Magic and the Texan (6 page)

When he reached a barricade, he eased from León and looped reins around a mesquite branch, then strode, loose-limbed and confident, to the stone-and-wood barrier. With ease he hoisted rocks to make an entry. Bethany didn't miss his muscles flexing during toil. For a lanky man, he had excellent muscles.

Bethany, fidgeting and almost losing her sombrero, rode Arlene through the entrance.

Ahead, a half-dozen mares, three with colts, stared at the interlopers. One cropped from a chaparral, then nudged her youngster to leave, to join the herd grazing in the distance. The last mare flicked ears and whickered at the intrusion. Her colt simply nursed from beneath her.

These were broad-chested equines, shorter in leg than the more noble thoroughbred, yet they were noble in their own right.

Jon Marc offered his hand to help Bethany to the ground.

“I, I'd rather stay up here,” she replied, somehow too much in awe of these wild horses.

His gold-dusted eyebrows drew closer together. “These mares won't hurt you. They're saddle-broken.”

Still, Bethany didn't alight.

He angled away to stride toward the mama horse cropping from that chaparral. Clicking his tongue and speaking gently, he stroked the mare's shoulder, although she did gave a warning neigh when Jon Marc got too close to her offspring.

She was a beautiful beast, mahogany in coat with a blaze of white on her chest. Her colt, a stud in the making, had a hide as black as the inside of a cave. The little fellow didn't seem to care what went on around him, so intent was he on filling his belly.

How nice it would be, Bethany mused, to know a mother's loving protection. How nice it would be to become a mother.

To grow a child, she must lie with a man. She'd done too much of that with Oscar Frye, but he'd always spilled himself into a handkerchief, or on the sheets. Which was just as well.

What would it be like to have it fill her womanly cove?

Jon Marc ambled back toward León, who gave his master a wall-eyed stare, as if jealous for losing out on attention. But Bethany didn't keep gawking at the gelding.

Her eyes welded to the center of Jon Marc's groin. What would he look like without denim and chaps? Good gracious, how those buckskin chaps did accentuate Mighty Duke's bulge.

She squirmed, feeling lush urges. Her breasts itched to be touched, to have Jon Marc's lips around them. Good gracious for sure! He hadn't even kissed her lips, much less her flesh, yet erotic thoughts clenched Bethany's teeth. Should she wander outside tonight . . . and invade his bedroll?

Yesterday, hadn't he said something about fancying her? No. Jon Marc fancied Beth Buchanan.

Bethany Todd had to be careful, lest she'd expose herself as a saloon dishwasher-turned-cook with too much experience.

Jon Marc grew tired of being ignored.

On their way home from Salado Creek, he walked León through the narrow
senderos
that cut through the brush, on a path toward Arlene and her rider, which pleased the gelding in spite of clipped virility. Leon did cotton to Arlene. Jon Marc, of course, wasn't thinking too much about horses. Beth still refused to smile at this soap-ugly redhead.
Why be surprised?

Having allowed her sombrero to fall on its strings to her back, she presented an unencumbered profile. Such a stab of yearning went through Jon Marc that he felt it all the way to the toes. The side view of her face was just as lovely as the front, what with her fine nose and comely little chin showing a hint of determination. Beautiful Beth. Alluring in britches. Beth of the letters. More lovely than her picture.

Therein lay the problem.

He had to call halters to that thinking. It was no way to start out, interrogating her like Daniel O'Brien used to grill his mother. He wouldn't follow in family footsteps that had led to disaster. Setting out from the misery of Memphis, in '60, Jon Marc decided to settle in the solitude of Texas. Where he would
never
take a wife like the one Daniel O'Brien had settled for.

Living here had gotten old, real old, no use trying to deny the loneliness, but thriving in a secluded spot on the map took a certain attitude.

It didn't include asking for trouble.

Besides, he adored the lady of the letters. Did he? He wanted her, yearned to take her innocence and make them both breathless. He pined to be the first man, the last man to see her hair spread across a pillow, a smile of satisfaction in her eyes and on her lips.

What was love, though?

Right now he didn't know if he liked her. Beth, in correspondence, had been different. This Beth kept a part of herself to herself. Didn't she have that right? Any lady, especially a virginal miss, new to a setting as well as to a betrothed, would act demure to the point of silence.

“You're sure being quiet,” he commented, seeking to bring her out. “You just keep looking and looking. Looking at the Caliente.”

“Do I?”

“You do. What's on your mind?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Don't underestimate me, Beth.”

Not a muscle moved, until she ran a palm along the sleek line of hair at the crown of her head. “I was thinking about a poem you sent. ‘. . . dew tickles the leaves o' morn.' ”

“Why wouldn't I want to hear about that?”

“It's not morning.” She touched her knee to the mare's ribs, riding ahead of Jon Marc through the clearing.

Strange.

Giving León a nudge, he came abreast of Beth and her mount to grab Arlene's saddle horn. “You weren't thinking about poetry. What's the matter?”

“What was it like for you in the war?”

It took him aback, her asking about the conflict now seven years past. “I got lucky. I stayed alive.”

“And how did you accomplish that?”

“I went in as a fool, linked to the doomed Confederacy,” he answered slowly. “Foolishness at the utmost. When I was called, though, I went.” Mainly to irk Fitz O'Brien, who was Blue to the core. “Spent most of my time behind Yankee lines, drumming up trouble on a one-to-one basis.”

“You never said in a letter . . . but Isabel says you were a spy. You have to be astute, unsavory for the business of spying. Of course,” she added briskly, “you are quite clever.”

“Not clever enough at times.” Like when he'd accused Beth of not liking the Caliente. And when he made hot water for Connor and the supposed member of the U.S. Sanitary Commission who ended up Connor's bride. Jon Marc didn't feel comfortable discussing kin, so he didn't.

Furthermore, from looking in a particular heart-shaped face, he figured his war record wasn't all that had Beth unsettled. “What else is bothering you?” he asked.

“Rockport.”

Rockport. She needn't say another word for Jon Marc to know what was on her mind. Disappointment.

Hazel eyes drilled him. “It seems everyone in town, including Sabrina, knows you're shipping cattle to a town on the Gulf of Mexico. Why ever do you send cattle to that place?”

“To ship to Cuba,” he replied.

“You'll make a fraction of what you'd get at the railhead in Kansas.”

It aggravated him, the truth in her statement. Sent him on the defensive. Removing his hand from Arlene's saddle, he asked Beth, “You trying to tell me how to run this ranch?”

“Maybe someone—No. Of course not. I didn't mean to pry. Forgive me. It isn't my place to advise you. I have no right to tell you anything, us not married.”

The way matters were going, Jon Marc wondered if marriage would be right between them. “I can't send cattle to Kansas this year. Costs too much money.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I spent my cash. Near all of it.” He studied a single strand of León's mane. “It was all I could do to rake together the supplies and salaries to get the vaqueros and the herd to Rockport.”

He expected an argument, or disappointment. Instead, she guided the mare closer and reached to take Jon Marc's hand. “You spent too much money on furniture, sir.”

“Wasted it,” he muttered, yet liked the feel of soft skin against rough.

“I'd rather you spend money on making more. Poor people don't have a chance in this world.”

She knew right where to slice pride. Instinct whipped his hand from hers. It took the whole of his restraint not to shout. “Those cows'll bring seven dollars a head, times three hundred. Besides, I sell cattle every year in Laredo. Plan a trip next week. The Caliente will get a herd to Kansas in73.”

She didn't have the impressed look to her.

He said, “You need to trust me, Beth.”

“I do trust you.” She fit the sombrero to her head, the brim shading her expression. “You couldn't have made a go of it these years if you didn't know what you're doing. Please know I don't mean to boss you. It's just that, well, money—or should I say lack of it?—troubles me. I've seen what can happen when you don't have it, when you need it.”

She pondered. Somehow it didn't sit well with Jon Marc.

Bethany, at the house, could have kicked herself for cramming her foot down her big mouth over Rockport, irking Jon Marc. Bossiness wouldn't get a Mrs. in front of her name.

But why had Miss Buchanan lied to her about his being purse-secure?

Best to reread his letters. Bethany dug them from a valise, and curled up in a chair. Two things were missing. A six-month gap in time, from October of last year to April of this one. And no mentions of childhood or money problems.

Any number of things could have gotten written in the space of those six months. Where were Miss Buchanan's letters? Perhaps tucked away in the bedroom? “I'll look tonight.”

For now, she'd address herself to homemaking.

Hands on her hips, she eyed the parlor area and its crush of furnishings, including a beast of a piano. Should she take the liberty of rearranging the room? Best not. It wasn't hers.

“Señorita?”

Bethany recognized the small voice that came from the open doorway. Smiling, she said in Spanish, “Welcome, Sabrina.”

It was a joy, visiting with the eight-year-old. Sabrina took a chair at the eating table. Her hostess and aunt offered a handful of dried figs, and the hazel-eyed girl ate them. Recalling the orange they shared on her first day here, Bethany asked where Hoot Todd got tropical fruit. Apparently saplings could be had across the border. Would Jon Marc agree to buy a few, during his trip to Laredo?

As well, Sabrina agreed to try some canned turnips. And loved them. What would Jon Marc think about that?

“I have a blouse for you,” Bethany said later, after fetching the folded garment. “Would you like to try it on?”

“
Sí
,
muy gracias.” Sabrina
beamed as she ran a hand along lawn fabric. “This is nice, señorita.”

“Sabrina, do you speak English?”

The girl nodded her head of tangled, tea-colored hair, replying in a variance of the Queen's English, “Señor Hoot, he no like me to speak Spanish.”

“Do you see him often?”

Again the girl nodded. “When he no stealing the cattle and the horses, he stay at the house of my
mamí.
Terecita send for me. She say I need to know my papa.”

“Is he good to you?” Bethany asked, worried for her niece, as she helped Sabrina slip thin arms into blouse sleeves.

“When he no mad, he good. He scares me.”

From what Bethany had heard of the bandit, he stayed in a general state of uproar.

“Why don't I brush your hair?” Bethany offered.

While Sabrina scooted into position, as a child would with her mother, her aunt dug the late Naomi Todd's hairbrush from her reticule to pull the bristles through tangled locks. Winding a ribbon into braids, just as Mrs. Agatha Persat used to do for her, Bethany made up a ditty, keeping it clean. “There lived a young lady who was not content-a, when she wasn't feeding many pigs and a sow called Ha-sint-a.” She tickled young ribs, drawing a squeal of delight. “But Sabrina had a friend—oh, my, I do contend! —who'll give hugs or kisses to no end. Be it spring, or summer, or wint-a.”

Sabrina giggled and threw her arms around Bethany.

 

 

Jon Marc strode into the parlor in time to hear Beth recite a rhyme to Sabrina, their backs to him. He smiled, despite the aggravation that hadn't left him. Such a familial sight. By letter, Beth hadn't sounded anxious for motherhood, beyond a mention of, “It's my duty to present you with heirs.” He'd taken that with a grain of salt, so this display salved the doubts he'd kept hidden.

The moment he started to make his presence known, Sabrina asked, “You are happy, pretty bride?”

He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, listening to Beth reply, “I am lonesome for the ears of another female.”

He cleared his throat to call Beth's attention. As she whipped around, shamefaced, and lunged to her feet, the child scrambled to stand, and he said, “Sabrina, Padre Miguel will be looking for you. Go. Now.”

The girl left, pausing only to grab her gift blouse.

Beth tried to leave, but Jon Marc caught her arm. “Don't be telling tales out of school,” he warned. “I won't have my business reaching Terecita. She'll relay it to Hoot Todd.”

“I was wrong to speak with the little girl.”

“You got that right. Dam—” Scowling, he clamped down on the curse word, and tried to look into eyes that refused to meet his gaze. “Beth, if you've got woes, and you need to tell them to females, you've come to the wrong place.”

She brushed his fingers away, then straightened. “What point are you trying to make?”

“You must accept the Caliente—and everything on it—as is.”

“I didn't come here with the proviso that I interview for the position of wife.” Arms crossed, presenting her back, she walked across the room. “How long, sir, will this test last?”

“Why won't you look at me?”

“This, sir, is a wretched time to ask that!”

Nose in the air, displaying a goodly portion of red shoes, Beth flounced out of the parlor, taking the open door.

 

 

At twilight Jon Marc asked Bethany to walk to Harmony Hill with him. Crickets sang, so did cicadas. From the distance a cow lowed, mingling with the sounds of river. It was a pleasant evening, lit by the last streaks of orange sunlight.

As they stared down at the Caliente, Bethany still didn't look at Jon Marc, this time out of aggravation. She hadn't gotten over their tiff. An out-and-out confrontation would have cleared the air; common sense warned her off. One thing would lead to another, and she'd be leaving brush country.

“Think we can get past this afternoon?” he asked.

“I'd like that.” She broke a blade of grass and wound it around her fingers; curiosity got to her. “I'd also like to know about you, your childhood. Everything that's important to you.”

“I wrote everything that needs to be said.”

From the way he sidestepped her entreaty, she'd bet he had a few skeletons rattling in the closet, too.
No matter his truths, they can't be as bad as yours.