by Martha Hix
A smile, broad with relief, lit his face. “I wish you had, honey. I do wish you had said something, ’cause I’ve died a thousand deaths, thinking you couldn’t stand the looks of my mug. Guess I’m touchy about this ugly face and honker of a nose.”
She touched the side of the member in question. “You know what they say—” Don’t get carried away, girl. Remember you’re Miss Buchanan. Bethany style, but still a Buchanan.
“What do they say?”
“Oh, Jon Marc!” At a time like this, what else could a girl say but: “Just kiss me.”
He did.
Peppermint lingered on his lips—he’d been sampling the gift, undoubtedly. But he didn’t sample her lips, not deeply. That was disappointing, even though she hated tongue-kissing, or at least she used to hate it, when Oscar forced his tongue past her tonsils on its foray to her toenails. This was a chaste kiss, as one should expect from a man of innocence.
The time for innocence had passed.“I read in a book about a kiss that employs the kissers’ tongues.” True. She had read such in a contemporary English novel on the shelves at the Frye residence. “It was a naughty book. Are you shocked?”
A flush of red crept above Jon Marc’s shirt collar. “I’ve read a few banned books, myself.”
“Do you ever think about doing that with me?” She smiled hesitantly. “You know . . .”
“You mean like this?” That was when he yanked her to him. His lips covered hers. There was nothing chaste about the way he moved his mouth, or the way he tangled tongues.
Theirs was a spiritual blending, as different from Oscar’s invasions as rotgut was from cognac. Too soon it was over.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Jon Marc, is that usually done? Thanks after a kiss?”
“Will be in terms of me and you.”
Her eyelids felt heavy, her cheeks warm, she murmured, “You kiss as though you’re a man of experience. Not a tentative thing about you, sir.”
“I can cut the mustard.”
She considered his statement’s full import. He wasn’t suave, like a knave in Liberal, but Bethany knew enough about men to sense his potential.
He claimed to be a virgin, never tasting wicked sin, but when he chomped the wedding meal, his lady gave a squeal—“Milord willna cut the cheese, but he sure can cut the mustard!”
That sort of thinking had to stop.
The practical seemed neutral ground, so she asked, “Did you get my orange trees?”
“Yep. Better not plant ’em till winter, though.”
Would she be here, when cold weather rolled in?
He tweaked her chin, unaware of the pain that went through her limbs at the thought of not being here in winter.
His head tilted toward her neck. “You smell like vanilla.”
With a forced chipper tone, she replied, “A dab or two of vanilla, why, sir, it’s almost as good as French perfume, don’t you think?”
“You don’t need anything to smell good.”
Taking the liberty of cuddling just a little bit closer to his strong chest, she said, “I bet you’ll find something to like in the crock in the kitchen cupboard. I’ve been baking. Cookies. Do you like cookies?”
His eyes rounded in bemusement as, he held her away. “I told you in a letter how much I enjoy cookies.”
Probably one of those missing ones. “Jon Marc, how can you expect me to remember every line you wrote?”
His fingers squeezed her waist. “Arrogant of me, assuming you would.”
Her fingers trailed to the curls at his nape. Such warm skin. She felt a ripple of excitement as it fluttered through his veins. Or were they her own?
She stroked his cheek. It felt good to her touch, those dips and crags. He both surprised and delighted her when his mouth moved against her palm, his lips touching the center of it.
Yet he stepped back.“Beth, over in Laredo, I ran into a fellow—an acquaintance of Aaron Buchanan’s. In case you don’t know it, your father bragged on you. He did some bragging to that rancher, too. Aaron told him you play beautiful piano. ‘Like Chopin.’ How come you never play the piano for me?”
Oh, dear. The monster. Rather than look Jon Marc in the eye, she turned to Arlene’s stall and stroked the mare’s shoulder. It wasn’t that Bethany lacked appreciation for the big, beautiful beast that hogged the parlor, sitting like a too-large rider in a too-small saddle.
She simply couldn’t play it.
It seemed as if she need lie not only about Miss Buchanan, but also about her father, too. “It was Father’s pipe dream, that I could play. He paid for lessons. But I never learned.”
Bethany steeled herself for the worst from Jon Marc.
Jon Marc studied Beth. Silence as heavy as a certain grand piano settled through the stable. He rubbed his mouth. Not halfway to Laredo, he had abandoned the idea of checking on Beth Buchanan. It just didn’t seem right, such an investigation. It reminded him too much of Daniel O’Brien’s ways.
Yet Jon Marc suspected Beth had something to hide.
Hadn’t she ’fessed up about the piano? And when are you going to be honest? Not at the moment. Not when the issue of Aaron Buchanan’s scruples hung in question. Beth’s father had been one of the most respected men in Wichita. Why did he fib about his daughter’s aptitude at the piano, unless he was ashamed of her lack of talents?
He said, “I figured Aaron Buchanan for an honest man.”
“For pity’s sake, you didn’t know him that well. A couple of dinners and a business exchange do not a friendship make. ”
“Reckon not.” Jon Marc watched her knit fingers and rub one thumb with the other. “Strikes me funny,” he said,“Aaron not dwelling on your talents as a poetess.” Can you blame him? Well, you bragged on her, why wouldn’t Aaron? It wasn’t awful poetry, it just wasn’t great. Nothing to be ashamed of. “You do speak three languages. If I had a daughter, I’d center on her strengths and keep my trap shut about her weaknesses.”
“You would. You being you. But you aren’t he.” Prying her fingers apart, Beth said, “I can’t answer for Aaron Buchanan. Nor should I be called to task for his words.”
“True.” He decided not to dwell on Aaron Buchanan, or on that too grand piano.
Besides, it was happiness he felt, not only with a successful drive to Laredo behind him. Beth had assured him that his looks didn’t revolt her. They had shared a deep kiss, one that still tingled his veins. A few more kisses like that, and his hands would be everywhere, not to mention other things aching to be other places. What he and Beth needed to do was make plans for the future, and not tarry.
Which meant honesty on his part.
Somehow he couldn’t imagine ever admitting to a certain situation that arose in Laredo. Curious about that French phrase Beth had used, he’d repeated it to a sister at the church, a native of France. Must have recalled it wrong, very wrong. The nun’s face had turned chalky, then she slapped him. Hard.
He now heard a rustle of paper but chose to ignore it.
“Why don’t we stop by the kitchen, pick up those cookies, then retire to the parlor?” he suggested. “I’ll read you some poems I picked up in Laredo.” Then I’ll lay my heart open and plead for a chance to take your hand.
“No more moss-bearded trees. No more dew on the leaves.” Beth, her skirts swaying gently, crossed to him. Planting both hands on his shoulders, she reached on tiptoes to look him in the eye. “Where exactly do we stand, sir?”
Before he could suggest they head straight for the parlor, she said,“If you’ve read those naughty novels, you may be under the impression men are expected to perform at a, um, certain level. Are you . . . are you afraid of our wedding night?”
He almost swallowed his tongue. Quite an evening, this one. In that Beth had read bawdy literature might mean she had a wild streak in her. Climbing that tree spoke volumes. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of wild romps with an even wilder woman.
Hi
s voice an octave lower than normal, he asked, “What do you expect out of my performance?”
“Kisses. Caresses. I don’t know the rest, beyond those novels. Somehow I couldn’t lose myself in the prose. I should imagine gentleness and respect would go a lot further in pleasing a woman than some of that mad frolicking about.”
Well, hell. So much for wild romps.
“You’ll get kissed and caressed. All with the utmost respect.” He cupped her jaw between his palms, trying to show integrity. “You have my word on that.”
“Sir, what exactly have you done in your limited experience?”
He shook his head in exasperation. “You’re a single-sighted gal when you get something on your mind.”
“I’m single-sighted. Curious, too.”
The moment of reckoning upon him, he let his hands fall away from her smooth face. He paced. Ran fingers through his hair. From the stable’s far side, he admitted, “You need to know something. I have gone beyond the proper with a widow.”
“Went how far?” Bethany asked, her voice quiet.
“I can handle our situation, when the time is right.” He retreated to the corner, folded into it, and rested a forearm on a bent knee.
Beth followed him. Hands on her hips, she canted downward, her hair drifting toward his mouth. “Tell me something, Jon Marc. Did you thank that widow lady?”
“You’re making this hard for me.” Hell, even though Beth did reject carnal romps, his nerves were springing like a pond full of frogs on a summer night, his rod getting harder and harder. He wanted to put some novel ideas to jumping.
Her eyes were squarely on him. “Did you save yourself?”
The tips of her hair brushed the top of his hand. How could he think at a moment like this? Confessing seemed secondary to seducing Beth out of her questions.
“How improper did you get with that widow?” Beth demanded to know.
His eyelids heavy, he brushed a fingertip across her bottom lip. “I’d prefer to show you.”
“That’s not the talk of a proper gentleman,” she chided. “How many of those books did you read? Or did that widow tutor you to the best of her abilities?”
“Gracious, honey.”
A crunching sound drew their attention. It came from Arlene. Quick investigation uncovered the mare, helping herself to the gift sack of peppermints. Her long tongue darted out to lap a pink-stained muzzle, before she eyed the gift-giver as if to ask for “more, please.”
Her antics drew chuckles from the onlookers. Beth stood straight and said,“So much for your present.”
“True.” He had something better to give her, anyhow. A wedding present. To go along with the ring that he would keep hidden until the marriage ceremony.
Arlene might have broken the tension between the humans, but it didn’t last.
Beth proceeded to park fists at her waist. “Tell me true, sir. Did you save yourself?”
No longer could he put off the inevitable.
“My late mother didn’t set a good example—her willful behavior brought tragedy. Much grief. I vowed not to take a bride like Georgia Morgan.” He paused. “Women like my mother tear their families up. She did ours.”
“What . . . exactly are you trying to say?”
“That I insist on a virgin bride. Because of Georgia Morgan. She’s why I was particular about choosing you.”
“You demand a virgin, yet you haven’t been celibate?”
“That, uh, about sums it up.”
Dropping her gaze to the floor and hugging her arms, Beth shook with what had to be disgust.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll never do anything sinful again. And if you’ll forgive me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making up for my lapse.”
“Help yourself to the cookies, sir. Good night.”
“Beth, listen—”
“Don’t, Jon Marc. Just don’t!”
She rushed into the night; he lunged to his feet to chase after her. Up to the house and into the bedroom, she hurried. The door closed in his face, and he knew in his heart why. She needed distance, else his tarnish would rub off on her.
Give her the evening to recover from shock, he decided. Don’t push a lady in a direction she doesn’t want to go.
He had plenty to keep busy with, to train his thoughts from trouble, although he’d prefer to stay and placate his sweetheart. Couldn’t. León being winded from the Laredo trip, Jon Marc saddled a fresh horse, then swung laden saddlebags over the stallion, yet his mind was too occupied to stay off Beth.
If she could get past his confession, surely the rest of his admissions, would be child’s play.
If Beth could get past Jon Marc’s sins.
He’d never get past her sins. Would never forgive and forget. Jon Marc didn’t have it in him to understand.
Bethany dragged in huge gulps of air, as if she’d been running instead of listening to a man’s insistence on purity. She paced the bedroom floor, up and down, up and down. Didn’t he have good reason for insistence? Undoubtedly it had taken much for him to dredge up the hurts of yesteryears.
“If I hadn’t been such a coward,” Bethany said, as if to Miss Buchanan, “I would’ve dug in my heels and done something to show my support. But, no. All I could think about was myself.”
What kind of woman didn’t succor her man in time of need?
All you do is run. First from Liberal, now from Jon Marc. You can’t keep running, Bethany Todd. Be brave. He needs you.
It took a while to find him. It meant changing into riding clothes and setting out by moonlight in a direction given by Luis de la Garza: to a limestone hill called Roca Blanca.
At last, she found man and mount. The stallion’s reins ground-tethered, Jon Marc used a shovel to dig into the rocky ground at the foot of the hill.
“Jon Marc!” Bethany called out. “I must talk with you.”
Her voice echoed through the night.
Night riding wasn’t a favorite of Hoot Todd’s, thanks to his limited vision, but he’d set out to follow that tart who called herself Beth Buchanan. Near to lost her, his right-hand man being about as useful for tracking as a Pekinese dog.
But her voice calling to O’Brien was like a beacon, drawing Hoot and Peña in its direction. What in tarnation was she doing at this hour of the night, at Roca Blanca?
Since she shouted for O’Brien, no doubt she’d followed him here. There was only one explanation, as near as Hoot could figure, why that pair was skulking around in the dark. O’Brien had to be burying the money he’d gotten in Laredo.
Well, O’Brien would need it, since Hoot and his men had waylaid the Caliente outfit on their return from Rockport.
“Don’t that just pop corn?” he said to Peña. Chuckling—the action aggravated his half-healed nose—Hoot sat straighter in the saddle. “Now I’ve got two things in my favor. I know what O’Brien does with his money, and I know for damned sure he ain’t fixing to marry no Beth Buchanan.”
“¿Mi jefe?” That growl, calling for his boss’s attention, hung heavy in the night air. “Do we steal the money now?”
“Naw. No need to steal it. I’ll just get my little sister to give it to me. Be more fun that way.”
Chapter Twelve
“ ‘She walks in beauty like the night—of cloudless climes and starry skies—and all that’s best of dark and bright . . . meets in her aspect and her eyes.’ ”
Such poetry on Jon Marc’s lips, well, that particular passage wasn’t half bad, yet Bethany sensed he meant to butter her up. After all, he did consider her chaste, and he had admitted to cavorting with some widow.
By stars above, he set down the shovel and extended a gloved hand, palm up, to beckon Bethany forward. A little butter went a long way, as if he needed it, desperate as she was for peace.
She wound around chaparral, there being no trail here, and went to him, but stopped short of his arms.
“You fit those words,” he whispered above cricket creaks.
>
Jon Marc’s compliment seeped through Bethany, causing a bittersweet smile to boost her lips. How she wished she could have come to him, pure. Unsullied. Meeting his expectations.
“Beth, can I take your following me as a good sign? Can you see past my mistake in judgment?”
“To err is human.”
He slipped off his gloves and took her hand between his roughened fingers. “Will you forgive me for lying?”
“Let not your heart be troubled. By anything. Jon Marc, I came out here for a reason. Your mother hurt you, and I want you to know—I want to help you over it. Talk to me.”
“Not here. Let’s get back to the house.”
“Why not here?” The cloak of night might help, should Bethany say more than she ought to.
“Can’t chance Hoot Todd finding us. He’ll be after our money, Beth, if he knows where to look. Let me finish burying these bills in the strongbox, then we’ll ride back home.”
As he shoved earth and rocks over the small iron safe, she asked, “Why don’t you keep your cash in a bank?”
“Todd works the road between here and San Antonio. I’d hate to have to kill him over a few thousand dollars.”
She didn’t take those words lightly, his threat sending chills down her spine. Don’t make too much of it. His was big talk, not a serious threat.
And they had serious talking to do.
A half hour or so later Jon Marc and Beth reached their adobe home.
Still dressed in riding clothes, they settled into the parlor, Jon Marc taking the armchair and Bethany the settee. Neither made a move to light the lamp. He sure wouldn’t. Relieved he might be over her acceptance, he had more admissions to make, none of which would be easy.
“Tell me about your family,” she prompted, her face lit by the glow of moonlight that beamed through an open window. “Tell me everything.”