by Martha Hix
The mere idea of climbing into that conveyance sent a shiver of hurt through her. She had come here, desperate and having no other choice. She would leave, desolate and having no other choice.
Money would not be a problem, even though Bethany would leave Jon Marc’s money behind.
Yesterday, Hoot Todd had shown up. He’d handed his sister a velvet sack, saying, “You need these. Sell them. Make a life for yourself.”
Her eyes had rounded upon catching sight of a fortune in jewels. Diamonds, rubies, and pearls that Naomi Todd had given to her stepson for safekeeping. Once upon a time, Bethany would have been elated to receive her mother’s heirlooms.
Then and now, she simply felt sorry for herself.
You brought it on yourself. Face up to it. Get on with it.
“Today,” she said to the padre, “I must deal with dead cows.”
Brutal weather had felled a half-dozen cows, their carcasses lying between the river and the adobe house that had become no more than shelter for a weary head. Throughout this day, with help from Padre Miguel and a trio of Jon Marc’s vaqueros, Bethany had been herding pigs.
“Juan Marc will be pleased,” the padre commented. “Your pigs disposing of the remains.”
Bethany doubted that. She, however, tried to inject a light tone. “They don’t call them pigs for no reason.”
“It was farsighted of you, wanting to raise los puercos. I have counseled my son Juan Marc on your goodness and efficiency.”
Oh, why didn’t the priest simply shut up? The fewer reminder she had of her husband, the better she was able to deal with it. No. In no form could she deal with the chasm separating her heart from the trouble of getting from one moment to the next.
In the four days that had passed since Jon Marc found out about Bethany Todd, she hadn’t seen anything of him.
Diego Novio had assured her of her husband’s welfare. He stayed at Hacienda del Sol at night, and spent his days digging a well, in hopes of bringing water to his dying herd.
She said to the padre, “Jon Marc would’ve preferred I played piano and wrote poetry about sunsets and love . . . perfect love that does not exist on this side of the Mississippi River. Save for God’s love.”
“Tck, tck.” Padre Miguel leaned down to clap his hands and send an errant shoat back toward its mission.
The pig squealed, but tightened its curled tail and waddled off.
Straightening, the padre muffed his hands in cassock sleeves. “Juan Marc asked my advice on the validity of your marriage. He, as a good Catholic, entered the marriage in good faith. He cannot shy from the sacrament. I mentioned that you have been confirmed in the faith, that you are a practicing Catholic now. I also mentioned something else. That you are married in the eyes of Texas.”
“You did exert your ‘authority,’ didn’t you? We were a couple weeks shy of calling each other husband and wife for six months. You fudged.”
Padre Miguel smiled, a rascal to the core. “Un poco. A little.”
“Did you tell him God doesn’t acknowledge our marriage?”
“Señora, one must share some things with God and his confessor. Only.”
“You wicked dickens.”
“Not I!” The priest’s eyes widened, as if in innocence.
To wipe her brow with the back of a hand, she shed her gloves and stuffed them into a skirt pocket. No more would she wear the britches Jon Marc had purchased for Beth Buchanan.
Her gaze went to Padre Miguel, who helped with this repugnant but necessary chore of carcass disposal. Almost daily, during the norther and afterward, when the weather had been cold but not frigid, he had listened to her nebulous plans and very real heartaches.
She said, “I came here with a dead woman’s wardrobe and dowry. I will leave with what is mine alone.” And a broken heart. “That’s the way it should be.”
“You do not even own a coat. It is cold. There are a few ponchos and serapes at the church. Please accept them.”
“I’m not cold,” she protested. Toil kept her warm, as warm as one could be at a time of anguish. “I never owned a coat in my life. Why should anything be different now?”
“What will you do with your newfound riches?” the priest asked.
“Give it to charity.”
Although some ideas of future came to mind, Bethany knew not what she’d face in that foreign city called simply México. But the next northbound stagecoach wouldn’t pass through La Salle County for another two weeks. Stay here that long? No. She wouldn’t do that to Jon Marc.
You mustn’t think about him.
Seeing a boulder that invited a tired behind, Bethany walked to it and plopped down. Funny, how everything now drained her.
A strand of wayward hair blown from her cheek, she eyed Padre Miguel, who roosted on a similar boulder. “The nights have been long, very long,” she said. “I’ve had time to consider my future. You know, and don’t try to argue it, Jon Marc can have this marriage annulled by a court of law.”
Even as she said those words, her heart cried out to deny them.
Padre Miguel sighed. “Then you have no hope to reconcile with him?”
“The choice isn’t mine. Padre, I must stop thinking of myself. I’m still young. Only twenty. I must consider how I will live the rest of my mortal days. I think I should devote myself to God’s work.”
“Can you do this without the heart-regrets that would be mocking the Father, as well as His Son and the Blessed Virgin?”
“Yes,” Bethany replied in honesty, but jumped when a clap of thunder rent the sky. She glanced upward. Dry lightning. Just dry lightning.
The priest lit a cigar. Past a curl of smoke, he said, “I know you love children. Always, there will be children who need Grace. Many live at La Casa de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. They need the helping hand of those who vow to take no earthly gain. There is a convent in that city. It is outlawed, yes, because of Benito Juarez’s edicts, but it exists. My child, you might consider entering the sisterhood.”
A wan smile, the first time Bethany had smiled in days, came over her face. “Thus is my thinking exactly. You see, I always wanted to be Beth Buchanan.” She glanced heavenward, seeing another arc of lightning and feeling that an angel smiled widely from above. “She wanted to become a nun. I believe God wants me to fulfill her wishes. I should walk in her footsteps, as I tried to. I will devote myself to the good works Beth Buchanan would have taken, had she not been obligated to do as Aaron Buchanan, and Jon Marc O’Brien, wanted.”
“Is that what you want, my child?”
“It is what I pledge to God.”
The moment she answered, lightning jagged downward. Hit a dead mesquite tree. A boom erupted. Fire cracked. Flames arced through, and from, the tree. It sparked to a rain-deprived copse of chaparral.
Fire!
It could be the death knell to Rancho Caliente.
Bethany shot to her feet. So did Padre Miguel.
“Blankets, sand, buckets, whatever!” she bit out. “We must put out the fire!”
Fire!
Jon Marc threw down a shovel. Beth’s over there!
He jumped into León’s saddle, his helpers following suit on their own mounts. Jon Marc rode hard toward the inferno.
He couldn’t let anything happen to his herd.
No.
He couldn’t let anything happen to his wife.
Not far from his goal, he caught sight of Hoot Todd, ahead of him, and riding toward the red-blue horizon, apparently to help. Strange, how things could change. Forever. Such as Hoot Todd becoming an ally.
The outlaw jumped from the saddle. Unbuckled it from beneath his mount’s belly. Grabbed his stallion’s blanket. Ran forward.
Jon Marc did the same.
León bolted.
Arrived at the burning chaparral that threatened to spread licking fingers to the cattle cornered between the Nueces and its nearest branch, Jon Marc rushed forward. The crisis could be put down, if God were with th
em.
Then Jon Marc saw Bethany. Wearing skirts—where the hell were her britches!—she had a slop bucket in hand. Scooping up earth, she tossed it. A blue finger of fire, as if in defiance, thrashed at her.
She jumped backward.
“Go home,” Jon Marc shouted. “Get away from it!”
But she didn’t.
Hoot Todd beat the burning scrub. So did Padre Miguel. Heat, too much of it, pushed at Jon Marc when he slapped León’s blanket to fight aggressive fire. Black vapors billowed into his eyes. It was a good feeling. Smoke meant the fire from this chaparral was dying.
Indeed, the crisis was averted.
Between Padre Miguel, Hoot Todd, the Caliente’s owner and the woman who had vowed to be his wife, the fire hissed and almost died. It was under control.
No.
Just as Bethany scooped another bucketful of dirt, one last flame swelled outward.
Licked her skirt.
Orange and blue bounced, parrying, like a native dancer gone even wilder.
Bethany shouted.
Her clothes caught fire.
“No!” Already Jon Marc rushed toward her.
At the same moment the sky opened up, rain pouring.
The sounds of rain mixed with Bethany’s screams. Or were they her husband’s?
Chapter Thirty-One
She was dying.
Two days ago, Jon Marc carried his wife to the bed they had shared in love and lust, where she lay prone. Already, Padre Miguel had recited last rites.
No one said so, but her husband knew a coffin had been sent for and that Luis and Diego were digging a grave on Harmony Hill. I can’t leave her there! Not yet. Not till we’re both ready to go! Jon Marc couldn’t stand the idea of a long life, without Bethany.
On a straight chair at her bedside, he sat. Tears dripped down his cheeks and onto the sheet that draped her inert, bandaged form. With her breath shallow, with her face as white as the pillow that it rested on, he gazed at her. An awful, crushing weight slammed against his chest. A grief. A grief more powerful than any sorrow he’d ever known.
There wouldn’t even be a single red rose to place in her casket.
His eyes closed, remembering, remembering . . .
Her face, when she first saw Trudy’s roses. Her face, looking up at him during the wedding ceremony. Such a pretty face. Such a good woman, always ready to be everything she thought he wanted.
Funny, how a lady could make an hombre feel better about his lousy self.
Once, he had felt better about himself.
Before that awful night, when he’d confronted her.
It had been hard to take, reaching the church and finding out that Padre Miguel had known all along. Liam Short had known, too. Jon Marc had turned inward, his mind reverting to what his father must have felt when Georgia Morgan’s infidelities became common knowledge.
But Georgia Morgan had never been an admirable woman. Jon Marc’s mother foremost, and otherwise, had thought only of herself. Bethany considered anyone but herself. First came the good of Jon Marc. And then Rancho Caliente. And then Sabrina. The latter two, not necessarily in that order.
“Oh, Beth,” he whispered and cried for what they had known, and lost.
This was the lady who had seen beauty in an unbeautiful ranch. He recalled when she’d grinned at his big nose, had assured him it was attractive. Such an elation he’d felt, as if he were ten feet tall. As well, he remembered their times of loving, when she’d been the wanton of his most wicked fantasy.
There would be no more fantasies.
O’Briens doona give up.
Fitz’s words buffeting him, Jon Marc sniffed back tears. He would talk her out of dying. “I planted your orange trees. I expect you to make orange marmalade, once we pick fruit. Do you smell your potpourri, wife? Terecita put bowls of it, around this room. We’re running short. You need to make more. I’ll bet Hoot would loved to have lemon pie. And I’m hungry for cookies. You don’t want your man to go wanting, do you?”
She gave no response.
“I want to see your fingers—” No. Her fingers would never work a needle again. “You could pour me a whiskey. I could sure use one right now.”
Those fingers had never tinkled piano ivories.
What were ivories?
“Pianos make sounds, that’s all. They don’t make a wife. And they don’t compare to your sweet laughter. I expect to hear it, during our cattle drive to Kansas. You do want to come along, don’t you?”
Jon Marc studied the bandages on her hands. They were the messengers of the heart, those hands.
Her body wouldn’t be the same, would forever bear scars. Two of her fingers were gone. Those hands had caressed her husband, had fed him, as well as greedy pigs. Pigs that had cleaned up the mess of drought and cold weather. Swine that Jon Marc had denounced. Not a bad idea, pigs.
Not a bad idea, Bethany.
Jon Marc centered his gaze on her closed eyelids. How those hazel eyes had danced with fun, had softened with sympathy, had rounded in horror when life had reared its ugly head. Mostly, he recalled her avowals of love. She loved him.
Without a doubt, she had loved him.
“I love you, wife. Live!”
If ever a person deserved a second chance, it was Bethany Todd O’Brien.
She gave a shudder, a faint “Oh” issuing from her throat.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up into Terecita López’s sad eyes. “Juan Marc, it is time to let her go ... to a better place.”
“For the love of God, live!” Jon Marc cried, touching his wife’s cheek. “Live for me. Marry me, Bethany. Let me be good to you.”
Was it a blessing, that she lived?
Bethany chose to think so. Forever, she would carry scars, but shouldn’t she think of them as a reminder of her misdeeds? As God’s reminder of her sins.
“I do not want to leave,” Sabrina complained, standing beside the chair that Liam Short had set on the ground for Bethany, this last day of 1872. A gray, bleak day.
They were waiting for a stagecoach. Padre Miguel stood offside, along with Terecita and Hoot. Thankfully, Jon Marc wasn’t with them.
In the weeks of Bethany’s recovery, she had asked not to see him. Her wishes had been respected. As pleased as she was at Jon Marc’s forgiveness, she had promised God to give her crippled hand to Christ. Todds didn’t go back on their word.
“Hee-yah!”
A driver’s voice, that.
Hooves. The turn of wheels. The stagecoach was arriving.
Gentle hands helped her stand. Hoot’s and Liam’s. The two men steadied her as she took small steps toward the stage.
“I’ll put you aboard, Sis.”
“I know you will, Hoot. Thank you.” She compelled a smile, recalling the many evenings he and Sabrina had sat at her bedside. “You’ve been a great comfort to me, brother.”
“Maybe I’ll come see y’all, down Mexico way.”
“Do that, Hoot.”
Bethany knew he’d proposed marriage to Terecita, only to be turned down. Yet the pianist hadn’t asked for Hoot to stay away from her or their daughter. Terecita simply wanted to become a lady, and the father of her child had too many rough edges.
“Woof!”
Stumpy hobbled up. The grizzled dog lifted his snout at Bethany, peeling back his lips to expose his missing incisor. It really was rather pitiful, Stumpy’s smile. It was as if to remind her that nothing had ever been quite right in La Salle County.
“He is a funny-looking dog.” Sabrina patted Stumpy’s head.
Held tightly by Hoot and Liam, Bethany fixed eyes on her niece. “Not a bad one, though.”
“Oh, Tía Bethany, you always see the best in people and things.”
“Is that a terrible thing, Sabrina?” she asked and felt warmth in a ragged heart, hearing the girl call her aunt.
The girl, dropping her chin, shook her head. “I hope I can be like you, Tía Bethany.”
&n
bsp; “Be anything but someone like me.”
Sabrina approached the stagecoach’s step, but turned. “If I live in Mexico City, will Tristan be able to find me?”
“Yes, he will. Be worthy of him, when he does.” Bethany reached the three remaining fingers of her right hand to touch her niece’s cheek. “Keep yourself chaste, Sabrina. Unto your own self be true.” A clutching pain tightened, even more powerful than the outcome of a fire. “Don’t lie to anyone. Especially to your loved ones. That’s the same as lying to God.”
“Hey, y’all. Get aboard.” The driver didn’t seem the least amenable. “Ain’t got no time for cripples.”
A tall, lean figure ambled toward Bethany. He wore Sunday best, a frock suit and string tie above polished boots. It seemed as if ten more years were etched in his wonderful face.
“Don’t leave,” Jon Marc said shortly. “I need you.”
“Good-bye, Jon Marc. Vaya con Dios. Mi querido.”
“Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”
She shook her head.
He shoved something into her withered hand. “Read it. Read it, then decide if you must leave.”
Bethany looked down at the sheet of paper. It had been folded in half.
“My child.” That was Padre Miguel’s voice. “Do not think God has a higher place for you. Your place is here in La Salle County, at Rancho Caliente.”
“It is,” Jon Marc concurred.
Her stiff thumb managed to open the message.
“An angel of mercy you turned out to be—
There’s no other angel in my heart, don’t you see?
Give me another thought, angel mine—
Even if this doesn’t rhyme. ”
She laughed at his feeble poetry, but not at the sincerity of his declaration. A smile on her lips, she gazed at her beloved, who looked strong, handsome, and wounded. “I’ll keep this forever. It will be my only treasure.”
“That wasn’t its intent. I was.”
Padre Miguel unmuffed his hands to say, “Give love where it is needed. Give it to this man. He needs to be your husband.”
