Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

  “She and India are sisters. Persia lives in San Antonio.”

  Not once had Bethany heard Jon Marc speak of family in that city. Peculiar. “So . . . you went to visit your aunt in San Antonio, but ended up at the Caliente. How?”

  “Jon Marc hired me.”

  “Was he visiting your aunt’s home?”

  “No.”

  This was like pulling teeth. Bethany ground hers before asking, “Where did you meet Jon Marc?”

  “Uncle Tim was reading poetry at the ruins of the Alamo.”

  “May I assume Uncle Tim is married to your aunt?”

  “He’s dead now.”

  Which meant India O’Brien had a widowed sister living within a hundred miles of the Caliente. “Jon Marc had nothing to do with your aunt and uncle, I guess.”

  “He didn’t cotton to Tim Glennie. Most men didn’t. Sorta sissy acting, Uncle Tim. Ran a school for aspiring poets.”

  “Jon Marc was chummy with your aunt?”

  “Never been a man who didn’t have eyes for Aunt Persia.”

  Was she the widow Jon Marc got his experience from? If so, he evidently hadn’t had enough “eyes” to ask for her hand. “Did your aunt have eyes for Jon Marc?”

  Catfish snickered. “She has eyes for every man.”

  Fingers were pointing more and more to a connection between Persia and Jon Marc. If nothing had happened between the two, wouldn’t he have said something, at least in passing, about family being as close as San Antonio?

  Likely, her husband caroused with Connor O’Brien’s sister-in-law, yet he expected Bethany to be pure as the driven snow.

  Catfish drained his cup. “Gotta go.”

  Best to keep busy, Bethany decided after Catfish left. She refused to do too much thinking about Persia and Jon Marc, although it did irk her, his double-standards and virulent charges. What a rotten thing to do, cavort with a widow, then make Bethany feel even more rotten for giving in to blackmail. Men were like that.

  She also didn’t want to think about what her husband would face on his trip, or what they’d face as a couple upon his return. You’ll simply have to show faith in him.

  Yet her injured feet wouldn’t allow manual labor, not for three days. Three long days. The fourth morning after Jon Marc rode out, Bethany scrubbed the kitchen and washed linens, set out vases of roses and picked up the parlor, where the water bucket and her discarded nightgown sat abandoned from the wedding night.

  The wedding night.

  She couldn’t fault his experience.

  Her wanton thoughts wandered down a worn path. There once lived painted ladies at the Long Lick, who swore an untried cowpoke be easy t’ pick; in bed he would jump, for a smooth hump; yet his stick would go off—way too quick.

  The widow Glennie had taught him not to do that. If everything were even, Jon Marc ought to be glad his bride hadn’t spent their wedding night sobbing at the pain, or acting too modest to give the bridegroom a chance to fire a second round.

  All things were not even.

  That he wanted her body did give Bethany some hope for the future, though. She could count herself extremely fortunate Jon Marc hadn’t discarded her, like used wash water. Whatever the case, her best chance was to show him her worth, both as a wife and a ranch woman.

  She tossed the wash water, wishing mistakes and disappointments could be discarded with the same ease.

  No matter how many chores she found to busy herself, she got more and more restless. Where was Jon Marc? Would he return as he had from the war, with his boots on? Or would he take another bullet? What if he returned, but—

  Don’t bathe in dirty water, girl. Concentrate on how you can improve yourself, and this place.

  She inspected the smokehouse, and saw fish, fish, and more fish to go along with enough beef to feed an army. Jon Marc didn’t like fish, either. Recalling the ham he’d scrounged for their ill-fated picnic, she thought of Padre Miguel’s pigs.

  This ranch could use a few pigs.

  If nothing else, for fish disposal.

  Her mind on how she could barter for swine, she wandered through the rubble of the Wilson home, finding a music box that still worked. After cleaning it up, she decided Sabrina might enjoy the tinkle of music.

  Sabrina. Bethany needed something—someone—besides chores and too-frequent thoughts of Jon Marc to occupy her mind. Perhaps she needed to feel important to another human being, she wasn’t quite sure, but she knew that a visit with her niece would be a breath of fresh air.

  After lunch, she decided. This afternoon she would ride to town and visit Sabrina.

  But that was not to be.

  “Howdy. Been missin’ your neighbor?”

  “What are you doing here, Hoot Todd?”

  “Visitin’.” The outlaw who happened to be Bethany’s brother shoved past her and into the kitchen, where she’d baked cornbread. He eyed the steaming skillet of bread, fresh from the oven. “Slice me up a slab of that, missus. I’ll take a glass of milk, too, if you’ve got it.”

  Had Hoot come here to gloat about doing her husband in?

  You’d better not’ve hurt him. You just better not.

  Her years in the Long Lick Saloon had acquainted her with no-goods like Hoot Todd. Best never to show your weaknesses, never let them think they have you on the run.

  “I used up the milk.” Bethany folded arms over her chest, daring the bully to argue. “You want cornbread, you slice it.”

  Hoot rubbed a fingertip beneath his eyepatch, then got a knife from a sheath that was strapped to his calf.

  Excellent idea, telling him to pull a knife.

  He cut into the cornbread. “Looks good, Sis.”

  Sis? Why did he call her Sis? Reason surfaced. It wasn’t unusual for Texans to call women “Sis.” Of course, that was generally used in the familiar. Anyway, she wouldn’t stand here while Hoot gobbled her lunch, not without finding out if Jon Marc had crossed his path.

  “My husband’s been looking for you,” she said.

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Hoot peeled back his lips to smile unwinningly. “Congratulations on gettin’ hitched.”

  Quite a wizard of etiquette, her brother. “Did you run into him?” she asked and held her breath.

  “Naw. Sent Peña and Xavier off. Made it look like I went with them. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt your sweetie pie. My boys are gonna lead him around for a spell, then send him home tired. And beat.”

  She didn’t know whether to believe him, but wanted to. Not that she relished the idea of Jon Marc chasing geese. “I should imagine your chums will have their hands full.”

  “He ain’t no pussy, your sweetie, I’ll grant.” Hoot bit into cornbread, hummed with appreciation, then wiped his mouth with a shirtsleeve. “Figured old Jonny boy would come gunnin’ for me, seeing’s how I lightened his Rockport purse.”

  “Strange, your not trying to deny guilt.”

  “Wouldn’t be no fun, claimin’ otherwise.”

  Hoot slid the knife back in its scabbard, then straddled a chair, perfect guest that he was. He might look like Pa in his younger days, somewhat, but Hoot could benefit from a drinking habit. Alcoholism might elevate him to a better person.

  “Gets me to laughin’, when your man tries to outdo me,” Hoot confided, like a schoolyard bully. “Never happen.”

  “From the looks of your nose, I wouldn’t quite agree with that statement.”

  He got a nasty gleam in his single eye. “Things ain’t always the way they look, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Using his fingers, he dug more cornbread from the skillet. “Don’t want the bride worrying about her man, for one.”

  “Why would you care what I think?”

  “You might say I’ve got me a vested interest in you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Doncha now?” Again he scratched beneath his eyepatch, probably at a flea. “Why don’t you be a good girl and
run get ol’ Hoot a fistful of O’Brien money?”

  “You’ve gotten enough already,” she replied. “And I want it back.”

  “Sure you do. Greedy little thing, ain’t you?”

  “Quit talking in circles. What do you want, Hoot Todd?”

  “Give me a fistful of O’Brien money.”

  “You take it on your own. Why do you need me to hand it over?”

  “ ’Cause it’ll hurt Jonny boy more, if you give it to me.”

  Suspicions began to resurface. They didn’t set her at ease. “I’ll do nothing to hurt my husband.”

  “That so, Beth? You know, the way I look at it, you’ve got two ways to go. You can give me the money, then answer to your man. Or I’ll just wait till he gets back from his snipe hunt, then call him aside for man-talk. He might be interested to know about my recent trip to Austin. And Round Rock.”

  Blood rushed from Bethany’s face, pooling in her feet. It took all her strength to make it to a chair and plop down. “That’s blackmail,” she uttered.

  “It is.”

  “I won’t be blackmailed.”

  Once, but never again. What was she going to do? The breech-loader was in the house, on the bedroom wall. Hoot had a pair of guns and a knife, right here in the kitchen. She could scream, but who’d hear her? Catfish wasn’t anywhere nearby. Albeit, guns and screams would show fear—what Hoot Todd expected. She needed to throw him off course.

  “Do as you please, Hoot Todd. Tell Jon Marc whatever strikes you as clever. He won’t believe you.”

  “All he’d need to do is mosey on up to a certain Catholic cemetery in Round Rock. Sis, one look at that gravestone— you picked out a nice one, by the by—and he’ll know you ain’t never been no Buchanan.”

  “May I be frank with you?” At his nod, she went on, proud of faked reverence. “Your reputation spread far and wide. Why, people as far north as Fort Worth are in awe of you. Robbing stagecoaches and stealing livestock, those are the tales that legends are made of.”

  She lowered her voice to one of pity. “Blackmail, of course, is no better than skinning cows and horses. Word gets out about it, people are liable to laugh at you. I know I’m disappointed. I was so frightened of you, I couldn’t even bear to arrive in this town as Bethany Todd. Really, blackmailing is for lowlifes.”

  He drew up his shoulders, his mouth dropping.

  “Would you like a cookie?” she asked sweetly, then went to the crock for one of the oatmeal treats she’d baked, hoping to have them on hand to sweeten up Jon Marc on his return. If he was of a mind for sweetening. “How about a cup of coffee to go along with it? Might taste a bit like ’horse piss,’ but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

  He chomped down on the cookie, then slurped the coffee that she poured. Meanwhile, she took a gamble by going to the teapot, where she’d been keeping Pa’s gold watch. Where she’d moved the filigreed bracelet that she would never wear.

  Tucking the watch in an apron pocket, she said, “Yes, I was scared of you. So scared that I let Miss Buchanan talk me into trading places with her. But you don’t scare me now.”

  “Not even a little?” Crumbles fell from his mouth.

  “Not a bit. You’re something that ought to be mashed under the heel of one’s shoe. And I’m not talking about a higher form of life like a scorpion. Fishing worm describes you. Why, Pa wouldn’t even be proud of you.”

  Hoot blanched. Apparently to change the subject, he asked, “How . . . how’s the old man doin’?”

  “He’s in prison. Wormed his way into a church and robbed it. He’s not the stuff of legend.”

  “Folks really call me a legend?”

  She nodded. “They say writers will write books about you, someday.”

  “I be damn—darned.”

  “I’ve never read a book about a blackmailer, have you?”

  “I don’t do much readin’. Sissies read.”

  “Not so. Maybe someday, in your old age, you can tuck up in front of a cozy fire . . . and read about the dashing exploits of the legendary Hoot Todd. Anyone know your real name is Mortimer?”

  He went pale as white flour. “You turning the blackmail tables on me, girl?”

  “Me? Never.” She was innocence itself. “Anyway, what difference does it make? No eager-beaver writer will track me down to get my opinion on a blackmailer.”

  “I don’t want no one to know my name’s Mortimer.”

  “I don’t want Jon Marc to know my name was Todd.”

  Hoot screwed up that lone eye, assessing her. “Ain’t never been said a Todd weren’t good for his word.”

  The people of Liberal could argue that, but Bethany wouldn’t.

  She fixed him with a cool glare. “I’m not going to give you O’Brien money. Fact is, I’m going to forget you came calling, big brother. You’re going to forget it, too, and speak of it to no one, including Terecita. After you return that money you took between here and Rockport, that is.”

  “I ain’t givin’ back the money.”

  More hardheaded than Hoot, she refused to quit, although she did wonder how far he could be compromised. “We’ll table money talk, for now. But you will promise to keep your trap shut . . . Mortimer. And you’ll leave my husband alone.”

  “Don’t call me Mortimer.”

  Taking her gamble, betting on a hand of three’s and four’s, she closed her fingers around the watch, placed it in Hoot’s palm, then fastened his fingers around the gift. Insanity, girl! If Jon Marc can’t forgive, you may need to trade this watch for stage fare. No. She would gamble on Jon Marc.

  “You willing to shake on our agreement?” she asked Hoot.

  He lengthened each finger in turn, until all were straight and spread, and peered down at the golden fob watch that nestled in the center of his callused hand. “This is Pa’s old watch.”

  “It is. And his father’s before him. It’s yours now. It’s an heirloom. Keep it for good luck, not that it brought Cletus, or Grandpa, much luck. Maybe you’ll change all that.”

  His voice had a strangely mellow content, when he confided, “Only been one other person done trusted me with anything of value.” He swallowed. “You remind me of her.”

  “You hold on to this watch. Someday, give it to Sabrina. That’s what decent folks do. For family.”

  “Why do that? She ain’t mine.”

  Bethany couldn’t help but laugh. “You must be blind in your last eye. One look at Sabrina’s eyes—Those are Pa’s eyes. My eyes. Your eye. And in case you haven’t noticed it, it’s like seeing Grandpa Todd—rest his soul—all over again, when I look at your daughter’s nose.”

  “You reckon?”

  “You ought to be good to that child,” Bethany chided.

  “I am good to her. Bring her an orange, ever’ time I come back from Mexico.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  His shoulders hunched, his forefinger roofing his upper lip, he pondered Bethany’s advice. “No. I ain’t gonna change. Don’t want no attachments.”

  She studied this brother, a bandit both fearsome and loathsome. He had a vulnerable side, even if he didn’t realize, or wouldn’t recognize, it. What made him want no attachments? What made him into a criminal?

  “Fine,” she replied. “Stay the way you are.”

  “Intend to.”

  “I’m attached to Sabrina.” Bethany used her fingers to sweep cookie crumbs from the table, into the cup of her hand. “I want to spend time with her, here at the Caliente.”

  “Terecita won’t let you. She hates your sweetie.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s too high-minded for ’er.” Hoot reached for another cookie. “O’Brien’s a strange bird, in case you ain’t figured that out for yourself. He either wants something, or he don’t. If he don’t, ain’t nothin’ gonna turn him to it. Nothin’.”

  Chill bumps ran down Bethany’s arms when she recalled how Jon Marc denied his family. Gracious, his family. When would Fitz
O’Brien show up? Just what she needed, complications.

  “Terecita ain’t used to havin’ men tell her no,” Hoot further explained. “She ain’t gonna wanna let her kid traipse around with the gal done got O’Brien’s ring.”

  Reasonable. But Bethany wouldn’t quit. She would become closer to Sabrina. And she needed to test her brother.

  “You work on that, Hoot. You hear me? You ride on out, go see Terecita, and prepare her. Tomorrow I’m going to town to pick Sabrina up. For now, though, I’m going to ask you again. Are you willing to remain a legend?”

  “I cotton to the idea.”

  “That means shaking hands with me. It means forgetting anything petty like blackmail. It also means I’ll be very unhappy, should you continue to pester my husband.”

  “I’m willin’ to forget you and me are kin.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  His mouth worked from side to side. He scratched under his eyepatch yet again, answering, “That’s asking too much.”

  It probably was. “I’ll make you a deal. You leave him be for now. For a long now. And you return the Rockport money.”

  “Half of it.”

  “All of it.”

  “Weren’t that much to begin with,” Hoot muttered, as if to reconcile his capitulation. “I’m willing.”

  “You be here by midnight tomorrow night. Cash in hand. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand.” He clamped his right paw around her fingers, and shook them like a dog did a cat. Hard.

  She let out her breath. This was the first easy breath she’d taken since he darkened the doorway.

  Hoot quit the table. “Bethany . . . about Sabrina—”

  “Don’t call me Bethany. My husband is never to know you and I are related. Unless you want me to remember a few cowardly deeds. And your given name.”

  “Beth. Father Mike won’t give her up.”

  “I can handle the padre.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next day Bethany hoped to see Jon Marc ride up.

  When he didn’t, she rode toward Fort Ewell to bring her niece back to the Caliente. Provided Hoot was good at his word. If he wasn’t . . . she’d know soon enough.