Free Magic and the Texan by Martha Hix Page A

clamped down on the curse word, and tried to look into eyes that refused to meet his gaze. “Beth, if you’ve got woes, and you need to tell them to females, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
    She brushed his fingers away, then straightened. “What point are you trying to make?”
    â€œYou must accept the Caliente—and everything on it—as is.”
    â€œI didn’t come here with the proviso that I interview for the position of wife.” Arms crossed, presenting her back, she walked across the room. “How long, sir, will this test last?”
    â€œWhy won’t you look at me?”
    â€œThis, sir, is a wretched time to ask that!”
    Nose in the air, displaying a goodly portion of red shoes, Beth flounced out of the parlor, taking the open door.
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    At twilight Jon Marc asked Bethany to walk to Harmony Hill with him. Crickets sang, so did cicadas. From the distance a cow lowed, mingling with the sounds of river. It was a pleasant evening, lit by the last streaks of orange sunlight.
    As they stared down at the Caliente, Bethany still didn’t look at Jon Marc, this time out of aggravation. She hadn’t gotten over their tiff. An out-and-out confrontation would have cleared the air; common sense warned her off. One thing would lead to another, and she’d be leaving brush country.
    â€œThink we can get past this afternoon?” he asked.
    â€œI’d like that.” She broke a blade of grass and wound it around her fingers; curiosity got to her. “I’d also like to know about you, your childhood. Everything that’s important to you.”
    â€œI wrote everything that needs to be said.”
    From the way he sidestepped her entreaty, she’d bet he had a few skeletons rattling in the closet, too. No matter his truths, they can’t be as bad as yours.
    Best to return to the benign. Thinking about the modesty of the supplies hereabout, she said, “With no garden, how do you get enough food to eat?”
    â€œWe’ve got pinto beans. And beef. Lots of beef. Fish in the smokehouse. I hunt rabbits and wild turkey. Buy eggs from Isabel—she donates chiles.” He grimaced, but chuckled. “I sure wouldn’t want to pay to set my stomach afire.”
    Bethany enjoyed spices. But she laughed with him, glad for the less formal, and certainly less fractious, moment. “How do you feel about sending to San Antonio or Laredo for supplies? A touch of this and a dash of that, and I’ll place some marvelous dishes in front of you.”
    â€œBeth, you don’t need to cook. I pay Isabel to do it.”
    Probably not well, Bethany bit her tongue rather than say. Isabel Marin, wife of a vaquero gone to Rockport, now washed dishes, as Bethany had done so many times at the Long Lick. Isabel would next set the kitchen for breakfast.
    â€œBesides,” he teased, “you cook for an army.”
    Bethany had a tendency to overcook, and knew it. After serving meals to plentitudes of patrons at the Long Lick, she didn’t know how to cook for two. Pa had taken sustenance through liquids. Or he’d gorged on pickled eggs and pig’s feet, right at the bar. None of this, of course, would Bethany share.
    Ducking her chin and yanking at another blade of grass, she varied the subject. “It’s nice out here.”
    â€œWhy don’t you recite some of your pretty poems, honey?”
    Where did he keep his letters from the Buchanan miss? Bethany needed to commit a few verses to memory. As she’d claimed yesterday afternoon and again last night, she said, “I can’t think of a one.”
    â€œBridal jitters.” He patted her hand; she almost jumped out of her skin. “Don’t fret, honey. I’ve got just the ticket to lift your spirits. Longfellow’s Evangeline. ”
    Jon Marc relaxed into the grass, propping on elbows and crossing one leg over the other. He began to recite