by Martha Hix
“Did you know your pretty little wife give me a present?” Hoot dug in his shirt pocket. “This.”
The fob watch dangled from its chain, light from the lantern dancing off gold.
What was he up to? she wondered. Was this a challenge? A threat to expose her as a Todd? Bad gamble, girl.
Hoot looked at the gift lovingly. Jon Marc had never frowned as deeply. Bethany decided not to borrow trouble.
“I’m waiting for the time, Hoot,” she said.
“Near on two in the morning.”
“No wonder I’m so tired.” She feigned a yawn. “Land’s sake, the hour is too late for chats. Why, if I don’t get my beauty sleep, I’m liable to be too tired to bake a nice lemon pie tomorrow.” She paused while Hoot smacked his lips and Jon Marc flattened his. “Did you know we have company from Memphis? They brought enough sugar and lemons to make a dozen pies.”
“Ain’t et no lemon pie since the Oklahoma Territory. Nobody’s ever got enough sugar ’round these parts to bake one.”
“I’ve got sugar. Flour, too. You got any lard, Hoot? I haven’t had a chance to render any. Must have it for pie crust. Maybe Padre Miguel has some.”
“Would you hush about sugar and pies?” Jon Marc glared, his mind obviously on why she’d given Hoot an expensive gift.
“Sure would be a shame, if I was too busy fighting off a feud to bake pies tomorrow.” She lifted her glass toward Hoot, as if in salute, but cast a glance at Jon Marc’s wary countenance. “Husband, do you remember promising our vaqueros a feast to celebrate our marriage? Do you suppose we could get one organized in the morning?”
He jacked up a gold-dusted eyebrow. A moment slipped by before he twitched a shoulder, falling in a line, albeit crooked. “Don’t see why not. Catfish Abbott is mustering the Caliente men, as we speak. He may have them at ranch headquarters already. May not stay put. Catfish being a worrywart, he’s liable to wonder what’s keeping us. You did tell our guests we were meandering this way, didn’t you?”
Men! Why were they as difficult to handle as greased pigs? Here she was, skating like a hog on ice, yet her pigheaded husband made veiled threats. What could she do but support him?
“I did.” She nodded, although she hoped it wouldn’t set Hoot off. “I said we’d check your horses, here on the Salado.”
Hoot sucked his teeth.
“Sure would be a shame, if they had to come all this way, just to turn around for a celebration,” she said. “Why, I bet Padre Miguel would be so pleased at eating lemon pie he might even bless the meal. Would you like to join us, Hoot? Terecita and Sabrina are welcome. Your men, too. We’d be like one big happy family. A good Catholic miracle.”
Hoot sighed. His eye woefully downcast, he holstered his six-shooters. “This county’d get downright civilized.”
“Which no doubt will bring writers here, in search of stories about the wild days.”
“That’d be nice,” her brother murmured.
“We must add Isabel Marin and Mr. Short to the party list,” Bethany said. “We wouldn’t want to leave anyone out. Should we tell Liam to leave Stumpy at the post office?”
“I don’t believe this,” Jon Marc muttered.
“Tomorrow, would you be kind enough, husband, to read from one of your poetry books? I think entertainment would add the right touch.” Provided Marcus Johnson stubbed his toe and fell in a well before reaching the Caliente. “Perhaps we should have the feast at church, since Terecita could play piano for us.”
“You’re dithering,” Jon Marc said.
She cast him a shut-up glare. He had no idea how difficult it was, trying to change a miscreant brother into a solid citizen . . . when she couldn’t outright appeal to Hoot’s sense of Todd.
“I don’t wanna hear Terecita play nothin’. She’s awful.”
Smiling sweetly at Hoot, Bethany gave an alternative. “Perhaps we can talk her into a castanet recital. Any of your men handy with a guitar?”
“Jaime plays the violin. He’s the one ain’t got no arm.”
“Mind if I ask how he does that?” Bethany inquired.
“Uses his toes.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Hush, husband.” She gestured toward her brother’s clothes. “Be sure and tidy up before you come calling. Tell your men to, too. Our Memphis guests are quite refined.” She angled a smile and a bat of eyes at Jon Marc. “Does your grandfather know any writers?”
“Hundreds.”
“My boys won’t wanna celebrate. Peña is dead. And he was one of us.”
“You work on that, Hoot.” Recalling something Isabel had once told her, she piled on rationale. “I’ve heard violent death is an honorable estate in the Mexican culture. Harks back to the Aztec days, when the winner in ball games had the opportunity to be sacrificed to the gods. You put it that way, and I’ll bet your boys will see the light.”
“I want them horses—all of ’em,” Hoot announced. “Or we ain’t made peace.”
Jon Marc nodded. “They’re yours.”
Bethany smiled, relieved. And she couldn’t help a selfish thought. Exactly what sort of peace would the perfect and saintly Miss Buchanan have brought to La Salle County? I’m better for here than she would have been!
The crisis was indeed averted. Jon Marc entered a fog of disbelief. Beth had dithered Hoot Todd into compliance. And he’d gotten his desperadoes to go along with it. A fine string of horses was a small enough sacrifice, Jon Marc reckoned. Peace would be nice. More than nice.
Her efforts tired Beth out. He heard yawn after yawn as they rode León and Arlene back to the Caliente.
Her husband knew a subject certain to open her eyes. “Where did you get that watch?”
“It was my father’s,” she replied, yawning.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Must you argue everything?”
“Guess not,” Jon Marc answered.
“Querido, I promised Pip he could see Sabrina again. We can’t let him go, not until after the party. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You’re not playing fair.”
“Seems to me, I get results.”
“Braggart.” Jon Marc turned León down the trail to their home. “All right, wife. You win. Fitz and party can stay until after the get-together.”
He expected her to say something, worried him when she didn’t. Glancing to his left, he saw her . . . asleep atop Arlene.
Back at the house, he carried his wife into the bedroom—she never opened her eyes—and he stretched out beside her, too worn out for anything but sleep. Yet his last thought before snores took him was, She is an amazing woman. A good Catholic miracle.
Too bad she was out of bed when he awakened . . .
They might have tried a piece of peace.
By midafternoon, Padre Miguel had said grace over the laid-out feast. Bandidos gave an obligatory prayer for Peña’s soul. “¡Viva, Peña!” echoed, after the last of the Todd gang made the sign of the cross on his chest.
Jon Marc figured it might get nasty, if honorable death were to lose out to good ol’ brush-country revenge.
Not so.
Hoot Todd sidled up. “Made ’em see reason, like your pretty little wife done asked me to. You sure got a nice woman, O’Brien. Wish I could find me one like that.”
Getting territorial, Jon Marc frowned. “Don’t get any ideas about stealing mine.”
“What? You crazy, O’Brien? She’s my—” Todd thumped his chest. “She’s the same as a sister, right here in my heart.”
“Keep thinking like that, and maybe this truce will hold.”
“Well, cuñado, that’s rightly what I plan to do. Say, where’s that feller done knows all them writers?”
Jon Marc pointed to Fitz. Todd sprang to the invalid chair and offered a cigar that was accepted.
Why had Todd called Jon Marc brother-in-law? That was not the sort of thing one quibbled about during a cease-fire, if Jon Marc had any sense. Anyhow, if To
dd wanted to call himself brother to Beth, what was the harm in that?
Strolling away, Jon Marc chuckled. If anything didn’t fall into order in his mind, it was the thought of his wife being sister to Hoot Todd.
He glanced at the sky. It shone like an aquamarine, set off by a canary-diamond sun. It was a fine day for a party. And for peace. Both in this county . . . and in a man’s heart.
Beth O’Brien was a fine woman. A savior to this place, and to her husband. She’d made a mistake before marriage—she didn’t recognize it as a misdeed, but as payoff to keep her father alive—but intuition had a word with her husband. Her value was higher than every aquamarine ever mined, every diamond ever polished.
He searched for her, but she shooed him out the kitchen, claiming pies had her busy. Funny, how a purpose could turn on a man. He didn’t want her to be too much the working wife. They needed to do some working on each other.
Later.
He roamed the yard.
A pig turned on a spit, manpower provided by Xavier and Morales, bandits. Jaime rosined up his bow and set toes to work, playing tunes more appropriate to American audiences than to largely Hispanic ones. “Sally Good’ne” and “Ol’ Man Tucker” seemed to be his specialties. He wasn’t half bad.
Ten other bandits gobbled copious amounts of Isabel’s freshly made tortillas, along with her specialty: hot sauce.
Liam Short and Padre Miguel partook of a home brew that the padre had been keeping to himself. Fitz drank a tin cup full, although Eugene declined for religious purposes. Jon Marc wasn’t too holy to take several sips.
Catfish Abbott cast a wary glance at the Todd gang, but he eased down when somebody suggested a game of horseshoes. The Caliente vaqueros joined in, and had the foresight to lose. They paid off with whiskey, which the Todd gang took to.
Pippin did somersaults when Sabrina arrived, holding her mother’s hand. Even before Terecita coerced Hoot Todd into a sensuous dance that involved her castanets, the youngsters took off for the pigpen, “Tristan” carrying the game board, “ ’Brina” toting a felt bag filled with red and black checkers.
Just as the pig dripped fat, Stumpy eyed a bone that Sham II had squirreled beneath his paws. The mutt made a lunge for the bloodhound, who had been sleeping off the dregs of a bowl of chili and that beef bone, as house dogs were wont to do. Stumpy moved pretty fast, considering he did it on three legs.
Fur flew. Blood spewed. Liam Short doused them with a bucket of sand and the spew of his wrathful voice.
The music having stopped for the dogfight, Jon Marc, who knew Evangeline by heart, began a recitation. Both Stumpy and Sham II bayed through the first part. It wasn’t long before the listeners, including the dogs, allowed their eyelids to droop. Hoot Todd’s snores shut Jon Marc’s mouth.
Well, poetry wasn’t for everyone.
Jon Marc motioned for Jaime to fiddle, which perked up the revelers.
This was the best day La Salle County had ever known.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I’ve made enough pies for everyone in brush country,” Bethany muttered under her breath. “Well, better for our cup to run over than for anyone to do without.”
She shoved the last lemon pie into the oven, then blew a lock of hair away from her eyes. She should have been tired, having cooked while their guests made revelry, but she wasn’t even winded. She felt renewed, pleased to have the chance to bake these pies. Her prayers had been answered.
How could she find out what to do in return?
“Need some help?”
“I thought I told you to stay out of my kitchen,” she scolded softly as her husband entered the kitchen.
He wore denims over work-worn boots. The top two buttons of his rust-colored shirt were freed, the V baring the bronzed skin of his throat. Would he ever again invite her fingers to stroke that flesh?
“You’ll work your fingers to the bone,” he said, his ardent gaze welding to hers, “if you don’t stop to enjoy your own celebration.”
Disappointed that he hadn’t ask for something of the flesh, she answered, “I’m almost through. I’m itching to get outside to enjoy the music and good cheer.”
“Would you dance with me?”
There was a tender cast to his voice. What did it mean? She had her hopes, along with her gratitude for prayers answered.
“Wife, I’d love to dance with you. Right here, amid the oven and the mess of cooking. Just me and you.”
“That . . . that would be nice.” Should she anticipate more?
He ambled toward her, getting close enough for her to smell bay rum, yet he didn’t offer that dance. He said, “You’re a miracle, Beth O’Brien.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I’ve never seen anyone who could turn things around like you can. There’s never been anyone more special than you. You can be trusted, dear wife. And I trust you.”
Praise rested heavy on her shoulders, like a hair shirt. She’d done nothing for glory. Her efforts were manipulation in its baldest form. Nothing to be proud of. A higher power had done the work, deserved the credit. If she said as much, she’d have to say more, would necessarily spill too much.
She cast her gaze to the earthen floor.
“You have flour on your nose,” her husband murmured. “You’ve never looked as beautiful to me.”
“Ah, ha!” Mirth forced, she said, “Now I know your secrets. You do seek a household drudge.”
“No, Beth. I seek my wife.”
Her heart seemed to stop. Was she hearing correctly, or... “Please don’t toy with me.”
“I intend to dance with you. If you agree.” That was when he brushed a fingertip across her nose. “May I kiss you?”
A smile boosted her cheeks. “I’d be delighted.”
“So would I ...” His lips took hers.
He tasted like beer, which could be the reason he’d loosened up enough to kiss her. She wouldn’t reason it out. She melted against his long, tall form, wanting more, more, more.
And he gave it.
He slid his palm to the base of her spine, taking her hand in his as she placed her left wrist on his shoulder. He whirled her around in the waltz that floated from Jaime’s violin. Her husband danced with grace, within the tempo, as if he were a swain who’d escorted a thousand ladies to ballroom floors.
Surprisingly, Bethany had no trouble following, even though her only dancing had been with Cletus, when he hadn’t been too drunk to dance. This was much better than dancing with Pa. This was wondrous.
And when the dance ended, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Again Jon Marc kissed her.
This time he picked at her buttons. “I want to love you, wife.”
No matter how much she wanted what he offered, or how much his surrender implied, he’d never declared his feelings. Was it silly to expect anything more than sweet talk? She was ignoble enough to ask, “Is that what you’re doing, querido? Loving me?”
“I love you.”
Oh, Jon Marc, thank you! Thank God.
Her husband ran a fingertip along her temple. “How could I not love you? I want to hold you in my arms and place you on this floor and bury myself so deep that I never find my way out.”
She reveled in those words. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t be his under false pretenses. Too much could never be told. With any luck, some things would never come to light. “Husband, do you know I’ll never do you wrong?”
He eased her to the floor. “There’s not a hateful bone in your body, wife.”
But would he someday hate her, if he had second thoughts? “This kind of thing could make a baby.”
“Let’s hope it’s a boy” was his comment.
“Or a girl. Or one or the other.”
He laughed, deep and strong. “Aw, Beth honey, I’m the luckiest man alive.”
That was everything she needed to hear. Rubbing her palm along the ridge in his britches, she wiggled against him and fiddled with his buttons. Ju
bilance turned to wifely teasing. “Draw on me, vaquero. Let’s see what sorta weapon you pack.”
It was as long as a Peacemaker.
As potent as the Colt arsenal.
And it went off like a cannon.
By the time the last pie had burned, the sacrificial pig had probably browned to a turn. Jon Marc and Bethany straightened their clothes to leave the kitchen.
“My turn to say thank you,” he growled and grabbed her for another kiss.
Yet a niggling of worry jabbed her good cheer. It seemed somehow outrageous, being this happy when their marriage had yet to become legal in the eyes of anyone, save for the husband.
Not a half hour later, real trouble arrived.
A rider rode a white prancer onto the property.
The gentleman, not a youth by any means, reined in, near Terecita.
The big stallion reared to hind legs, the rider—wearing fringed buckskins as white as his silver-studded, ten-gallon chapeau—doffed that hat. His hair grew long and thick, curling to his shoulders. It was the whitest hair Bethany had ever seen.
She felt her husband tense beside her as the stranger gave a great whoop.
“Howdy, folks,” the arrivee bellowed. “The name’s Johnson. Marcus Johnson. Trick-rider and fast-draw artist. How ’bout I feed those dogs for you?”
Not unlike Hoot Todd, Johnson brandished a pair of pistols to twirl them. Crossing his arms skyward, he picked off first one, then another mockingbird that had the misfortune to fly into the line of fire.
The dead birds landed in front of Sham II and Stumpy. Both dogs had the decency to turn their noses up at the burnt offering.
“Goddamn the goddamn,” Jon Marc muttered under his breath, his glare firmly on his dead mother’s lover.
Marcus Johnson’s arrival roused a commotion. No brush popper or vaquero, much less any bandit, had ever seen such an dime-novel version of a man of the West.
Fitz O’Brien, with Eugene’s assistance, made his way into the house, obviously unwilling to speak with the man he’d summoned. Bethany knew how much it hurt Fitz, seeing the person responsible for Daniel’s suicide.
