Magic and the Texan (11 page)

He suspected her—she felt it in her bones.

Her plan wasn't going well, not at all. She might yearn for Mighty Duke, might respect Jon Marc, might want all he could offer, but Bethany was getting nowhere.

Even burning those red shoes didn't cheer her.

She considered deserting the Caliente, a clear lane of retreat at hand. She could take off with Arlene—was it thievery to steal a gift?—and be gone before Jon Marc's return from Laredo. Excellent idea. Her troubles would be over.

Where would she go? What would she do? And could she really say good-bye, without a fight, to the Caliente and its soft-eyed owner with his shock of old-penny hair?

As the days passed, she found herself wanting to share inconsequential tidbits with the absent Jon Marc. Strange, how she missed moss-bearded trees and dew on leaves of green. Every bite she put in her mouth, she wondered what he would think of the dish. She pined for conversation, even if it meant the unenviable game of being herself yet a different woman entirely.

Besides, if she left, she wouldn't be able to keep an eye on Sabrina, who grew more precious as each day passed.

During it all, chores kept a lonely woman busy. And she worked on Sabrina's coat.

With Isabel's help, Bethany dug a shallow trench from a branch of the Nueces and planted vegetable seeds, where they would get excellent sun but not so much to burn leaves.

Most of all, whenever the bell tolled for Mass, she made certain to be there. It didn't take much to ape the motions made by the worshipers, and Bethany began to get comfortable with the strange ways of Catholicism.

Seeing the error of her ways from that day in the kitchen, she made it a point at church to be cordial to the padre. Padre Miguel was a nice enough man, when he wasn't making broad suggestions about Jon Marc's piano.

That monster ought to go to the church. But Bethany was in no position to give anything away. Thus, Bethany kept Padre Miguel's hints at bay.

And, at last, two weeks after his departure, Jon Marc returned.

Just at dusk's onset, Bethany saw Jon Marc and heard the ping of spur rowels as he entered the stables, where she was currying Arlene. She dropped the currycomb in her delight.

“I bear a gift,” he said first thing, then tossed his hat to the floor and set a sack on a ledge. “Peppermint candies.”

She loved peppermint, but would have preferred to taste his lips instead. He looked tired, yet good to her, standing in chaps and gun belt, vest and bandanna over britches and shirt as black as the devil's heart.

He held out his arms; Bethany flew into his embrace. He smelled of horse, sun, sweat. Nothing had ever smelled better to her—it felt good to be there. Forever it seemed, she'd wanted him to touch her, as a man greeted his woman.

Yet he didn't kiss her.

“Why don't you kiss me?” she asked, bold as brass, all Bethany, purely Bethany Todd.

“I'm not sure you'd welcome me.”

Her palms flattened against his vest. “What sort of invitation are you waiting for?”

“Guess that's enough.”

His lips parted. Yet he said an odd thing. “Don't you dare say anything about my nose getting in the way.”

“That wasn't what I was thinking. I like your nose.”

Startled, he dropped his arms. “You do?”

“I certainly do,” she reassured him, suspecting his reticence about a wedding date. She'd done little or nothing to express her feelings. It was time for honesty. “You couldn't look better to me.” She took his hands and placed them where they belonged, at the small of her back. “I would've told you when first we met, if it had been the proper thing to say.”

A smile, broad with relief, lit his face. “I wish you had, honey. I do wish you had said something, 'cause I've died a thousand deaths, thinking you couldn't stand the looks of my mug. Guess I'm touchy about this ugly face and honker of a nose.”

She touched the side of the member in question. “You know what they say—”
Don't get carried away, girl. Remember you're Miss Buchanan.
Bethany style, but still a Buchanan.

“What do they say?”

“Oh, Jon Marc!” At a time like this, what else could a girl say but: “Just kiss me.”

He did.

Peppermint lingered on his lips—he'd been sampling the gift, undoubtedly. But he didn't sample her lips, not deeply. That was disappointing, even though she hated tongue-kissing, or at least she used to hate it, when Oscar forced his tongue past her tonsils on its foray to her toenails. This was a chaste kiss, as one should expect from a man of innocence.

The time for innocence had passed.“I read in a book about a kiss that employs the kissers' tongues.” True. She had read such in a contemporary English novel on the shelves at the Frye residence. “It was a naughty book. Are you shocked?”

A flush of red crept above Jon Marc's shirt collar. “I've read a few banned books, myself.”

“Do you ever think about doing that with me?” She smiled hesitantly. “You know . . .”

“You mean like this?” That was when he yanked her to him. His lips covered hers. There was nothing chaste about the way he moved his mouth, or the way he tangled tongues.

Theirs was a spiritual blending, as different from Oscar's invasions as rotgut was from cognac. Too soon it was over.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Jon Marc, is that usually done? Thanks after a kiss?”

“Will be in terms of me and you.”

Her eyelids felt heavy, her cheeks warm, she murmured, “You kiss as though you're a man of experience. Not a tentative thing about you, sir.”

“I can cut the mustard.”

She considered his statement's full import. He wasn't suave, like a knave in Liberal, but Bethany knew enough about men to sense his potential.

That sort of thinking had to stop.

The practical seemed neutral ground, so she asked, “Did you get my orange trees?”

“Yep. Better not plant 'em till winter, though.”

Would she be here, when cold weather rolled in?

He tweaked her chin, unaware of the pain that went through her limbs at the thought of not being here in winter.

His head tilted toward her neck. “You smell like vanilla.”

With a forced chipper tone, she replied, “A dab or two of vanilla, why, sir, it's almost as good as French perfume, don't you think?”

“You don't need anything to smell good.”

Taking the liberty of cuddling just a little bit closer to his strong chest, she said, “I bet you'll find something to like in the crock in the kitchen cupboard. I've been baking. Cookies. Do you like cookies?”

His eyes rounded in bemusement as, he held her away. “I told you in a letter how much I enjoy cookies.”

Probably one of those missing ones. “Jon Marc, how can you expect me to remember every line you wrote?”

His fingers squeezed her waist. “Arrogant of me, assuming you would.”

Her fingers trailed to the curls at his nape. Such warm skin. She felt a ripple of excitement as it fluttered through his veins. Or were they her own?

She stroked his cheek. It felt good to her touch, those dips and crags. He both surprised and delighted her when his mouth moved against her palm, his lips touching the center of it.

Yet he stepped back.“Beth, over in Laredo, I ran into a fellow—an acquaintance of Aaron Buchanan's. In case you don't know it, your father bragged on you. He did some bragging to that rancher, too. Aaron told him you play beautiful piano. ‘Like Chopin.' How come you never play the piano for me?”

Oh, dear. The monster. Rather than look Jon Marc in the eye, she turned to Arlene's stall and stroked the mare's shoulder. It wasn't that Bethany lacked appreciation for the big, beautiful beast that hogged the parlor, sitting like a too-large rider in a too-small saddle.

She simply couldn't play it.

It seemed as if she need lie not only about Miss Buchanan, but also about her father, too. “It was Father's pipe dream, that I could play. He paid for lessons. But I never learned.”

Bethany steeled herself for the worst from Jon Marc.

Jon Marc studied Beth. Silence as heavy as a certain grand piano settled through the stable. He rubbed his mouth. Not halfway to Laredo, he had abandoned the idea of checking on Beth Buchanan. It just didn't seem right, such an investigation. It reminded him too much of Daniel O'Brien's ways.

Yet Jon Marc suspected Beth had something to hide.

Hadn't she 'fessed up about the piano?
And when are you going to be honest?
Not at the moment. Not when the issue of Aaron Buchanan's scruples hung in question. Beth's father had been one of the most respected men in Wichita. Why did he fib about his daughter's aptitude at the piano, unless he was ashamed of her lack of talents?

He said, “I figured Aaron Buchanan for an honest man.”

“For pity's sake, you didn't know him that well. A couple of dinners and a business exchange do not a friendship make. ”

“Reckon not.” Jon Marc watched her knit fingers and rub one thumb with the other. “Strikes me funny,” he said,“Aaron not dwelling on your talents as a poetess.”
Can you blame him? Well, you bragged on her, why wouldn't
Aaron? It wasn't awful poetry, it just wasn't great. Nothing to be ashamed of. “You do speak three languages. If I had a daughter, I'd center on her strengths and keep my trap shut about her weaknesses.”

“You would. You being you. But you aren't he.” Prying her fingers apart, Beth said, “I can't answer for Aaron Buchanan. Nor should I be called to task for his words.”

“True.” He decided not to dwell on Aaron Buchanan, or on that too grand piano.

Besides, it was happiness he felt, not only with a successful drive to Laredo behind him. Beth had assured him that his looks didn't revolt her. They had shared a deep kiss, one that still tingled his veins. A few more kisses like that, and his hands would be everywhere, not to mention other things aching to be other places. What he and Beth needed to do was make plans for the future, and not tarry.

Which meant honesty on his part.

Somehow he couldn't imagine
ever
admitting to a certain situation that arose in Laredo. Curious about that French phrase Beth had used, he'd repeated it to a sister at the church, a native of France. Must have recalled it wrong, very wrong. The nun's face had turned chalky, then she slapped him. Hard.

He now heard a rustle of paper but chose to ignore it.

“Why don't we stop by the kitchen, pick up those cookies, then retire to the parlor?” he suggested. “I'll read you some poems I picked up in Laredo.”
Then I'll lay my heart open and plead for a chance to take your hand.

“No more moss-bearded trees. No more dew on the leaves.” Beth, her skirts swaying gently, crossed to him. Planting both hands on his shoulders, she reached on tiptoes to look him in the eye. “Where exactly do we stand, sir?”

Before he could suggest they head straight for the parlor, she said,“If you've read those naughty novels, you may be under the impression men are expected to perform at a, um, certain level. Are you . . . are you afraid of our wedding night?”

He almost swallowed his tongue. Quite an evening, this one. In that Beth had read bawdy literature might mean she had a wild streak in her. Climbing that tree spoke volumes. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of wild romps with an even wilder woman.

His voice an octave lower than normal, he asked, “What do you expect out of my performance?”

“Kisses. Caresses. I don't know the rest, beyond those novels. Somehow I couldn't lose myself in the prose. I should imagine gentleness and respect would go a lot further in pleasing a woman than some of that mad frolicking about.”

Well, hell. So much for wild romps.

“You'll get kissed and caressed. All with the utmost respect.” He cupped her jaw between his palms, trying to show integrity. “You have my word on that.”

“Sir, what
exactly
have you done in your limited experience?”

He shook his head in exasperation. “You're a single-sighted gal when you get something on your mind.”

“I'm single-sighted. Curious, too.”

The moment of reckoning upon him, he let his hands fall away from her smooth face. He paced. Ran fingers through his hair. From the stable's far side, he admitted, “You need to know something. I have gone beyond the proper with a widow.”

“Went how far?” Bethany asked, her voice quiet.

“I can handle our situation, when the time is right.” He retreated to the corner, folded into it, and rested a forearm on a bent knee.

Beth followed him. Hands on her hips, she canted downward, her hair drifting toward his mouth. “Tell me something, Jon Marc. Did you thank that widow lady?”

“You're making this hard for me.” Hell, even though Beth did reject carnal romps, his nerves were springing like a pond full of frogs on a summer night, his rod getting harder and harder. He wanted to put some novel ideas to jumping.

Her eyes were squarely on him. “Did you save yourself?”

The tips of her hair brushed the top of his hand. How could he think at a moment like this? Confessing seemed secondary to seducing Beth out of her questions.

“How improper did you get with that widow?” Beth demanded to know.

His eyelids heavy, he brushed a fingertip across her bottom lip. “I'd prefer to show you.”

“That's not the talk of a proper gentleman,” she chided. “How many of those books did you read? Or did that widow tutor you to the best of her abilities?”

“Gracious, honey.”

A crunching sound drew their attention. It came from Arlene. Quick investigation uncovered the mare, helping herself to the gift sack of peppermints. Her long tongue darted out to lap a pink-stained muzzle, before she eyed the gift-giver as if to ask for “more, please.”

Her antics drew chuckles from the onlookers. Beth stood straight and said,“So much for your present.”

“True.” He had something better to give her, anyhow. A wedding present. To go along with the ring that he would keep hidden until the marriage ceremony.

Arlene might have broken the tension between the humans, but it didn't last.

Beth proceeded to park fists at her waist. “Tell me true, sir. Did you save yourself?”