Magic and the Texan (12 page)

No longer could he put off the inevitable.

“My late mother didn't set a good example—her willful behavior brought tragedy. Much grief. I vowed not to take a bride like Georgia Morgan.” He paused. “Women like my mother tear their families up. She did ours.”

“What . . . exactly are you trying to say?”

“That I insist on a virgin bride. Because of Georgia Morgan. She's why I was particular about choosing you.”

“You demand a virgin, yet you haven't been celibate?”

“That, uh, about sums it up.”

Dropping her gaze to the floor and hugging her arms, Beth shook with what had to be disgust.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'll never do anything sinful again. And if you'll forgive me, I'll spend the rest of our lives making up for my lapse.”

“Help yourself to the cookies, sir. Good night.”

“Beth, listen—”

“Don't, Jon Marc. Just don't!”

She rushed into the night; he lunged to his feet to chase after her. Up to the house and into the bedroom, she hurried. The door closed in his face, and he knew in his heart why. She needed distance, else his tarnish would rub off on her.

Give her the evening to recover from shock, he decided.
Don't push a lady in a direction she doesn't want to go.

He had plenty to keep busy with, to train his thoughts from trouble, although he'd prefer to stay and placate his sweetheart. Couldn't. León being winded from the Laredo trip, Jon Marc saddled a fresh horse, then swung laden saddlebags over the stallion, yet his mind was too occupied to stay off Beth.

If she could get past his confession, surely the rest of his admissions, would be child's play.

If
Beth could get past Jon Marc's sins.

 

 

He'd never get past her sins. Would never forgive and forget. Jon Marc didn't have it in him to understand.

Bethany dragged in huge gulps of air, as if she'd been running instead of listening to a man's insistence on purity. She paced the bedroom floor, up and down, up and down. Didn't he have good reason for insistence? Undoubtedly it had taken much for him to dredge up the hurts of yesteryears.

“If I hadn't been such a coward,” Bethany said, as if to Miss Buchanan, “I would've dug in my heels and done something to show my support. But, no. All I could think about was myself.”

What kind of woman didn't succor her man in time of need?

It took a while to find him. It meant changing into riding clothes and setting out by moonlight in a direction given by Luis de la Garza: to a limestone hill called Roca Blanca.

At last, she found man and mount. The stallion's reins ground-tethered, Jon Marc used a shovel to dig into the rocky ground at the foot of the hill.

“Jon Marc!” Bethany called out. “I must talk with you.”

Her voice echoed through the night.

 

 

Night riding wasn't a favorite of Hoot Todd's, thanks to his limited vision, but he'd set out to follow that tart who called herself Beth Buchanan. Near to lost her, his right-hand man being about as useful for tracking as a Pekinese dog.

But her voice calling to O'Brien was like a beacon, drawing Hoot and Peña in its direction. What in tarnation was she doing at this hour of the night, at Roca Blanca?

Since she shouted for O'Brien, no doubt she'd followed him here. There was only one explanation, as near as Hoot could figure, why that pair was skulking around in the dark. O'Brien had to be burying the money he'd gotten in Laredo.

Well, O'Brien would need it, since Hoot and his men had waylaid the Caliente outfit on their return from Rockport.

“Don't that just pop corn?” he said to Peña. Chuckling—the action aggravated his half-healed nose—Hoot sat straighter in the saddle. “Now I've got two things in my favor. I know what O'Brien does with his money, and I know for damned sure he ain't fixing to marry no Beth Buchanan.”

“¿Mi jefe?”
That growl, calling for his boss's attention, hung heavy in the night air. “Do we steal the money now?”

“Naw. No need to steal it. I'll just get my little sister to give it to me. Be more fun that way.”

“ ‘She walks in beauty like the night—of cloudless climes and starry skies—and all that's best of dark and bright . . . meets in her aspect and her eyes.' ”

Such poetry on Jon Marc's lips, well, that particular passage wasn't half bad, yet Bethany sensed he meant to butter her up. After all, he did consider her chaste, and he had admitted to cavorting with some widow.

By stars above, he set down the shovel and extended a gloved hand, palm up, to beckon Bethany forward. A little butter went a long way, as if he needed it, desperate as she was for peace.

She wound around chaparral, there being no trail here, and went to him, but stopped short of his arms.

“You fit those words,” he whispered above cricket creaks.

Jon Marc's compliment seeped through Bethany, causing a bittersweet smile to boost her lips. How she wished she could have come to him, pure. Unsullied. Meeting his expectations.

“Beth, can I take your following me as a good sign? Can you see past my mistake in judgment?”

“To err is human.”

He slipped off his gloves and took her hand between his roughened fingers. “Will you forgive me for lying?”

“Let not your heart be troubled. By anything. Jon Marc, I came out here for a reason. Your mother hurt you, and I want you to know—I want to help you over it. Talk to me.”

“Not here. Let's get back to the house.”

“Why not here?” The cloak of night might help, should Bethany say more than she ought to.

“Can't chance Hoot Todd finding us. He'll be after our money, Beth, if he knows where to look. Let me finish burying these bills in the strongbox, then we'll ride back home.”

As he shoved earth and rocks over the small iron safe, she asked, “Why don't you keep your cash in a bank?”

“Todd works the road between here and San Antonio. I'd hate to have to kill him over a few thousand dollars.”

She didn't take those words lightly, his threat sending chills down her spine.
Don't make too much of it. His was big talk, not a serious threat.

And they had serious talking to do.

 

 

A half hour or so later Jon Marc and Beth reached their adobe home.

Still dressed in riding clothes, they settled into the parlor, Jon Marc taking the armchair and Bethany the settee. Neither made a move to light the lamp. He sure wouldn't. Relieved he might be over her acceptance, he had more admissions to make, none of which would be easy.

“Tell me about your family,” she prompted, her face lit by the glow of moonlight that beamed through an open window. “Tell me everything.”

“I'm a bastard.”

She laughed, the sound tinny. “Don't be ridiculous, sir. You are anything but a scoundrel.”

“I mean literally a bastard.” Bastardy being the next thing to felony in these modern times, Jon Marc fixed his gaze on the ceiling support beams. “My mother may have been married at the time of my birth, but a devil named Marcus Johnson sired me.”

“Don't you keep whiskey in here?” Beth thumped the ebonized cabinet. “How about a glass of something stiff?”

“Don't spare the horses,” he answered dryly.

Beth poured generous portions.

Lord, did it feel good going down. It gave Dutch courage to tell about scandal, death, and being rebuffed. “Georgia Morgan took up with Johnson again, around the time I turned six. She figured to desert her sons—even Johnson's get—and take off with him. Daniel O'Brien put a stop to that. ”

“How awful that must have been.”

“Not as bad as witnessing the final argument between my mother and her husband. When he killed her.” Eyes slammed closed, yet visions of blood and death remained. “The next day Daniel took me with him to Johnson's house. Figured to pawn me off on my blood father. He turned the gun on himself. Blew his brains out.” Jon Marc downed the dregs. “I saw it happen.”

“Poor darling,” Beth whispered, her sympathetic tone downplaying the platitude. Rising from the settee, she refilled his glass; handing it to him, she curled at his feet. “What happened to Marcus Johnson. Did he not do anything to aid you?”

“Turns out Johnson wasn't planning to take Georgia Morgan anywhere. He moved on, even before the smoke had cleared.”

“How could he do that to his own son?”

“Apparently with ease. Leastwise, he was out to save his neck, since he might've gotten blamed for Daniel's death.”

Beth rested a cheek against Jon Marc's knee. “How awful your childhood must have been.”

“It had its good moments.” He stroked Beth's head idly. “Daniel's father took us in, me and Connor and Burke. Daniel's sisters raised us.” Contrary to the pain of recounting the doomed triangle of his mother and her men, Jon Marc felt a smile lifting his facial muscles. “Tessa and Phoebe never favored any of us. We were all the same in their eyes.”

“Then why do you never open their letters?”

“Ah, ha.” He tugged on Beth's ear, not feeling anywhere near as jovial as his light reprimand, when he added, “Better not let me catch you going through my things.”

“I'm red-handed. I saw unopened letters from a Tessa Jinnings and a Phoebe Throckmorton. I wondered who they were.”

“Now you know. I suppose you read Pippin's letters?”

“Seems he's your nephew.”

“Yes. Pippin's a good boy. Reckon someday he'll visit.”

“What about the aunts? And your brothers? What about your, well, your grandfather?”

“It's best they stay on the Mississippi. I like it that way.”

“Why?”

He told her everything, save for the magic lamp that seemed too ludicrous to bring into such a serious discussion. He brought up the alienation from his half brothers; from Connor, who'd never been close; from Burke, who resented Jon Marc's interference with Rufus West. “Burke pins a pet name on everyone. He even got Connor to calling me Jones.' When I was little, I assumed I got that name 'cause I had no right to O'Brien. Was thirteen before Burke set me straight.”

“How straight? Tell, Jon Marc. I want to know.”

“It was just a corruption of Jon. That's all. Made me feel a damn—darn—sight better, knowing the truth.”

“Are you doing the same thing now, making too much of your brother's stance toward you?”

Jon Marc assumed that if any O'Brien, save for Pippin, thought of him at all, they did it with disappointment. Each seemed to demand more than he could give.

“I would like for them to think kindly toward me, but I can live without what passes for family. Had twelve years alone. Whatever's left to me, I can take the same way.”

“I think there's more to it than what you've told me. You wouldn't have left Memphis, simply because you and your brothers didn't see eye to eye.”

“You got that right, honey.”

He next told her about the rift between him and Fitz, ending with, “Up to the moment he tossed me out of his home, I thought he cared for me. Like I was his grandson. But he drew himself up—no mean feat, considering his rheumatism—and rattled his old silver-handled cane. His eyes were like pieces of marble, they were so cold.

“ 'Ye're wet behind the ears, laddie,' ” Jon Marc mimicked in his best impersonation of the immigrant O'Brien. “ 'Why would I be wantin' t' give me company t' ye? 'Twill rightly go t' Connor. And if he willna have it, Burke will take Fitz & Son, Factors.' ”

“But they didn't?”

“They didn't. Connor had an army career, early on. Burke's been a steamboat baron since he turned eighteen. There's no one to take the factor house, not until Fitz's great-grandsons are grown, which won't be for a goodly number of years. It's doubtful Fitz will live to see the day. How 'bout another shot of whiskey?”

Beth poured; Jon Marc guzzled.

He spoke in a voice that began as a rough whisper but evened into a monotone. “Fitz may have sent a scared kid into the cold of night, yet he thought I'd forget all that. I can't.”

Beth put her hand over his. “Would you like to be close with the other O'Briens?”

“I tried.” Jon Marc scooted out of the chair to sit on the floor next to Beth. He slid his arm around her shoulder, hugging her with a closeness that asked for understanding, not carnal promise. “When Connor's wife needed help to get out of the mess I'd made for them, I had no interest in seeing anyone named O'Brien again. You see, I'd undermined Connor and India, although I didn't know it at the time. India—she's Connor's wife—ended up being court-martialed. Phoebe—nobody's fool, that one—figured out I played a part in the intrigue. She sent a letter, begging me to help. I gave a deposition. Lost my cover as a Confederate spy over the incident.”

Beth said not a word on the subject.

“He's got a nice wife, Connor,” Jon Marc allowed. “Once the war was over, India discovered I was living here at the Caliente.” Her sister, Persia Glennie, had been the one to tell India where to find him. That came after Jon Marc attended a poetry recital in San Antonio, where the now-departed Tim Glennie served as reader. “Then India asked me to visit their plantation in Louisiana. Guess I was lonesome. I went.”

“What happened?”

“I landed in a hornet's nest. Made the mistake of stopping in New Orleans to call on Burke, is what I did. Had thoughts of mending fences with him, too. Instead, I got involved in his problems. That came to a bad end. I tried to save Burke's hide, and his wife's, by shooting the man who would've killed them. Burke wanted his own revenge.”

Beth tensed. “You shot a man for your family?”

“Like I once told you, I protect what's mine. The O'Briens aren't, but I didn't stop to think. Anyhow, Burke is my brother. Blood tells, you know. Even if it's Georgia Morgan's.”

Beth got quiet, very quiet.

In this far, Jon Marc wanted the rest of it out. He must mention how he couldn't be free of them, since Tessa and her genie played a part in getting Beth here on his past birthday.

But she asked, “Why do you read Pippin's letters?”

“I'm fond of the boy.”

“You need children of your own.”

“Do you
want
children, Beth honey?” Frankly, Jon Marc was relieved at the chance to talk about the present, not the past. Her ways with Sabrina recalled, he suspected she'd make a willing mother. He would find out for sure. “From your letters I think you see motherhood as wifely duty.”

“You are wrong. Beth Buchanan may have felt that way in Kansas, but I don't. It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind, you know. I want children. Several. I wouldn't mind adopting a needy child. But I mostly want your children.” She laughed gently, then teased, “And they better all have hair like old pennies, or we're sending them back with the stork!”

A smile jacked up Jon Marc's face. “Then I guess we'd better do some serious talking with the padre.”

 

 

Bethany awoke by dawn's light, cuddled on the floor with Jon Marc! The drinks must have gotten to them last night. Not a minute after he suggested talking with Padre Miguel, he had dozed off. She, too, had closed her eyes. And here they were.

Still, Jon Marc slept. She leaned up on an elbow to gaze into his remarkable face. He appeared younger, innocence itself. Yet he'd known suffering and heartache, disappointment and rejection. He needed a woman devoted to giving him a family to be proud of. A family who would be proud of him.

Beth brushed hair from his brow.
I'll be twice the wife you'd have gotten with Miss Buchanan, who would've preferred the veil.

“I love you,” she whispered from the bottom of her heart.

Had he heard right? Was that Beth whispering love? Or was this just a dream? Surely a dream, surely. Beth, smelling like vanilla, all cuddled up close. He disliked vanilla. But he did like Beth. She was soft where he was hard. Very hard. Hair tickled his nose; a breast, his midsection. Wonderful dream. Jon Marc snaked out a hand . . . and got an armload of woman.

That was when he opened his eyes.

This was Beth, dewy-eyed and mussed and smiling. She was a dream come true. Comely, diligent, never afraid of a challenge. Perfect for the Caliente. And for Jon Marc.

“Kiss me,” was what she said.

He tightened his arms around her shapely form, his hands crossing over her back to cup her behind and bring it closer to the hardest part of him. His lips met hers, soft at first. Then with more insistence. Hands were everywhere, both his and hers. He moved his lips to her cheek, to her eyelid, to her ear.