Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

  It certainly wasn’t.

  “ ’Tis also in me bones that Jonny’s bride is a good one.” Fitz wiggled into his blanket. “Mrs. Cinglure spoke with folks in our Beth’s hometown. A schoolteacher, and the wife of an attorney, vouched for our lass’s good character. Jonny’s wife was a victim of circumstance. The ladies said she was a good girl, a hard worker, before events turned her bad.”

  “Is that so?”

  “ ’Tis so. Ran her out of town, did the ladies of Liberal. But they had a change of heart, once truth came t’ light. The Baptist preacher turned on a lad named Frye, exposing him as a scoundrel. His wife kicked him out of the house. ’Twas too late to help our Beth, Mrs. Frye and the schoolteacher thought. Not so. They begged indulgence from Velma Cinglure.”

  Eugene Jinnings, having lived before the age of Queen Victoria, found nothing titillating in the tales of Liberal. He recalled ribald days in the Renaissance, in the Dark Ages, and all the way back to Roman bacchanalia. He yawned.

  Fitz continued speaking. “Done wrong our Beth may have, but I know she loves Jonny. And will be a wonderful wife, like me departed Edna.”

  He forever equated fine women with his one and only wife. Of course, he’d never been acquainted with the plum who’d married Julius Caesar.

  The genie had never met long-departed Edna, but he did agree with Fitz. Jon Marc’s wife seemed a good one.

  “Eugene, ’tis help I need. Ye’ve got t’ give it.”

  Work was in the offing. Allah, help! The genie said nothing, but he knew Fitz meant toil, knew it as surely as he knew every crevice of Tessa’s body. The Creator be praised, Fitz didn’t have a clue that the magic lamp still existed.

  There was no time to rest on that comforting thought, since Fitz said, “Ye need t’ let me have a go at the lamp.”

  Surely the crafty old man didn’t know . . . Surely!

  Eugene shrugged. “I can’t help you. The lamp is no more.”

  “ ’Tis not what me gardener says. He showed me what he dug up in the petunia bed. Seen enough of that lamp in the past. I knew a portion of it, when I saw it.”

  Desperation roused sweat on Eugene’s upper lip. “Where is the lamp? If it falls into someone’s hands . . . ! Allah, do not do this to me!”

  “The lamp is right where ye left it, doona worry. Go get it, Eugene. I’m wanting me three wishes.”

  Why not again claim the lantern held no more magic, that its powers had sputtered to nil in the explosion that ripped it apart? Because Eugene held his father-in-law in high regard. And why not? Fitz provided a fine life for his daughter and her husband. Moreover, they had been friends for many years. More than friends. Eugene knew Fitz considered him a son.

  How much did he owe the old man?

  “Go dig up the lantern, Eugene. I want it. Now.”

  And so it was that Eugene Jinnings peeled aside his snug blanket and trudged to the petunia garden in the dark of night. A cap didn’t do much to warm his bald head, nor did gloves keep his fingers warm. But he shoveled earth from the ancient treasure, brushed clumps of dirt from it, then tucked it under his arm to return to the drawing room and Fitz O’Brien.

  Tessa had also returned, a fresh mug of cocoa sitting untouched on a silver tray next to her father. Her blue eyes were big as a sultan’s treasure chest.

  “More magic,” she said breathily and wiggled against the sofa back. “Oh, Daddy, what will you wish for?”

  “Do not be hasty. Either of you.” Eugene frowned. “I will grant three wishes, but you both must agree to something. Once the wishes are made, the lamp will be no more. Forever.”

  That was a challenge to the lady whose wishes for her nephews had started all this, in a seaside town on the Mediterranean. Like her sister, Phoebe, Tessa had many ideas on how to improve the lot of this person or that. Yet she bit her lip and nodded. “The lamp will be no more.”

  “How can we be rid of it?” Fitz asked.

  “Send it to a smelter.”

  Tessa again nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  Fitz reached for the jagged piece that had once been part of the lantern’s etched-brass bowl. He palmed it, gave it a long study. His opposite thumb clamping an edge, he began to rub the bowl-piece. “I wish . . .”

  A force that had plagued Eugene Jinnings for hundreds of years took hold anew. Power billowed within his veins. Servitude prostrated him to a knee in front of Fitz O’Brien.

  “Your wish is my command, master.”

  “I wish t’ live t’ see Pippin grown and taking over at Fitz & Son. That me family will never again be torn apart from within. That Jonny accepts his bride. If not, I wish for Beth t’ find a way t’ make him accept her.”

  “Daddy, no!” Tessa blanched. “That’s four wishes.”

  Lips peeling back into a grimace, Fitz slammed closed his eyes, groaning at the blunder.

  His daughter steepled her fingers. “Good gracious. The wishes are made. There isn’t any backing out. Let’s pray God will answer at least three.”

  The folds of his face jiggling, Fitz nodded. “ ’Tis in God’s Hands, all ’round.”

  Yes, Allah must intervene. Perhaps in several ways. Fitz, like his daughter before him, hadn’t been specific enough in his requests. He should have added “immediately” to the third wish, and left it at that.

  Now . . . none but the Creator would have a say in the marriage of Jon Marc O’Brien and the brunette calling herself Beth.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jon Marc didn’t know what hurt the most, being played for the ultimate fool, or not knowing the woman once thought to be his wife. No. He knew the hardest part. It was the grief. He’d lost more than the pious young lady from Kansas.

  He lost every anchor to count on.

  Jon Marc couldn’t decide what to hate or whom to mourn. But he’d never get his wits together, standing here while Bethany Todd tried to explain Beth Buchanan’s demise.

  “Save your breath.” He paced the parlor floor, passing the place where Beth Buchanan’s piano had sat. Beth, who could no doubt have played with the capacity of Chopin. “I’m better off not knowing.”

  “But, husband—”

  “Am I?” Was he? Was he legally tied to this stranger?

  Her eyes filled with sorrow, Beth—no, Bethany—rushed over and tried to take Jon Marc’s hand. “You may have written to Miss Buchanan, but it’s me you fell in love with.”

  He shoved her fingers away. Whom did he love? Bethany or Beth? The line has fuzzed somewhere along the way, yet he knew the difference between image and reality. “What is love? I have lust for you. Dammit, I could take you right here, on the parlor floor. Like last night. And have no problem with it.”

  The bad part was, he could have. Fire still burned in his loins for this wanton. The wanton who had inflamed him now made a little O with her lips, as if in surprise. And perhaps delight. She’s got you just where she wants you.

  Fighting the force of her powers, he said, “Love ought to be more than tossing around naked. It has to mean respect and trust. You ruined that for me, Miss Todd.”

  The face that had paled now turned ashen. “We can work this out, Jon Marc. Together, we can. You might not see it that way tonight. I understand.”

  “Do you, Bethany?”

  She’d never looked this scared—hell, had she been scared, since that first day at the stagestop? Jon Marc didn’t think so. She’d blithely set about to deceive him, had never looked back while lying time and again.

  He stomped to the fireplace to rivet his gaze to flames as chaotic as his wits. “You’re like Georgia Morgan. She could look someone in the eye, someone she claimed to love, and tell tales to change a person’s life forever.”

  Agony stabbed his heart, when he equated the two most important women in his life. Both had let him down. Bad. Getting gut-shot in the Civil War hadn’t hurt like this. It damned sure hurt worse than witnessing his parent’s deaths.

  “Husband, listen to me. Your mother
was an adulteress. I’m not.” His supposed wife walked over broken glass; it crunched beneath her shoes. “I could never lie with anyone but you.”

  “Why am I not laughing? You weren’t a virgin.”

  “You weren’t either. I don’t fault you for that. Things happen. It’s what develops after a couple falls in love that matters. I’m faithful to you. And always will be.”

  When he’d discovered her lack of chastity, Jon Marc had promised himself not to ask the particulars. That promise popped, not unlike the flames he gazed into. He turned to the woman standing like a soldier, to his right, ready to leap into the fires of battle. Ready to be fired upon.

  “What were you, Miss Todd? Before you showed up here?”

  “An outlaw’s sister.”

  “Had to have been more than that.”

  “All right. I was the daughter of a drunk. I was a cook and dishwasher in a saloon, raised by whores. I know bawdy rhymes. Have made a few up myself. I’m a fallen woman. I let a scoundrel barter me out of what I should have saved for my husband. I had to. I had no money to pay for a lawyer.”

  “You sold yourself.”

  “I had to try to save my father. From going to jail. Pa is in the penitentiary at Huntsville. He is a thief of church funds. But he’s still my father. And if I had it to do over again, I wonder if I would do differently.”

  After the blow taken over her identity, Jon Marc didn’t find it shocking, that a jailbird begat her. Nothing would ever shock him again.

  “Real nice bunch,” he said sourly, “the Todds.”

  “I suppose you mean that as an asperity against Hoot.”

  “Now that you mention it. Guess we ought to be thankful, not bringing a child into this. I’d hate to think my son or daughter called that one-eyed no-good ‘uncle.’ ”

  That made her mad. “You’ve got gall. How can you stand there and decry my brother as a no-good? You’d have been better served to be Marcus Johnson’s son. At least he has courage. Daniel was such a coward that he killed his wife, and himself! At least Hoot doesn’t kill people.”

  As soon as the second syllable of “people” was out of her mouth, she slammed fingers against her lips.

  Jon Marc said facetiously, “That’s right. They won’t write any books about Daniel O’Brien. That ‘honor’ will fall to the venerated Hoot Todd.” i

  “I’m sorry, Jon Marc. I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

  “I did.” Yet it bothered him more than it should, his defense.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. “I am to be scorned. Do it. Scorn me. But don’t forget who loves you. And that you love me. I couldn’t be that wrong about you, Jon Marc. I know you love me. Me. Not the lady you sent for. She was a wonderful person, I’ll grant that. I held her in the highest regard and respect. Saintly—everything of her letters and more—that was Miss Buchanan. So saintly that she would have preferred to become the bride of Christ, than to marry you. But she would have. She was good at her word.”

  Real respect issued from the imposter’s tone and expression. Jon Marc remembered the letters. Their poetic references, the mentions of pianos and a convent education. What a prize he’d lost, when Beth Buchanan had died.

  Oh, really? Hadn’t his fiancée evaded saying yes to his proposal to arrive on April twenty-first? She would have preferred the veil.

  “From the moment I met her,” Bethany said, “I’ve wished I could truly be Beth Buchanan.”

  Jon Marc studied the woman who had been his wife for nearly six months. She had never evaded him. He’d thought as much, in the beginning, but hadn’t she accepted him, without stipulations or hesitations? Or had it been another of her hoaxes, her means to charm?

  “Can’t say you didn’t try being Beth Buchanan,” he allowed.

  Bethany Todd, never prone to give up or in, did as she always did. She tried to make things better. “Once you’ve thought about our situation, you’ll see I love you. That I’ve been a decent wife to you. That I want your happiness.”

  Something inside him wanted to believe her. He thought back on her many good deeds . . . and how much the two of them had pleasured each other, when good deeds were the farthest from their thoughts.

  That was the thinking of a chump, someone as thickheaded as a log. Too much, Jon Marc had been a chump. “If you think you can charm me, think again. This isn’t Hoot Todd you’re speaking to. You may’ve made me a fool, but I’m not stupid enough to eat out of your hand. Not anymore.”

  “You won’t grant me a second thought?”

  Jon Marc parked his palm above the fireplace. “That thousand dollars you talked Todd out of is still in the cookie jar. There’s more in the strongbox at Roca Blanca.” Would’ve been easier, if you’d paid her stage fare, the day she showed up. “Take it, Miss Todd. Take it and leave.”

  “I’m not Miss Todd. I’m your wife.”

  Was she? Jon Marc knew he must speak to the priest. Probably, he would need to consult with an attorney. The thought sickened him. Too often he’d eaten disgrace. Too often.

  “You would throw me into the night?” Bethany asked.

  Could he do that? He recalled what it was like, being cast aside like so much refuse. He didn’t want that for this woman. A part of him yearned for her happiness. The smarter part warned not to become a bigger fool.

  The dumbest part caused him to take her elbows. “You always ask too much, Beth. Bethany. Too much. Always.”

  “Maybe I do.” She gazed up into his eyes. “Maybe I do.”

  Her palms trailed up his vest, her fingers curling behind his neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Undeniable lust lashed through him, spurring reason away. His hands found their way to her back, her derriere.

  “Give in to this, Jon Marc.” Her voice embraced a heady purr. “Make us both happy.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  When she wiggled against him, he nearly lost track of anything but desire.

  “I need you inside me, Jon Marc. Please.”

  How many times had he been there? Too many to count. Many wonderful ones to recall. Never had they started a child, but they might have. One could be on its way.

  Their babe.

  How could he have maligned the fruit of their love? No child should pay for the sins of his parents. Or grandparents. Or uncles.

  Bethany arched against him, like the cat that she was. “I’m not the lady you imagined, but I want to be your wife and woman. Forever and ever.”

  His rod met that bowing. I don’t want a lady. He wanted her, whoever she was.

  At least once more.

  No!

  If for no other reason, to prevent a child.

  She peeled his vest and shirt aside, her serpent’s tongue laving his nipple. God! Why did such a thing feel so good? Man wasn’t meant to nurture children. Why did a craving wind to Jon Marc’s lower back and settle in his male organs? Why did he even wonder?

  This must have been how his father had felt. Let a woman fool you. Let her seduce you. Or let yourself be seduced. Then howl for more.

  If he gave in, it would be forever.

  He couldn’t live with that. Wouldn’t be another Daniel. Wouldn’t have a liar making a mockery of marriage.

  He counted to ten. Then twenty. His rod shriveled, feeling the cold of November and the slap of reality.

  The muscles in his hips contracted as he thrust her away. So did his heart.

  Bethany clutched her arms, her shoulders sagging. “Please don’t let this be the end of us. Give me a second thought, Jon Marc.”

  Was this the sort of thing Georgia had said to Daniel? Probably not. Georgia had wanted to be done with her husband. But Bethany had her own set of deficits. She wasn’t Beth.

  Who is she? What does it matter? You don’t care about piano playing, or blue eyes, or curly hair. That fob watch is nothing. Who cares?

  Jon Marc O’Brien cared. He’d come late to Catholicism, but marriage was a sac
rament, not to be undertaken in deceit or misrepresentation. This woman had laughed in the face of his religion. And Beth Buchanan’s.

  He went to the settee, crumpling into it. “Bethany, we need to make rational decisions. If you’ve got a babe in your belly, I want it. I’ll raise it.”

  Her face brightened. Sweeping over to him, she knelt at his feet. “You won’t be sorry.” Fingers gripped his knees. “I’ll be a good mother. A good wife. You won’t be sorry.”

  “You don’t understand. You aren’t part of the picture.”

  The light in her eyes died. She ducked her chin. A laugh as hollow as a log rent the parlor. “Here I go, trying to deceive you. No more of that. I should imagine a child is something we needn’t worry over. I am barren. I know this. I was meant to be alone. To pay for my sins.”

  No, she wasn’t meant to live her life without loved ones around her. For all her mistakes, Jon Marc knew this was basically a good woman. She just wasn’t the woman for him.

  Which didn’t mean he had no sympathy for Bethany Todd.

  “Find someone else,” he said, hating those words. “Be yourself. Don’t lie. Put this behind you.”

  A long moment stretched taut before she shoved to stand. “I’ll be on the next stagecoach.”

  He nodded. “Till then, I’ll stay away. Way away.”

  Jon Marc left the home they had shared, riding hard for Santa Maria Church. If ever there were ever a time for spiritual resuscitation, it was now.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Let not your heart be troubled,” Padre Miguel said to Bethany, reminding her of that long-ago advice given by Mrs. Agatha Persat. “Come to Santa Maria, my child. Let me hear your confession.”

  “Yes, Padre. I will.” Bethany, standing several hundred yards from the river, put down the slop bucket that she’d brought to lure pigs from their sty. Out of hearing range from Diego Novio and the other vaqueros, she said, “Tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. The day the stagecoach would arrive from San Antonio, on a southward course to Mexico City. Even though Hoot Todd had relented, had given Terecita ample funds for their daughter’s schooling, mother and daughter would be on that coach, as would Bethany.