Magic and the Texan (5 page)

Jon Marc clenched his teeth. “Let go those reins.”

A frown marked a face creviced by four-score-and-ten of trying to make others repent, mostly Jon Marc. “Feeling good are ye? Makin' me suffer for one mistake, tearin' out me—”

“All I ask is to be alone.” Jon Marc tugged the reins out of gnarled hands. “It isn't becoming of you to ask more.”

“Ye've got aunts and brothers who love ye. I love ye, though I know ye canna see that.”

“You didn't love me enough to give me Fitz & Son when I would have taken it.”

He hadn't wanted it at eighteen. Never had. He'd offered out of love, had yearned to give peace to the man who brought order to the O'Brien orphans's lives. Back then, he couldn't have loved Fitz more, even if they were related.

“You flew your true colors in 1860, Fitz. Didn't bother you a whit, tossing me out, not a penny to my name, not a person or a place to turn to.”

“I was wrong, Jonny. Wrong.” Fitz hoisted his hand as if to touch Jon Marc, but rested his palm on León's mane instead. “Will ye be making me go t' a grave with this breach betwixt us?”

“I bear you no grudge for favoring blood kin. But I can't forget it.”

The spark left Fitz's gray eyes. “Jonny, ye canna pretend the O'Briens doona exist. What about Tessa's wish for ye? Will ye be ignoring her wish?”

Before the double wedding, Burke's new wife had asked how Jon Marc would deal with Tessa's skewed gift of love. And skewed, as it had been for Connor and Burke, it was.

Those gifts came with baggage, since Tessa, featherbrained Tessa, hadn't had the presence of mind to be precise. Instead of mere brides, she should have asked for “peaceful courtships and the wisdom to appreciate your ladies.”

Jon Marc clipped a salute at the nonagenarian before reining toward the wharf. He never looked back. Not then.

Not since.

In the near-to-four years that separated his New Orleans trip from now, his only contact with Fitz or his daughters had been to write and warn them to stay away while he got his bride.

And now he had one. Maybe.

“You being quiet,” a voice, Liam Short's, said, slicing into Jon Marc's brown study, “I take it you got your regrets.”

Jon Marc shoved thoughts of Louisiana aside and squinted up at the fine, moonlit Texas sky. His gaze lowered to Liam Short, who watched him closely. “I owe Fitz a thank-you for cutting me loose. He sent me to what I always needed. Peace.”

“Ain't too late to thank him.”

Jon Marc chuckled without meaning it. Hurt and a chill ran down his spine, still a rebuffed youth in his heart.

“You're cozy with family, in a roundabout sorta way.” Liam offered another swig from the flask, an offer declined. “Ya hired your sis-in-law's nephew as strawboss.”

“True. Catfish Abbott showed up in San Antonio.” When Jon Marc had ventured up there for a poetry reading. “He was looking for adventure and a job. I offered both.”

“Dang it, Stumpy. I'm gonna kick your butt!” Liam shook a peed-on boot at his beloved companion. Yet the postmaster got back to his mission: aggravating Jon Marc. “Ya been known to call on the widow Glennie.”

“I never called on Mrs. Glennie.”

India O'Brien's sister had chased him. Jon Marc was glad he had never mentioned his indiscretion to Liam. He might be a sinner, but some things didn't get told outside the confessional.

Jon Marc feigned a yawn. “It's late. 'Night, Liam.”

The oldster took his leave. Jon Marc settled into the bedroll to spend the rest of this night wishing for wishes. That Beth would warm to him. That she'd love this land. And that she'd never find out how far he'd gone with Persia.

If so, sure as hell, the pious lady of the letters would wash her hands of him. And he wouldn't have that, not over someone like Persia Glennie. Trouble was, he'd enjoyed the widow's bawdiness and lack of inhibitions.

He'd had a helluva holiday season last year in San Antonio, after Persia showed up in his hotel room, toting cognac and wearing nothing under her cape. Liquored up, he'd let her fiddle with his britches buttons. And more. But he hadn't enjoyed a good enough time to consider making Persia his wife. He wouldn't have a woman who spread her legs for men.

It wasn't that the idea made Jon Marc sick.

It was what a loose woman could do to those around her.

Beth, at breakfast, cooked like she had an outfit of cattle drovers to feed, using provisions brought with her. Food and supplies not seen on the Caliente since Trudy pulled up stakes. Some of it never seen, like dried flowers.

Jon Marc didn't scold her for wasting grub, even though freighters were scarce as orchids hereabouts. Damned good cook, she was, even if preparations went overboard. He wolfed eggs and biscuits, gravy and potatoes—ambrosia to an hombre accustomed to his cook's menu of chiles, chiles, and more chiles.

Mainly he filled his mouth to keep off the subject of that widow woman in San Antonio. Damned fool thing it would be, like when he'd let himself be drafted into the Confederate Army, if he yakked his way out of a poetess with big, alluring eyes.

He studied her. She sat opposite at the table in the room that served as both formal eating room and parlor. Her fingers filled with needle and thread, she sewed some sort of hankie-looking thing, probably one of her sachet sacks.

Beautiful in green calico was Beth. And he loved her dark hair in that single plait down her back, to the middle of it. A powerful urge beset him, the need to unbind that braid and take off her clothes. Slowly. Like Persia had taught him.
Don't be thinking about such as Persia.
But if he could someday coax a few lewd words out of Beth's tender lips, more was the better.

Straighten up. This one's been in a convent, not men's hotel rooms
.

Rooms. She hadn't uttered a syllable about the furnishings in this one, which hurt Jon Marc's feelings, but why make too much of it? Before Aaron's illness sent the Buchanans to the poorhouse, Beth had known better than what the Caliente offered. That Jon Marc couldn't return her to the style of her former custom bothered him more than her silence.

While Isabel Marin removed dirty dishes to the kitchen, he quit thinking on his failings. He leaned back his chair, patted his stomach, and asked, “What're you making? Sachets?”

“I'm redoing a blouse. I think with a few tucks here and there, and it'll fit Sabrina.”

“She could use some nice duds for Mass.”

“Does she get enough to eat?” Beth studied her handwork.

“She eats as good as any Mexican around these parts. Beans and chili, mostly. Tortillas when the padre is lucky enough to get ground corn.”

“I'd like to share some of the supplies I brought. She needs greens to grow up sturdy and strong.”

“Sabrina won't eat greens, bet you money. Unless the green is a
jalapeño
pepper.” Not the funniest thing in the world to say, but it disappointed him when Beth didn't so much as crack a smile. “You hate this house,” he accused. “You hate this ranch.”
And can't stand the sight of me.

Poking the blouse into a basket Isabel wove sometime back, Beth swallowed, licked her lips, and brushed an imaginary crumb from the table. “Not true, sir. This is a fine home. Quaint. Compact. Perhaps a bit too compact for so much furniture.”

Did he hear right? She complained about effects that most frontier women would kill for? Stuff that Jon Marc had cleaned out his strongbox for? Had put himself in San Antonio, and into the line of Persia's fire, to order?

Upon glancing at him, Beth must have read his chagrin. “Oh, sir, I didn't mean to criticize. Honestly, I didn't. I'm simply not accustomed to fine things, having lived in poverty.”

Why hadn't he thought of that? Besides, she'd at one point been set on taking a vow of poverty, for the church.

“Sir . . . this residence is lovely, stupendously so. And it's home.” Her lips softened. “I've never looked upon a house and saw it as a home. Before, I was always in my father's home, or at school, or at the convent. Someday, hopefully, I'll be able to say this is our home. My home.”

He'd never thought about that, either. Having made his own place for years, he hadn't considered what it must be like for a lady to first see something as her own.

He had a lot to learn about women.

He just wished this one wouldn't refuse to meet his eyes.

“Beth honey, how about I show you Salado Creek this afternoon? Luis and Diego are breaking mustangs there.”

“I'd love it. How many horses do you own?”

“Two hundred. Not as pretty as you are, but beauties nonetheless. There is no prettier lady than Beth Buchanan.”

She blushed, shivered.

Jon Marc got somber. “I recall you do ride.” Had she meant English style, or what? “Do you need a sidesaddle?”

“I can manage astride. If you don't mind, I'd like to stop by the church on the way, and say hello to Sabrina.”

“No problem.”

“Thank you. A ride would be nice. I would like to meet your cowpokes.”

“Vaqueros, or in our language, brush poppers,” he corrected. “There's a difference.”

“How so?”

“Vaqueros are like no other cowmen in the world, honey. They can ride and lasso and move cattle through hell. A vaquero can do it standing in the saddle, leaning on either side of it, or halfway underneath his
caballo.”

“Amazing,” she said, her rich voice filled with awe.

“Caballo
is horse in Spanish.”

“I know that.” She left the table, turned her back. “II've picked up a few words, here and there.”

That didn't strike him as peculiar. He, himself, had learned no more of the local tongue than necessary. “I guess Spanish came easy, your speaking French like you do. The ‘language of Voltaire,' you called it.”

“French? Oh, yes.” She grabbed a rag to dust books.
“Mange moi, mon chou!
Lovely language.”

“You're a lady of many talents,” Jon Marc stated, his mind stuck along wicked paths. “What other talents do you have?”

“None.”

Spurs jangling, he stepped in front of her, yet her chin ducked, a signal of indifference that he'd tired of. “Tell me something, Beth. Why don't you like to talk about yourself?”

“Hubris never lauds the speaker.”

It was his turn to back off. Her answer made him feel about an inch tall, after he'd bragged about being a vaquero.

Retreating to dispassionate chatter, he said, “Meet me in the stable, say at noon.” At her nod, he added, “You can't ride in that dress. If you'll look in the cabinet, in the bedroom, you'll find riding clothes hanging there. They're yours.”

“Your generosity never ceases to touch me.”

Beth swept out of the parlor.

Jon Marc scratched his jaw. What would it take to get on a more even keel with her?

 

 

“Mange moi, mon chou.
Good gracious, why did I say that?”

Bethany shut her trap and charged into the earthen-floored kitchen. What did it mean, that French phrase? It couldn't be decent. Couldn't be, since it came via the sluttish Jeanne-Marianne de Vous, native of Paris, who made enough money at the Long Lick to return to her homeland to live in the style in which she had aspired. Miming Jeanne-Marianne could prove disastrous.

Frankly, Bethany didn't know how much longer she'd last, trying to be Miss Buchanan.

What if she behaved as herself? Never work. It just wasn't practical. She'd be telling bawdy stories, singing wicked songs, and manhandling the manly goods in no time.

What about the meantime? Bethany plopped down at the worktable and buried her chin in the palms of her hands. This morning Isabel Marin said something troubling. During the war, Jon Marc had served as a spy. A spy!

How long could Bethany fool a man trained in intrigue?

“To start,” she muttered, “why not quit fretting to the point of disaster?”

Endeavoring for calm, Bethany spent the morning arranging dowry items in the kitchen, supplies once the property of dear Miss Buchanan, although the potpourri had been picked and dried by Bethany alone. Mrs. Persat started her on the hobby. From seeds given over by the schoolteacher, Bethany had planted flower beds, raising a truck garden as well, in the yard of Pa's hovel.

Before falling heir to Miss Buchanan's largesse, Bethany claimed little as her own; she'd been fortunate to leave Liberal with anything. Vigilantes burned her few belongings, leaving nothing but the shoes of a whore. Thankfully, Bethany had kept sweet-smelling clippings, vegetable seeds, and a jute sack of knickknacks—her most treasured possessions—hidden.

She ran, feet shod in red, with the clothes on her back and the treasures that included a hairbrush once her mother's; a package of needles, a dozen spools of thread, and sewing scissors that were gifts from Agatha Persat on the occasion Bethany had memorized each U.S. President. Luckily, she'd saved all the penny tips that the Long Lick ladies gave her, which provided stagecoach fare. And the means to bury a saint.

Why Bethany hadn't sold her father's pocketwatch, she couldn't fathom. She wanted no reminders of Cletus Todd.

Maybe she'd give the watch to Sabrina someday.

That, she wouldn't consider.

As the morning progressed, Bethany found other chores to keep her occupied. The noon hour approached, and she dug through the armoire in Jon Marc's over-furnished bedroom, finding garb that might pass for feminine.

Frowning, she held the garments up before changing out of Miss Buchanan's nice calico. At least these tucks and darts had feminine lines, she later decided, while smoothing the material along her sides. It wasn't a proper riding habit.

Would Miss Buchanan have worn such a daring ensemble?

Marching to the adobe building that served as stables, Beth rather appreciated the freedom these clothes gave.

She found Jon Marc hatless and in the tack room, fitting out the pretty little pinto mare, Arlene.

For a moment Bethany forgot attire. She smiled at the mare. Never had she had a mount to call her own, yet Jon Marc had given her this one. Before, no man ever gave her anything but trouble, and red leather. Then luck brought her to Jon Marc.

Now, a mare. Clothing for riding, plus a dowry and more. Even her own outhouse. A
man.
Respectability. If only she had a new pair of shoes.

Which reminded her... “You think I should wear this?” She pointed to her apparel. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

He smiled, which caused her to glance away, but not before she caught the glint of admiration in his toast-brown regard.

“There's no place for fashion around here,” he said.

Wiping his hands on a bandanna, he stuffed it in a back pocket of his denim britches. Britches that were a mite on the tight side for manly fashion, but looked good on his lean frame.

“A lady needs to be practical,” he tacked on.

“Nothing's more practical than a shirt with pockets or a pair of britches. And they look doggone good on you. You're mighty pretty, Beth Buchanan.”

If he hadn't tacked Buchanan on his compliment, Bethany would have reveled in his approval.

When she said nothing, he threw a tooled-leather saddle over Arlene's back. “Look beneath the hook holding that hackamore. There's a stack of stuff. Yours.”

Bethany examined the pile of appeal. Holding up accompaniments to the wholly functional gear already on her body, Bethany surveyed buckskin. “Chaps?”

“Chaps. And a straw sombrero to protect your complexion. Don't forget your vest, either. And your gloves. Brush and branches will tear you up, if you're not careful.”

No. The role of an angel might be her undoing.

“Let's ride,” Jon Marc ordered.

Bethany and Jon Marc reached Salado Creek, and she made up her mind not to think about something Sabrina had said during their stop in Fort Ewell.

Surely Jon Marc could explain not sending cattle to Kansas. Yet Bethany didn't know if she wanted to hear it. It might make her angry. Or scare her. She suspected Jon Marc O'Brien wasn't nearly as well off as one might expect.

And he did appeal to her, as a man.

Focusing on Jon Marc, she succeeded in getting her mind off Kansas. Astride a fine piece of horseflesh called León, keeping close to the creek bank, Jon Marc rode ahead of Bethany and Arlene. No slouching in the saddle. A horseman born was he.