by Martha Hix
Throck and Phoebe left early for the church, where they would congregate with the rest of the O’Briens. Susan, along with Pippin and their escort, lagged behind. She refused to show a downcast face until she had to.
A coach would arrive soon, would take the threesome to the wedding. Sitting on the porch of Aunt Phoebe’s cottage, Susan had her valises packed.
She and Pippin would go straight from the church to the wharf. Her sullen son stood behind their belongings, Zombi’s crate at his side. He didn’t understand the situation, but neither did Susan. Her whole existence had dissolved into heartache.
Another person sat on the porch as well. Jon Marc O’Brien, reading a book of poetry, one booted foot cocked up on the rail, his Texas hat on the swing beside him. She studied her brother-in-law. He wore a yoked shirt that hugged muscular shoulders, and dress britches over long, long legs. Craggy and rugged, he had a shock of sorrel-hued hair that tumbled over his brow and roofed light-brown eyes. As India had mentioned, he was so ugly, he was pretty.
He would escort Susan and Pippin to the wedding ceremony.
Closing the book, Jon Marc glanced over at her. “Nice of you to sew me that shirt, ma’am.” He spoke with a drawl from having spent several years on the frontier. “It’s about the nicest thing any lady’s ever done for this ole cowpoke.”
She smiled wanly, her sympathies going out to this man who didn’t want sympathy. All he wanted was to live his Texas life and not have the O’Briens interfere with it.
It had been a sacrifice on his part, heeding India’s invitation, then returning for the wedding of a woman who wasn’t truly his aunt.
“Think nothing of the gift,” Susan replied. She’d started it for Burke. Why let it go to waste? Besides, she intended to stay in practice. Once reaching Sussex, she would open that seamstress shop. There would be no more depending on anyone.
“Jon Marc, you know about the magic lamp. Does it scare you, the prospect of meeting your bride on the specified date?”
His mouth twisted into a small grin. “Well, you see, ma’am, it’s like this. I figure to stack the deck in my favor. I’ll make certain she’s perfect before I meet her.”
Susan couldn’t help but laugh. She thought she’d forgotten how. “Good for you, Jon Marc. Good for you.”
A fine coach then pulled up.
“It’s time to leave,” she said to Pippin.
“I don’t wanna go.” He proceeded to let out a screech that sent birds from the trees.
“Enough of that, Pippin.”
“Dad said if you ever tried to take me away, all’s I’d have to do was throw the fit of my life, and he’d come running.”
Then scream, dumpling. Scream.
Jon Marc stretched to his feet, ambled over, and proffered his arm. “Shall we go?”
“She’s not going anywhere. Except to a wedding, then to 21 rue Royale.”
Burke!
“Dad! ”
The splint gone, a fruit crate in his right hand, he climbed the front steps. Shaved, sober, and his green eyes as bright as she’d ever seen them, her husband smiled. She got a glimpse at that crooked tooth, the one that had always given him character.
The rhythm of her heart soared to the heavens above.
Pippin shot past her and threw his arms around Burke’s waist. “I knew you’d come, Dad. I just knew you would.”
“There’s a good lad.” Ruffling the cowlick at Pippin’s crown, he bent down to the boy’s level. “Wonder what’s in the box? Why don’t you have a look?”
A trio of whimpers from the subject crate announced a bloodhound even before Pippin tore the bindings away. “Shamrock!” he squealed, and took the fat pup into his arms “Baby Shamrock.”
Jon Marc cleared his throat. “How ’bout I load up this stuff, brother?”
“Do that, Jones.”
Jon Marc and Pippin set to work as Burke straightened to his full lofty height.
“Just one minute, Burke O’Brien,” Susan put in. “I haven’t agreed to go anywhere with you.”
“That’s up to you.” He soldered his gaze to Susan. “You’re needing a ride to church, then to the dock. No need paying a hackney.”
The luggage and onlookers disappeared into the coach.
Burke got closer to Susan. “You owe me a wish.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
He pulled her to him and crushed her lips with a kiss. Her traveling hat fell away as she laced her arms behind his neck. “I’ve been out of town, getting my head together,” he disclosed when they stopped to catch their breath. “I wouldn’t come back until every trace of the poison was out of my system.”
After all the hell he’d put her though, she felt deserving to make him suffer a little. “What if I’d been gone?”
“I can find England on a chart and Sussex on a map. You can’t get away from me.”
“Well, then, where the devil have you been?”
“Spent some time at a shipyard upriver,” he said. “They’re building us a new flagship. Would you do the honor of christening her when she’s ready?”
“Of course I will.”
“Glad to hear it. Hope you won’t be offended. I’m calling her Black-eyed Susan.”
“I’m honored.” She gazed into his verdant eyes. “Was that your wish?”
“Not at all.” He chuckled. “I’m wishing for a church wedding of our own and a honeymoon to go with it.”
“Those are two wishes.”
“Too bad. Are you game?”
“I am. As long as we honeymoon at 21 rue Royale. I’ve missed being there. And I’ve missed you.”
“I was hoping you’d say something along those lines.” He winked and rocked her even closer. “I’m thinking of a later date for the honeymoon. Say, New Year’s Eve. I’m thinking a great way to say good-bye to the old and ring in the new is at lakeside. Just you and me. A bonfire. Some dancing. Could be we’ll start another baby out there . . .”
She tickled his ear. “What makes you think we won’t be expecting by then?”
His hands cupped her bottom. “After the wedding, what do you say we burrow in at 21 rue Royale? And work on ’expecting.’ ”
They did. And when the end of December rolled around, they celebrated as planned and expected. It all had to do with the magic of love.
Author’s Note
New Orleans has long intrigued me. I came by it naturally. My father—a rogue to rival any I’ve ever read or written about—learned to love the Crescent City as a young ship’s surgeon. The S/S Peterson made stops at the Port of New Orleans on returns from the banana lands.
Many years later Morty feted his only daughter on her ninth birthday with a visit to the Crescent City. Quite a trip that was! Dinner at Antoine’s and a fancy hotel with enough noise on the street below to keep me awake half the night, as if the excitement weren’t enough. An able historian, Morty gave lessons as I studied the French Quarter, St. Louis Cemetery, and that wide boulevard called Canal. This kid was in heaven.
Alas, that was my last birthday with the brilliant physician whose looks were every bit as striking as any fictional hero. This moon child lost him the next October. To drink. He’d never recovered from a star-crossed affaire de coeur.
Although I didn’t rely on my father to create Captain Burke O’Brien—their situations, deeds, and misdeeds were totally different—I couldn’t help but realize, as I was writing, the similarity behind the two tortured men. It was a fine feeling, saving Burke. I hope you enjoyed his and Susan’s story.
Now I will concentrate on Jon Marc. Look for Magic and the Texan in mid-January 1998.
May the magic be yours,
Martha Hix
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Copyright © 1996 by Martha Hix
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ISBN: 978-0-8217-5965-3