Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

  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.

  Chapter Six

  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.

  Something doesn’t add up about her. You didn’t spend three years undermining Yankees for nothing, you know. Use your head. Get some answers.

  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 frui
t. 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.

  Best to return to the benign. Thinking about the modesty of the supplies hereabout, she said, “With no garden, how do you get enough food to eat?”

  “We’ve got pinto beans. And beef. Lots of beef. Fish in the smokehouse. I hunt rabbits and wild turkey. Buy eggs from Isabel—she donates chiles.” He grimaced, but chuckled. “I sure wouldn’t want to pay to set my stomach afire.”

  Bethany enjoyed spices. But she laughed with him, glad for the less formal, and certainly less fractious, moment. “How do you feel about sending to San Antonio or Laredo for supplies? A touch of this and a dash of that, and I’ll place some marvelous dishes in front of you.”

  “Beth, you don’t need to cook. I pay Isabel to do it.”

  Probably not well, Bethany bit her tongue rather than say. Isabel Marin, wife of a vaquero gone to Rockport, now washed dishes, as Bethany had done so many times at the Long Lick. Isabel would next set the kitchen for breakfast.

  “Besides,” he teased, “you cook for an army.”

  Bethany had a tendency to overcook, and knew it. After serving meals to plentitudes of patrons at the Long Lick, she didn’t know how to cook for two. Pa had taken sustenance through liquids. Or he’d gorged on pickled eggs and pig’s feet, right at the bar. None of this, of course, would Bethany share.

  Ducking her chin and yanking at another blade of grass, she varied the subject. “It’s nice out here.”

  “Why don’t you recite some of your pretty poems, honey?”

  Where did he keep his letters from the Buchanan miss? Bethany needed to commit a few verses to memory. As she’d claimed yesterday afternoon and again last night, she said, “I can’t think of a one.”

  “Bridal jitters.” He patted her hand; she almost jumped out of her skin. “Don’t fret, honey. I’ve got just the ticket to lift your spirits. Longfellow’s Evangeline.”

  Jon Marc relaxed into the grass, propping on elbows and crossing one leg over the other. He began to recite from memory.

  “Longfellow is a rather long-winded fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Bethany could help but comment, no more than five minutes into the monologue.

  “I thought he was your favorite.”

  “Of course. Of course, he is! But, well, I must be overtired, not appreciating all those”—she coerced a grin—“murmuring pines in the hemlock.”

  “I like your smile.” He also grinned. “Say. I’ve got a new book. Maybe you’d enjoy—”

  “Jon Marc, please don’t.” She couldn’t take another moment of their mixture of uncomfortable silences and awkward conversation, nor one more word about moss-bearded trees and their equivalents. “It’s late, and I need to give my hair a good brushing before I turn in. Why don’t we call it an evening?”

  Bethany assumed Jon Marc would play into her hands.

  She was wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  It did not warm the cockles of Jon Marc’s heart, Beth cutting another evening short. Obviously she couldn’t wait to get shut of him. Wouldn’t happen, by damn.

  Not without a fight.

  Thus, he followed her down the hill and into the house. She didn’t turn into the bedroom, but chose the parlor instead, since he said, “If you’re going to brush your hair, by darn, I’m go
ing to watch you.”

  Beth sat down in the rocker, ready to argue.

  Black lashes settled against the crest of her high cheekbones as she stared at the small, dainty hands that were laced and rested on her lap. She seemed young, defenseless, a damsel out in a cold, lonely world. His virgin. His?

  She would be his. He’d never let anything or anyone hurt her, especially some ole redheaded vaquero, but they had to get on a different plane than what was between them now.

  “Beth . . . I’d love to watch you brush your hair. I love to look at you, period. If we’ve got a future ahead of us, you’d best get used to me looking at you.”

  Her chin rose. Her eyes widened.

  “Where’s your brush?” he demanded.

  “In my ... it’s in my reticule.”

  He dug in the handbag, bristle prickling his fingers. His grasp on the handle, he asked, “Shall I stand or sit?”

  “Sit, for pity’s sake. Sit.”

  He eased back in the horsehair settee that he’d bought to please her, but had displeased her. Her gaze averted, she took pins from her hair; it cascaded past her shoulders. When she lifted her arms to swing the mass of those locks to one shoulder, Jon Marc got an ache of need in his groin.

  He may have waited thirty years for a wife, but didn’t know if he could wait much longer for Beth, not with passion and desire, deep in his veins. He yearned for her, his need building with each passing moment, as man wanted woman since Adam and Eve.

  Beth put the brush to work. Lamplight caught the sheen of those locks. They were like the deepest of midnights, dark yet touched by sparks of blue. How many nights had he slept under the stars and worshipped the sky’s hues? Poetry of the heart, midnight.

  Poetry was Beth.

  She was more than he’d ever dreamed of. Lovely, talented, poetic. Her presence brought light to dark.