Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

  Jon Marc stomped away, making for the river.

  His wife followed, praying the wonderful part of this day hadn’t reached an end.

  “I don’t want to talk,” he said as they sat on the riverbank, their knees drawn up.

  “I understand.”

  He reached for her hand, then squeezed it, not too gently. She inched closer and laid her head against his shoulder. His arm went around her. They stayed like this for a good while, as continued whoops, gunfire, and laughter rang through the air, from the proximity of their invaded home.

  Then the music started again.

  Bethany and her husband said nothing, but she knew he felt as she did. They were glad the show had ended.

  “You two mind if I join you?”

  That voice, belonging to Johnson, caused Bethany to straighten. It made Jon Marc heave to booted feet.

  “You must be Mrs. O’Brien.” Again, Johnson doffed the hat that no working cowboy would be caught dead in. Adjusting the turquoise garnish of his bolo tie, he said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  She said nothing, feeling no need for social chatter. Up close like this, she couldn’t help but notice red highlights in Johnson’s white hair.

  “Been a long time since we last met,” Johnson said to Jon Marc. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  “Cut the small-talk.”

  “Would you like me to leave?” Bethany asked her husband.

  “Anything I have to say to this man, you need to hear it.”

  “I’m the one with talking to do.” Johnson set his hat atop a chaparral, with the care one might use to set a vase on a rickety table. “I hope you’ll listen, son.”

  “Don’t call me son.”

  “Fair enough. Since you don’t belong to me.”

  Jon Marc’s face hardened to the steel of a pistol barrel. “You forget who you’re speaking to. I heard my mother taunt her husband with tales of her ongoing affair with you.”

  “We did have an affair, me and Georgia. Met her in Washington. Daniel O’Brien was stationed there in the army.” Johnson squinted across the river, clasping his hands behind him, then slanted brown eyes at Jon Marc. “I was new to town. Had been selling my aim in the Opium Wars, over in China. Got hurt pretty bad. Those Asian fellows know explosives—” he patted each pearl-handled pistol “—even better than I know Pete and Repeat here.”

  “We’re not interested in your history,” Jon Marc said sourly, echoing his wife’s sentiments.

  She prompted, “Tell us what you know about my husband’s mother and her husband.”

  “Daniel was a likable enough fellow. Meet him when I started representing a gun manufacturer. He invited me to their home for supper. I took one look at Georgia and fell in love. Never touched the lady, though. Not in Washington.” Johnson flicked a gaze at his presumed son. “You were born some time later. But I had nothing to do with it.”

  Every muscle in Jon Marc’s body went taut. “I don’t want to listen to this.”

  “It’s about time you did, since your mother—God rest her soul—did us all a disservice, claiming things that shouldn’t have been claimed.”

  Bethany swallowed, knowing Jon Marc hated every moment of having his mother’s dirty linen aired. Inconsiderate Georgia had been to her family, but she’d still brought him into the world.

  Johnson strolled down the riverbank, then swiveled around. “When I moved to Memphis, Georgia was there. I took up with her. Wasn’t right, but I did it. Had never gotten her out of my thoughts. Loved that lady. Sure did love that lady.”

  Jon Marc clenched and unclenched his fists as Johnson carried on. “Georgia and I talked about her getting a divorce. She stepped over the line, taunting Daniel into it. Claimed you were mine. Daniel believed it, since you and I both were born with red hair and brown eyes.”

  Bethany glanced up at her husband. From the look in his dark eyes, she knew he didn’t believe this tale.

  “That’s right,” he said. “We share coloring. I didn’t resemble Georgia Morgan or her husband. I had you written all over me. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish, Johnson, but I’m not falling for it. Why would she name me after you, if you hadn’t been my sire?”

  “Not unusual, a third son getting named for a family friend. Daniel and I did consider each other a friend at the time.”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence for me,” Jon Marc came back.

  “You ever take a look in the mirror?” Johnson stepped closer to Jon Marc. “You’re the spitting image of Daniel’s sister. Phoebe’s her name.”

  A flinch. A blink. Jon Marc retreated a half step. Shaking his head as if to toss out false images, he said, “Sheer coincidence.”

  “It’s no coincidence, your being as stubborn as Daniel O’Brien. It’s no coincidence you’ve got his nose. You recall his nose?”

  “I don’t.”

  Johnson sighed; so did Bethany. She figured the older man spoke the truth, but she feared Jon Marc would never accept it. Even if it wasn’t true, her husband would benefit from believing he had blood ties to the O’Briens.

  Some lies were worth making.

  Jon Marc picked up a pebble to skip across the water. “It strikes me mighty funny, twenty-four years passing without a word from you. How much is Fitz O’Brien paying you to say all this?”

  “Not a dime. I’m here on my own accord. And at my own expense, even though Mr. O’Brien offered to pay me, and well.”

  It was Jon Marc’s turn to pace.

  Bethany sighed. How difficult it must have been for Fitz, seeking out the man who had driven his son to murder and suicide, thus tearing the O’Briens apart in the aftermath. Could Jon Marc appreciate that?

  She rose from the ground to follow her husband, as did Johnson, who said, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about Memphis, and what I’d do different, if I could do it over again. I wouldn’t have run out of my house, when you and Daniel came to it. I wouldn’t have left him dying and you crying. It was craven of me, but I was scared. Scared I’d get charged with killing him. And I was out of my head with grief over Georgia. I did you a worse disservice than she did.”

  Jon Marc might not recognize it, but Bethany figured it took guts for this man to show up like he had.

  “When that sleuth lady found me in New Hampshire, at my exhibition, I could have said no. I’m not a rich man. I need the money ticket sales would’ve brought in. Furthermore, I’m not young. The trip from New England jarred these bones. But I saw a chance to pay my debt.”

  At last Jon Marc studied the sincerity in Johnson’s eyes. “Then, you swear you don’t claim me?”

  “I’d like to claim you. You’ve done fine for yourself. Nice ranch in the West. Pretty wife. Everybody having a good time at your place. Those are the things I’ve always wanted, but never had. I’ve buried four wives, and one stillborn daughter. Girl was born in ’38, before I went off to fight in Guangzhou. Never had any more children. I reckon that may have to do with—” Johnson imparted a sheepish look Bethany’s way “—an injury I got, over in China.”

  “Mr. Johnson,” Bethany said, “are you willing to swear on a Bible?”

  “I am. As it were, I brought my own. Belonged to my mother. Been in the family for nearly a hundred years. Got a century of Johnson information. It’s where I recorded my marriages, and the dates my wives and little daughter passed on. A man doesn’t lie on a Bible. And especially against the memory of his family.”

  Jon Marc rubbed fingers down his mouth. He gazed at Bethany, his expression asking her opinion. She nodded.

  He said, “Go get the Bible.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was all over but the mess.

  Marcus Johnson left the Caliente by nightfall. Isabel threw leftover tortillas to the pigs, then joined the padre, Terecita, and Sabrina, as they departed for Fort Ewell. Fitz and the genie turned in early. Jaime packed his fiddle and bow, and he and the other bandits, led by Hoot Todd, went on their way
, possibly to figure out how to expand the legend of the leader.

  Tomorrow, Jon Marc and his vaqueros would ride out to trail the Caliente horses to their new owner. Fitz asked Catfish to stay behind. Jon Marc didn’t find that peculiar, the strawboss having been part of the family for years.

  Family.

  What did it mean, now that Marcus Johnson had sworn on his Bible?

  Jon Marc mulled it, while he helped Beth and Pippin gather the spoils of celebration. His mind still hadn’t settled at bedtime. Beth then kept him too busy to think about family.

  He awoke at the crack of dawn. Again, he found himself too occupied to study on family, save for the idea of starting one.

  Rather worn out, he at last dragged himself from bed. Already his wife had taken care of her toilette, had had her hair fixed, and was dressed.

  “Woman, how can you not be tired?” he demanded to know, marshaling enough energy to grab her by the waist and to sip her earlobe.

  She wiggled against him. “Tired? I could climb a mountain, fight a tiger, swim a raging stream!”

  He got the feeling she meant to climb his mountain, wrestle his tiger, and swim his stream. He groaned. This was what he got for wanting a tornado in the bedroom.

  Yet he grinned. Pep began to speed through his parts as Beth started rubbing his rear. Yes, he was one lucky fellow.

  “How’bout I ride into your valley?” he asked and guided her toward the bed. “And carry you to the stars?”

  “Put your stallion where your brag is, sir.”

  He did.

  Later that morning, mounted vaqueros gathered in front of the Caliente stable, ready to ride for Salado Creek and give horses to bandits. Jon Marc led León from his stall and outdoors, then slipped a boot toe in the stirrup.

  Fitz shouted, “Gran’son.”

  He set his foot aground.

  Pippin was wheeling the invalid chair from the house. Fitz had both canes across his blanket-draped lap. A blanket, despite the warmth of this summer day.

  Jon Marc eyed León, wanting to hit the trail. His gaze advanced to his vaqueros, who needed to deliver horses. “You know where to find Todd, at your old place,” he said to Luis. “I’ll catch up later.”

  Luis de la Garza nodded, then pointed a finger southwest. The vaqueros rode out, dust in their wake.

  It was time for Jon Marc to settle the matter of family. Tying Leon’s reins to the hitching post outside the stable, Jon Marc ambled up to old man and youth.

  He studied his grandfather. He couldn’t remember Fitz being young or having his health. But he hadn’t noticed how truly old and wizened the eldest O’Brien had become, until now.

  “Why don’t you let Aunt Beth to box up some of that leftover pie?” Jon Marc asked his nephew. “Take it to town. I’ll bet Sabrina would enjoy another go at lemon pie.”

  “You really think so, Uncle Jon Marc? That’d be great. I really like ’Brina. I’m gonna marry her when we get grown.” Pippin got a pensive look. “How am I gonna get to town? Great-granddaddy, can I borrow your coach?”

  “There’s a paint pony in the stable.” Jon Marc tried not to think about how fast the Caliente horse-herd was depleting. “He’s yours.”

  “Wow! That’s great. Thanks! See, Great-granddaddy, he’s not nearly as stingy with himself as you said he was.”

  Pippin, despite four years of seasoning, had not lost his tendency to say the inappropriate. Jon Marc laughed, nonetheless. “Go on, boy. Before I take back my offer.”

  He had never seen feet move that fast.

  Then Fitz spoke. “Push me around these grounds. I want t’ be seeing what all ye’ve got here. If ye wouldna mind.”

  Wordlessly, Jon Marc took charge of the handgrips.

  As he wheeled past the ruins of the Wilson home, Fitz spoke. “That reminds me of me heart. Burnt. Burned it meself, I did. A fool ’twas I, tossing ye outta the house. Ye hafta understand why, Jonny. By rights, the factor house should’ve gone t’ the eldest of me grandsons. If not Connor, then Burke. ’Twasn’t you I resented, Jonny. ’Twas yer upstart idea, and yer youth.”

  Resentment couldn’t just fall away. Jon Marc gritted his teeth, then looked at the charred ruins. “Been meaning to have this lot cleared. It’s an eyesore.”

  He gave the invalid chair a heavier shove, heading away from burnt reminders. Nothing more got said until he and Fitz reached the top of Harmony Hill.

  Jon Marc stooped down to rock back on his heels. Rather than speak, he scanned the valley. He saw cattle and brush, the river and its branches. A mockingbird pushed its young from the nest of an oak tree, into a sky as wide as the heavens.

  This Texan saw home.

  Fitz rested one elbow on a chair arm and shelved his upper lip with a gnarled forefinger. It was coming, that bid for Fitz & Son, Jon Marc was certain of it.

  But it didn’t.

  “Ye’ve done well for yerself,” Fitz said in a voice that his grandson knew to be honest. “When I first got an eyeful of yer ranch, ’twas unsettling. Texas, especially this part, is a hard place. Worried me, Jonny, it did. Too hard a life did I see for ye. But ye’ll make a go of it. Ye have, and ye will.” Knowing old eyes tipped up to his grandson. “ ’Tis ambition that fires ye, like yer brother Burke. Ye had t’ work harder for yers, though. Just as ’twas for an immigrant from Belfast. Me two grandsons come by ambition naturally.”

  Jon Marc couldn’t help smirking. Leave it to Fitz to try to take credit for whatever the O’Brien brothers accomplished. Wasn’t that natural, too?

  Whatever the case, Jon Marc found himself flattered by his grandfather’s remarks. It was high praise coming from Fitz, the first O’Brien to launch into a cold world and make his place without help from anyone.

  “Do ye think ye might be interested in turning yer ambitions t’ the family cause?” Fitz asked to burst Jon Marc’s mellow feeling.

  “I might have known you hadn’t given up.”

  “O’Briens doona give up.”

  “You’ll have to quit this cause up, Fitz. It’s lost.”

  The elder O’Brien studied the younger. Several moments went by before Fitz implored, “Tell me what ye think of this place, Jonny.”

  He had to make his grandfather understand why he must stay here. Never before had he wished more for the exacting, for the most poetic words to come to him.

  “With tears I came to an unsettled place, where civil hands had ne’er to toil . . .” He wasn’t a poet. All he could do was speak from the heart. “This is where I’ve planted roots. It’s where I’ve known solace. And trouble. And great happiness, now that I have a wife to share it with.

  “Someday I’ll teach our sons and daughters to ride and rope on the land before us. And someday we may discover they have no use for it. But that’s their choice to make. All we can do is love them, accept them, even if they seem not to want our love. If they fly away, like the birds in winter, Beth and I must let them go. In hopes they’ll return in springtime.”

  A tear made a rivulet through the gullies of Fitz’s face.

  Jon Marc levered to his feet. “We have water for our thirsts, all our thirsts, and we have food for our souls as well as our bodies. God is here. When He calls us home, we’ll rest on this very hill. It’s a fine place to live. And die. And rest in peace.”

  Nothing more got said about Fitz & Son, Factors that morning. Nothing more got said at all. Jon Marc simply walked behind his grandfather’s invalid chair and returned to the home he’d made with Beth.

  Jon Marc left his grandfather with Eugene, then ambled over to León and climbed into the saddle, for the trip to Salado Creek. In his heart he knew Fitz would cease coercing him about that factor house.

  He sensed rightly.

  That afternoon, on his return, he found Fitz packed for the trip to Memphis. The coach horses were hitched, Pippin’s gift pony tied to its rear. A basket of food had been prepared by Beth for the first leg of their journey, and Pippin and Eugene awaited their chore of li
fting Fitz into the plush interior.

  Catfish Abbott, a knapsack attached to his saddlebags, stood off to the side, holding the reins to his mount. It was obvious to see. He would be leaving alongside the coach.

  Instinct told Jon Marc that it had been planned like this from the start. It made sense now, why the Louisiana planter had wanted a job in the wilds of Texas. He’d been sent here to spy for Fitz. Jon Marc chuckled inwardly. His grandfather had never let him fly on his own. But that was just his way.

  Jon Marc clipped a salute of good-bye to his strawboss.

  Taking his wife’s hand, he walked up to Fitz, who said, “We’ll be leaving now, Jonny.”

  Strange. Now that the longed-for moment had arrived, Jon Marc hated to see his grandfather go. He recalled Fitz opening his arms, and not flinching from the pain of rheumatism when Jon Marc had jumped into them, that long-ago day, when the world caved in from two deaths.

  Fitz may not have believed Jon Marc had ties of the blood, but he took him in, same as Connor and Burke, and gave home, heart, and love. Even sent a spy to watch out for him.

  He’d even swallowed bile to face Marcus Johnson.

  Jon Marc thought to extend his hand, but a force within him changed that. Leaving his devoted wife’s side, he reached down to hug the old man, who still didn’t complain about having his aching bones crushed by an embrace. “I love you, Granddad.”

  “I love ye, too, Jonny.”

  Neither grandson nor grandfather had a propensity for the mawkish, and neither wished to change. Fitz wiggled the kinks from his shoulders. Jon Marc stood to shove fingers behind his gun belt and stare off into the distance.

  The younger O’Brien first felt the need to speak. “When you see my brothers, and the aunties, tell them our door is always open. It is to you, too.”

  “I’ll be doing that, Jonny.” Fitz smiled. “Yea, I willna be coming back. But me door is open t’ ye and yers. Bring the babies t’ see Great-granddaddy. I will be saving the strength t’ hold them.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea . . . Granddad.”