Magic and the Texan (24 page)

She rose from the rail. Padre Miguel opened his arms, and she went into them, to exchange a hug. The thieves had done honor to their clandestine pact.

“I must go.” She wrapped a horse blanket around her shoulders to ward off the blue norther—unseasonably cold weather—that blew outside the church of Santa María. “I told Jon Marc I'd be home before nightfall. And I promised to stop by the post office before I left town.”

“I will. Thanks to you. And to God.” She slanted her face toward the priest. “How can I honor Him?”

“You will think of a way.”

“Brrr!” Bethany, fresh from first Communion, sped toward home and rushed inside the parlor. “It's cold outside!”

Jon Marc, who had tucked up in front of a fire, poetry volume in hand, left the settee in the now-spacious room. He enclosed her in his arms, horse blanket and all. “You should have kept it for yourself, that coat you tailored for Sabrina.”

“Don't be silly. She needs it.”

The girl had not gone with Ramón and Manuel to the city of Mexico, as Terecita had promised. Lately, Bethany had tutored her kin. And she liked it. Yet Sabrina would go away to boarding school in the new year—oh, how her aunt dreaded saying good-bye, even for the semester. But it was for the best. Her niece needed proper education, if she were to become the lady her mother dreamed of. Perhaps to live on the Mississippi with Tristan O'Brien.

“I feel like a churl,” Jon Marc said as he led Bethany toward the rug she'd braided, that presently rested in front of the hearth, “wearing this sweater you knit for me, when you're cold. You're a paragon, Mrs. O'Brien. Knitting sweaters and mittens for everyone we know of, even Hoot Todd.”

Despite the weather, Hoot and his band, astride fine horses sporting new brands, thanks to their crossing the C's from horse coats with a running iron, were currently on a campaign to rob stagecoaches in a more populated area, where writers were sure to tread.

She said, “Hoot looks good in chartreuse, won't you agree?”

“Wife, I have no idea how Todd looks in anything. Men don't ogle men.”

She wiggled up to an all-male form. “He looks good. So do you.” She smoothed fingers over her
querido's
woolen-clad chest. “I love you in damson purple.”

His face went the same shade of purple. “Do you really think this is a good color for a man?”

“I most certainly do.” She began to shed her wrap, since a network of veins were warming, thanks to Jon Marc's presence.

“Beth honey, I'm going to send to Laredo for a coat for you.”

“That would be nice,” she replied, no paragon by any means. “I've heard cashmere is warmer than down.”

“Have you now?” he teased. “You could end up an expensive wife.”

“Better get that herd to Kansas, husband. Else I'll flatten your purse.”

“What you do is bulge Old Duke.” His hand guiding her to the floor, they sat, her spine against his middle, one of her favorite places. Mighty Duke swelled.

Bethany closed her eyes to the orange fire, and wiggled against that which amazed her in its prowess.

“I oughta kick myself for suggesting you wear britches,” Jon Marc muttered, his fingers delving into the top of denim. “There's a reason women wear dresses. Men designed them for easy access.”

“Is that what the poets say?”

“That's what I say,” Jon Marc replied with a growl, then dug at her buttons.

While his fingers eased trousers away from her hip, she squirmed out of them. In no manner was she cold.

His rid himself of his own britches, then she inched backward, again settling at Mighty Duke.

“I've never taken you this way,” he murmured.

“You've done it many ways, why not this one?”

His fingers coasted beneath her shirt, stopping at the swell of her breasts. “I got more than I ever fancied in you.”

“Same with me.”

That was when she shoved her hips to him. He parted her cheeks, placing Duke just short of its goal. No! She didn't want this—had meant
this
. Oscar had used her thusly.

Jon Marc never used her.

He said, “It tempts me, but I won't. It goes against Nature. A man must penetrate the proper place.”

“Do it.”

He did.

To grant better entry, she planted her palms on the rug. And then he was in her, marvelously in her, as her desires demanded. His large sacs slapped her thighs, as he thrust into her, more times than any reasonable woman could count. All the while, he caressed her flesh, first her hips, then her waist, then her breasts. Luscious time passed—she relished every moment of it, her passions flying higher and higher. Sensing his completion, she felt her own. Her muscles tightened around his sex. With a snap of ecstasy he pressed one last time, planting his seed within her.

And then he rolled her backward, bringing his spine to the rug, her head to his chest. Still caressing her breasts, he whispered, “I don't think I could ever get enough of you.”

“I pray you don't.”

The Duke sagged out of her. She squirmed, releasing him, before flipping to her side. Her fingers slipping along Jon Marc's well-shaped hips, she cupped her palm over the blue-veined power, now listless. It was lovely. Thick and massive, even at slack.

A hunger lusted within her, the need to taste his jewel. Once, Oscar had forced her head to his spindly shaft, which roused nothing but counting sheep. She didn't find Jon Marc repulsive. Her tongue darted out, just a bit. “Would you let me do as you've done many times?”

He flushed. “Well, I, I, I don't know. Interesting. But what if I wasted our seed?”

“Couldn't we be selfish just this one time?”

His eyes showed that he would relent.

“Is it too soon for you?” she asked.

As if summoned, Mighty Duke nodded. “Not too soon,” Jon Marc growled and pulled her head to it.

Eager lips surrounded the stout trunk. The tip of her tongue rounded the area beneath his foreskin, then she took him deeper. The tip pressed her tonsils, yet he still wasn't in. It took swirling her hips to accommodate him. He went past her throat, yet she didn't gag. Jon Marc's fingers combed into her hair, his groan filling the parlor.

“Geezus—never imagined!” he called out. “Good.”

That was when she found his male nipples, and pinched them. His rear bucked off the rug. A high point overtook her, shattering, driving her wilder.

She sucked harder.

He pushed her face away. “No. In you. We shouldn't waste a drop.”

He tried to drive her to her back. But it was too late. White pulsed against her cheek, then her hand. Her eyes were on Mighty Duke. In Liberal, she had thought the letting of male seed ho-hum. Presently, and forever, she found it fascinating. It seemed to go on and on, so full was her husband. This was what went into her, what filled her so fully, what smelled delicious . . . and now, as her tongue swept along Duke's head, tasted even better.

“We shouldn't do that anymore,” Jon Marc lamented, once he got his breath. “We should save it for making a baby.”

“Querido
, I feel full enough for ten babies.”

He bent over her, sliding his middle finger into a wicket, wet with his previous stream . . . and the culmination of hers. “Then why have we seen no evidence of a babe?”

“I-I don't know.” Unless God wasn't a benevolent heart, if He were the vengeful presence of Agatha Persat's religion. “Perhaps we haven't made love often enough.”

“Beth, we haven't missed a day. Or a night.”

That, she knew. “What if I'm barren?”

“Then we'll have to adjust to being childless.”

The mere thought hurt, yet she tried to be reasonable. “Would you mind terribly if we adopted a child?”

“You feel the need to ask that, given my background? Beth honey, you don't know how many times I wished, as a child, that some loving couple had taken me in.”

She recalled the orphan boys, now south of the border. “We should have gotten closer to Ramón and Miguel.”

“It's too late for them. But if other children pass this way . . .”

“I want them. Even if I swell with your child, I want all children who need us.”

“Fine with me.”

 

 

Once they replaced their clothes and had shared bites of dinner, Bethany glanced across the eating table at her husband. His eyes were on her, as they had been when she first arrived at Rancho Caliente. She grinned at his ardent stare.

“You had me so engrossed for a while there,” she said, “I forgot to mention the mail.”

His palm found her knee under the table. “You want to talk mail, after . . . ?”

She knew what he meant. After their stunning bout on the parlor floor. Her insides tightened, recalling it. “We have the rest of our lives to enjoy the flesh's pleasures. But we must think about the world outside our door on occasion.”

“Spoilsport,” he teased.

“You got three dispatches.”

“Did you open them?”

“You would accuse me of snooping?” she asked, returning his tease.

“Could happen.”

“Not in this case. I didn't read your letters. But I know you have a post from Fitz. And one from each of your brothers.”

“Where's the mail?”

She smiled, heartened at the strides Jon Marc had made since her arrival. “In my britches pocket.”

Her husband rose from the table to stride to the denims that lay before the fireplace. He ripped open one missive, read it. “Pippin's parents will allow him to work at the factor house during summers, until his education is complete. Our nephew agrees with the terms.”

“That pleased me,” Bethany said serenely.

“Catfish will manage Fitz & Son till then.”

“Good.”

Jon Marc sliced open the next two letters. Handing one to Bethany, he pulled a sheet of paper from the other. “This is from Burke. He and Susan would like for us to spend Christmas at their home in New Orleans, celebrating Fitz's birthday.”

“Your brother Connor and his wife say they're going to New Orleans. They want to make it a real family reunion. Do you think we can?”

“Doubtful.”

Bethany figured Jon Marc's reply had something to do with the bad turn the Caliente had taken, thanks to the weather. There hadn't been a drop of rain in months. The Nueces and its streams were dried, the livestock suffering for it. No amount of money could buy water.

He said, “If luck is with us, and a good rain falls, we must get ready to launch that cattle drive to Kansas. We'll need to leave in February, March at the latest.” He eyed her questioningly. “Unless you're in no position to travel.”

She knew what he meant. If they had a child on its way.

Somehow she knew that no babe would ever grow in her womb.

Bethany vowed to make the best of it.

The worst was yet to come.

The wind whistled like a mournful lover, the morning after those letters from kin arrived.

Jon Marc and his wife attended Mass to pray for the souls of their departed loved ones, on this the second day to honor the saints. Mostly, he gave thanks for a perfect wife.

Afterward, they accepted Liam Short's offer to stop by the post office for a cup of coffee.

The postmaster hovered over the potbellied stove, an Indian blanket draping his shoulders, Stumpy curling at his stocking feet. The dog stunk to high heaven, not unlike one of the pigs that Jon Marc still had no use for.

Liam said, “Shore be glad when this cold snap passes on outta here. Iffen I'd wanted to be cold, I'da stayed in Missouri.”

Beth smiled. “Your troubles will be over soon enough, Liam. You know what everyone says. If you don't like Texas weather, stick around. It'll change in three days.”

“ 'Cept in summer. Then it ain't nothing but hot.” Liam dug toes against Stumpy's ragged, fawn-colored coat. “Iffen we don't get some rain, we might-uz well pack up and leave La Salle County.”

“We've lived through droughts before.” Jon Marc poured coffee and handed a tin cup of it to Beth. Worried he might be about the dried creeks, but he couldn't help smiling at the tingle that went through him every time he touched his honey. Since magic had given him a bride, he'd gotten a lot more calm about many things. “You just wait. The sky is going to open up soon, and we'll all be back in business.”

Beth sipped coffee, then leaned to the left to peer out the oiled-paper window. Jon Marc's eyes were on the curve of one hip, and he recalled how it tasted on his tongue. He recalled how it felt to be tasted by her lips, and having Old Duke engulfed. He like to lost it. The coffee cup wiggled. He sipped deeply, scalding his tongue.

Her voice as dry as the cracked earth of their ranch, his wife said, “I do believe that's Hoot Todd riding up. Yes, it is. Terecita is running toward him.”

“This is our lucky day,” Jon Marc said, equally as dry, and gulped another swallow of Liam's bitter brew that was supposed to be coffee.

Not long after that, Hoot Todd kicked open the post office door. He let in a draft of frigid air that sent Stumpy into Liam's lap.

“Close the door,” Jon Marc barked, not too interested in the return of La Salle's bandit supreme.

Todd nearly slammed the door in Terecita López's face. The dancer turned piano player—her talents had improved almost to acceptable here lately—shoved her weight against the barrier and burst in. Spanish eyes blazed. Too bad they couldn't warm this clapboard structure.

Everyone shivered from the cold.

“You,” the dancer snarled at Todd.

Guilt over an unnamed source affected him not.

“Dad gum writers,” he complained while huffing over to the stove, “they ain't looking for a legend. They's just looking for another Robin Hood. What's Robin Hood? I ain't never heard of such a thing.”

Terecita apparently felt no need to explain the exploits that harked from a faraway place called Sherwood Forest, in bygone days. Perhaps she didn't know.

“Where have you been, Chico?” She adjusted her hair, then slipped fingers beneath her poncho. “It has been weeks, but I have heard nothing from you. You said you would give me money for Sabrina's education, but you have given not a
centavo!”

Beth glanced at Jon Marc; he met her regard. Apparently the dancer-cum-musician had said nothing about the O'Brien promise to educate Sabrina.

Well, couples did play games.

Jon Marc had played his own. Giving over school money would have to wait until the upcoming cattle drive to Kansas filled the family coffers. Provided the Caliente outfit had any cattle to drive to Kansas.

Jon Marc wouldn't worry his wife with the honest-to-God truth. But if rain didn't fall and soon, their herd wouldn't survive the winter.

Without a word of comment to the mother of his daughter, Hoot Todd, gracing Terecita with a glare, warmed his thorny hands above the stove. In a tone contrary to his abrupt arrival, he inquired, “Anybody miss me?”

“Why, yes.” Beth set her cup on the floor. She had one of those conciliatory looks that her husband had come to understand more than well. “How have you been?”

“Sick as a dog.”

“What is wrong?” Terecita, forgetting aggravation, rushed to her man to try to offer comfort.

“Dad gum it, get away! Don't need no woman-problems.”

When Todd grappled to free himself of his lover's clutching fingers, Stumpy got the wrong idea. The dog leapt from Liam's lap and took a hunk out of the bandit's thumb.

Which, of course, caused Todd to bring his knee up hard beneath Stumpy's chin. The dog tossed from his master's lap, landing on his ear to howl. Liam thrust off his blanket, took hold of a fire-poker, and tried to whap it upside Todd's head.

Bethany went for the already-crippled dog.

Jon Marc caught the poker short of its mark.

Terecita stepped between Todd and Jon Marc, but Stumpy got the wrong idea. He chomped into her ankle. Blood spurted. Which rubbed Todd the wrong way.

“Friggin' dog,” he yelled and connected his fist to Liam, instead of his intended canine target.

The postmaster flew backward, the Indian blanket soaring against Beth's middle. She threw off the restraints to bind her arms around the canine and shush him with her own brand of charm, not inconsiderable.

“Enough!” Jon Marc shouted.

Everyone went still.

Stumpy then laved Beth's ear.

A visage as woebegone as Stumpy's worst countenance swept over Todd's face. “Can't even get no respect in my hometown. I'm leaving. For good.”

“You are leaving? Ha!” Terecita accepted the clean handkerchief Jon Marc provided, and began to wrap her ankle. “You will not be the first to leave.” Terecita lifted her nose toward the ceiling. “
I
am leaving. I will take my daughter and my talents with the piano, and find a more appreciative audience.”

“What about Sabrina?” Beth asked, her voice not disguising her concern. “Where will you take her?”

“Mexico City, perhaps. I will find an adoring man—a true protector!—to pay for my daughter's education.”

“Terecita, I told you, be patient.” Standing, Beth had a worried look. “My husband and I will help.”

“I am out of patience.” Terecita swept out the door, leaving it open to let cold air in.

“Well, god—” Hoot, eyeing Beth, bit off his curse. “Dad gum it, you just cain't trust women to love on you when you need it. Always gotta think of theirselves, women. Dad gum it.”

If not for his wife's woeful, downcast face, Jon Marc might have chuckled at Todd's view of himself as he related to women. What a contrast in view versus action.

“I won't want her to take Sabrina away,” Beth whispered, all eyes.

Moving his line of inquiry from one person to the next, Todd wanted to know, “Anybody got any idea what Robin Hood is?”

“He ain't you.” Liam grabbed Indian blanket and snaggletoothed dog. “You ain't nuttin' but a saddle sore, pure and simple.”

Beth closed troubled hazel eyes. Her shoulders hunching, she crept closer to her husband, whispering, “I love that little girl. I don't want to be without her.”

As if the weather weren't enough to worry about, Jon Marc had to consider his wife's feelings. Poor Beth. He nestled her cheekbone against his shoulder. She hadn't been quite herself here lately, no doubt because no sign of a babe had come their way.

It worried Jon Marc, too, the reason their many matings hadn't brought what they should have. This wasn't the moment to worry about young O'Briens. He couldn't let Terecita hare off with the little girl who meant so much to his wife.

“I'll go after her,” he said and went for the door.

 

 

“What did you say?”

Jon Marc asked that question in Santa Maria Church, the reason for this visit falling away. He sat on a pew beside Terecita, who sobbed into a rag.

“Chico has not been the same.” She blew her nose into the white confines. “Not since your señora filled his head with ideas of legend.”

“That's not all you said.” Jon Marc laid a wrist on the pew in front of them. “What did you mean, ‘By appealing to his family honor'?”

“
Es un cuento largo
. ”

A long story was it? Did that make sense? “What do you mean?”

“They are not really related. It was a hoax. A ploy.” Terecita buried her forehead against twined fingers that rested on the forward pew. “Your wife has been good for this place, but I sometimes wish she wouldn't tell so many tales. She was never Chico's sister. She lied to mold him into what she wanted him to be.”

“Is that so?”

“She is
una buena mujer, su esposa
.”

That Terecita couldn't express herself in English troubled Jon Marc. She had a grand understanding of the Anglo tongue. Something had made her revert. Did it exclusively have to do with a lover who wouldn't provide for his get and gal?

“You call my wife a good woman, but I don't want to be sent sidetracked by nuances. Speak English.”

“She is not sister to Chico. She told him so only to get on his good side.”

“Beth got the idea to call herself sister to Hoot Todd?”

Terecita nodded. “When she called him Mortimer, it changed him. He was an hombre after glory.”

This woman's confidences struck Jon Marc as strange. Could it have to do with suspicion at its most stark? For the past few months, since Beth had given Todd a watch, her husband harbored a curiosity, one no happily married man should have.

Once Jon Marc had gotten over the visit from his grandfather, he had a chance to think about that gift watch. Three days after Fitz left, it came to him. Aaron Buchanan decried timepieces. The Kansan claimed to be a true man of the West, telling time by the arch of the sun and the moon's position in the heavens.

Aaron Buchanan hadn't carried a watch.

Which, if Jon Marc thought about—not something he wanted to do—preyed on his mind. As was his custom, he found excuses. “Family honor” had to do with Beth's campaign to curry favor with the outlaw, for peaceable reasons. Didn't it?

“They aren't related,” he stated without stuttering.

“Es verdad.
It's true.” Again Terecita blew into the rag. “It was all a ploy to make him think they were brother and sister, calling herself Bethany Todd. I do not know how Beth found out his name is truly Mortimer, but it worked.”

Jon Marc wrinkled his brow and studied the cuticles of his thumbs. How did Beth find out Hoot's given name? One thing about it, she knew the truth that night in the bandit's shack.

How long had she known it, and why hadn't it been important enough to mention to her husband?

Jon Marc intended to find out.