttle him for putting her through this ordeal.
    He didn’t have the luxury of letting her rest and regroup. They needed to move on. The sooner he got her to town, the quicker he would be released of his burden. She needed a doctor. His rude attempts had served enough to stop the bleeding, yet he worried about infection. Leaning down, he pulled the cinch tight and stood to remove the stirrup from the saddlehorn. While she rested, he had gone back, made two crude crosses from plain pieces of broken crate. The piece with the markings he placed safely into his saddlebags.
    Now at her side, he crouched down to her eye level, and she swung her gaze toward him, away from the graves.
    “What will happen now?” she asked, deep anguish filling her voice.
    One look into her wounded blue eyes and the urge to protect her nearly stole his breath. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, but her haunting stare tore at his soul. “We get you to town and to a doctor.”
    Her gaze moved back to the graves. “He teased me about the red paint, you know,” she sniffed. “He said no self-respecting Irishman would be caught d-dead in that despicable color.”
    Trace heard her swallow roughly before she continued.
    “And now…” Her voice trailed off.
    He watched the dark, smoky lashes fall to her cheek, followed by a ragged breath. His stare hardened. “You mustn’t think about such things,” he advised.
    The lashes rose. Eyes damp with unshed tears gazed up at him. “How do I not?” Her chin trembled. “My vanity...”
    “Had nothing to do with this,” Trace interrupted, his voice stern enough to make her jump. He could see her glance that begged him for some sort of absolution. Yet he didn’t have it to give. Instead, he dug his hands into his pockets in search of his knife. His next actions would bring her even more pain, and he hated himself for it.
    Pulling his pocketknife out, Trace opened the blade. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the nervous glance. He paused and looked into the haunted eyes whose gaze darted to his hands.
    “Wh-what are you doing?”
    “Don’t move,” he assured her. “I’m going to cut off this sleeve.” He inserted the blade in the stitching around the shoulder and placed his fingers in the slit. With one good yank, the stiffened fabric fell away.
    “Your arm will be better if it’s not moved,” he explained. “This won’t be fancy, but it will work.” He could only wonder what she was thinking as he grabbed the top of the sleeve with both hands and ripped it in two. Tying the ends together, he fashioned a crude sling.
    “I’m going to tie this around your neck.” Leaning forward, he lifted the mass of unruly curls off her neck and placed the sling over her head. So close, he could see a dusting of freckles across her pert nose, and looking up he found her gaze upon him. Ill at ease from her earnest attention, he adjusted the material against her skin.
    “You’re upset,” she murmured.
    “I am angry that you were hurt. Your husband received fair warning that you belonged on the stage. He didn’t listen. Now this.” The ends of his mouth pulled in displeasure. “There, now, let’s get this arm in, and we’ll go back to town.”
    He grasped her arm at the wrist and elbow, and his fingertips brushed across the soft skin of her arm. He took note of the anxiety in her face. “It may hurt.”
    She pressed her lips together.
    “Just try to breathe,” he reminded her as he eased the arm across the cloth.
    She inhaled sharply and let out a shuddering groan that cut him to the quick, but in a moment it was done.
    “If you’re ready, I’ll help you get to your feet.”
    She gave a small nod. Standing, he moved around to the other side. “Put