Magic and the Texan (18 page)

“You k-killed him?”

“Right.”

Bethany shuddered. A man dead over money and an old feud. A pointless death, now that Hoot had relented.

How would Hoot react to the news?

Her lips moved in silent prayer. Moved as Padre Miguel had instructed her. She might be making peace with religion, but would there be no peace in La Salle County?

“You've got your answer,” Jon Marc said. “Now I want mine. Start with why Sabrina is sleeping in my bed.”

“She's teaching me how to tend pigs.”

“Why?”

“Because we need them. For food. To clean up refuse. To trade for goods and services. Another thing, no self-respecting rustler would ever touch a pig. Or skin it.”

“I'm not a damned
pig farmer.”

Cattle ranchers considered it beneath their dignity, attaching their brands to anything other than cows and horses, but what was wrong with being practical? “I'll take care of the pigs. You can simply ignore them.” Bethany, her knees weak, surrendered to it, sagging to sit a few feet from Jon Marc, her legs tucked under her. “No more about pigs. Not now. I can't talk about them. Not in the same breath we discuss death.”

“Is this where you give me hell for taking care of what's mine?”

“I'm saying Peña was unnecessary. I've had a talk with Hoot Todd. He—”

“What do mean, you had a talk with Todd?” Jon Marc jerked up from his bedroll, exposing his torso. “
You
talk, Beth.”

“I had a chat with Hoot Todd yesterday. He agreed to return your money.”

“I'd like to know what the hell you said to ‘chat' him into anything.”

“He's not an unreasonable man, if you give him a chance.”

“What did you have to give up, my lovely virginal bride?” Jon Marc asked in a voice filled with innuendo.

“If you mean to imply something illicit between me and Hoot, you are wrong.”

“So, it's Hoot, is it? You sicken me.”

Jon Marc's affront crawled up Bethany's spine. She had to work hard at tamping down her aggravation, her temper, her urge to get off the ground and stomp away. “Yes, it's Hoot. He dropped by, trying to upset me, but I decided to make peace with him. And a semblance of peace is what I made. Familiarity of address goes along with being neighborly.”

“He's not a neighbor. He's a menace.”

“Things can change. For the better.”

“What in hell's name did you say to him?”

That, of course, she couldn't discuss. Yet she silently vowed that no more blatant lies would pass her lips. “Wording isn't important. The crux is, he agreed to reason. You might call it a good Catholic miracle.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

Jon Marc's continued profanity dealt a blow. She was not to be respected. It might have been expected, her tightening of chest and throat, along with the drawing up in her veins and the burning behind her eyelids. But it wasn't. She would not, however, cry, nor act injured.

Only this morning, as she knelt before the altar at Santa María, discordance emitting from the piano, the padre had counseled her on accepting the guilt for her sins against her husband and a higher power. Padre Miguel would surely say she must bow her head and be blistered by the lash of her own making.

Her shoulders straightened, her nose hitching up. Unbowed, she said, “I'll thank you not to speak that way to me.”

“You don't dictate what gets said on
my
ranch.”

She rose to stand, indignity hurling her to Jon Marc's seated presence. “You intend to make me miserable enough that I'll leave, I take it.”

“If you're wanting to leave, don't let the door kick you in the butt.”

The difficult urge not to kick his behind assaulted her. “As I said before you left, I have no desire but to be a good and loving wife.”

“By cuddling up to Todd, then offering his kid my bed? By bringing pigs onto a cattle ranch?” A moment tripped by. “By spreading your legs before marriage?”

Without warning, something skittered up her leg. Probably a lizard. Not squeamish about insects, she gathered her skirts up to flick it from her knee.

“If you're thinking to seduce me,” Jon Marc said sourly, “think again.”

She bent over once more. This time to gather a handful of earth. Her elbow drew back; she tossed dirt into his face.

Whirling on the ball of a foot, she meant to rush back to the house. Jon Marc grabbed her ankle, held her tight. She tried to get free. Couldn't. All her efforts got her? She tumbled atop him. Criss-crossing him.

She tried to get her bearing, which pressed her hips to his. For a moment she thought he met the pressure, responding to it, but he craned upward to roll her spine to the ground.

He sat back. Rubbed dirt from his face. “You and I need to talk.”

“I'm in no mood for it.”

“Tough. We're going to talk.”

He meant business, she knew. Sitting up, she shuddered to think about discussing the reap of their wedding night. Thus, she would try to avoid it. “Jon Marc, about the piano—”

“Only one person wants that piano.” He plucked a weed from the soil, then tossed it aside. “I reckon he's got it.”

“Padre Miguel much appreciates our gift. He's been in a fine fettle. I've never seen such a smile on a man's face. Moreover, Terecita is beside herself with joy.” Which was true. The dancer had devoted her efforts, outside the cantina, to practicing her music. Terecita did need practice. “She actually smiled at me, this morning at Mass. Afterward she thanked me for a ‘blessed' gift. Music is what Santa Maria needs.”

Bethany's announcement seemed to catch her husband off guard. “Terecita smiled at you?” he asked.

“She has a lovely smile. Sabrina got it from her.”

“Sabrina is going back to the presbytery. First light, she's going.”

She might be on her way to Mexico City. Pain went through Bethany's breast as she thought about losing her niece to an asylum of orphans. Terecita, despite her smile, had confided worries to the padre. She wanted more for her daughter than Fort Ewell could offer. What were the chances of the impossible, that Jon Marc might be convinced into helping keep Sabrina here?

“You resent her because she's Hoot Todd's child?” Bethany fished, with bated breath.

“I don't hold it against anyone, how they came to be on this earth. You ought to know that.”

“Because of your mother and that Johnson man?”

“Which brings us to why I stopped you from leaving.” Jon Marc jerked up from the ground. Glaring down at his wife, he said, “I've had ten days and nights to think about you and me. We're stuck in this marriage.”

“I pray one day you'll not think of it as being stuck.”

She figured he'd rage, would cast aspersions. It astounded her when he said, “That would be nice.”

Her heart in her throat, she stared up at his looming form. “Is it possible we can go forward from here?”

“You ask too much, Beth. I don't have faith in you right now. Time goes by, maybe that'll change.”

“Not fair! You were experienced.”

“That's not up for debate,” he said with a grate. “You either accept me as I am, as I must accept you, or we'll have to go our separate ways.”

“We can't divorce,” she argued. “It's not allowed in the church.”

“Nothing says we can't live apart.”

His statement stabbed her. Deeply wounded by the words she'd most dreaded, she forced a voice. “I won't accept that. I've given you my heart, my body, my soul. I'm not going to budge from your side.”

Rising and stepping closer, she laid fingers against his throat. His pulse-surge heated icy skin. His scent rushed through her system. “I love you. You'll know that in time. And I want to be your wife, in every sense. Now and always.”

“I have no desire for what you offer.” He thrust her hand away. “I won't bring a child into this.”

His statements hurt, like knives sticking into her chest, twisting. “What if we've got one already?”

“We best pray that's not so.”

“That's sacrilege.” Bethany knew enough about the church to know sexual congress was meant for conception.

“I converted to your religion, but I won't bring another me into the world.” He stepped backward. “Go to the house. Don't bother me again. But I want to know when you get your woman's flow. Or not. Meanwhile, I'll sleep in my bedroll.”

“You change your mind, you know where to find me.”

If Hoot Todd didn't find him first.

Bethany left Jon Marc to his bedroll. One of life's ironies niggled. That bedroll could be the most sensible place for him, since he might not notice when her brother came to call.

It was midnight. On the dot. Hoot Todd tucked his Pa's watch into a vest pocket that already held a thousand dollars, and alit the saddle. Guided by a light in the parlor window at his sister's house, he made his tentative way forward, his night vision rendering it a difficult course. Damn fool thing to do, getting out in the dark at the behest of O'Brien's wife.

But he liked her images of legend.

More than legend, he'd felt Naomi Todd's presence, sure as if she'd been among the breathing, when he'd sat in Bethany's kitchen. It had seemed as if sixteen years fell away, and he was again at Naomi's hearth, where she always had a way of making him do right.

Right then, his foot connected with a rock. He tumbled forward. Pain shot as a shoulder made hard contact with a sharp, hard object. He tasted dirt. Hoot Todd wasn't a man to cry. That was for pussies. Plus, it got his eye patch wet and nasty. He cried.

He was thinking about Naomi.

She'd still been alive, up in the Indian Territory, when he'd returned from fishing a stream. A fried-fish dinner danced behind his eyes . . . before he found his stepmother. Like now, he cried. Held her dying body, and cried. Vaguely, he'd seen Naomi's little girl, standing by the log cabin, sucking her thumb. Crying, too. He hadn't cared about his little sister, but he'd begged Naomi not to die. Begging hadn't done any good. She died before Cletus Todd showed up, fresh from a buffalo hunt.

The two of them had dug her grave, Cletus and his son. That night Cletus got roaring drunk for the first time in his life, so out of his mind that he accused Hoot of not watching out for the family, like he was supposed to. And for being loved “better'n me.” Hoot took that hard. It flat made him mad, having Cletus defile Naomi's memory by accusing her of infidelity of the mind. They fought, father and son. Fisticuffs that turned dirty, when Cletus crashed a chair upon his only son's head. Hoot left home the next morning, joined the cavalry. The army, where nobody hankered for anything but getting the best of Indians.

And so it was that Hoot had said good-bye to his adored stepmother and the false images that his father loved him. Love just wasn't worth it. It hurt too much when you lost it.

“Ain't nobody hurt me since,” Hoot muttered, spitting dirt from his mouth. He eased against the ground, curling up into a ball. Yet he couldn't erase the image of Bethany O'Brien from his mind. Naomi all over again, she was, turning the tables on him. Making him a better person than he meant to be.

Bethany Todd could hurt him.

Drake Wilson, in Hoot's dumb years, had led an army recruit to believe he'd have a better life, if he left Fort Ewell—it had been a real fort back then—to devote himself to the Caliente.
Look how that turned out
.

Hoot pushed off the ground. Shaking his head, he tried to clear his thoughts. “Ride outta here,” he mumbled. “You don't owe that
puta
nothing. She's married to that asshole done stole this place from you. Just go. Save your money.”

Naomi wouldn't like it, if she knew he meant to renege on a promise. Didn't a Todd did keep his word?

He brushed off his vest and chaps, then ambled on up to his sister's house. Forcefully, he knocked on the closed door.

A troubled look on her heart-shaped face, Bethany answered his summons. “H-hello, Hoot.”

He snatched a wad of cash from his pocket. “Here it is.” He infused a lighter tone. “Try not to spend it in one place.”

“That . . . this is good of you, Hoot.”

“Ain't you gonna invite me in for a glass of milk?”

She shook her head. “Jon Marc is home.”

O'Brien, home? Then where were Peña and Xavier? They should have beaten O'Brien to La Salle County. Portent crawled up Hoot's spine. He gave it a mental shake-off. The boys wee probably getting liquored up in the next town, having enjoyed dangling O'Brien from marionette strings.

“Hoot. Thank you for this.” Bethany tucked cash into her skirt pocket. “You are the stuff of legend.”

He chuckled. Tapping his finger against his cheek, he said, “Then gimme a brotherly kiss right here, little Sister.”

Like someone facing a last supper, and surely her last chance to express sentiment, Bethany reached up on tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck. She squeezed him tightly. Her lips pressed below the eye patch. “I shouldn't have judged you harshly. Should've given you the benefit of a doubt. Things might've been different.”

He patted her back, then shoved her away. “Hey, watch out. This ain't no puss—sissy you be talkin' to. You'da showed up, presumin' to make a home with me, I woulda sent you packing, girl. Ain't got no room for a sister. Not in this heart.”

She laughed, a tear trickling down her cheek. “You big phony. You great big phony. Oh, Hoot . . . I'm so sorry.”

He didn't have an idea what she meant, but figured hers was some woman's malady. He backed away. “Don't you go gettin' sentimental on me. This is Hoot Todd you're talkin' to.”

Again she chuckled. “That's right. Hoot Todd. Outlaw of legend.”

“Doncha you ever forget that.”

 

 

Kissing Hoot Todd. Beth was kissing Hoot Todd, her arms laced around his neck, like he were a lover. She stood right in the doorway of her husband's house, dallying with his enemy. Not even an hour had passed since Jon Marc sent her away, yet she was already cozying up to another man. This, on top of an earlier meeting. It took every bit of Jon Marc's strength not to charge up to Hoot Todd and break his nose again.

Which is what Daniel O'Brien would have done, sure as the world.

Before getting an eyeful of such a
tender
moment, Jon Marc hadn't been able to sleep. It bothered him, the hurt in Beth's eyes as she'd left him. Still shirtless, he'd checked the house to make certain the place was secure for his wife and Sabrina, yet if he'd found Beth crying, would he have dried her tears?

If anyone would be shedding tears, it would be Hoot Todd. Jon Marc would not allow him to tread on Caliente turf, making a mockery of territorial rights.

His booted feet eating up ground, he hurried to where Todd crawled into the saddle. “State your business,” he said tersely.

The bandit's upper lip jerked. “Just having a word with your pretty little missus. A word, and a matter of honor. You know about honor, doncha, O'Brien?”

“You kiss my wife, then have the nerve to speak of honor?” Jon Marc's right hand tightened into a fist. “Get off that horse, goddammit. I'm gonna beat the shit out of you.”

“Get down from your high horse, O'Brien. I brought your friggin' money back. If you don't believe me, ask the missus.”

Todd returned the stolen money, like Beth had said he would? What the dickens was going on here? “Why?
Why?”

“Let's just say I like your missus better'n I like you.”

Jon Marc was at a loss. After so much trouble with Hoot Todd, he couldn't equate decency with the man who had menaced this ranch for years. Unless Beth, as she'd done with him, had worked magic on this derelict.

That, unfortunately, made sense.

“Where's my men?” Todd asked. “Whatcha doin' home, when my men ain't?”

“Peña's dead, that's why.”

Silence fell, a quiet as dead as the Mexican
bandido
. Then Todd asked, “Did you do it?”

“Damn right I did. In Campo del Fuego. He tried to bushwhack me. I outdrew him.”

Jon Marc figured Todd would pull one of his pair of six-guns. Instead, the one-eyed hombre reached into his vest pocket, took out a small, white pouch. Shaking tobacco and rolling it into a cigarette, he ran his tongue along the long paper side. He stuck the finished product between his lips and flicked the head off a lucifer. The tip ignited. Todd drew smoke inward, then blew it skyward. “I need to kill you over this, you know.”

“You've tried before. Give it your best, Todd. I'd love to kill you.”

“You wanna showdown at dawn?” Todd took another drag. “In front of Short's post office?”

“Suits me.”

“You ever stop to reckon what that would do to your missus? You got yourself a fine wife, O'Brien. Knows how to make a feller wanna do better. Too bad it ain't worked on you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Reckon it's a gift from The Man Above, her knowing what to say to make a body straighten up.”

His head tipping to the side, Jon Marc squinted up at Todd. Reform and respect coming from him? This had to be one of the most peculiar moments in Jon Marc O'Brien's life.

And it was brought on by his wife. But he didn't want her charming men out of anything. Charm led to other things.

Todd scratched his cheek. “Sure would be a shame, you was made a sieve. Would hurt her, I reckon.”

“You kiss my wife, then lecture me on how she react to a blood-letting? You're peculiar, Todd.”

“She kissed me. Not the other way around. She kissed me, 'cause I gave back your friggin' money.” Todd spat tobacco. “Beth's too good for you. You ain't the stuff of legend.”

“Six-shooters at dawn. Fort Ewell post office.”

Todd wrapped reins around his knuckles. “I ain't gonna draw on you. Got better ways to fix your bonnet.”

With that, the outlaw spurred his mount and rode out, too yellow to accept a challenge. A yellow streak in Hoot Todd? Jon Marc had to shake his head, lest he believe what had happened. Todd didn't back down from fights.

Just exactly what sort of magic had Beth worked on him?

What about that “fix your bonnet” business?
Her magic might be potent, but Peña's death had overwhelmed it.

Too late for hindsight on the dead bandit, Jon Marc had to know what she'd said to Todd, even if it meant she got the wrong impression of his intentions. He found the bedroom and parlor empty, save for a small, sleeping girl. Nor did he find his wife in the kitchen or stables. Where was Beth?

Had she left?

If she had, it was afoot. Arlene and the other horses were safe in the stables.

Where was Beth? Worry, damnable worry, got to him.

At last he found her, huddled beneath a craggy overhang on the banks of the Nueces. He braced a hand on the jutting rock above her head and bent down to peer into her hidey-hole. Clutching her arms, she shivered in spite of the balmy night. Her eyes had the aspect of a frightened doe's.

“You needn't be frightened,” Jon Marc said. “I'm not going to strangle you for kissing a pig.”

“You scare me, period.”

Recalling Todd's transformation, before it got foiled, Jon Marc asked, “What's this game you play, wife?”

He waited for Beth's reply, dreading the answer.