Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

  Now, as Bethany huddled in the bedroom of a landowning man who could give her children, she trembled. That piece of advice, delivered the day before Miss Buchanan went behind the bushes and had been struck by the rattlesnake that Bethany herself had killed with a ratty old parasol, had distinct significance. Distinct significance, over and above Bethany’s intention to be herself as much as possible with Jon Marc.

  What price would she pay for taking another woman’s place?

  “I won’t pay,” she vowed. “I’m not evil, just tarnished. I’ll do Jon Marc no ill. Ever.”

  What she needed was sleep. A good night of it, and she could address a day of making a saint into a scapegoat.

  Sleep eluded Bethany.

  “Oscar lied. Flat lied.”

  Bethany Todd, arch liar, deceiver of the first water, had added to her sins. She played the Peeping Tom.

  Thus hadn’t been her intention. When she’d left the bedroom for outside, she’d meant to walk out her plans. A light from the kitchen had drawn her attention.

  Jon Marc kept it.

  Evidently he hadn’t been able to sleep either, for he had filled the copper hip-bath and was bathing.

  For a closer look Bethany climbed the live-oak tree that grew near the kitchen window. She moved like a monkey, gaining a heavy, low-growing branch. All right, it teetered, but she paid no mind. Her eyes were soldered to Jon Marc.

  He stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel to rub down the long lines of his body, yet she got another gander at his attributes. Saliva fell to the oak branch. Yes, Oscar Frye had told her a fish story.

  Oscar had claimed his male gear was as big as they grew. Not so. Even soft, Jon Marc had him beat.

  Musing over just how big this one got, Bethany trembled, goose bumps running up and down her arms and legs. The hem of her nightgown caught on something. She tried to free it.

  That was when she lost her purchase.

  An involuntary scream of fright carried through the night as she tumbled to the ground, landing with a thud. Thankfully on a patch of last year’s leaves, yet she hurt just the same.

  Her cry exposed voyeurism. Jon Marc, frocked in his birthday suit, shouted her name and jumped through the window, ready to rescue her.

  Too bad her aching body forsook the opportunity to appreciate his manly delights. She rolled into a ball at the same moment he hovered over her.

  “Beth honey, speak to me!”

  “I’m okay.” And she believed she was, especially since he ran his fingers along her limbs to check for broken bones. “Nothing injured but my pride.”

  “What the dickens brought you out here?”

  An answer that concerned checking new leaf growth got abandoned. Besides, hadn’t she decided to be more herself? “Natural curiosity, sir.”

  He laughed. “You never cease to surprise me, Beth.”

  “I hope that doesn’t displease you.”

  “No. Not at all.” A moment went by, a second in which he leaned his face toward hers. “I like you more this way.”

  Good.

  She liked it even better when his lips brushed hers. Her fingers floated up to settle against his ribs. Then he kissed her, really kissed her.

  His bath made him smell like soap—his lips tasted like bliss. His body felt lovely against hers, even though she hated that the nightgown came between them.

  Have you lost your mind, girl? Keep this up, and he’ll know you’re not a virgin. Will never take you to the altar.

  Bethany pushed Jon Marc’s face away. Flipping as fast as twinging muscles would allow, she rolled to her side, then shoved to stand. With as much dignity as she could muster, she limped to the bedroom, and was relieved he didn’t follow her.

  As the first shard of dawn lightened the day, Bethany faced the morning. Faced Jon Marc O’Brien. She expected to answer for tree-climbing, or at least field a question about her injuries, which were none, thank goodness. Not so.

  Her intended wasn’t all Bethany faced.

  A quartet of mounted bandidos, clothed in Mexican hats and a wealth of silver, surrounded them on three sides.

  Jon Marc had a six-shooter leveled at the leader.

  The square-jawed Anglo, astride a black stallion, looked about thirty-five. Wearing a sombrero on his dark head and a bandanna at his neck, he might be considered handsome, in a cutthroat way. A black patch covered one eye, with a jagged scar running above and below it, about an inch in both cases.

  Her heart stopped. Partially because he had a pair of pistols aimed at Jon Marc. Partially because she didn’t have to wonder his identity.

  Bethany faced her brother.

  Chapter Nine

  “Get off my property, Todd. Now.”

  “Not till I talk to your woman, O’Brien.”

  Fearful for her man’s safety, as well as ruffled at the thought of what could come out of a discussion with her long-lost brother, Bethany crept toward Jon Marc.

  “You don’t have any business with Miss Buchanan.” His aim stayed on the leader of the ragtag band. “Get gone.”

  The foursome didn’t turn their horses. The three Mexicans, bandoliers strapping broad chests, sat impassive, their sombreros shading crusty, brown faces. Hoot Todd continued to point a pair of gun barrels at the Caliente’s owner.

  Bethany brought clasped hands beneath her chin. “No hostility, please!”

  “Go back in the house, Beth honey.”

  At the name “Beth,” Hoot Todd flinched, and Bethany didn’t need to wonder why. What she wondered was why she’d been foolish enough not to realize, before now, there might be a problem. Hoot had expected a Beth.

  “Jon Marc, I’m willing to talk with these gentlemen.”

  Gentlemen? A vulgarity against respectful address. She barely remembered Hoot Todd, her best recollections having to do with their now-departed grandfather’s tales. Grandpa, many times, mentioned how happy it used to make Hoot, when Naomi Todd baked lemon pies for the family.

  Who would have ever thought that the nice young man of yesteryears would become crooked as a dog’s hind leg? Well, blood showed, and he had their father’s.

  She glared. “What is it you want?”

  Hoot twirled six-guns before holstering the pistols and slipping a thumb behind his silver belt buckle. “Talk.”

  Jon Marc, his gaze never moving from the outlaws, lowered his trigger finger. “You hustle my cattle and horses across the border to Mexico, but you want talk?”

  “That’s right. Talk.”

  “Anything more,” Jon Marc promised, “and I’ll put your other eye out.”

  “You scare me spitless.” Hoot sneered. “Even if you did half blind me.”

  Bethany gasped. Jon Marc had maimed the infamous Hoot Todd?

  “You’d be smart to stop stealing my livestock, Todd.”

  “I never stole your friggin’ horses or cows.”

  “Watch your mouth, Todd. There’s a lady present.”

  “My apologies, ma’am.” Hoot Todd, grinning like a false face, removed his sombrero.

  Bethany was struck by how much he resembled their father. Struck disgusted. Even though she’d always love Pa, would she ever get over his betrayal?

  “Meant no insult,” Hoot said. “What I’d like is a cuppa coffee and some answers about my little sister.”

  Bethany would rather go back to Liberal than to discuss anything with Hoot Todd. Unworkable. The best course was to get the matter of Bethany Todd buried, once and for all.

  “Will you allow it?” she asked Jon Marc.

  “You don’t have to talk with him. I don’t want you to.”

  She stepped to Jon Marc’s side and laid her palm on an upper arm taut with muscles and the need to offer protection. “If your sister had died,” she said, “wouldn’t you want to know what happened?”

  “I don’t have a sister.”

  Said Hoot, “I’m not here to steal the dishes or your woman. Or your cows. I just want some neighborly coffee and a
few words about my kin.”

  She tightened her fingers on Jon Marc’s wonderful arm and forced herself not to recall last night. “It’s for the best.”

  “For you, I’ll do it.” He next said to Todd, “I’ve got a pot of coffee in the house. Get shut of your bandidos. ”

  The outlaw gave a hand signal; his cohorts turned their mounts to ride away. The trio of Bethany, Jon Marc, and the brother she’d rather forget sat at the kitchen table, with the prospective lady of the house pouring coffee and giving answers.

  While she did, Jon Marc kept his arms folded over his chest, his glare on Hoot. The bandit planted forearms atop the table and lowered his head.

  “I arranged for her burial in Austin,” Bethany said at the end of her monologue. “She rests in a Baptist churchyard.”

  That was a lie. Bethany had arranged a proper Catholic burial, in accordance with Miss Buchanan’s faith. And she used the last of the dead girl’s money, as well as her own, to buy a marker to read: “E. A. Buchanan, 1850–1872.” Why let it be known the Catholic cemetery was in Round Rock, north of Austin?

  “Which one?” Hoot asked.

  “I don’t recall the church’s name. I had to catch the stage before the funeral, else it would’ve worried Mr. O’Brien, had I not arrive as planned. Have no fear, everything was quite proper and fitting.”

  Hoot downed the rest of his coffee. Wiping his mouth with the back of a meaty hand, he said, “Okay, now I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Todd,” Bethany said.

  “Don’t make me no never-mind, beyond curiosity. Haven’t seen her since she was a brat. Couldn’t care less about her.”

  His attitude stank. Bethany felt as if she had a dig coming, both for herself and his neglected daughter. “Poor Miss Todd counted on you for a home. It’s almost a blessing she didn’t have to depend on your mercies.”

  “You mean that minx expected me to take her in? For good?” Hoot’s disfigured, yet handsome face contorted. “Figured she was after money and movin’ on. I tell ya. Women’re always after what they can gouge out of ya. She can go to he—Hades.”

  While Fort Worth had set Bethany straight about Hoot Todd, and Sabrina confirmed it, she couldn’t stop the sting that burned her veins. But who was she to judge? Love hadn’t poured from her heart at the sight of this criminal, either.

  “Nice way to think of your kin,” Jon Marc remarked.

  “You criticize me, O’Brien? Talk says you got brothers. Ain’t never seen none of them callin’ on you.”

  Had Jon Marc’s letters mentioned the older brothers? No. There could have been a mention in the missing posts, of course.

  He stood. “You got your answers, Todd. Now leave.”

  “Fine by me. Never could stand the sight of you, especially after you and the sheriff of Bexar cornered me in ’61.” Hoot just happened to turn to Bethany. “Fights like an Injun when he wants to, your man.”

  “Get gone, Todd.”

  Hoot strutted toward the door, but halted to turn around and inquire, “Lady, did I hear him wrong earlier? Didn’t I hear him call you Beth?”

  “That is my name. Beth Buchanan.”

  “Ain’t that something—you and my sis had the same name.”

  “Not really,” Bethany replied, quickly enough not to rouse Jon Marc’s suspicions. She hoped. “Beth is a much-used nickname for Elizabeth.”

  “That explains it.” He slapped his sombrero back on his head. “My sister was called Bethany.”

  “Adios, Todd.” Jon Marc ambled to the door, opened it.

  Just as Hoot was about to pass the host, he sneered. “By the by, asshole, it’s a good thing you’re getting a wife. Your coffee tastes like horse piss.”

  “Some of these days you’re gonna learn something about me—I don’t warn any man but once on a subject.” Jon Marc drew back his fist and slammed it into Hoot’s nose. “I warned you not to cuss in front of my lady.”

  Bethany’s brother went down, out cold. In one lick. Blood from his flattened nose trickled into his mouth and beneath the black patch.

  As if he were lifting no more than a sack of potatoes, Jon Marc picked Hoot off the floor, carried him outside, laid him across the stallion’s saddle. The horse reached around to bite Jon Marc when he gave its rump a swat, but a stern “Whoa, Diablo” settled the mount. Another swat sent Diablo and cold-cocked burden on their way.

  Bethany would have clapped, if not for impropriety, which had nothing to do with mores as they related to the late Miss Buchanan. She despised Hoot Todd. That Jon Marc would fight for her honor lifted him yet another notch in her estimation.

  Right then he did something out of character. Dusting his hands, he crossed over to her, grinned in his uniquely appealing way, and snaked a forearm behind her waist to pull her to him. She looked up into his velvet gaze, startled. Yet she didn’t pull back. A whiff of soap mixed with his particular scent enticed her, just as the feel of his strong body.

  “Nobody messes with me or mine,” he growled, then planted a hard yet too brief kiss on her lips.

  He let go his hold and turned to walk away, leaving her astounded. Staggered, yes, and cautious. He wasn’t modeling clay to be formed in whatever image Bethany pleased. A smart woman wouldn’t toy with a man like Jon Marc O’Brien.

  “I’m gonna get that son-of-a-bitch.” Hoot Todd could barely talk, his broken nose hurt so much. “Gonna get O’Brien good.”

  Across the table in the empty cantina, Terecita López shuffled cards. “You always say that, chico. It has been two days since he struck you, yet all you do is talk.”

  Hoot ran the side of his hand across the table, disturbing the cards. “Can’t do nothing till I’m able. But I’m getting my strength back. This time he ain’t gonna get by with damaging my person. For the second time.”

  His mouth quivered, so deep did Hoot despise O’Brien. The Caliente should have been in Todd hands. Hoot had gotten here first, had been the first to be hired by Drake Wilson. Once that greenhorn kid from Tennessee showed up, Wilson fired Hoot, just because he pilfered a few dollars from the ranch strongbox.

  Hoot had just needed an advance till payday, so he could buy a new dress for a señorita, but Drake Wilson hadn’t understood why Hoot borrowed money without telling anyone. At least that had been the old goat’s excuse. That O’Brien piece of cow shit turned Wilson off Hoot, sure as the world.

  It had started war. Until he got shanghaied, Hoot gathered his buddies; they took his slight seriously. Not only did they steal big from the Caliente—including a whole remuda of the best horses—they expanded their enterprise, as any prospering establishment would, to include stagecoaches, mule trains, and the few Army patrols that had dared cross into Todd territory. Hoot grinned, even though his nose hurt like a sunzabitch. Yep, hadn’t been nobody safe. Heaven help the lone carriage that meandered into brush country.

  Then that bastard O’Brien, at Wilson’s urging, laid a trap, and Hoot ended up losing an eye and getting sent to prison. Those seven years behind The Walls? Couldn’t call it a tea party with fancy sandwiches and stringed music, no sirree, but it honed Hoot’s direction. He figured to give the Caliente and its owners their own seven years of bad luck.

  Now, four years into his plan, how sweet it was, stealing from the Caliente. Couple of times, Hoot had even lowered his sights to skin the odd horse or cow—that sort of high jinx was best left to lowlifes—just to foul the Caliente’s stretch of the Nueces. He’d been drunk on each of those occasions.

  He’d been drunk when his man Peña burned Wilson’s house to the ground. Got lucky. The brush didn’t catch afire. Wouldn’t have been no fun, watching cows or land go to blazes.

  Hoot believed a bandit ought to have a code, and stick to it, but Peña turned out too deep into tequila to listen. Well, the results were good, even if the fire was downright shameful. Drake Wilson did go. Ran like a spooked rabbit, which brought a speck of satisfaction in itself. But not enough. Hoot figured to keep Jon Marc O
’Brien dangling for three more years.

  After those years were up, look out, O’Brien!

  Which was why Hoot didn’t drink anything stronger than milk nowadays.

  Hoot reared his chair back on two of its legs. “O’Brien is shore gonna get his.”

  “Do it.” Terecita stood and raked fingers through her cat’s-ass black hair. “I will get you another glass of milk, chico. Drink it, have a siesta, then plan your attack.”

  “Got it planned.”

  “What is it?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to worry about.”

  Terecita rolled her black eyes.

  “Don’t gimme that look, girl. I know what you’re after. I know you want me to put O’Brien in his grave.”

  “You know me well.”

  Too well. Hoot was sick to death of Terecita. She was like a sore that festered, always coming around to bother him, even when he’d been doing hard time in Huntsville. Of course, he hadn’t complained, even though it took cheating a prison guard in a game of monte to get her smuggled into his cell. Well, pussy was pussy, and a tom too long away from the prowl . . .

  Didn’t take too long for Terecita to accuse him of getting her in the family way. What rot. Sure, his remaining eye matched the color of Sabrina’s pair of eyes, but hell. Terecita had been letting light-eyed men into her cabbage patch since she first sprouted cabbage.

  Well, anyways, Hoot sort of liked her little girl, when Sabrina wasn’t nagging for oranges. He did his best not to get close to the girl, though. Getting tight with anyone didn’t appeal to Hoot. You get close, you get hurt.

  Terecita, always the nagger, butted into his thoughts. “When will you make Juan Marc suffer?”

  “Never did understand what you saw in that skinny bastard. His face ain’t good for nothing but scaring crows. ’Sides, he’d never give no Meskin girl the time of day, much less a good screwin’. You know that, from your days at La Barca Puta in Laredo. When you couldn’t even pay him to lift your skirts.”

  She got one of those glares and tugged up the bodice of her low-cut peasant blouse. “I would take a stiletto to him.”