Isobel tossed her head. “Better to appear foolhardy and defend one’s possessions than to be so concerned for safety that one loses everything. To run is cowardly.”
“Who’re you calling a coward, woman?”
“Certainly I’m not the one who chose to flee danger.”
“No, you’re the one who was so scared she blabbered every secret we were trying to keep under wraps.”
Isobel could hardly argue there. She had collapsed in front of Snake Jackson. But with the clarity of reflection, she realized she should have stood her ground with Noah and insisted they remain in Lincoln.
“A brave person may have a moment of weakness,” she asserted, “but it is your stubbornness that prevents justice.”
Without another word, she climbed onto the buckboard and settled in a pile of blankets in the midst of the trunks.
“Me stubborn?” Noah grumbled as he tended the horses. “She’s so ornery she wouldn’t move camp in a prairie fire. Spanish hothead.”
Isobel pulled a blanket over her head.
“Thinks she’s going to kill Jim Jackson,” Noah muttered.
But as Isobel drifted to sleep, she heard him singing in a low, almost inaudible voice.
“On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God….”
The sun was blazing high overhead when Noah drove down the trail to the home of John Simpson Chisum. Isobel descended from the buckboard, her face aglow with pleasure at the sight of the rambling adobe house built around a central patio.
“This is lovely!” she exclaimed.
“And well built.” Noah slapped the side of the house with a gloved hand. “Long planks are buried inside the walls so no one can saw through it with a horsehair rope.”
“The roof has a pretil,” Isobel whispered.
“A parapet,” Noah corrected. “That wall can protect a lot of armed men from attackers. The place is a fortress. And it’s where I aim to keep you safe from Snake Jackson.”
Isobel looked at him fully for the first time in many hours. “Is this where you stay, Noah?”
“My house is a few miles north. It’s not near as fancy as Chisum’s.”
“Take me there. I want to see your home.”
Noah’s brow lifted. “You’re not leaving Chisum’s for a minute, hear? And while I’m on the subject, I’ve got a few things to tell you.”
“Are these the thoughts that have made you scowl at the world today?”
Noah took off his hat, eyed it a moment, then spoke. “Until John gets out of jail, Isobel, we don’t need to pretend we’re married. Which is good because I don’t want to let things get out of hand.”
“You’re unhappy because you kissed me?”
“Yes. Well…no.” He met her gaze. “It’s not good. Kissing. It is good, but it’s wrong.”
“Pardon me?”
He stuffed his hat back on his head. “We made this arrangement, and we plan to end it one day, right?”
“Yes,” she answered. But it came into her mind as she spoke the word that she could not imagine the day when Noah Buchanan would ride out of her life as swiftly as he had ridden into it.
“So,” he was saying, “I’m going to check on my place while you stay here. You’ll be safe. Nobody can get into John Chisum’s house.”
“Or out?” Anger flared. “You intend to imprison me.”
“I intend to protect you. When John comes home, we’ll act married again. After he sells me the land and we’ve found out what’s become of Snake Jackson, we’ll go our separate ways.”
“And you’ll be rid of me.”
“You’ll be rid of me, too, darlin’.” He touched her chin with the tip of one finger. But he drew away quickly. “I’ll take your trunks inside and then head upriver.”
From the nearby corral, three men wandered over to the buckboard, and Noah greeted them by name. Isobel stood aside as Noah directed the removal of her trunks. Noah carried himself with a quiet authority that Isobel had never noticed. In his long coat, black hat and leather boots, he resembled a military officer. Tall and powerfully built, he stood well above the other men. But it was the confident air with which he gave orders that revealed his true position among them.
Isobel watched, trying to memorize him, yet trying to accept the truth that their marriage was a sham. The moments of tenderness meant nothing to Noah, and she must not forget that.
She walked toward the house, past the rosebushes, willows and cottonwoods. As she stepped into the front room, a voice called out.
“Mrs. Buchanan?” A small, plump woman extended a hand. “I’m Mrs. Frances Towry, Mr. Chisum’s housekeeper. My husband and I moved here from Paris, Texas, a while back. He runs the harness and saddle shop. Our son works on the range. He’s a good friend of your husband. ’Course, I don’t know a soul who ain’t fond of Noah. You got yourself a mighty fine man, Mrs. Buchanan.”
“Thank you,” Isobel said, mustering a smile.
“Welcome to South Spring River Ranch. And this here’s our cook.” She gestured to a chocolate-skinned man. “Pete, say howdy to Mrs. Buchanan.”
As they greeted one another, Isobel began to see that John Chisum enjoyed the same lifestyle in which she had been reared. The house was large, cool and well-appointed with furniture and plush carpets. Mrs. Towry prattled on as she led Isobel to a fine bedroom.
“I’m gonna put you and your husband right here in Mr. Chisum’s room. Now, don’t look so shocked. See this beautiful bed?” A mattress, feather tick and bolster rested on an elaborately carved bedstead. “He won’t touch this. Every night, he sets up his camp bed.”
“But why?”
Mrs. Towry smoothed a hand over the embroidered shams. “Says it’s too much trouble to fold up the bedding.” A twinkle lit her gray eyes as she glanced at Isobel. “Mr. Chisum is known for pulling jokes. So…if he don’t like his own bed, I’ll settle you and your husband into it. See how that suits him.”
Isobel didn’t see how such a joke would endear her to John Chisum. Before she could protest, Noah entered the room, and Mrs. Towry scuttled out.
“Everything okay?” he asked, jamming his hands into the pockets of his denims, as though fearful he might touch her.
“It’s good,” she said, trying to smile.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?”
“You’ve threatened to chase down Snake Jackson.”
“If I leave, everyone will know I’m not Belle Buchanan. That would ruin your plan to buy land from Mr. Chisum.”
“Isobel.” He stepped closer. “I’ll get my land one way or another. That’s not why I want you to stay away from Lincoln. Snake will kill you.”
She shrugged. “If I’m dead, you won’t have to bother with me.”
“Listen, woman.” He clamped her shoulders in his hands. “I swore to protect you, and I’m not backing down on that.”
“You also swore to be my husband.”
“I’m not your husband. Don’t tempt me, Isobel.”
“How do I tempt you? Tell me.”
“Your eyes…your hair…your lips.” He drew her against him.
“Noah,” she murmured. “I, too, decided some days ago that I must look to my own future.”
“That’s right.” His blue eyes searched her face.
“We are very different. And we want such different things from life.”
“Isobel…”
“Kiss me once, Noah. Before you go.”
“Isobel…” But his lips pressed hers in a kiss that broke the flimsy barriers of restraint. She slipped her arms around him as she had dreamed of doing. But in a moment, he broke
away.
“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice strained. “No. It’s not right.”
“Then go, Noah Buchanan. Go to your safe little house. Run away from me. Run from every danger in your life.”
“I’m no coward, girl. But steering clear of calamity is how I keep myself alive long enough for my dreams to come true.”
“And going mano a mano—hand to hand—with calamity is how I make dreams come true.”
He shook his head. “Isobel…Isobel.”
“Goodbye, Noah.” She turned away lest he see the tears brimming in her eyes. This was the last time he would ever hold her, the last time their lips would touch. Their destinies called them in opposite directions, and each had to obey the beckoning whisper.
By the time the moon rose Noah had settled into the four-room adobe jacal he had built at the edge of the Pecos River. He checked on the old milk cow and dozen hens he kept penned in a roughshod barn. His neighbor downriver, Eugenio Baca, looked after the stock when he was gone.
By lantern light Noah meandered down to an old cottonwood tree and dug up his pail of money. It was all there—ten years’ worth of scrimping and saving. More than enough to buy the acreage adjoining his home. As he reburied the pail and shifted the heavy slab of limestone back into place, he couldn’t help but smile. He had the money. He had the wife. And pretty soon he’d have the land.
He slept well. The following morning, he swept and mopped, gathered eggs, milked his cow. Woman’s work, but he was used to it. He couldn’t imagine Isobel doing the common chores that made a house a home. She would expect servants to obey her every command. Good thing she was settled at Chisum’s place.
The next day, Noah unpacked his pens and ink and started writing a story that had been tickling his thoughts ever since Tucson. Working hard, he stayed up half the night, his thoughts racing and the precious oil in his lamp burning. He could hear the men talking inside his head. He could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder and taste the dry dust in his mouth with each new sentence, each paragraph, each page.
He wrote all day Thursday. Almost forgot to milk the cow. Forgot to chop wood. Snow began to fall outside his window, but Noah didn’t see it. He was out on the prairie, sun beating down on his shoulders, sweat trickling from his brow. He was shooting wild turkeys and riding a fiery black stallion and bunking down at night with an Indian blanket twixt him and the ground. Stars by the million twinkled overhead. The smell of blooming cactus filled his nostrils by day. The low of the cattle made music in his ears. Amazing how writing could transport you to another time and place.
Around three o’clock in the morning, Noah fell asleep at the kitchen table. His lamp flickered out. Snowflakes slipped in under the front door. Frost crept up the new glass windowpanes.
“Noah? Are you in there?”
He lifted his head. Running a hand across his chin, knocking ice crystals from his beard, he scowled at the shuddering door.
“Noah Buchanan! Open this door at once!”
No mistaking that voice. “Isobel,” he croaked. “What in tarnation are you doing here?”
“I’ve come with my furniture, Noah.”
What was that supposed to mean? he wondered as he tried to stand. Oh, no, must have forgotten to light a fire. He stepped to the door, suddenly aware he felt hungry enough to eat a saddle blanket.
“Isobel, what do you…” He was growling as he dragged the door open, but the sight of her stopped his words.
Oh, the woman was a beauty. Dressed in a royal-blue wool cloak with the hood pulled up, she stood like a queen on his porch. Her red gloves and red boots were the only spots of contrasting color, save her bright pink cheeks and lips. Her hazel eyes flashed as one eyebrow lifted.
“You have been drinking, Noah Buchanan,” she announced.
Pushing past him with a sweep of her hand, she stepped into the icy room. At the sight of rumpled blankets, dirty dishes and the table piled with papers, she gave a cry.
“Shame, Noah!” She stripped off her gloves and headed for the woodstove. “I let you out of my sight and you become a borrachón. What have you been drinking? Whisky? Rum?”
Noah watched dumbfounded as she clanked open his stove door and began to build a fire. A lopsided effort that would smoke up the house before it caught flame.
“I had hoped we might never see each other again,” she was saying. “I knew you planned to keep me from my appointed task.”
“Killing Snake Jackson is not your appointed—”
“Unfortunately, my furniture arrived.”
A prickly feeling wandering up his back, Noah looked out the front window. Two oxcarts loaded with crates waited by the porch.
“You brought the furniture here?”
“Storing it for me is the least you can do, Noah, since you have refused to help me go after Snake Jackson.”
They stared at each other.
“Well, you look good anyhow, Isobel,” Noah told her.
“You look terrible.” Her glance fell on the table littered with reams of paper and inkwells. “You have been writing!”
“Finished my first story last night.” Suddenly enthusiastic, he grabbed the sheaf of paper from the table. “‘Sunset at Coyote Canyon.’ That’s the title. You wouldn’t believe the ending. There’s a no-good skunk of a fellow who sneaks up, and then…well…”
“And what happens?” Isobel settled on a chair, water from her cloak puddling around her feet as the room warmed.
“Well…” Noah fumbled. “Aw, never mind…”
“Is it ready to mail to New York? I’ll take it to the post office when I return to Lincoln.”
He studied the pages—scrawled handwriting, blotches of ink, scribbles where he’d added ideas that had come to him. “No, it’s not near ready.”
“I shall cook breakfast,” Isobel announced. “You will read the story to me.”
Without giving him opportunity to protest, she shed her cloak, rolled up her sleeves and set to work. “Read, Noah!” she commanded.
He cleared his throat, settled into a chair and began to speak aloud words that once had been only in his mind.
Isobel smiled as she tapped a spoonful of grease into the black iron frying pan.
“Up on the ridge a coyote began to howl,” Noah read, “a sound that blended with the whine of the wind and the owls’ soft hoot.”
Isobel cracked six eggs, one by one, into the sizzling grease.
Chapter Ten
“Opal stood between Travis and Buck. In her arms she carried the newborn babe.” Noah’s voice lowered as he read the words. “She looked into the eyes of the stranger who had come to kill her husband. ‘You’ll have to shoot me first, Buck Shafer,’ she said. ‘I won’t be parted from the man I love.’”
Isobel was absently stirring the third batch of scrambled eggs she had made that day. Eyes closed, she listened to the final pages of Noah’s story.
They had eaten eggs for breakfast, lunch and now supper, and she had burned them the first two times. But she could do nothing but listen as his words transported her into the tale.
“Travis gazed into the face of his wife,” Noah continued, “and at the sweet expression of his newborn son in her arms. ‘We’re all right,’ Opal whispered as they stared at the man who lay dead on the floor. Then Travis and his family stepped outside into the flaming orange sunset of Coyote Canyon.’”
Noah placed the last page upside down on the rest of his manuscript. “In my mind, it came out better. The story flowed like water down a ravine. On paper it got jumpy.”
His words drifted off, and he sat staring at the table as though he felt sick. “Just a bunch of scrambled words,” he muttered, “like those eggs you’re cooking.”
From behind, Isobel slipped her arms around his neck. She pressed her damp cheek against his. “It is a good story, Noah.”
“You’re crying?” he whispered.
“If I read this story in Catalonia, I would know that canyon. I would se
e those people.”
“What about Opal? You probably think I should have let her blast Buck Shafer to kingdom come, like you would have done.”
Isobel came around Noah and knelt beside his chair. “Opal did what was right. She protected the baby.”
“Isobel, why did you come here?”
“My…my furniture, of course.”
He shook his head. “You’re in quite a tangle. You want to be bold, shoot-’em-up Isobel Matas. But somewhere inside there’s a Belle Buchanan who likes fixing up a house and cooking for her man. There’s a woman who cries when a story comes out right. And there’s a woman who can’t stay away from the man she loves. The man she needs.”
“You flatter yourself. I don’t need anyone.”
“You need me.” He touched her cheek with a finger when she started to shake her head. “Yes, you do.”
“No,” she said, but her eyes again filled with tears. “Oh, Noah.”
“There’ll be other men for you, Isobel. Men who’ll fit into your schemes better than I do.”
She knew he was wrong. Not only was she a spinster, but in the days apart from him she had realized she wanted no one else.
“Isobel, you have to go back to Chisum’s,” he was saying. “I’ve got chores. And the cow—”
“The cow, the chores!” She pushed away from him and stepped to the stove. “Excuses. The truth for you is the same as for me. You love me.”
“But I never let my heart take control. If I’m angry, I give myself time to cool down. If I care for a woman who’s no good for me, I back away.”
“I’m no good for you?”
“You’re so good I can’t stand to be this close and not touch. But, Isobel, what could come of it?”
“Then we shall bring in my furniture,” she replied, striding to the door. “Stop gawking like a schoolboy and come along.”
As Noah dragged the last velvet-upholstered chair across the dirt floor of his house. He had never seen so much furniture in his life. A huge wooden bed sat in pieces to reassemble. A settee and three chairs were lined up by the fireplace. Rolled carpets lay stacked in the bedroom. Dishes and fine linens cluttered the floor. An enormous, gold-framed mirror almost filled one wall.
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