The Outlaw's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  A wash of guilt crept over Isobel as she slipped on Susan’s petticoat. She had married Noah Buchanan under God’s eyes. For as long as she could remember, she had faithfully attended church and said her prayers. She knew this marriage was a sin worthy of the harshest punishment.

  As she fastened the row of buttons lining the bodice of the blue gown, she wondered what she would suffer. Would she lose her chance to wed Guillermo Pascal? Would she never learn the truth behind her father’s death? Or something worse?

  “Dear God,” she whispered in prayer. “Forgive me, please.” She knew God was harsh, vengeful, given to anger. His sacraments were not to be treated lightly. Yet she had done just that.

  Struggling with the shadow such thoughts cast across the morning’s bright sunlight, she slipped on a pair of boots and laced them. She would make the best of the situation, she decided. She would see to it that the contrived marriage lasted no longer than necessary. Noah Buchanan would remain the stranger he had been from the beginning. For a few days Isobel would become Belle Buchanan—a soft-spoken, common woman, like Susan Gates, the schoolteacher.

  Setting her shoulders, Isobel wound her hair into a tight chignon and buried her tortoiseshell comb deep in the saddlebag. Facing the world without her mantilla was uncomfortable. To be bareheaded in public was a disgrace.

  Sighing, she thought of the trunks making their way by mule train to Lincoln Town for transfer to Santa Fe. Gowns of silk, ivory linen, satin and taffeta. Lace mantillas, velvet jackets, cloaks, stockings of every hue. She had packed ebony combs, gold pendants, pearl earrings.

  But an uneven hem, sagging petticoats and a limp cotton dress were the lot of Belle Buchanan. Drawing a shawl around her shoulders, she recalled the hours she and her mother had spent choosing the perfect gowns for a dance or a visit with friends.

  What would Noah think of her transformation? Cautious, she opened the bedroom door. He stood beside a rough-hewn pine table, setting out chipped white plates and spoons. Her heart softening to this strangely gentle man, she stepped out.

  At a sound from the door, Noah glanced up, straightened, and let his gaze trail down the slender figure approaching. Like some Madonna of the prairie, the woman wore a gown of soft blue with a white cotton shawl around her shoulders. Sunlight from the front window framed her, backlighting her golden hair.

  “Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head to clear the surprise and let out a low chuckle. “You sure have changed. You look regular now.”

  The light in her eyes dimmed as she glanced at the fire. “Susan Gates gave me the dress.”

  “It looks fine.” He wanted to rectify his careless comment, but the words came hard. “You look pretty, ma’am. Like you belong here.”

  “But I do not belong here.” She crossed the room and seated herself. “I belong at the Hacienda Pascal in Santa Fe. I have been trained as a marquesa—to oversee many servants, host officials of the government, plan fiestas and bear sons and daughters for my husband in accordance with our Spanish tradition.”

  “Sounds like a real humdinger of a life.” He sat down opposite her. “Care for some scrambled eggs, marquesa?”

  She bristled until he held the frying pan under her nose. “Sí. I suppose I should eat.”

  Noah set a spoonful of fluffy yellow eggs on her plate and a slab of crisp bacon beside them. He reached into an iron kettle, pulled out two steaming biscuits and tossed them onto her plate.

  Bowing his head, he spoke in a low voice. “God, thanks for this new day and Dick Brewer’s grub. Amen. Whew! Good thing Dick had his chickens penned up. Otherwise, we’d have been scrounging for breakfast.”

  At her silence, he glanced up to find her staring at him. “Was that a prayer?”

  “Sure. Talking to God like always.” He spread butter on a biscuit. “Tunstall did right making Dick foreman. He’s got education. He can read and keep record books.”

  “And you? Have you an education, Buchanan?”

  “Name’s Noah.” He took a sip of coffee. “I can read and write. Mrs. Allison taught me.”

  “Who is Mrs. Allison?”

  “Richard and Jane Allison. He owns land around Fort Worth. English folks.” He smiled, remembering. “Mrs. Allison took a liking to me. She didn’t have children of her own, see. She used to invite me into the library—books from floor to ceiling. She read me all kinds of stories, mostly from the Bible. Taught me to read, too. I reckon I read nearly every book in that library.”

  “But where were your mother and aunties to care for you? Why did you live with Señora Allison?

  “I didn’t live in the big house. Mr. Allison put me in with the other hired hands when I was six or seven. I worked in the stables. What about you? Are you educated?”

  “Of course,” Isobel replied. “I had a tutor. Later, my father sent me to a finishing school in France. I speak six languages, and I am accomplished in painting and embroidery. Arranging homes is my pleasure.”

  “Arranging homes?” Noah looked up from his plate and glanced around the cabin with its tin utensils, rickety furnishings and worn rag rug. “What’s to arrange?”

  “Chairs, tables, pictures. My fine furniture will arrive with my trunks. You would never understand such things, Buchanan. Yet we are alike in some ways.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Books. Horses.” She sat back in the chair and studied the fire. “I was away at school when news came of my father’s murder. I wanted to go to America immediately and avenge his death. But my mother was devastated, and she knew nothing of my father’s businesses. So I stayed with her, preparing the books, paying debts, managing the hacienda. Five years passed, and I learned that my greatest love was the land. The cattle. The horses.”

  “Then you’re a vaquero yourself.”

  “Oh, no!” She laughed. “I am a lady.”

  “And the land in Spain? Will you go back one day?”

  Her smile faded. “My mother has remarried, and my brother is grown. Now he and my stepfather fight. In Catalonia, we follow the tradition of the hereu-pubilla. Only a firstborn son can inherit. My brother is the hereu, the heir. He will win the legal battle against my mother’s new husband.”

  “And what about you, Isobel? What about all that work you did while your little brother was growing up? You ought to get something out of it.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “I’m not considered worthy to own land. Nothing is left for me in Spain. I cannot marry there, because my father betrothed me to Don Guillermo of Santa Fe. I’m old now, a soltera, a spinster. So I came here to avenge my father’s death and find the man who stole my land titles.”

  “It’s the land, then.” Noah poured himself another mug of coffee. “You want your land a lot more than you want to marry that don in Santa Fe.”

  “I do wish to marry Guillermo Pascal, of course. But by law the land is mine. I intend to have it.”

  “You won’t have it long if you marry him. The Pascal family is ruthless. They’ll take your property and set you to planning fiestas.”

  “That is not how it will be!” She pushed back from the table and stood up. “I shall manage my own land. Those grants have belonged to the familia Matas from the earliest days of Spanish exploration. Don’t presume to predict my future, Buchanan. You are a vaquero. You know nothing. Now, saddle my horse while I prepare for the journey to Lincoln Town.”

  “Hold on a minute there.” Noah got to his feet and caught her arm. “A cowboy is as worthy of respect as any land-grubbing don. And I didn’t take an oath to be a servant to the grand marquesa. I’ll see to your horse while you wash dishes, but we’re not going to Lincoln today. We’re headed for Chisum’s South Spring River Ranch until the trouble dies down.”

  Nostrils flared, she peeled his hand from her arm. “You may go to the Chisum ranch, Buchanan, but today I speak to Sheriff Brady.” Starting for the bedroom door, she paused and looked back. “And Isobel Matas does not wash dishes.”

  Biting back a retort he would
regret, Noah banked the fire and set off for the barn. He tried to pray his way through the silence as he saddled his horse, and he had just about calmed down when he heard the woman step outside.

  “You finished with those dishes?” he called.

  She lifted her chin. “I am not a servant, señor.”

  He was silent a moment, his jaw rigid. Then he left the horse and strode to the porch. “Listen, señorita. We have a rule out here in the West. It’s called, ‘I cook, you clean.’ Dick let us use his cabin, and we’ll leave it the way we found it. Got that?”

  Her pretty lips tightened. “And in Spain we have a rule also. ‘A woman of property does not wash dishes.’”

  “But you don’t have any property, remember? So you’d better—”

  Noah stopped speaking when the haughtiness suddenly drained from her face. Her brow furrowed as she focused on the distant ridge, and her lips trembled.

  At that moment he saw her as she saw herself: fallen from social class, power, wealth. Linked with a mule-headed cowboy who sassed her and ordered her around. Threatened by a cold-blooded killer. Unsure of her future, maybe even afraid.

  “I…I don’t know how to wash dishes.” Her voice was low, soft. “It was never taught to me.”

  At her confession, he took off his hat and tossed it onto a stool. “Come on, Isobel. I’m an old hand at this. I’ll teach you how to wash dishes.”

  Chapter Three

  The sun painted the New Mexico sky a brilliant orange as Noah Buchanan and his bride, Belle, rode into Lincoln.

  She had not expected this victory.

  While up to her elbows in soapy water, Isobel had told Noah about the letter informing her family that someone in Santa Fe had begun proceedings of land transfer. Unable to learn the name of the man who possessed the Spanish land-grant titles—no doubt the same man who had killed her father and stolen them—Isobel had departed for America.

  As she dried dishes at Noah’s side, he suddenly relented. They would go to Lincoln instead of Chisum’s ranch. But the town would be up in arms over Tunstall’s murder, he warned. Rattlesnake Jackson, Jesse Evans and the rest of the posse would be there, along with Alexander McSween and Tunstall’s men. It would be a powder keg waiting for a match.

  “You’d better get to know New Mexico if you want to run cattle here.” Noah spoke in a low voice as they entered the town. “That plant with the spiky leaves is a yucca. The cactus over there is a prickly pear.”

  Riding a horse borrowed from Dick Brewer, she pointed to a twisted vine. “That’s a sandía, a watermelon.”

  Noah shook his head. “We call it a mala mujer.”

  “A bad woman?”

  “Looks like a watermelon vine. Promises a man relief from his hard life on the trail. But the mala mujer grows only cockleburs.”

  “And so it’s a bad woman—promising much but delivering only pain?”

  “Yep.” He straightened in the saddle. “There’s Sheriff Brady’s place. His neighbor is my friend Juan Patrón. We’ll stay with him.”

  A lump formed in Isobel’s throat. She was here at last, in the town of her father’s burial. And no doubt a place well known to his killer. A dozen flat-roofed adobe houses lined the road. Where it curved, she saw a few finer homes and a couple of stores.

  “Listen, Isobel.” Noah slowed his horse. “I brought you to Lincoln, but while we’re here, you’ll do as I say. Got that?”

  “Sí. But if we disagree, you may go your way. Isobel Matas makes her own decisions.”

  “You’re not Isobel Matas anymore, sweetheart. You’re Belle Buchanan—and you’d best not forget it.”

  He reined in outside a small house with two front doors. “Patrón’s store. He used to be a schoolteacher and a court clerk. When his father was killed in seventy-three, he took on the family business.”

  “Seventy-three?” She slid from her horse into Noah’s arms. “My father was killed in seventy-three.”

  For an instant she was drawn into a dark cocoon that smelled of worn leather and dust. Resting her cheek against Noah’s flannel shirt, she relaxed in its warmth. But at the sound of his throbbing heartbeat, she caught her breath and stepped away.

  “Seventy-three,” she mumbled. “My father—”

  “Old Patrón was murdered by a gang,” Noah cut in. “The Horrell Gang went on a rampage, killing Mexicans.”

  “But my father was from Spain.”

  “Wouldn’t matter. If you speak Spanish around here, you’re a Mexican.” He absently brushed a strand of loose hair from her cheek. “And remember, you’re an American. You don’t understand a word the Patróns are saying. Your name is Belle Buchanan. You’re my wife.”

  She nodded, aware of his fingertips resting lightly on her shoulder. His face had grown gentle again, with that soft blue glow in his eyes, that subtle curve to his mouth. He was too close, his great shoulders a fortress against trouble, his warm hand moving down her arm.

  Her eyes flicked to his. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form words, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. Gentle, tender, his mouth moved over the moist curves as if searching, seeking something long buried.

  She softened. This male kiss, the first of her life, held a delight she had never imagined from the perfunctory pecks of mother and aunts. But it was over as quickly as it had begun. Noah lifted his head and focused somewhere behind her. “Buenas noches, Juan,” he said. “Put down your six-shooter. It’s me.”

  “Noah?” The stout young man started across the darkened porch, walking with a limp. He was sturdy yet trim in a tailored Prince Albert coat. “¡Bienvenidos! You’ve been away too long. Come in, come in!”

  “Juan, I want you to meet someone.” Noah set his hand behind Isobel’s waist. “My wife, Belle Buchanan.”

  “Your wife?” The snapping black eyes widened. “So pleased to meet you, Señora Buchanan.”

  “And I you,” Isobel said softly.

  “Noah, you are the last man on earth I would guess to take a wife. But come inside! You must meet my family.”

  As they started up the steps, Isobel caught Noah’s hand and raised on tiptoe to his ear. “The murder! You must ask him about the murder.”

  He nodded and gave her hand a squeeze. She struggled to dismiss his easy intimacy. The man at her side was only pretending, after all. The kiss had been nothing more than a signal of the role each must play as man and wife.

  She brushed at her dusty skirts and tucked the strand of hair into her chignon. But the burning on her lips remained as she watched Noah’s shoulders disappear through a door leading from the porch.

  “Please meet my wife, Beatriz!” Juan held the door for Isobel. “She is of the family Labadie, from Spain. But they have lived in New Mexico many generations. Beatriz, can you believe Noah has brought a bride?”

  “Señora Buchanan, welcome.” Beatriz, surrounded by children of various sizes, curtsied in greeting.

  At the sight of the woman’s lace mantilla and comb, it was all Isobel could do to keep from hugging her. She managed a whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Sit—Noah, señora.” Juan gestured toward the fire. “How long will you stay with us? A week or more?”

  Noah chuckled as he settled on a bench. Playing the dutiful wife, Isobel took her place at his side. He stretched an arm along the bench back. “We’re just passing through, Juan. I need to settle up with Chisum and then—”

  “But do you not know?” Juan sat forward on the edge of his chair. “Chisum is in jail! Lincoln is in a terrible state. I believe it will soon be war.”

  Noah’s arm moved to Isobel’s shoulders. “What’s going on, Juan?”

  “It is difficult to speak of.” He lowered his voice. “John Tunstall was ambushed and killed yesterday. Shot twice. Most believe it was Jimmie Dolan’s posse.”

  “Dolan. No surprise there.”

  “Tunstall’s men brought his body here. The judge took affidavits from Dick Brewer and Billy Bonney an
d issued arrest warrants for the men in the posse. A coroner’s jury is taking testimony even now.”

  “Who’s named in the warrants?”

  “Jim Jackson, the one they call Rattlesnake. Jesse Evans. Others. Maybe up to forty men.”

  “How’s McSween taking it?”

  Juan shook his head. “You know Alexander McSween. A lawyer—so mild, always thinking of law and justice. I saw the shock on his face when they told him about Tunstall. But he is busy. His house is full of guests. A doctor and his wife, their children, a schoolteacher.”

  Isobel bit her lip to keep from asking about Susan. Noah inquired about his boss as Beatriz set a bowl of steaming posole on a nearby table.

  “Chisum won’t get involved,” Juan predicted, watching his wife ladle out the spicy pork and hominy stew. “But come. I shall tell of Chisum’s predicament at dinner.”

  Isobel followed Noah and hoped she was creating the right impression. But she might as well have been invisible for all the attention paid her.

  “McSween told me the story of Chisum’s jailing,” Juan said after he had asked a blessing on the meal. “Just after Christmas, John Chisum, together with Alexander and Sue McSween, left for St. Louis. McSween was to settle some legal problems for a client. Chisum wanted to see a doctor. He has poor health, no?”

  Noah nodded. “Off and on.”

  “When they reached Las Vegas, the sheriff and a gang of ruffians assaulted them. They knocked Chisum to the ground, and left Mrs. McSween crying in the buggy. She was taken to a hotel, but the men were thrown in jail.”

  “On what charges?” Noah demanded.

  “McSween was accused of trying to steal money from his own clients. Chisum was charged with debt, if you can imagine that. The sheriff wanted him to reveal all his properties, you see, as debtors must.”

  “Dolan’s behind this.”

  “It is bigger than Dolan, my friend. Never forget the ring in Santa Fe.”

  “What ring in Santa Fe?” Isobel could no longer hold her tongue at this mention of her future home.