The Outlaw's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  Juan leaned across the table. “Men in high places have united in a ring of corruption, señora. They take bribes, arrest innocent men, steal land titles.”

  “Who’s in the group, Juan?” Noah caught Isobel’s hand and pressed it to silence her. “Do you have names?”

  “Governor Axtell, of course. But even more dangerous is the United States district attorney. Thomas Catron is a friend to Jimmie Dolan. The two are working together to take the whole territory. Your boss will be lucky ever to get out of jail.”

  “But McSween’s here in Lincoln,” Noah said. “How did he get out of jail?”

  “McSween was set free to settle his business. But Chisum refused to reveal his properties.”

  “So he’s still in jail.” Noah looked at Isobel. “We may want to have you go on up to Santa Fe.”

  “Santa Fe?” Juan frowned. “But why?”

  “Belle has relatives up there.” Noah glanced at Isobel. “Juan, would you send her people a telegram? I may need to send her up there right away if things get worse.”

  “Of course.” Juan stood. “I was planning to pay McSween a visit anyway. We’ll rouse Mr. Paxton to open the telegraph office. Will you come?”

  “Glad to.” Noah rose and patted Isobel’s shoulder. “You stay and visit with Señora Patrón, honey. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll go with you, honey,” Isobel sputtered as she leapt to her feet and nearly upset her chair. Hot anger radiated from the place where Noah had patted her as if she were no more than a dog. “If you send a telegram on my behalf, I must know what it says.”

  Juan chuckled. “Your new wife has a strong will. You must mend your stubborn ways, Noah—or break her spirit as you break the wild horses.”

  Noah was silent a moment before speaking again. “Stay here, Belle. I’ll take care of this.”

  Isobel clenched her jaw as the two men walked to the door. The señora and her children eyed their guest as she stepped to an open window.

  “You did the right thing, Buchanan.” Juan Patrón’s words carried across the night. “A woman should stay at home. If your new wife isn’t happy with that now, she will be soon. You’ll see.”

  Battling fury at Noah, Isobel shifted her attention to the bustling Patrón family. The table was spotless now, its rough pine top scrubbed clean and its mismatched chairs pushed beneath. A clamor of giggles and pleas arose from the kitchen, where Beatriz, surrounded by reaching arms and grasping hands, was doling out portions of yellow custard.

  “Flan?” she asked Isobel, holding out the dish.

  Isobel shook her head. “Where is Alexander McSween’s house?”

  “¡No, señora—por favor!” The woman’s eyes were wide with pleading. “You must stay here! There is much trouble in Lincoln. ¡Violencia!”

  As the children swarmed their mother again, Isobel turned away. A cramped home, rough-hewn furniture, hungry children, corn to grind, clothes to mend. This was the life of a woman in Lincoln.

  Thanking God that she would be leaving Noah Buchanan soon, Isobel sank into a chair. Even now he was sending a telegram to Guillermo Pascal, alerting her betrothed in case she needed a quick escape from Lincoln.

  But if Guillermo came here, he would take Noah’s place as her protector, as the one to help solve her father’s murder. Noah would be free of her. And she of him.

  Isobel closed her eyes, imagining the life she had always dreamed of having. A vast hacienda. Countless cattle. A home filled with beautiful furniture. Gracious parties attended by dignitaries.

  Her eyes snapped open. There would be no visits by members of the Santa Fe Ring if she had any say. And she would have no hacienda to manage if Guillermo had his say. Noah had been right on that account. The Pascal family would swallow up her land. She would be mistress of a prison more than a house. There would be small mouths to feed, meals to plan, stitching to fill her days. How different would that life be from the difficult lot of Señora Patrón?

  A gentle tugging at her skirt caught Isobel’s attention. A bright-eyed little girl with shiny black braids smiled up at her. “La casa McSween is very close. It is just past Tunstall’s store.”

  Isobel shook the girl’s hand. “Gracias, mi hijita.”

  The child scampered away to join her brother in a chasing game. Their mother leaned against the kitchen door, watching her children. As her son ran by, she swept him into her arms and kissed him.

  Amid the laughter and fun, Isobel took her pistol from her saddlebag, drew her shawl around her shoulders and slipped outside. But a glance back at the flat-roofed house revealed a subtle transformation in what she had termed a prison. In the window, mother and child made a picture of happiness. The whitewashed adobe walls glowed almost translucent in the moonlight. The home was swept and scrubbed, the children well fed and cheerful, the mother content.

  Turning away, Isobel wondered if she would find such peace with Guillermo Pascal. Passing a saloon, she saw several men leaning against a crude wooden bar and lifting mugs of beer. They were the likely compadres of a man like Noah Buchanan—common, obstinate, inconsiderate.

  So why did her lips still burn from his kiss? Why did her breath catch in her throat at the memory of his hands around her waist? Worse, far worse, was the persistent image of his gentle smile. She could see that smile even as she hurried down the road, her leather boots stumbling over frozen wagon ruts. There it was as he poured steaming water into her basin, as he offered her a spoonful of scrambled eggs, when he plunged his arms into the dishwater to teach his new wife the mysteries of housekeeping.

  Men were not supposed to be gentle. They were matadors, toreros—vanquishing life as if it were a bull that might rip open their hearts. Brave, strong, intelligent, bold. Fighting the sense that Noah Buchanan might be all these things as well, she hurried past the courthouse, a corral, a small shop.

  As she pulled the shawl over her head, she heard the thunder of hoofbeats on the road. There! A band of men—five or six—riding at a gallop toward her. Clutching the pistol, she crossed the road toward a tumble of stones that had been cemented with mud to form a knobby tower. She crouched down into spiky, frozen grass and watched the riders approach. As they neared the tower, their leader reined his horse.

  “You see that, Evans?” His breath formed a cloud of white vapor.

  “See what?” Another rider edged forward. “We got an ambush?”

  The first man was silent for a moment, listening. Isobel studied the low-slung jaw, the wide, flat nose, the narrow eyes searching the darkness. “I seen something run across the road just as we rounded the curve. It was her.”

  “Confound it, Snake, if you don’t stop seein’ that Mexican gal in every crick and holler, one of us is gonna have to give you what fer.”

  “I ain’t seein’ things this time, Evans.” Snake drew his gun and leveled it at the tower. “She’s over near the torreón. She had somethin’ white on her head, just like that Mexican that seen us level Tunstall.”

  “So what if she’s here? Who’d believe a no-account Mexican over us? We’re deputies of the law, remember?”

  Snake reached into his saddlebag and jerked out a handful of delicate fabric. Isobel caught her breath. Her mantilla! He draped it over the barrel of his gun and waved it in the air. “Listen up, señorita,” he called. “I got your veil—and I’m gonna get you.”

  “Aw, come on, Snake.” Evans spat onto the road. “What is it with you and Mexicans? They ain’t worth half the heed you pay ’em.”

  Snake flipped the mantilla into his open hand and shoved it into his bag. “Let’s go, boys. Dolan’s waitin’.”

  But when the other men spurred their horses down the road, Snake circled around and approached the tower. Isobel shrank into the shadow, her hand trembling as she gripped her gun.

  “I know you’re there, chiquita,” he growled. “One of these days I’ll make you wish you had never laid eyes on Jim Jackson.”

  His horse whinnied as he dug in his spurs. Ho
oves clattered across the frozen track. With difficulty, Isobel got to her feet.

  “Just try to kill me, asesino!” she ground out as she shook her gun at the retreating form. “Murderer!”

  Her blood pulsing in her temples, she lifted her skirts and began to run, her heels pounding out her anger. The shawl slipped to her elbows, catching the frigid wind like a sail. She passed an empty lot and then came to a low-slung building. Its painted sign creaked as it swung in the crisp air.

  “Tunstall Mercantile,” she read aloud. “Dry goods. Bank.”

  Tunstall. Isobel saw again his young face, blue eyes wide with an innocence rarely found in men. The hat, the tweed coat, the brown kidskin gloves. So young, so naive. With a shiver, she set off again, knowing she must find Noah and tell him that Snake Jackson was back in town.

  Grabbing up her skirts, she made for a large adobe house a few yards beyond the Tunstall store. She knocked on McSween’s door. When no one answered, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

  All talking at once, a crowd of men sat around a table. Isobel picked out Dick Brewer, Tunstall’s foreman and Noah’s friend, bent over a sheaf of papers on the table. Billy Bonney had pointed his gun to the ceiling and looked as if he might fire it at any moment. Juan Patrón was shouting at Dr. Ealy, who was arguing back.

  But where was Noah? She scanned the room again until her focus came to a window. On its deep sill Noah sat watching her, his blue eyes soft.

  Isobel approached, her shawl sliding unnoticed to the floor. Her heart thundered as she came to a halt before him. Fingering a loose button at her throat, she shrugged. “I came.”

  He nodded. “I was waiting for you.”

  Chapter Four

  Hand over her mouth, Isobel sagged against the wall. The men around the table turned to look, then resumed arguing. Noah took in the woman’s damp hem, muddy boots, fallen shawl. Her hair had scattered across her shoulders, a golden cape.

  “If you knew I would come,” she murmured, “why did you tell me to stay at Patrón’s house?”

  “I’m supposed to protect you, remember?” he said. Though color was slowly returning to her face, she was breathing as if she had seen a ghost. Noah battled the urge to take her in his arms. “Did Snake Jackson and his boys see you?”

  “Only Snake. Do the others know they’re in town?”

  “Not yet.” He jutted his chin at the boisterous group. “They’re squabbling over how to counter Dolan’s latest move. Sheriff Brady appointed Dr. Appel from Fort Stanton to perform a postmortem on Tunstall’s body. Appel’s a Dolan man. He’ll support the posse’s claim that Tunstall fired first.”

  She frowned. “Then I must give my testimony now.”

  “No.” He caught her hand, drawing her closer. “Don’t say anything, Isobel. Stay out of it.”

  “Did you send a telegram to Santa Fe?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I won’t go until I find my father’s killer.”

  “If things blow here, you’ll need a place to run. Tunstall’s men are bent on revenge. Dolan’s gang will do anything for him.”

  Noah made a place for her on the sill. He couldn’t tell if the woman was terrified or exhilarated by her second brush with danger. Her hazel eyes had gone green in the firelit room. Strands of hair brushed the arch of her brows. That button she was fooling with had dropped off, and he could see the creamy curve of her throat.

  Looking away quickly, he ran his thumb and forefinger around the brim of his hat. Isobel could get herself shot by Snake Jackson. The man had a reputation for killing—he and Billy the Kid over there.

  Isobel was staring at her knotted fingers, and he remembered how they had felt sliding tentatively up his back when he was kissing her. That kiss was a big mistake.

  Noah shut his eyes, recalling the transformation of Isobel’s face from anger to hesitation to pleasure as she had rolled up her sleeves and dipped her arms into warm, soapy water. She had chattered the whole time—something about a horse she’d owned back in Spain. She’d talked on and on, unaware of the tingle that shot up his arm every time she handed him a dish and her wet fingers touched his.

  The kiss had come from that, from the way she had gotten inside his mind. And now here she was beside him, her lips still beckoning. Even worse, he was beginning to care what happened to the señorita.

  “Salir de Málaga para entrar en Malagón,” she said with a sudden smile. “It’s like when you say, ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire.’ My father used to shake his finger and call me la alborotadora, the troublemaker, of my family.”

  “Now you tell me.” Noah shook his head. “Well, Miss Troublemaker, Snake Jackson’s in town, which means the constable hasn’t been able to serve the warrant. He’ll be at Jimmie Dolan’s house cooking up a plan. If we’re smart, we’ll lie low the next few days and then head for Chisum’s place.”

  “Will you ask Señor Patrón about his father’s murder?”

  Noah stood and took her arm. “Let’s head back to the house. Patrón will go with us. I’ll ask him then.”

  They started across the room, and Noah lifted her shawl from the floor where she had dropped it. As he drew it over her shoulders, she leaned against him. It was all he could do to keep from catching her up in his arms right then and there. A kiss…just one more…and surely his craving would be satisfied.

  As they passed the throng of arguing men, he realized Patrón had gotten into the thick of the debate, his face red above his collar and his shouts adding to the chaos in the room. Noah was about to suggest they talk to him later when Isobel slipped away from him and pushed through the crowd.

  At the appearance of a woman in their midst, the men around the table fell silent.

  “Excuse me,” she began. “My husband and I wish to return to the home of our host. Mr. Patrón?”

  “Señora Buchanan,” Patrón spoke up, “forgive my rudeness. Mr. McSween has been kind enough to let us gather in his home to discuss the situation.”

  Noah studied Alexander McSween. No older than thirty-five, the lawyer wore a drooping mustache that hung even with his chin. His tailored suit, polished boots and pocket watch set him apart from his colleagues. Noah had little doubt he was unarmed.

  “A doctor has been bribed to perform the postmortem,” Patrón continued. “We must find a way to avert this injustice. Dick Brewer and Billy Bonney do not agree. Dr. Ealy and I—”

  “Dr. Ealy?” Isobel lifted her eyebrows as if she had never seen the man who had ridden across half the New Mexico Territory with her. “Are you a medical doctor, sir?”

  Dr. Ealy gave an uncomfortable cough. “I am.”

  “Then two doctors must perform the postmortem,” she declared. “Or Dr. Ealy might help with the embalming. It cannot be difficult to record the truth.”

  The men gawked in silence until Dick Brewer finally spoke up. “She’s right, fellers. Doc Ealy, we’ll make sure you help with the postmortem—if you don’t mind. Thank you, Mrs. Buchanan.”

  Isobel tilted her head. “You may call me Belle.”

  As the sea of men parted to let Isobel through, Billy Bonney called to Noah. “Hey, Buchanan, you bringin’ your pretty wife to McSween’s fandango Saturday night?”

  Noah’s blue eyes flicked toward Isobel. “We’ll see. I want to get on over to Chisum’s place.”

  “Come on, Buchanan! I deserve at least one dance with the lovely lady. You may be faster on the draw than me, but I guarantee I’m the best dancer in town.”

  “You’ve got the biggest mouth in Lincoln County, that’s for sure.” Noah shifted his attention as Juan and Isobel joined him. “Hey, Dick. Come here a minute.”

  The young foreman detached himself from the group. As he neared, Susan Gates emerged from the shadows of a back room. Clutching her skirts in her hands, she rushed toward Isobel.

  “Susan!” Isobel caught her friend. “Susan, what’s wrong?”

  “You know this woman?” Patrón asked, his brow draw
n into a furrow.

  “I’ll explain later,” Noah said. “Miss Gates, meet Juan Patrón. Looks like you already know Dick.”

  Susan gave Juan a polite nod, but when she looked into Dick Brewer’s eyes, a pink flush spread across her cheeks. Noah’s friend and the schoolteacher had met only the day before, Isobel realized, but there was an obvious attraction between them.

  She wondered if anyone saw such a spark between Noah and herself. Surely not. After all, Noah was just her protector. He cared nothing for her. And she had no more feeling for him than she might for a loyal stable-hand at her family’s hacienda.

  While he informed the men that Snake Jackson and the posse were in town, Isobel and her friend stepped aside.

  “You’ve lost a button,” Susan said. “My dress doesn’t fit you well. Why don’t we buy some fabric at Tunstall’s store? I’ll sew a new dress for you. Isobel?”

  “That cowboy is looking at you, Susan.” She maneuvered her friend away from Dick Brewer’s line of focus. “Stay away from him. He is in the midst of the trouble.”

  Susan glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t you think he’s terribly handsome?”

  Isobel shrugged. She preferred a man with a stronger frame, with broad shoulders and hands that could bring down a steer. She preferred a man whose face bore the weathering of life, who had seen good and evil—and who knew to choose the good. She preferred—

  “Noah!” she gasped as he caught her around the waist.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he growled against her ear. “This place is a powder keg.”

  As he led them away, Isobel turned and caught her friend’s hands. “Don’t let any man capture your heart, Susan,” she said softly. “Never let anyone take away your dreams.”

  “Oh, Isobel, I…”

  “I’ll come tomorrow. We’ll go to the shops.”

  Susan waved as Isobel, Noah and Patrón stepped outside. As the three started down the moonlit road, Noah spoke. “I see Dick’s taken a fancy to your friend.”