Magic and the Texan (10 page)

“Go get me that milk.”

She whirled away, the hems of her red skirt swishing.

Good—he was shut of Terecita. Hoot had thinking to do. It wasn't about his plans. As he'd told the Mexican harlot who passed herself off as a dancer, he knew what to do.

He just wished he could blow his nose.

Since he couldn't, he considered how to use O'Brien's woman to an advantage. He'd been smart, letting her think him dumb about that Elizabeth/Bethany business.

Hoot Todd had a long memory. As if it were yesterday, he recalled his stepmother. Naomi Todd had been a pretty thing, not but a trio of years older than Hoot himself. Came from a good family, not that it did her much good, since she got disowned for marrying beneath herself. Cletus and his child bride had been like a couple of kids, in love and happy. When Cletus suggested they try ranching in the Indian Territory, though, she'd been fretful enough to turn over a pint-sized velvet sack filled with sparkling jewels to her stepson “for safekeeping.”

He still had those baubles.

The saddest day of his life had been when the Kiowas lifted Naomi's scalp. Even now, sixteen years later, he still got an ache in his chest. She'd been good to him.

Baking lemon pies, mending holey socks, laughing at a young man's piss-poor jokes. Trusting him with her worldly goods. He'd loved her, dammit. Loved her with a youth's unrequited fire, but most of all, he'd adored her because she'd been good to him.

The day after she died, he left home to join the U.S. Cavalry, ending up here in La Salle County. Rings, brooches, and reasons for joining the Army were neither here nor there. That Beth who planned to hitch up with O'Brien was a dead ringer for Naomi Todd.

Didn't that pop the corn? “I bet they're one and the same,” he muttered, “O'Brien's Beth and my sister.”

Hoot wasn't up to revenge, but he could damn sure sit a horse to Austin. He had some grave-searching to do.

In the three days that went by after Hoot Todd got divested of his tar, Jon Marc noticed a change in Beth. Little things. She was freer with herself, which pleased him. Her gaze met his, steady and straight, though occasionally wary. Every once in a while she even laughed. But not often.

Mostly she acted edgy, as if she feared her betrothed, at least Jon Marc decided as much, then pegged her trepidations on that set-to with Todd. Refined ladies didn't like brawls. Of course, they also didn't climb trees at midnight. He grinned, enjoying the idea of her climbing that tree.

In the kitchen, where Beth wore a bibbed apron over her britches and was in the process of making pot cheese this afternoon, he said to her, “Wish I didn't have to leave you here alone while the boys and I herd cows to Laredo.”

“Do what you must. Strike while the iron is hot, as blacksmiths say.”

“Sure you don't want me to ask Isabel to stay with you?”

“I'll be fine by myself.”

Stubborn woman. What good would it do to insist on company? What he wanted was a good-bye kiss, since he kept remembering, and grinning, about the night of the tree.

Wouldn't ask for a kiss; no, he wouldn't. In spite of warming up a mite, she'd probably prefer to kiss a pig.

“You needn't worry about Todd.” If Jon Marc didn't have it on good authority Hoot Todd had ridden north—Sabrina had said so—he would have insisted Beth make the Laredo trip with him and the rest of the outfit. “He's left the county.”

“That's good.” She laid aside cheesecloth, and got a strange look in her face. Gazing down into the bowl that captured the liquid from pot cheese, she said, “Something's been bothering me. What did you do to put Mr. Todd's eye out?”

How easy it would be to whitewash the truth, but Jon Marc wouldn't. He picked up a pecan and cracked the nut's shell in his palm. “I carved it out.”

After a visible flinch she again hooked cheesecloth above the bowl and squeezed curds. “Why?”

“He had it coming. He'd been stealing horses, causing general havoc. No law around here, Wilson and I rode up to San Antonio, got in cahoots with the sheriff. The three of us laid a trap on the banks of the San Antonio River. Todd almost got out of it. But he didn't. It was his gun against my knife.”

“What happened to your gun?”

“The fight wasn't going my way.”

“Would you have killed him?” she asked, her face pale as she abandoned her work.

Jon Marc rejected a snap answer that would sting Beth's tender sensibilities. On the other hand, he'd done enough lying. “If it came down to it, I'd take his life.”

Beth wiped her hands on a hem of the apron. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Several, none of which Jon Marc could take pride in, not even when he'd taken out the murdering pirate who would have added to his list of victims in the form of Captain Burke O'Brien and his wife, Susan.

Jon Marc sidestepped a lengthy discourse on family. “That's a cruel question to a fellow who's been to war.”

“It is, was. Forgive me.” Beth hurried to him, halting an arm's length away. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

Just as Jon Marc started to agree, Padre Miguel walked up to the flap window. “Good day, my children,” he said, in the magnanimous way of priests.

The padre entered the kitchen, Jon Marc introduced him, and they engaged in three-way chitchat that went pretty well, since Beth, in person, didn't seem to mind the “foreign” priest.

The padre, a medium-sized fellow of forty, folded his arms level with the rope belt of his cassock, and muffed his hands under the coarse brown material of its sleeves. He asked, “When should I expect to hear your vows as man and wife?”

Beth glanced at Jon Marc, her expression blank.

“We haven't set a date,” Jon Marc answered, his conscience kicking in.
You need to 'fess up
. Wouldn't do it, not until the Laredo trip was over. No way would he not be around to keep her here, should she try to bolt.

“You will, you will set a date.” Padre Miguel smiled, and from the twinkle in his eyes, Jon Marc suspected a crafty mind atoil. It came as no surprise when the cleric hinted, “How nice it would be, having piano music to accompany your vows.”

“Yeah, well, who would play it?” Jon Marc came back. Ever since Beth's grand piano arrived in La Salle County, the priest had been on a campaign to get it moved to Santa Maria. “My lady can't play for her own wedding.”

That was when she bumped her hand against the pot-liquor bowl, sending it crashing to the kitchen's dirt floor. Both Jon Marc and Beth bent to clean up the mess.

As they finished, Padre Miguel eyed Beth's shoes and lit a cigar. “Terecita López is a pianist. Her grandfather, the grandee who owned Hacienda del Sol, hired a tutor to train her.”

Jon Marc tossed a dirty rag into a refuse can. “She was six years old when the
don
headed south, taking his piano and leaving his son's family to their own devices. Not likely Terecita is a virtuoso.”

“A little practice, and I'm sure she would do fine.”

“No way.” Jon Marc infused an adamant tone. “No way.”

“As you wish, my son.” The priest took the opportunity to admonish, “I am disappointed you two did not attend Mass today.”

“I had cheese to make.” Beth set another crockery bowl under the dripping cheese. “Isabel milked cows Thursday, had more than she could use, and if I hadn't done something with that clabbered milk, it would have wasted.”

Funny, Jon Marc had never heard anyone out of the southland use the word clabber. Probably picked it up from him, or somewhere between the state line and here.

“It is a sin to waste food, Señorita Buchanan, but it is also sin to neglect the church.”

Her eyes blazed with defiance. “If I burn in hell for making cheese rather than prayers, so be it.”

This, out of a former novice? Jon Marc would have chuckled, if not for the audacity of it. Beth was a Catholic of a different breed than he'd met in La Salle County, his past association with those of the faith being nil. Everyone here lived in fear of making a move against the church. Maybe Anglo Catholics were different.

Beth was different, no doubt about that. Last Friday, when she'd served roast beef instead of fish, and he'd been shocked by it, she'd scoffed, saying, “Jon Marc O'Brien, I don't like fish. Especially smoked fish. It's religious rot, decreeing we eat fish on Fridays.”

Yes, Beth was different.

Bethany's eyes scoured the area around Fort Ewell's post office, the morning after the padre's visit. Having ridden to town with Jon Marc, to meet a mule train of supplies, she hoped they wouldn't run into God's man in La Salle County.

It was difficult enough, dealing with the religious issue without having Jon Marc present for it.

Bethany's program to be herself hadn't hit snags, but in the aftermath of that business with Hoot Todd, she had big reservations about Jon Marc O'Brien.

She'd bet each and every walleyed fishy monster hanging in the smokehouse that Jon Marc would be a holy terror, once he learned Bethany profaned everything he believed in.

Awkward position to be in, wanting to become a man's wife, yet fearful of it at the same time.

Soon, though, and it looked like tomorrow, Jon Marc and his vaqueros would leave for Laredo. She looked forward to his absence. Time was what she needed to gather her wits and plans.

“What all do you want?” Jon Marc asked, once they had reached the trio of supply wagons.

“Sugar. Lemons. Lard. Honey, if available. Do you have cinnamon sticks?”

“Got ever'thing but lemons, little lady.” The wagon master spat a stream of tobacco juice to the ground. “You got the money, I got the stuff.”

“We have the money,” Jon Marc answered, yet Bethany worried about spending too much of it.

Worry, she did, yet something made her bold. “Do you carry shoes, sir?”

“A few,” the wagon master replied, while Jon Marc looked aghast.

“These shoes are worn out.” She wrenched a smile.

He winked. “Get some new ones.”

This just might be her lucky day!

The purveyor marched to the rear of the train, Bethany went past big-eared mules, and caught sight of a woman approaching. She had a lot of hair. Black hair. Wearing a white peasant blouse and a mulberry skirt embroidered with braid, she swayed hips as she walked. Dollar to a peanut, that was Terecita López.

Bethany guessed correctly.

Eyes as dark and as cold as a winter's night glared, first at Jon Marc, then at Bethany. Terecita's hands went to hips; she tossed her head. “You!” She addressed Bethany. “Do you think I cannot clothe my child?”

“Now, Terecita,” Jon Marc tried to placate her. “Don't get your dander up.”

“Shut up, skinny
pelirrojo.
I do not speak to you.”

Bethany didn't like having Jon Marc called skinny or a redhead; it seemed too personal. She also didn't like Terecita López. Yet she understood the dancer's bruised pride. Mothers sought to take care of their children, on their own, if possible.

“Meant no offense, giving the blouse,” she said to Sabrina's mother. “I like your daughter. And I have extra clothes.”

Bethany believed Miss Buchanan's estate should be shared, and felt that the unfortunate beauty would agree. Thus, she had been tailoring several outfits. The biggest task would be cutting down a winter coat. If luck held, she'd have it finished by winter and would be around to help small arms into it. Never having known what it felt like to wear a coat, Bethany would take a vicarious delight in its warmth.

“Would you allow Sabrina to accept a few pieces of clothes?” she asked.

“Lópezes do not take charity!”

Understandable. If memory served correctly, Terecita sprang from a grandee forced into Mexico. The rich, even when they'd gotten poor, still had their standards. Bethany knew that much from living in Liberal.

Too bad for Terecita.

Sabrina needed clothes. If Bethany could provide them, she would. “Señorita López, I intend to give your daughter gifts from time to time. Best you don't find a problem with that.”

“I do find a problem!” Terecita took a step forward, getting way too close to Bethany's face for comfort. “Stay away from my child.”

Jon Marc stepped between the two women. “There won't be any more gifts.”

Didn't he have a nerve, taking Terecita's side? Bethany called him on it, once the dancer huffed away.

“I didn't appreciate that,” she said.

“Look, Beth. Sabrina isn't your responsibility. Let her mother take care of her.”

She's my niece, and I will see to her needs!
That, of course, couldn't get said. How could Bethany get it across to Jon Marc, what it was like to do without the necessities of life?

Opportunity slipped away. The postmaster, his dog staggering at his side, approached. Liam Short had a suspicious glint in his gray eyes.

Padre Miguel hadn't shown up to cause trouble, but this visit to Fort Ewell might end up a complete failure, anyhow.

Despite the joy of owning brown, high-top shoes.

 

 

“I fail to see what that's got to do with anything,” Jon Marc said to the postmaster, while Beth took her leave to speak with the wagon master.

Liam scratched his beard. “Them eyes ain't blue. She ain't played that pianer, ya said so yourself. Have ya heared any poetry outta her?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Ya oughta check up on your gal, is what I be sayin'.”

Jon Marc turned his back and went to load supplies into the buckboard. Yet it nagged him, Liam's reminders of the inconsistencies between Beth and what her letters had conveyed.

Several things nagged him. Religion. Like why that López girl was so important to her. Like why poverty scared her. The Buchanans had fallen on hard luck, but that luck hadn't lasted long enough to shatter a lady's outlook. Had it?

Could be, Jon Marc should go with Liam's advice.

 

 

Jon Marc and his vaqueros pulled out for Laredo, Bethany's reminder to buy orange saplings going with them. She blew out a sigh of relief that had to have reverberated south into Mexico. Last night, and again this morning, he'd asked nosy questions.