The Outlaw's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  “What do you know about a good marriage, Susan?” Isobel challenged her. “The great families of Spain have made such unions for centuries. No one sits about moaning for love. We marry well because it is our tradition. I am obligated to marry Don Guillermo.”

  Susan embraced her friend. “Don’t be angry, Isobel. We come from different worlds. To me, Dick Brewer seems like he stepped out of a dream.”

  “Dreams vanish, pffft!” Isobel clicked her fingers. “Like that!”

  Susan walked to the window. “I always wanted to fall in love. I know it happened fast, but I do love Dick.”

  Fumbling with the unruly buttons of her wrinkled bodice, Isobel realized Susan looked different today. Filled with uneasiness at her memories of Noah’s kisses, she hoped she didn’t appear smitten, too.

  “Let’s go down to the mercantile,” Susan chirped. “We need to sew you a gown that fits. You want to look pretty for Noah Buchanan, don’t you?”

  “Such nonsense you speak!” Isobel chided her friend.

  Aware she was blushing, she snatched her white cotton shawl and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders as she and Susan set off. The day was sunny, and the frozen road had begun to thaw. Scraggly dogs and snuffling pigs wandered through the mud. Wisps of piñon smoke floated from beehive ovens beside the adobe houses that lined the road. The smell of baking bread hung in the morning air, mingling with the scent of bacon and strong coffee.

  “Are you going to the fandango Saturday night?” Susan asked. “Folks are saying it’ll help ease the tension in town. We could all use some fun.”

  Isobel shook her head. “I’ve already spent too much time in the company of rough American men.”

  “Last night, Dick asked me for the first three dances.”

  “And the wedding? When is that happy event?”

  “Wedding!” Susan elbowed her friend. “Stop teasing, Isobel. I want to teach school for at least a year. After that, who knows?”

  As she walked, Isobel pictured Noah as he’d been the night before, his arms around her, his kisses burning like fire on her lips.

  “Susan,” she said. “Did you hear Noah Buchanan say anything to Dick about me?”

  “Not this morning, no. But last night Dick told me a few things about Noah.”

  “Yes?”

  “He said that in the past few days it seemed like something was bothering Noah. Eating at him. Dick said Noah wouldn’t talk about it, but…”

  “But what?” Isobel’s fingers tightened on her shawl. “What, Susan?”

  “Well…Dick made me promise not to tell.”

  Isobel stopped in the middle of the street, her sodden hem swaying against boots caked with mud. “Susan, you must tell me. Noah Buchanan is bound to me by that silly, reckless vow we made. He’s going to stay with me until I’ve found my father’s killer and recovered my land titles. You must tell me everything you know about him.”

  Susan heaved a sigh. “If you must know…Noah writes.”

  “Writes? Writes what?”

  “Stories. He hopes to publish them in a New York magazine. But Dick says that, with you to look after, Noah figures he’s going to have his hands too full to write. He sort of wishes he hadn’t agreed to protect you so you’d testify.”

  Isobel stared down at the mud on her fine leather boots. Noah Buchanan was a writer? She tried to visualize his big shoulders bent over a sheaf of papers, a pen gripped in his powerful brown fingers—fingers more suited to wrestling a steer than forming letters.

  Noah had mentioned the woman in Texas who had read the Bible to him and taught him to spell and count. But what tales would a vaquero have to tell? Noah had no life beyond dusty trails and herds of longhorn cattle.

  How dare he resent her for keeping him from his cow stories! Well, she must put all thoughts of the man out of her head and resume searching for her father’s murderer, Isobel decided. She must forget the heat of his touch and the pleasure of his lips. The best she could do for herself—and for Noah Buchanan—was to finish her business in Lincoln Town and leave.

  Chapter Six

  “I must go to the courthouse,” Isobel announced. Turning toward the building across from the torreón, she heard Susan give a cry of exasperation.

  “The courthouse? But Isobel, what about shopping?”

  “A new dress can wait. I must find out about my father.”

  Whitewashed caliche walls shaded by the deep courthouse porch reminded Isobel of her home in Catalonia. She tried to focus her thoughts. She must learn where the public records were kept. Later, she would ask about church records. Striding into the large room, her head full of plans and her vision blinded by sunlight, she almost bumped into Noah Buchanan.

  “Isobel.” He caught her arm.

  “Noah.” Their eyes met and held for a heartbeat. She tried to make herself smile, but her mouth had gone dry.

  He took off his hat, his hair lifting and then settling against his head. “Morning, Isobel.”

  “Good morning.”

  In that brief moment it occurred to her that she had never seen as handsome a man in all her life. He was nothing at all like the guapo Spanish dons who had courted her. Noah wore his broad shoulders as another man might wear a relaxed and easy-fitting coat.

  Clean-shaven and smelling like fresh rainwater, Noah had on a sky-blue shirt that matched his eyes. His battered black leather jacket hung unbuttoned to the gun belt and holster at his waist. Denim trousers skimmed his thighs. His fingers touched the brim of his hat as gently as they had cupped Isobel’s cheek.

  “Excuse me,” she breathed out. “I need to find records…my father.”

  “Here, Isobel. I copied out the records for you.” He set a sheaf of handwritten documents in her open palm. His voice was low as he related what he had learned. “Your father died on January eighteenth, 1874.”

  “No, it was seventy-three,” she protested.

  He pointed out the written evidence. “He was buried on the nineteenth. The report is sketchy, but you’ll be interested in it.”

  Isobel stared at the documents—proof at last of what she had traveled so far to learn. But Noah drew her attention.

  “Squire Wilson,” he said, indicating a middle-aged man peering at them through a pair of foggy spectacles. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Belle, and her friend Miss Gates. Ladies, Squire Green Wilson is Lincoln’s justice of the peace. The town holds district court here once a year. The rest of the time, it’s a meeting room and dance hall.”

  The heavyset man stood. “Forgive me for not being more sociable, Mrs. Buchanan, Miss Gates. I was awake most of the night taking affidavits, issuing warrants, impaneling a jury and whatnot.”

  “Squire Wilson found the report you needed,” Noah told Isobel in a tone she found patronizing. “Wasn’t that nice, honey?”

  She shot him a look as the justice absently leafed through a stack of papers on his desk. “Glad I could help out. I keep these records, and nobody ever takes a second look at ’em. ’Course, now with all the trouble, you can bet the bigwigs up in Santa Fe will come snooping around.”

  “Thanks, Squire.” Noah caught Isobel’s waist and turned her toward the door. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  “Certainly, honey,” she replied, echoing his manner.

  Noah paid her no heed as they stepped out into the brilliant sunshine and began walking in the direction of the store. “Last night,” he told the women, “the jury decided Tunstall was killed by Jimmie Dolan’s posse. Several of the leaders, including Evans and Snake Jackson, were named, but no one has been arrested yet.”

  Isobel’s heart began to pound harder. “And the rest of us? Did they mention me?”

  “Nobody said a word about our being there.” He was silent a moment before continuing. “Cavalry troops from Fort Stanton came to town late yesterday to keep the peace. Sheriff Brady ordered the Tunstall store to provide hay for their horses. Alexander McSween accused Brady of larceny for appropriating the hay from Tu
nstall’s estate. So, Squire Wilson issued warrants for Brady and his men. The constable arrested the sheriff this morning and the squire released him on bond of two hundred dollars.”

  “Everyone is arresting everyone else,” Isobel remarked.

  “Tempers are hot and getting hotter by the minute. McSween is using his legal know-how to bring Sheriff Brady and Jimmie Dolan to justice for Tunstall’s murder.”

  “Did Dr. Ealy assist in the postmortem on that poor man’s body?” Susan asked.

  “Both doctors performed the postmortem.”

  “And?” Isobel’s curiosity grew as she strode alongside the strapping cowboy.

  “Dr. Ealy recorded the truth,” Noah said. “Tunstall’s body was not only shot but abused. The report confirms what you said about Evans shooting the Englishman in the head after he was already dead.”

  A sense of relief washed over Isobel. “I must testify immediately,” she declared. “Let’s go back, and I’ll tell the squire everything I saw. Alexander McSween has the upper hand, and my testimony will see Dolan, Snake and the others thrown straight into jail.”

  “Whoa, now.” Noah slowed his stride. “You march into the courthouse with that story, and you’re dead if Snake has half a chance to get at you.”

  “Mr. Buchanan,” Susan cut in. “You just tell Isobel what happened to her father. Then we’ll put her into some decent clothes and send her off to Santa Fe.”

  Noah paused, his eyes narrowing as they pinned Isobel. “Santa Fe?” he asked. “Is that what you want?”

  “I want to know about my father,” she told him softly.

  “It’s all in the report. He was shot once—in the chest. One of his guards was still alive when Dick Brewer found them on the trail.”

  “Dick Brewer!” Susan squeaked. “Dick found Isobel’s father?”

  Noah nodded. “He was riding to Lincoln for supplies. The guard told him a gang of twenty men had attacked their party. The man who killed your father wasn’t the leader, but he was the biggest talker. After they’d shot all the travelers, the men stole everything. The guard died before Dick got him to Lincoln, poor fellow, and there wasn’t enough evidence to indict anyone.”

  Absorbing everything, Isobel stared at the ink scribbled across the crumpled pages. Banditos had killed her father. Twenty men? But who?

  “The Horrells?” she asked him. “Do you think they did it?”

  “We’ll ask Dick. He’ll know more than anyone else.”

  “Let’s go find him,” Susan said eagerly.

  Isobel shook her head. “Before we speak to Dick, I must bear witness to what I know about the murder of John Tunstall.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Isobel.” Susan’s voice rose. “You should stay out of this. You’ll be killed, just like your father was, and what good will that do anyone?”

  Without responding, Isobel studied a store across the street. The two-story building was surrounded by soldiers sent from Fort Stanton to keep order.

  “You are wise,” she told her friend. “Let’s purchase fabric for my new dress. Our first stop will be the store of Mr. Jimmie Dolan.”

  A haze of piñon smoke filtered over Lincoln as Noah escorted his wife, Belle, and the town’s new schoolteacher onto the porch of Dolan Mercantile. Four white posts supported the porch roof, which was also a balcony. Unlike the flat-roofed adobe jacales lining Lincoln’s single street, Jimmie Dolan’s store had a sloping, shingled roof with three chimneys. Eight windows on the lower floor and eight above assured that Dolan and his employees were aware of any shopper’s approach long before the front door opened.

  “We need a code,” Noah said to Isobel under his breath. “You can’t testify unless we’re sure the killers are the men we think they are.”

  “When I see the man who murdered Mr. Tunstall,” Isobel said, “I’ll say the word yellow. Blue will be the man who shot second.”

  “Isobel.” He caught her hand. “You be careful. Don’t lose your head in there.”

  “Of course not. Belle Buchanan never loses her head.” She initiated a chat with Susan as the group stepped into the store. Noah lifted up a silent prayer for God to protect them all…and to put a lock on Isobel’s tongue.

  “Buchanan,” a gruff voice called out from a group of men standing around an iron potbellied stove. “Don’t you know better’n to come in here?”

  Noah took off his hat as the men touched the six-shooters on their hips. “Don’t get testy now, fellows,” he told them. “My bride here is looking to make a new dress.”

  “A dress?” Snake Jackson stepped to the front of the group. “Get your saddle-sore backside outa here, Buchanan. Jimmie Dolan don’t want no Chisum men—”

  “There!” Isobel moved forward and placed a hand on Snake’s arm. “Do you see that yellow fabric? Near the ladder? Will you get it for me, sir?”

  For an instant Snake’s focus slid across the room and scanned the rows of brightly colored fabric bolts. Then he jerked his arm away and spat a thick, arcing stream of brown-red tobacco juice into the brass spittoon near the door.

  “Get yer wife outa here, Buchanan,” he snarled, “before I blast the three of you to kingdom come!”

  “That’ll look good on the squire’s books,” Noah retorted, stuffing his hat back on his head. “Belle, honey, which bolt did you want Mr. Jackson to take down for you?”

  “The yellow. That bright yellow silk near the ladder.”

  “Ah, Mr. Buchanan. I’m afraid this is not an opportune day for shopping.” A short, slender man entered from a side door. He wore a black broadcloth tailcoat and trousers, a red vest and a stiff white shirt with a black bow tie. His hair was a thick mass of unruly curls.

  Noah nodded a greeting. “Hello there, Jimmie. I’d like you to know my new wife, Belle. And this is Lincoln’s new schoolteacher, Miss Gates. Ladies, meet Jimmie Dolan.”

  “Such a lovely store you have, Mr. Dolan.” Isobel dropped the barest of curtsies. “I’ve already found a yellow silk that will suit me just fine.”

  “Didn’t you hear the man?” Evans growled. “We don’t want a Chisum man in our territory.”

  “You know, dear, I also favor that blue,” Isobel told Noah, her voice breathless. She turned to Evans. “Sir, would you be so good as to fetch me that blue calico?”

  “Don’t you hear good, lady?” Snake started toward her, his eyes narrowing. “Jimmie Dolan ain’t gonna trade with no Chisum—”

  “It’s all right, Snake, Evans.” Dolan’s speech carried an Irish lilt that might have sounded pleasant on another man. “Mrs. Buchanan, I’m afraid we’ve had a little trouble in Lincoln. Perhaps you’d better do your shopping another day.”

  Noah glanced at Susan, whose fragile face had faded from pale to white. The schoolteacher looked ready to faint. But Isobel gave Jimmie Dolan a coy smile.

  “My dear Mr. Dolan,” she said in a soft, buttery accent. “I am in the uncomfortable situation of having almost nothing to wear. May I see that adorable blue calico? Please?”

  The Irishman glanced at the row of armed men lurking behind him. The one who was wearing a brass badge on his chest took a stump of cigar from his mouth.

  “I believe Mr. Dolan just said he’s not open for business,” the lawman informed them.

  “Sheriff Brady, what are you doing here?” Noah drawled. “If there’s trouble in Lincoln, shouldn’t you be down at the courthouse? It wouldn’t look too good if folks knew the sheriff was hiding out at Jimmie Dolan’s store.”

  “Hiding out?” Brady snarled.

  “Sheriff. Buchanan.” Dolan put up his small, ring-bedecked hand. “Men, why don’t you take your seats by the fire? I’ll see that Mrs. Buchanan gets her fabric.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Dolan.” Isobel awarded him a radiant smile. “How kind of you.”

  Noah had no intention of leaving her side for a moment. Dolan made his way around the counter and hooked the bolt of blue calico down into his arms. “It’s fifty cents a yard, ma’am.” H
e tossed the fabric on the counter. “That yellow silk is five dollars a yard.”

  Noah sensed Snake Jackson eyeing Isobel from his position against a wooden post.

  “Five dollars. My goodness!” She fingered the yellow silk and then the coarse cotton printed with tiny white sprigs on a blue field. “And the width?”

  “Twenty-two inches for the calico. Eighteen for the silk.”

  “I’ll need at least twenty yards to make a dress, won’t I, Mr. Dolan?”

  Noah watched her turn the dull fabric this way and that. Then, unexpectedly, she turned to face Snake Jackson. “Is there something wrong, sir?” she asked. “You have been staring at me.”

  Without taking his eyes from her, he straightened. “You always wear that shawl, ma’am?”

  Her cheeks paled. “May I ask why you would want to know that, sir?”

  “I’m looking for a woman I seen in a shawl just like that one. A woman about your size—”

  “Snake,” Evans called out, rising from his chair. “Get over here, and leave them people alone.”

  “You have a mighty odd accent, ma’am,” Snake went on as Evans approached. “Like Mexican talk, maybe?”

  She tried to smile. “I’ve never been to Mexico, sir.”

  “Get your snake-eyed mug back here.” Evans stomped up to the counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from one hand. “’Scuse ol’ Snake, here, ma’am. He thinks he’s seein’ ghosties ever’where.”

  “I am seein’ ghosties. Mexican ghosties with little lace veils.”

  “Let’s get out of here, honey,” Noah said, reaching his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll take ten yards of the blue stuff, Dolan. Mark it down, and I’ll send you the money when Chisum pays me.”

  A slow smile spread over the Irishman’s face. “You’ll have a long wait for John Chisum to be paying you, Mr. Buchanan. I’m afraid he’s in jail.”