by Martha Hix
You didn’t tell her about Tessa and the genie.
Later.
Jon Marc and Beth were headed for the church.
Bethany and her bridegroom set out on León and Arlene for Santa Maria Church. Neither figured vows could be read without banns, unless the old ones would do. Thus, they were dressed in riding attire. Halfway to Fort Ewell, they crossed paths with a rider on a broad-beamed mount, the codger Liam Short.
His odd-looking dog—Bethany seemed to recall it answered to Stumpy—stumped between Liam’s lap and the saddle horn. The dog wagged a tail and, head up, barked.
Reins in one hand, waving an envelope in the other, Liam brought the chestnut to a halt in front of Jon Marc and Bethany. “This here letter be for you, son. Fitz O’Brien done wrote you.”
Bethany glanced at Jon Marc. He blanched. Turned white as writing paper.
Just what he needs, reminders of his uncaring family.
If she’d had her if’s, she would have snatched that document out of the old man’s hands and torn it to bits before Jon Marc could be hurt by the contents. Not that he’d open it. But its presence caused pain, and his pain was hers.
Recovered from the shock, Jon Marc said, “Funny, your delivering mail, Liam. Got a case of nosiness?”
“Got business with ya.” The oldster tipped his hat at Bethany, while the snaggletoothed mutt lolled his tongue, panting over the warm day, no doubt. “How doin’, ma’am? When’s the weddun?”
Bethany didn’t trust him, and felt the feeling mutual.
“We’re on our way to talk with Padre Miguel,” Jon Marc answered.
He and Liam were friends; she wanted amity with the postmaster. “We won’t send written invitations, Mr. Short, but please know we want you in attendance.”
Jon Marc added: “Will you be my best man, Liam?”
“Nice of ya to ask, but I ain’t never set foot in that Meskin church, and don’t intend to. Thank ya, anyways.”
Bethany fretted over the look of disappointment on her man’s face. He’s too easily hurt.
Three-legged dog listing to starboard, Liam righted the mutt, patted Stumpy’s head with reassurance, then said to Jon Marc, “Coupla vaqueros come into the post office, ’round noon. Said old Hoot is roarin’ to get ya, ’cause you landed him a good one. He’s back. Vowing to make you suffer this time.”
“Let him try. He’s got one more eye to lose.”
The postmaster scraped a fingernail into his beard. “Your boys is gone for the most part, don’t forget.”
“They’ll be back soon. Even if Catfish and the vaqueros are delayed, I’m not worried about the likes of Hoot Todd.”
Easy for him that might be, but Bethany didn’t feel quite as confident. Hoot Todd might leave something to be desired as a brother and neighbor—or as a human being!—but she disliked the idea of his tangling with Jon Marc.
She didn’t want anyone or anything causing trouble. That’s not all, girl. You know there’s more. Jon Marc’s streak of violence disturbed her. He had killed for his brother. For some odd reason she didn’t want him to kill hers.
“Thanks for bringing the letter,” Jon Marc said facetiously, took it out of Liam’s hand, and shoved it past his vest and into a shirt pocket. “You’re a real pal.”
He kneed León and motioned for Bethany to follow in their charted course. They rode in silence toward Fort Ewell. Before reaching the town, Bethany could hold her tongue no longer. “Are you going to ignore Fitz O’Brien’s letter?”
“Yes.”
She brought Arlene to a halt, calling to Jon Marc’s back, “I am not going another foot until you can walk into church with a smile on your face.”
Jon Marc found a good spot on the ground, on the riverbank. How could he smile, what with that letter in his pocket? Nonetheless, he sat down, next to Beth.
“Read the letter,” she ordered, softly yet insistently.
“No.”
“There could be important news. Someone could be sick. Could have died.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t know for sure.”
“I know what’s in it. Nosiness. Nosiness about our marriage, and probably another plea for me to return to Memphis.” Turning his face toward hers, Jon Marc scowled. “You see, a few months ago, I wrote Fitz as well as the aunties. I told them to stay back while I got myself a bride.”
“Jon Marc O’Brien, you confound me. You claim to ignore your family, yet you told them about me? Wait. Did you write to the boy, Pippin? Is that how they knew to begin with?”
“They’ve known about you for years.”
She appeared confused. “You need to help me here, sir.”
He should. And got worried. What if something had happened to Tessa or Phoebe, or one of the others? He plucked the letter from his pocket, wanting to tear it in half and toss the pieces to the sky. He handed it to Beth instead. “Read it.”
Beth scanned the contents. “Fitz O’Brien is on his way for a visit. Doesn’t say when to expect him.”
Jon Marc rolled his eyes. “They promised not to interfere.”
“Doesn’t say anything about ‘they.’ It says, ‘Make up the spare bed. I’m on my way.’ ”
Jon Marc uttered a foul oath, silently, saying aloud as if to himself, “Just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? Just had to know what April twenty-first brought me.”
Beth slipped the folded piece of paper back in its envelope. “Don’t get upset. We’ll simply offer a night’s accommodations, then send him on his way.”
“He’ll put up a fight.”
“It’s two against one.” She grinned impishly. “If he gives us any trouble, we’ll just steal his cane.”
“Steal his cane?” Jon Marc knew she was making light to quash tension. It worked. He laughed, feeling good for the first time since Liam delivered the mail. He’d found a fine woman. An excellent bride. Reaching to hug her shoulders, he said, “How the dickens did I live thirty years without you?”
They went on to the church, visited with Padre Miguel, and learned the previous banns were still in place. Jon Marc suggested vows be exchanged the next day, Beth agreed, and the padre said, “Be here at two in the afternoon.”
Knowing it was bad luck for the bridegroom to catch sight of his lady before they reached the altar, Jon Marc arranged for Isabel Marin to spend the night with Beth at Rancho Caliente. The groom would put up in town, where he could collect items for a special wedding repast, with intentions to surprise his lady.
Before he tied his bedroll to León’s saddle, he decided he had to speak, one more time, with Beth. With Fitz advancing, he must tell her about the magic lamp.
Before Fitz did it for him.
If the old man arrived. Chances were good he couldn’t make such a long trip at his age. He’d turn back, sure as shootin’. Jon Marc came to a decision. No more would he worry about, or even think of, a visit from his supposed grandfather.
The machinations of a magic lamp needed to be told, though. More sure than shootin’.
Beth having retired already to the bedroom, he knocked on the door. Light spilled from a single lantern when she answered in a green wrapper. Gracious, how she did look good to him, black hair flowing below her shoulders, her face scrubbed to a glow, a minimum of clothes outlining her curvaceous body.
He almost forgot his purpose, but she reminded him of it, saying, “Don’t tell me. There’s more.”
“There’s more.”
She swept a hand to indicate the bed that he intended to make love to her in, tomorrow night. Or tomorrow afternoon, if he got his if’s. Jon Marc wandered over and sat down on the edge. She sat next to him. She smelled like lavender soap.
Soap was not the issue.
“Beth, do you believe in magic?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Do I believe in magic?” Jon Marc’s odd question was even more confusing than his vague references of this afternoon. Bethany answered, “When I look in you
r eyes, when you hold me in your arms, when you’re your sweet self, it’s magic.”
“I’ll grant it’s magic I feel when I gaze at you, and during the other. But . . .” Roosted on the bed’s edge, Jon Marc rested forearms on thighs, and dropped his hands toward the floor. “I’m talking about magic lamps.”
Had he been tippling? She leaned toward him, but didn’t catch fumes. Besides, he didn’t appear drunk. She knew the signs. “No, Jon Marc. I don’t believe in magic lamps.”
“One brought you to me.” He tipped his jaw toward her. “My aunt Tessa made a wish on a lamp. Three wishes, forsooth. Brides for nephews. Each to meet his lady on his thirtieth birthday. Connor got India. Burke got Susan. And I got you.”
Poppy juice. That had to be it. “Any Chinese peddlers been running the Old Spanish Trail?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“It’s laudanum. Where did you get it? Jon Marc, if this is why you’ve been strange here lately, it’s good this came out before we wed. You must straighten up. I won’t have a man who depends on invisible crutches, not with my father the way—”
She’d almost slipped. Well, if Jon Marc had a penchant for things of a nature to twist his mind, she’d have to leave, love or no love. You won’t leave. You love him enough to see him through any crisis. Just stand beside him through triumphs and tragedies, girl. No matter what his weaknesses may be.
“Beth, I don’t take medicinals.”
“I think you’d better explain yourself.”
Jon Marc squinted up at the ceiling rafters. “Tessa bought a lamp in France, when she and Phoebe were touring the Continent. The summer of ’60. The lamp came with a genie. He’s pretty much an ordinary fellow, except for the gold earring and tooth. She’s married to him now.”
This did not inspire confidence. “Querido, what makes you think the lamp and its ‘genie’ are real?”
“Querido, ” her darling repeated. “I like that.”
“Jon . . . Marc!”
“All right, all right.” He waved a hand. “My brothers met their brides on their birthdays. And you arrived on mine. It’s as simple as that.”
“No. You sent for your bride. You made certain she’d arrive on the twenty-first of April. That wasn’t happenstance. It was planning.”
“I did plan. Once I knew about Tessa’s wish—After I saw the trouble my half brother’s got into with mere luck, and fighting it—I made up my mind to find the perfect bride, beforehand, and have you here at the proper moment.” His hand, cooler than usual, settled over knuckles that seemed to have no warmth in them, thanks to her shock. “Beth, I wasn’t going to take any chances on luck.”
Worry began to yank at her. What were the implications?
He continued to speak. “I knew what I wanted in a wife. You were right for me. Magic is the reason I was set on not meeting you till my birthday.”
Bethany felt as if she were being dragged behind a runaway wagon. “Did . . . did it have to be Beth Buchanan?” Her voice had a squeak to it, which she worked to even out. “Did your aunt have some sort of crystal ball? Did she see a Kansas girl? Did initials float through the air?”
“She just asked for a bride. Apparently the magic picks the nearest available candidate and goes from there.”
What a relief! But, thinking on it, Beth realized that if—a large if—magic ordained Miss Buchanan for the post, it would have gone awry at the poor angel’s death.
What if she hadn’t succumbed? The real Beth, pious as she’d been, would have been outraged. It probably would have sent her flying to that veil. After all, it was un-Christian, believing in hocus-pocus. Even Bethany knew that.
She said, “You’ve confessed all this to Padre Miguel?”
“Why should I? It’s not a sin, it’s a miracle. Nothing’s better than a good Catholic miracle.”
Good Catholic miracle?
Bethany raked hair behind her ears, nervous as a whore in church, as Pa used to say. But Padre Miguel had told her about the Lady of Guadalupe and the miracles she’d done for Mexico. Maybe there was something to that magic business, and maybe not. Probably not. Whatever the case, Jon Marc believed in magic. What rot out of a seemingly sane fellow.
There once lived a gal named Bethany; just before she would wed came an epiphany: he sounded right as rain, but how he did feign! The cowpoke wasn’t sane, ’twas plain to see.
Nevertheless, Bethany allowed a moment of her own lunacy. If there was such a thing as bending fate, a person could do many things with magic. It boggled the mind to think about it. But she could think of a few things she’d ask for, boggled though she was. Peace in La Salle County. Security of purse. Another maidenhead wouldn’t be bad, either.
“Any chance Fitz will have that lamp with him?” she asked.
“Not a chance.”
“What a shame.”
More than anything, she could have used that maidenhead.
Quite a few minutes after two the next afternoon, Liam Short snuck into the narthex of the simple Mexican church. He took off his hat, because that was the sort of thing his mama would have slapped off, had she been around. Mama being three decades with her Maker, Liam still remembered to be respectful, even though it had been thirty years since he’d entered a house of worship. He hadn’t planned to be here today. But he was.
Before the mailbag arrived, Liam decided to take Jon Marc up on his offer to be best man, even if it meant going into Santa Maria. Friends did for friends. But it was too late for standing up. It was also too late to stop the wedding.
That preacher was deep into intoning a foreign tongue. Didn’t sound Mexican. The bride and groom knelt before him at the altar, she in a lace mantilla borrowed from Isabel Marin and an ivory gown, he in Sunday best. Their guests sat behind them. Wives and children of the Caliente vaqueros on their way to Rockport. Sabrina. The orphans, Manuel and Ramón. Spiffed up like he was going to a dance, Luis sat next to the boys.
Isabel, crying into a scrap of cloth, served as matron-of-honor, or whatever one called it in a foreign church like this. Luis’s partner, Diego Novio, was doing what Jon Marc had asked Liam to do: he stood up for the groom.
The preacher raised a robed arm, said a few words to Jon Marc, then did the same with Beth. They started praying, then did that thing Mexicans did whenever they reckoned they were in deep shit: touched their foreheads and chests with fingertips.
Well, son, you are in deep shit.
“You may kiss your bride,” the priest said in English.
Beth appeared to be shaking. Jon Marc looked proud, flushed with triumph, as he swooped down to sweep his new wife into a kiss that could have blistered varnish.
Damn dumb cowboy, no smarter than that horse of his.
He didn’t know he’d gotten sold a bill of goods.
Best he never knew, Liam decided. It was too late for sense-talking. Too late to stop a wedding that should never have taken place.
Liam Short had done what Jon Marc didn’t. He’d sent word to a friend in the telegraph office in San Antonio. Just minutes ago, word had arrived from Kansas: Beth Buchanan had blue eyes, and there was no disputing it.
Torn up like he was, Jon Marc might lose his head, should he find out his new missus couldn’t be that Kansas girl.
The moment has passed for anything but well wishes.
Married.
At last.
Mrs. Jon Marc O’Brien.
The day finally began to draw to an end. Bethany didn’t know whether she was more overwhelmed by the gravity of becoming a wife, or if having been too nervous to eat beforehand had given her such a light-headed feeling during the ceremony. Something strange had happened in the Church of Santa Maria.
Even now, as she waited for her husband to round the buckboard parked in front of their home, she still felt unsteady.
You lied to God, girl. If there’s a hell, you’re going to burn in it.
Her golden wedding band, filigreed with leaves and hearts, captured a ray of su
nlight when she moved nervous hands. Never before had a ring graced Bethany’s finger, yet this one felt comfortable, as if she were born to wear it. Incongruous, her feelings of right laced with wrong.
“Mrs. O’Brien?” Jon Marc’s voice rolled tenderly, yet holding ultimate promise.
He was happy, anyone could see it. His tanned face showing high spirits, his eyes dancing, he slipped one hand under her knees, the other around her ribs. A rush went through Bethany at his touch, the rush quickening when she laced her arms around his neck, and detected the scent of bay rum mixed with the particular scent of her new husband.
As if he were lifting no more than a feather, he carried her, but not into the house. They ended up on Harmony Hill, under a pecan tree, where the sun dangled low in the blue sky to the west. A thick blanket spread on a bed of leaves, a picnic of sorts had already been laid.
Tequila awaited them—sliced limes, and a cellar of precious salt. As well, a hamper held slivers of ham and hard cheese, delicacies. Sitting, then reclining, they ate their fill, stopping to kiss between bites that they fed each other. They toasted their marriage, although Bethany remained unsettled by their trip to the church.
You’ve got enough to worry about without adding the gravity of religion to it.
“I brought you out here, ’cause I’ve heard ladies like this sort of thing,” he murmured. “Do you like it?”
“I most certainly do.”
Finishing her second shot of tequila, she smiled at Jon Marc. The Mexican liquor, along with the promise of completion to the act that would finish uniting them forever and ever as one, had loosened him up. His hair was ruffled, his coat gone, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
She yearned to touch the flesh at the V of that shirt.
As if he could read her mind, he took her fingers and pressed them to his warm skin. The gaze that had unnerved her at the beginning now soldered to her eyes, and she loved it.
“This is the heart that beats for you, dear wife.”