Magic and the Texan (22 page)

Strolling away, Jon Marc chuckled. If anything didn't fall into order in his mind, it was the thought of his wife being sister to Hoot Todd.

He glanced at the sky. It shone like an aquamarine, set off by a canary-diamond sun. It was a fine day for a party. And for peace. Both in this county . . . and in a man's heart.

Beth O'Brien was a fine woman. A savior to this place, and to her husband. She'd made a mistake before marriage—she didn't recognize it as a misdeed, but as payoff to keep her father alive—but intuition had a word with her husband. Her value was higher than every aquamarine ever mined, every diamond ever polished.

He searched for her, but she shooed him out the kitchen, claiming pies had her busy. Funny, how a purpose could turn on a man. He didn't want her to be too much the working wife. They needed to do some working on each other.

Later.

He roamed the yard.

A pig turned on a spit, manpower provided by Xavier and Morales, bandits. Jaime rosined up his bow and set toes to work, playing tunes more appropriate to American audiences than to largely Hispanic ones. “Sally Good'ne” and “Ol' Man Tucker” seemed to be his specialties. He wasn't half bad.

Ten other bandits gobbled copious amounts of Isabel's freshly made tortillas, along with her specialty: hot sauce.

Liam Short and Padre Miguel partook of a home brew that the padre had been keeping to himself. Fitz drank a tin cup full, although Eugene declined for religious purposes. Jon Marc wasn't too holy to take several sips.

Catfish Abbott cast a wary glance at the Todd gang, but he eased down when somebody suggested a game of horseshoes. The Caliente vaqueros joined in, and had the foresight to lose. They paid off with whiskey, which the Todd gang took to.

Pippin did somersaults when Sabrina arrived, holding her mother's hand. Even before Terecita coerced Hoot Todd into a sensuous dance that involved her castanets, the youngsters took off for the pigpen, “Tristan” carrying the game board, “ 'Brina” toting a felt bag filled with red and black checkers.

Just as the pig dripped fat, Stumpy eyed a bone that Sham II had squirreled beneath his paws. The mutt made a lunge for the bloodhound, who had been sleeping off the dregs of a bowl of chili and that beef bone, as house dogs were wont to do. Stumpy moved pretty fast, considering he did it on three legs.

Fur flew. Blood spewed. Liam Short doused them with a bucket of sand and the spew of his wrathful voice.

The music having stopped for the dogfight, Jon Marc, who knew
Evangeline
by heart, began a recitation. Both Stumpy and Sham II bayed through the first part. It wasn't long before the listeners, including the dogs, allowed their eyelids to droop. Hoot Todd's snores shut Jon Marc's mouth.

Well, poetry wasn't for everyone.

Jon Marc motioned for Jaime to fiddle, which perked up the revelers.

This was the best day La Salle County had ever known.

“I've made enough pies for everyone in brush country,” Bethany muttered under her breath. “Well, better for our cup to run over than for anyone to do without.”

She shoved the last lemon pie into the oven, then blew a lock of hair away from her eyes. She should have been tired, having cooked while their guests made revelry, but she wasn't even winded. She felt renewed, pleased to have the chance to bake these pies. Her prayers had been answered.

How could she find out what to do in return?

“Need some help?”

“I thought I told you to stay out of my kitchen,” she scolded softly as her husband entered the kitchen.

He wore denims over work-worn boots. The top two buttons of his rust-colored shirt were freed, the V baring the bronzed skin of his throat. Would he ever again invite her fingers to stroke that flesh?

“You'll work your fingers to the bone,” he said, his ardent gaze welding to hers, “if you don't stop to enjoy your own celebration.”

Disappointed that he hadn't ask for something of the flesh, she answered, “I'm almost through. I'm itching to get outside to enjoy the music and good cheer.”

“Would you dance with me?”

There was a tender cast to his voice. What did it mean? She had her hopes, along with her gratitude for prayers answered.

“Wife, I'd love to dance with you. Right here, amid the oven and the mess of cooking. Just me and you.”

“That . . . that would be nice.” Should she anticipate more?

He ambled toward her, getting close enough for her to smell bay rum, yet he didn't offer that dance. He said, “You're a miracle, Beth O'Brien.”

“I'm not.”

“You are. I've never seen anyone who could turn things around like you can. There's never been anyone more special than you. You can be trusted, dear wife. And I trust you.”

Praise rested heavy on her shoulders, like a hair shirt. She'd done nothing for glory. Her efforts were manipulation in its baldest form. Nothing to be proud of. A higher power had done the work, deserved the credit. If she said as much, she'd have to say more, would necessarily spill too much.

She cast her gaze to the earthen floor.

“You have flour on your nose,” her husband murmured. “You've never looked as beautiful to me.”

“Ah, ha!” Mirth forced, she said, “Now I know your secrets. You do seek a household drudge.”

“No, Beth. I seek my wife.”

Her heart seemed to stop. Was she hearing correctly, or... “Please don't toy with me.”

“I intend to dance with you. If you agree.” That was when he brushed a fingertip across her nose. “May I kiss you?”

A smile boosted her cheeks. “I'd be delighted.”

“So would I ...” His lips took hers.

He tasted like beer, which could be the reason he'd loosened up enough to kiss her. She wouldn't reason it out. She melted against his long, tall form, wanting more, more, more.

And he gave it.

He slid his palm to the base of her spine, taking her hand in his as she placed her left wrist on his shoulder. He whirled her around in the waltz that floated from Jaime's violin. Her husband danced with grace, within the tempo, as if he were a swain who'd escorted a thousand ladies to ballroom floors.

Surprisingly, Bethany had no trouble following, even though her only dancing had been with Cletus, when he hadn't been too drunk to dance. This was much better than dancing with Pa. This was wondrous.

And when the dance ended, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Again Jon Marc kissed her.

This time he picked at her buttons. “I want to love you, wife.”

No matter how much she wanted what he offered, or how much his surrender implied, he'd never declared his feelings. Was it silly to expect anything more than sweet talk? She was ignoble enough to ask, “Is that what you're doing,
querido
? Loving me?”

“I love you.”

Her husband ran a fingertip along her temple. “How could I not love you? I want to hold you in my arms and place you on this floor and bury myself so deep that I never find my way out.”

She reveled in those words. Nevertheless, she wouldn't be his under false pretenses. Too much could never be told. With any luck, some things would never come to light. “Husband, do you know I'll never do you wrong?”

He eased her to the floor. “There's not a hateful bone in your body, wife.”

But would he someday hate her, if he had second thoughts? “This kind of thing could make a baby.”

“Let's hope it's a boy” was his comment.

“Or a girl. Or one or the other.”

He laughed, deep and strong. “Aw, Beth honey, I'm the luckiest man alive.”

That was everything she needed to hear. Rubbing her palm along the ridge in his britches, she wiggled against him and fiddled with his buttons. Jubilance turned to wifely teasing. “Draw on me, vaquero. Let's see what sorta weapon you pack.”

It was as long as a Peacemaker.

As potent as the Colt arsenal.

And it went off like a cannon.

By the time the last pie had burned, the sacrificial pig had probably browned to a turn. Jon Marc and Bethany straightened their clothes to leave the kitchen.

“My turn to say thank you,” he growled and grabbed her for another kiss.

Yet a niggling of worry jabbed her good cheer. It seemed somehow outrageous, being this happy when their marriage had yet to become legal in the eyes of anyone, save for the husband.

 

 

Not a half hour later, real trouble arrived.

A rider rode a white prancer onto the property.

The gentleman, not a youth by any means, reined in, near Terecita.

The big stallion reared to hind legs, the rider—wearing fringed buckskins as white as his silver-studded, ten-gallon chapeau—doffed that hat. His hair grew long and thick, curling to his shoulders. It was the whitest hair Bethany had ever seen.

She felt her husband tense beside her as the stranger gave a great whoop.

“Howdy, folks,” the arrivee bellowed. “The name's Johnson. Marcus Johnson. Trick-rider and fast-draw artist. How 'bout I feed those dogs for you?”

Not unlike Hoot Todd, Johnson brandished a pair of pistols to twirl them. Crossing his arms skyward, he picked off first one, then another mockingbird that had the misfortune to fly into the line of fire.

The dead birds landed in front of Sham II and Stumpy. Both dogs had the decency to turn their noses up at the burnt offering.

“Goddamn the goddamn,” Jon Marc muttered under his breath, his glare firmly on his dead mother's lover.

 

 

Marcus Johnson's arrival roused a commotion. No brush popper or vaquero, much less any bandit, had ever seen such an dime-novel version of a man of the West.

Fitz O'Brien, with Eugene's assistance, made his way into the house, obviously unwilling to speak with the man he'd summoned. Bethany knew how much it hurt Fitz, seeing the person responsible for Daniel's suicide.

Jon Marc stomped away, making for the river.

His wife followed, praying the wonderful part of this day hadn't reached an end.

“I don't want to talk,” he said as they sat on the riverbank, their knees drawn up.

“I understand.”

He reached for her hand, then squeezed it, not too gently. She inched closer and laid her head against his shoulder. His arm went around her. They stayed like this for a good while, as continued whoops, gunfire, and laughter rang through the air, from the proximity of their invaded home.

Then the music started again.

Bethany and her husband said nothing, but she knew he felt as she did. They were glad the show had ended.

“You two mind if I join you?”

That voice, belonging to Johnson, caused Bethany to straighten. It made Jon Marc heave to booted feet.

“You must be Mrs. O'Brien.” Again, Johnson doffed the hat that no working cowboy would be caught dead in. Adjusting the turquoise garnish of his bolo tie, he said, “Pleased to meet you, ma'am.”

She said nothing, feeling no need for social chatter. Up close like this, she couldn't help but notice red highlights in Johnson's white hair.

“Been a long time since we last met,” Johnson said to Jon Marc. “I wouldn't have recognized you.”

“Cut the small-talk.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Bethany asked her husband.

“Anything I have to say to this man, you need to hear it.”

“I'm the one with talking to do.” Johnson set his hat atop a chaparral, with the care one might use to set a vase on a rickety table. “I hope you'll listen, son.”

“Don't call me son.”

“Fair enough. Since you don't belong to me.”

Jon Marc's face hardened to the steel of a pistol barrel. “You forget who you're speaking to. I heard my mother taunt her husband with tales of her ongoing affair with you.”

“We did have an affair, me and Georgia. Met her in Washington. Daniel O'Brien was stationed there in the army.” Johnson squinted across the river, clasping his hands behind him, then slanted brown eyes at Jon Marc. “I was new to town. Had been selling my aim in the Opium Wars, over in China. Got hurt pretty bad. Those Asian fellows know explosives—” he patted each pearl-handled pistol “—even better than I know Pete and Repeat here.”

“We're not interested in your history,” Jon Marc said sourly, echoing his wife's sentiments.

She prompted, “Tell us what you know about my husband's mother and her husband.”

“Daniel was a likable enough fellow. Meet him when I started representing a gun manufacturer. He invited me to their home for supper. I took one look at Georgia and fell in love. Never touched the lady, though. Not in Washington.” Johnson flicked a gaze at his presumed son. “You were born some time later. But I had nothing to do with it.”

Every muscle in Jon Marc's body went taut. “I don't want to listen to this.”

“It's about time you did, since your mother—God rest her soul—did us all a disservice, claiming things that shouldn't have been claimed.”

Bethany swallowed, knowing Jon Marc hated every moment of having his mother's dirty linen aired. Inconsiderate Georgia had been to her family, but she'd still brought him into the world.

Johnson strolled down the riverbank, then swiveled around. “When I moved to Memphis, Georgia was there. I took up with her. Wasn't right, but I did it. Had never gotten her out of my thoughts. Loved that lady. Sure did love that lady.”

Jon Marc clenched and unclenched his fists as Johnson carried on. “Georgia and I talked about her getting a divorce. She stepped over the line, taunting Daniel into it. Claimed you were mine. Daniel believed it, since you and I both were born with red hair and brown eyes.”

Bethany glanced up at her husband. From the look in his dark eyes, she knew he didn't believe this tale.

“That's right,” he said. “We share coloring. I didn't resemble Georgia Morgan or her husband. I had you written all over me. I don't know what you expect to accomplish, Johnson, but I'm not falling for it. Why would she name me after you, if you hadn't been my sire?”

“Not unusual, a third son getting named for a family friend. Daniel and I did consider each other a friend at the time.”

“It's too much of a coincidence for me,” Jon Marc came back.

“You ever take a look in the mirror?” Johnson stepped closer to Jon Marc. “You're the spitting image of Daniel's sister. Phoebe's her name.”

A flinch. A blink. Jon Marc retreated a half step. Shaking his head as if to toss out false images, he said, “Sheer coincidence.”

“It's no coincidence, your being as stubborn as Daniel O'Brien. It's no coincidence you've got his nose. You recall his nose?”

“I don't.”

Johnson sighed; so did Bethany. She figured the older man spoke the truth, but she feared Jon Marc would never accept it. Even if it wasn't true, her husband would benefit from believing he had blood ties to the O'Briens.

Some lies were worth making.

Jon Marc picked up a pebble to skip across the water. “It strikes me mighty funny, twenty-four years passing without a word from you. How much is Fitz O'Brien paying you to say all this?”

“Not a dime. I'm here on my own accord. And at my own expense, even though Mr. O'Brien offered to pay me, and well.”

It was Jon Marc's turn to pace.

Bethany sighed. How difficult it must have been for Fitz, seeking out the man who had driven his son to murder and suicide, thus tearing the O'Briens apart in the aftermath. Could Jon Marc appreciate that?

She rose from the ground to follow her husband, as did Johnson, who said, “I've had a lot of time to think about Memphis, and what I'd do different, if I could do it over again. I wouldn't have run out of my house, when you and Daniel came to it. I wouldn't have left him dying and you crying. It was craven of me, but I was scared. Scared I'd get charged with killing him. And I was out of my head with grief over Georgia. I did you a worse disservice than she did.”

Jon Marc might not recognize it, but Bethany figured it took guts for this man to show up like he had.

“When that sleuth lady found me in New Hampshire, at my exhibition, I could have said no. I'm not a rich man. I need the money ticket sales would've brought in. Furthermore, I'm not young. The trip from New England jarred these bones. But I saw a chance to pay my debt.”