Free Magic and the Texan by Martha Hix Page B

from memory.
    â€œLongfellow is a rather long-winded fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Bethany could help but comment, no more than five minutes into the monologue.
    â€œI thought he was your favorite.”
    â€œOf course. Of course, he is! But, well, I must be overtired, not appreciating all those”—she coerced a grin—“murmuring pines in the hemlock.”
    â€œI like your smile.” He also grinned. “Say. I’ve got a new book. Maybe you’d enjoy—”
    â€œJon Marc, please don’t.” She couldn’t take another moment of their mixture of uncomfortable silences and awkward conversation, nor one more word about moss-bearded trees and their equivalents. “It’s late, and I need to give my hair a good brushing before I turn in. Why don’t we call it an evening?”
    Bethany assumed Jon Marc would play into her hands.
    She was wrong.

Chapter Seven
    It did not warm the cockles of Jon Marc’s heart, Beth cutting another evening short. Obviously she couldn’t wait to get shut of him. Wouldn’t happen, by damn.
    Not without a fight.
    Thus, he followed her down the hill and into the house. She didn’t turn into the bedroom, but chose the parlor instead, since he said, “If you’re going to brush your hair, by darn, I’m going to watch you.”
    Beth sat down in the rocker, ready to argue.
    Black lashes settled against the crest of her high cheekbones as she stared at the small, dainty hands that were laced and rested on her lap. She seemed young, defenseless, a damsel out in a cold, lonely world. His virgin. His?
    She would be his. He’d never let anything or anyone hurt her, especially some ole redheaded vaquero, but they had to get on a different plane than what was between them now.
    â€œBeth . . . I’d love to watch you brush your hair. I love to look at you, period. If we’ve got a future ahead of us, you’d best get used to me looking at you.”
    Her chin rose. Her eyes widened.
    â€œWhere’s your brush?” he demanded.
    â€œIn my ... it’s in my reticule.”
    He dug in the handbag, bristle prickling his fingers. His grasp on the handle, he asked, “Shall I stand or sit?”
    â€œSit, for pity’s sake. Sit.”
    He eased back in the horsehair settee that he’d bought to please her, but had displeased her. Her gaze averted, she took pins from her hair; it cascaded past her shoulders. When she lifted her arms to swing the mass of those locks to one shoulder, Jon Marc got an ache of need in his groin.
    He may have waited thirty years for a wife, but didn’t know if he could wait much longer for Beth, not with passion and desire, deep in his veins. He yearned for her, his need building with each passing moment, as man wanted woman since Adam and Eve.
    Beth put the brush to work. Lamplight caught the sheen of those locks. They were like the deepest of midnights, dark yet touched by sparks of blue. How many nights had he slept under the stars and worshipped the sky’s hues? Poetry of the heart, midnight.
    Poetry was Beth.
    She was more than he’d ever dreamed of. Lovely, talented, poetic. Her presence brought light to dark.
    Exactly how much more was she?
    Her lovely hair recalled a question, one that nagged too often. Why didn’t it curl? Why didn’t a lot of things add up? Like why she hadn’t squawked about the padre. Like why she’d written about blue eyes. This was not a stupid woman. Not the sort to be blind to the color of her own eyes.
    Jon Marc couldn’t quell his nosiness. It’s not suspicion. It’s curiosity . “Why doesn’t your hair make little curls at your earlobes, as it does in the tintype?”
    â€œSir, don’t you know about curling irons? Ladies use them all the time, especially before they sit for a photographer. A lady does seek to look her best for posterity.”
    â€œSounds reasonable.