by Martha Hix
Spurring Arlene past the nebulous city limits, she spied Sabrina down by the riverbank, at the pigpen.
“¡Hola!” she shouted to get her niece’s attention.
Sabrina ran from the sty upon hearing Bethany’s voice. “¡Amiga!” The girl’s arms flailed with happiness—at the thought of visiting the Caliente? “Guess what!”
Bethany tried not to show disappointment when Sabrina gushed, “Jacinta, she has more babies!”
Had no one said anything to the child about . . . ?
Bethany decided not to borrow trouble, so she let her niece’s enthusiasm carry her toward the new mother.
Indeed, the sow had expanded her family, Bethany determined, once she’d tried Arlene to a pigpen rail. Twelve piglets nudged Jacinta’s ample belly. The sow wagged an ear at Bethany and Sabrina, giving a grunt of “be off with you.”
“What a lovely family you have, madam,” Bethany said, not put off by porcine dismissal. “You’re fortunate to have such a nice young lady as Sabrina to bring you food and fill your trough with water.”
Sabrina nodded, her braids flapping against her spare shoulders. “She is very greedy.”
“Ah! It is the bride,” said a male voice that had to belong to Padre Miguel. “Good morning to you, my child. How are you this fine day?”
A trio of Jacinta’s older offspring ran between Bethany and the priest. And she got an idea... “I’d be much finer, Padre, if I could make a deal with you.”
“A deal? And what would that be, my child?”
“I want twenty pigs. Preferably shoats. Of course, I’ll need help with them.” Bethany placed her hand on the crown of Sabrina’s head. “If this niña is agreeable, I would love to have her stay at the Caliente and teach me about pig farming.”
“What will your husband say about that?”
“He’s gone. Trouble, you see. The matter of a theft.”
“A certain bandido”—Padre Miguel cut his eyes to Sabrina, then back to Bethany, his meaning clear: don’t mention Hoot Todd by name—“has affronted him again?”
“Exactly.”
The priest’s dark eyes grew crafty. “I might make a deal. Sabrina, vete. Go.”
“Sabrina,” Bethany cut in. “Look in the knapsack hanging on Arlene’s saddle. It’s for you. A present.”
“For me?” Eyes widened.
“For you.”
The girl scampered to rifle through the sack. A delighted squeal, not unlike a piglet’s, rang when Sabrina eyed the sandalwood music box. She rushed back. “What is it?”
“Hand it here, and I’ll show you.” Bethany wound the key; the tinny sounds of “Oh, Susannah” floated through the air of the town that didn’t have enough music.
“It is beautiful,” Sabrina said in a breathy, little-girl voice. “It is really mine?”
“Vete, ”the priest reiterated at the same moment Bethany nodded. “Take your toy and show it to Ramón and Manuel.”
“Sabrina, the cookies in that sack are for the boys. We don’t want to leave them out.”
“Thank you, señora.” She blew a kiss before tucking the treasure under her arm and turning away. “Thank you!”
“You will spoil her,” was the priest’s gentle scold.
“I intend to. I trust Terecita has spoken to you . . .”
“Ah, Terecita. Yes, she spoke to me.”
Wonderful! Hoot would uphold his end of the bargain.
“Terecita,” the padre said. “My lost lamb who would like to hear piano hammers instead of the clack of castanets. . .”
You crafty dickens.
Hands muffed in cassock sleeves, he reared up on sandals, then settled back on his heels. A rascally grin accompanied his bargain. “Pigs and a little girl . . . for a piano.”
“I was thinking about something different. Such as teaching the boys to speak English.”
“Ramón and Manuel do not need any language but Spanish. They are destined for La Casa de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, an orphanage in Mexico. This church—” a finger pointed at Santa María “—would benefit from your piano.”
“It’s not mine to give. Anyway, that piano is worth more than a score of pigs. And I’m not buying Sabrina. I simply want her for a while.”
The priest pivoted on the toe of a sandal. His hands behind him, he paced the ground. Spinning around, the hem of his robe swaying, he said, “It troubles me, a lady of the faith who doesn’t attend Mass. Where were you yesterday?”
Avoiding church. “Mass was yesterday? My days have run together.”
“I have not heard your confession, Señora O’Brien. Not once. Do you not have sins to confess?”
“No.”
“How can that be? We are all sinners, señora.”
He dangled her from an invisible string; she knew it.
“Would I . . .” She licked her lips, recalling the incredible, invisible force that pressed down during the marriage ceremony, one she had feared repeating, had she attended Mass. Prudence demanded, Stay far from invisible forces. Impossible. How could she avoid Mass, without drawing Jon Marc’s suspicions? Which meant she must beard the lion of religion. Or be bearded.
God’s messengers could be bought off. This she knew, sure as the world. When the preacher at the Liberal Baptist Church got wind of the sticky situation at the Frye household, Oscar had slipped a handful of bills under the table. Oscar never had to worry about having the church door slammed in his face.
Bethany was in no position to buy anything. Nonetheless, her chin tilted toward Padre Miguel. “Would it settle me with the church, if I agree to trade the piano?”
“Have you forgotten the catechisms, my child? You should know Grace doesn’t work that way.”
Who was Grace? What was catechisms? Bethany could bluff her way out of this, she knew she could, but did she want to? If she and Jon Marc were to make a success of their marriage, she needed to be honest. She needed whatever Grace had to offer.
No.
If she and Jon Marc were to have a chance at lifelong happiness, she needed more than some woman named Grace. Certainly more than a magic lamp. She needed God.
Seeking religion would require his messenger, someone to speak with who knew she wasn’t born a Buchanan. Hoot knew, of course, but he carried no divine messages, to be sure.
She sensed Padre Miguel trustworthy. It was somewhat on the order of honor among thieves, he being as wily as she was.
“Padre Miguel, you and I need to talk.”
“What in tarnation are pigs doing, penned up at this ranch?”
Jon Marc shouted that question the same moment he shoved the parlor door open. He blinked at a completely rearranged room and a small girl who sat in the rocking chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands clasped around some sort of box.
“Buenas noches, Señor Juan Marc. Good evening.”
Sabrina. Todd’s neglected love child, not that love had anything to do with her conception. Sabrina, no threat to Jon Marc. Minutes ago, before he’d the misfortune to catch sight of pigs between the stable and the river, he’d felt threatened. He’d seen his wife pass in front of the parlor window, her arms and hands in motion, as if in conversation. His mind had worked against him, making him think Daniel-type thoughts.
Jon Marc had prayed to every Catholic saint he could recall, plus everything related to his Protestant upbringing. He wouldn’t start conjuring up images of his wife entertaining a man. It had worked.
Then he’d caught sight of swine.
“The pigs,” Sabrina now said, “they are yours.”
Jon Marc dreaded to find out why they were his, or how come the piano was missing, or what Sabrina was doing at the Caliente, way past visiting hours.
He stepped into the parlor. “Where is Señora O’Brien?”
“The bride, she has gone for milk and cookies.” Sabrina scooted off the seat and, standing to set aside what now looked like Trudy Wilson’s old music box, rubbed her tummy. “She makes very good cookies.�
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Yes, she did. And Jon Marc disliked the urge to find out just how good this batch had turned out.
A pointed clearing of throat to his rear signaled Beth’s return.
He swiveled around.
The way his heart did a double-beat? He didn’t like it. He wanted to have no feeling whatsoever for her. Yet he saw her as a desirable woman. Desirable. And hot to the touch.
She stood with a tin plate in one hand, a glass of milk in the other. Fixing her eyes on his, her lips trembling slightly, she moved not a muscle. Her hair had been braided into a single plait that fell over one shoulder. A burst of fire in his chest reminded Jon Marc of what that hair had felt like, brushing his body as she rode him to the throes of passion.
His veins expanded with a charge of heated blood. She’d been the essence of his most wicked dreams, willing and giving and hotter than a branding iron.
They needed to talk about passion.
Not with Sabrina around, naturally.
He turned back to the girl. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I must take care of the pigs.”
“Sabrina,” Beth ordered, “go on to bed.”
“And what bed might that be?” Jon Marc wanted to know, but suspected it was his bed.
“Go, Sabrina!” Beth shoved plate and glass into the girl’s hands, but didn’t make the connection.
Tin and glass clattered to the floor in a shower of milk, cookies, and in what became broken glass. The child wailed. Let go with a string of rapid-fire Spanish words that Jon Marc couldn’t keep up with. Both she and Beth reached for the spillage at the same time. Foreheads knocked together.
“Get away,” he ordered, “else you’ll get cut.”
Wide-eyed, woman and girl looked up at him.
Then Sabrina flew into the shelter of Beth’s arms.
During his absence, Jon Marc had envisioned a host of scenes of how this evening would turn out. He had not conjured up images of milk-and-cookie chaos, much less the sight of Beth giving comfort. To the eye and ear, his wife gave the impression of being a decent person, but how much did the eye and ear deceive?
And where was that grand piano?
And why were those pigs suddenly his?
Answers had to wait. They waited. Beth put her arm around the girl, led her to the bedroom, and Jon Marc figured he might as well clean up the mess. This was one mess he could fix.
Her nerves skipped like Mexican jumping beans. Jon Marc, home. When they were in the parlor, she had yearned to rush into his welcoming arms and ask question after question about his odyssey, yet the look on his face had told her to stay back. Thanks to being thwarted in revenge? Simply because of Sabrina’s presence, or the piano’s disappearance? Because pigs rooted where longhorns were meant to roam? Foolish questions. He hadn’t forgotten their wedding night.
That, Bethany expected.
The bad part was, she expected Hoot at midnight. Already she’d figured out what to say about the money, but how would she explain his presence?
Jon Marc, plus Hoot—enough to keep her mind off a troublesome event: Manuel and Ramón leaving for an orphanage in Mexico City. Would Sabrina—adored, precious Sabrina—leave with the boys?
Finished tucking her niece into bed, Bethany returned to the parlor. The mess was gone. So was her husband.
A dismal feeling bathed Bethany. How silly of her, imagining he’d wait for her. How very silly. She’d hurt him. To the core. Betrayed his trust. As with his family, he would exact punishment. His cold shoulder.
Odd, how life mixed triumphs with predicaments. Hoot at bay, a good thing. Her conversion to the religion embraced by Jon Marc in the offing, another good thing, thanks to an understanding Padre Miguel, who had promised to keep silent about her truths, while agreeing to give instructions in the faith.
Yet, according to the padre, the church didn’t recognize her marital vows, since she had given false information. Texas did have laws, though. And Padre Miguel had informed her of one in particular. If she and Jon Marc lived as husband and wife for at least six months, they were married. In the eyes of Texas.
That was better than nothing.
Her intentions were to stay put, way beyond six months. Then she’d caught sight of Jon Marc’s coffee eyes turned to petrified wood.
“Turn his eyes warm,” she uttered, pining for one of the ardent gazes that had marked her beginning days at the Caliente. “Find him. Make it all better.”
She found him at the river, in his bedroll. His shoulders bared, he lay on his side, sleeping. Did he pretend in order not to speak with her? Or was it feigned so that he wouldn’t do as he’d done before their second coupling? Join with her when his heart warned him not to.
“¿Querido?” She shivered, recalling how his skin tasted as she’d kissed it ... and how it felt when his lips tasted her own flesh.
“What?”
She stepped closer. “What happened on your trip?”
“Never found Todd.” Jon Marc eased to his back and tucked a wrist behind his neck. His pose might be relaxed, but the edge in his voice told the true story. “Not an altogether wasted trip. Todd’s bandido, Peña, met his fate. Thanks to a showdown in the next county. He took my bullet between the eyes.”
“You k-killed him?”
“Right.”
Bethany shuddered. A man dead over money and an old feud. A pointless death, now that Hoot had relented.
How would Hoot react to the news?
Her lips moved in silent prayer. Moved as Padre Miguel had instructed her. She might be making peace with religion, but would there be no peace in La Salle County?
“You’ve got your answer,” Jon Marc said. “Now I want mine. Start with why Sabrina is sleeping in my bed.”
“She’s teaching me how to tend pigs.”
“Why?”
“Because we need them. For food. To clean up refuse. To trade for goods and services. Another thing, no self-respecting rustler would ever touch a pig. Or skin it.”
“I’m not a damned pig farmer.”
Cattle ranchers considered it beneath their dignity, attaching their brands to anything other than cows and horses, but what was wrong with being practical? “I’ll take care of the pigs. You can simply ignore them.” Bethany, her knees weak, surrendered to it, sagging to sit a few feet from Jon Marc, her legs tucked under her. “No more about pigs. Not now. I can’t talk about them. Not in the same breath we discuss death.”
“Is this where you give me hell for taking care of what’s mine?”
“I’m saying Peña was unnecessary. I’ve had a talk with Hoot Todd. He—”
“What do mean, you had a talk with Todd?” Jon Marc jerked up from his bedroll, exposing his torso. “You talk, Beth.”
“I had a chat with Hoot Todd yesterday. He agreed to return your money.”
“I’d like to know what the hell you said to ‘chat’ him into anything.”
“He’s not an unreasonable man, if you give him a chance.”
“What did you have to give up, my lovely virginal bride?” Jon Marc asked in a voice filled with innuendo.
“If you mean to imply something illicit between me and Hoot, you are wrong.”
“So, it’s Hoot, is it? You sicken me.”
Jon Marc’s affront crawled up Bethany’s spine. She had to work hard at tamping down her aggravation, her temper, her urge to get off the ground and stomp away. “Yes, it’s Hoot. He dropped by, trying to upset me, but I decided to make peace with him. And a semblance of peace is what I made. Familiarity of address goes along with being neighborly.”
“He’s not a neighbor. He’s a menace.”
“Things can change. For the better.”
“What in hell’s name did you say to him?”
That, of course, she couldn’t discuss. Yet she silently vowed that no more blatant lies would pass her lips. “Wording isn’t important. The crux is, he agreed to reason. You might call it a good Catholic mirac
le.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
Jon Marc’s continued profanity dealt a blow. She was not to be respected. It might have been expected, her tightening of chest and throat, along with the drawing up in her veins and the burning behind her eyelids. But it wasn’t. She would not, however, cry, nor act injured.
Only this morning, as she knelt before the altar at Santa María, discordance emitting from the piano, the padre had counseled her on accepting the guilt for her sins against her husband and a higher power. Padre Miguel would surely say she must bow her head and be blistered by the lash of her own making.
Her shoulders straightened, her nose hitching up. Unbowed, she said, “I’ll thank you not to speak that way to me.”
“You don’t dictate what gets said on my ranch.”
She rose to stand, indignity hurling her to Jon Marc’s seated presence. “You intend to make me miserable enough that I’ll leave, I take it.”
“If you’re wanting to leave, don’t let the door kick you in the butt.”
The difficult urge not to kick his behind assaulted her. “As I said before you left, I have no desire but to be a good and loving wife.”
“By cuddling up to Todd, then offering his kid my bed? By bringing pigs onto a cattle ranch?” A moment tripped by. “By spreading your legs before marriage?”
Without warning, something skittered up her leg. Probably a lizard. Not squeamish about insects, she gathered her skirts up to flick it from her knee.
“If you’re thinking to seduce me,” Jon Marc said sourly, “think again.”
She bent over once more. This time to gather a handful of earth. Her elbow drew back; she tossed dirt into his face.
Whirling on the ball of a foot, she meant to rush back to the house. Jon Marc grabbed her ankle, held her tight. She tried to get free. Couldn’t. All her efforts got her? She tumbled atop him. Criss-crossing him.
She tried to get her bearing, which pressed her hips to his. For a moment she thought he met the pressure, responding to it, but he craned upward to roll her spine to the ground.
He sat back. Rubbed dirt from his face. “You and I need to talk.”