Heading out the door to check on his cow just before midnight, Noah could hear Isobel singing Spanish ditties as she filled cupboards with her brightly painted plates and cups. How had he gotten into such a mess? A hot-blooded señorita determined to gun down Snake Jackson. A head full of stories that wouldn’t hush until he wrote them down. A boss in jail, and a best friend sitting on a keg of dynamite in Lincoln. And now a house full of frilly velvet furniture.
As he returned to the house he heard a strange sound—clickety-click-click, clickety-click, ding, clickety-click.
What now? He shouldered into the front room. Isobel was bent over a small machine on his pine table. Her fingers darted around clickety-clacking on the machine as her eyes scanned his manuscript.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“It’s my Remington!” She swung around and laughed aloud. “It makes letters—like a printing press. I used my typewriter to keep records for our hacienda, but it came from America. See? E. Remington and Sons of Ilion, New York.”
Frowning at the contraption, Noah studied the springs, ratchets and levers jumbled among a pair of spools and an inked ribbon. “What do you aim to do with it?”
“I aim to put your story into type before we post it to New York. Look, the first page is finished.”
She held up a sheet of white paper with capital letters marching in a straight line across the top. SUNSET AT COYOTE CANYON BY NOAH BUCHANAN.
He whistled softly and sat down beside her as she began to touch the keys again. “Reads pretty good,” he murmured as his story began to appear at the top of the unrolling paper. “Well, how do you like that.”
“I like it,” she said. Her slender wrists moved back and forth in a graceful dance. “When we send it to New York, they’ll like it, too.”
A smile playing at her lips, she clickety-clacked until a second page rolled out of the Remington. Noah leaned one elbow on the table and watched. He felt off balance. Hadn’t he planned to stow Isobel safely at Chisum’s house? Hadn’t he decided there was no future in wooing her? She didn’t want to be hooked up with a dusty cowboy for the rest of her life. He had never planned on a wife and family.
So why did her fancy Spanish furniture somehow feel just right in his adobe house? Why had it warmed his heart to walk in the front door and find her seated at his table?
He studied the gold ringlets that fell from the bun at the back of Isobel’s head. She was wearing the blue dress again. The one she and Susan Gates had made. Little ruffles clustered around her neck. Little cuffs clasped her slender wrists.
“This part about the coyote I like very much,” she said softly. “It makes me shiver.”
The scent of her skin drifted over Noah while she spoke. Unable to resist, he trailed kisses up her neck. The clickety-click faltered. When his lips met her ear, the typing stopped altogether.
She faced him, her face a mix of tenderness and frustration. “Noah, you said you didn’t…”
“But…I do.”
“I’ll type your story tonight and leave for Chisum’s in the morning. You’re tired. Go to bed.”
He took her shoulders and turned her toward him. “I know what we said about the marriage, Isobel. And I know we meant every word. But there’s no way I can be near you and not start thinking about what it’s like to kiss you. You feel it, too, Isobel. I know you do.”
“When you left, I sat alone in the big house of John Chisum and thought about my life, my future.” She lifted her head and met his eyes. “Death runs close behind me. I feel its breath on my skin.”
“Isobel, I’m going to take care of you.”
“Listen to me, Noah. I have nothing to claim as my own. Nothing. My own death or the killing of a man—perhaps both—these are my only paths. My heart is desperate.”
“You’re making this worse than it is. Don’t you know God has a good plan for you?”
“God? The God who permitted my father’s murder? You put your faith in a tale no more true than this one.” She pointed to his manuscript. “My future is in no one’s hands but my own. Put yourself in my place, Noah. What would you do?”
He let out a breath. “I’d go after the man who stole my land. I’d track down Snake Jackson. But you don’t have to do that. You can go back to Spain.”
“Once I was a noblewoman. Betrothed to a don, I was a lady of high breeding and exquisite taste. Now, my heart has been turned upside down. I care nothing for that life.”
“It’s this land—New Mexico. The mountains and streams.”
“It’s you, Noah.” Before she could think clearly, she slipped her arms around him and kissed his lips.
“Mercy, Isobel,” he murmured. Taking her in his arms, he held her close. “Isobel, no matter what we said, I’m not ever going to let you go. I hope you know that.”
She shut her eyes and nestled against his shoulder. “Perhaps, Noah. Perhaps.”
They set up the new bed in the front room. Isobel slept alone, her dreams tangled and frightening. Noah kept mostly to his room when he was in the house. For three days, no word of past or future was spoken between them. A gale of wind ushered in the first days of March. Snow quickly melted, dry leaves whisked away, shoots of green grass along the Pecos River pushed upward.
While Isobel continued unpacking and arranging her things, Noah went hunting. There was no scarcity of wild game along the river, and in no time flat he had bagged a brace of rabbits.
“Oh, Noah,” she cried, her eyes bright with unshed tears as he laid them out. “They’re bunnies!”
“They’re food, darlin’.”
He handed her a knife and taught her how to skin and dress the rabbits. With a kettle of simmering water, a handful of turnips and carrots from the root cellar and a dash of salt, he taught her to make stew.
As the aroma drifted through the jacal, Isobel lined the edges of Noah’s cabinets with ribbons of white lace she had brought from Spain to wear in her hair.
“Curtains,” she said aloud, musing on the glass windowpanes. “We must have curtains.”
Noah straightened from the bowl of cornbread batter he was stirring. “What for? Nobody’s around to look in.”
“A home must have curtains. They let in the light just so….”
Noah rubbed his chin where he’d shaved that morning. “You know, when Mrs. Allison passed away a few years ago—”
“She’s dead? Your Mrs. Allison?”
He nodded. “Some kind of a fever got her. Just like the one that got my mother.” He fell silent for a moment. “Mr. Allison sent me a trunk from Texas. Things Mrs. Allison wanted me to have. I took one look inside and shut it quick.”
“But why?”
“Aw, it was just the kind of stuff Mrs. Allison loved. I think I saw some fancy curtains in there, pictures of pink roses, silver spoons. It made me sad to look at them, being as they were Mrs. Allison’s prized possessions.”
Isobel watched the flicker of pain that crossed his face and realized the childless Englishwoman had been the only mother Noah had known. “Please show me the trunk, Noah.”
Leaving the cornbread, he led her into a back room where he kept his stores. He raised the trunk’s domed lid, and Isobel caught her breath.
“Lace curtains from Nottingham in England.” She lifted the soft fabric and hugged it close. “Oh, they’re exquisite.”
A small grin tugged at Noah’s mouth. “Exquisite, huh?”
The trunk was filled with treasures—a silver tea set, porcelain cups and saucers, bone china candlesticks. The heavy linen napkins and tablecloths were evidence of the woman’s wealth, and her love for Noah.
Isobel lifted a heart-shaped pewter box and peeked inside. “Here’s a letter. It’s for you, Noah.”
“Me?” He took the envelope on which his name had been written in a fine hand.
“Dear little boy,” he read aloud. He cleared his throat as he glanced at Isobel. “Mrs. Allison always used to call me that—dear little boy.”
Noah swallowed. He gazed at the letter, the muscles in his jaw working as he fought for control. “Dear little boy,” he whispered, “I love you so much. Mrs. Allison. Jane.”
He folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Clearing his throat, he looked at Isobel. “I’d be pleased to hang those curtains for you now,” he said.
Sunday morning as Noah sat reading his Bible at the pine table, he couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so downright happy.
Not to say that Isobel wasn’t more than a mite stubborn and sassy. But he didn’t care a lick. In fact, he liked the way she took charge of the house. She unearthed the copy of Beeton’s Book of Household Management that Mrs. Allison had given him the day he set out for New Mexico. Before he knew it, the young marquesa was elbow deep in cleaning and cooking.
Studying the array of bottles and jars she had turned upside down to dry on the fence posts, Noah smiled. As she finished the dishes, she mentioned how nice it would be if he would plow a patch of ground outside the kitchen.
Did the highfalutin señorita really mean to plant a garden? The idea of her staying on at his place sat well with Noah. Especially if she could forget about the things that had driven her to New Mexico.
They had spent only three days together, but the words that ran ragtag around inside his head were sounding better all the time. Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan. The Buchanan family. Well, well. Could you beat that?
Monday morning shaped up to be the prettiest day of the year thus far. The sun appeared over the hills, the wind died, buds began to unfold. Isobel had finished typing Noah’s manuscript, bound it in cloth and sewed the packet shut for mailing. She was laundering their clothes on the ribbed washboard and tub on Noah’s front porch. He had saddled the horses in preparation for a ride out on the range to show Isobel the land he intended to buy.
Her hair slicked back in a tight bun, Isobel had just bent over the washtub when a raucous holler rippled down the river valley. Chilled, she straightened. Noah came charging out of the barn, his six-shooter drawn.
“Isobel, get inside the house!” he shouted.
“I’ll bring the rifle!” But she halted as Billy the Kid’s horse thundered up the bank, followed by those of Dick Brewer and a slew of other McSween men.
“Hey, Buchanan!” Billy reined in his horse and swung down. “Looks like you and the señorita are gettin’ mighty homey round here!”
He let out a hoot as the rest of the men joined him on the porch. Noah had holstered his gun, but Isobel felt a sense of growing dread. She should fetch the rifle by the door.
“Last I heard, you were in lockup, Kid,” Noah said.
“Aw, they didn’t have nothin’ to hold me on. Got out the day after Tunstall’s funeral.”
“Things are bad, Noah,” Dick spoke up. “McSween wrote his will and made Chisum executor without bond.”
At this, Isobel realized that, even though Noah’s boss was still in jail, McSween’s action deeply involved him. No doubt whose side Chisum and Noah would take.
“McSween went into hiding on Tuesday,” Dick continued. “We thought he might hunker down at Chisum’s, but we went by this morning, and he’s not there. Mrs. McSween left for Kansas.”
“What about Dolan?”
“No one has arrested any of Tunstall’s murderers. Snake Jackson and some other fellows are at Dolan’s cow camp down the Pecos. We aim to round ’em up and see they get what’s coming to ’em.”
“You’ve formed a gang, Dick?”
“That’s right. I’m the leader of the Regulators. Each man took an oath to stick together no matter what. We’ll make arrests but we won’t shoot on sight. Once we take Snake, Evans and the others into custody, they’ll be tried when court sits in April.”
“Squire Wilson made Dick a constable and the rest of us deputies!” Billy hooted.
“We want you to join us, Noah,” Dick said. “We need you on our side.”
Isobel’s dreams—lace-curtained windows, a packet of pages bound for New York, a spring garden—began to fade. Noah kicked a heel against the edge of the step.
“I made Isobel a promise, Dick,” he said finally. “I’ve got to stay here and protect her like I swore I would. If Snake gets his hands on her—”
“We’ll both go with them, Noah,” Isobel cut in, slinging his rifle over one shoulder.
“Isobel, what in thunder do you think you’re doing?”
“Five years ago, Snake Jackson rode with the Horrell Gang,” she told the men. “Five years ago, he killed my father and stole my land-grant titles. My desire to bring him to justice is as great as yours. I shall ride with you.”
“Hold on now, Isobel,” Noah began.
“We can’t have a woman in the Regulators,” Billy protested.
Isobel stepped to the edge of the porch. Inside her heart, she battled the urge to run to Noah’s arms and release the past that haunted her. But she smothered the impulse. The last few days had been only a wonderful holiday from reality. With the arrival of the Regulators she understood at last that she would never be free…not until she freed herself.
Shouldering the rifle, she took aim at a bottle drying on a fence post. It exploded in a spray of glass.
She held out her hand. There was only a moment’s hesitation before Billy the Kid set his own six-shooter in her palm.
“One, two, three,” she counted as she calmly blasted more bottles.
No one moved. A faint breeze lifted white smoke from the end of the revolver. Billy let out a low whistle. “The señorita can ride at my side any day,” he said.
Noah was glaring at her. “Why?” he asked. “Why, Isobel?”
“How can I have a future when my past haunts me? I must go with them, Noah. I have no choice.”
He shook his head and settled his hat lower on his brow. “Looks like you’ve got yourselves a couple more Regulators,” he said, his voice resigned. “Now, Dick, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I reckon I’d better go take the cornbread out of the oven.”
Chapter Eleven
The Lincoln County Regulators—eleven men and one woman strong—set out from Noah Buchanan’s house on Monday, the fourth day of March, 1878. Each horse packed a heavy supply of arms and ammunition. Food was plentiful along the Pecos River, and spring was creeping across the New Mexico Territory. The Regulators planned to make camp each night in the hills, where they would be well hidden.
Two days passed without incident. That night, they camped a few miles up from the Rio Peñasco crossing.
“Noah,” Isobel whispered from the folds of her blanket.
He lifted his head. “What is it? You hear something?”
“No.” She touched his arm. “Noah, I’m…I’m thinking of dying.”
“Dying?” He frowned. “What in thunder are you thinking about that for?”
“If I’m killed, and if my lands are ever recovered from Snake Jackson, I want you to have them.”
“Great ghosts, Isobel, you’re not going to die. I promise you that.”
Ignoring his avowal, she propped herself on one elbow and gazed into the intense blue eyes. He looked haggard, his hair mussed from the day under a hat and lines deeply etched in his face.
“Noah,” she whispered again. “You are a good man.”
He reached out and stroked her hair with the tips of his fingers. “It’ll be all right, Isobel. Go to sleep. I’m watching over you.”
The next morning’s travel was uneventful. But at mid-afternoon, the Regulators had just crossed the Peñasco when they rounded a hill and came upon five
of Dolan’s men.
“It’s them!” Billy the Kid shouted.
Hearing the familiar voice, the Dolan five wheeled their horses, broke into two groups and took off overland at a gallop.
“After ’em, men!” Dick hollered. “They’re Tunstall’s killers.”
Weapons drawn, the Regulators gave chase. Isobel caught no sign of Snake in the group, so she spurred her horse after the others. Noah’s horse matched hers neck and neck. They rode over a ridge, skirted a patch of yuccas and thundered toward the river. Mud flying from their hooves, the horses pounded along the soft bank.
They’d ridden about five miles when one of the Dolan group’s horses stumbled and fell in a tangle of thrashing legs. The rider cried out for help, but his two companions rode on.
“Leave him!” Dick shouted. “He wasn’t in the posse that shot Tunstall. Stick with the others, men!”
Oddly pleased at being referred to as one of the men, Isobel lowered her head and guided her horse in a leap over the prone figure who had fallen. Grinning, she turned to Noah.
“Yeah, just watch where you’re going, hothead!” he called, giving her a wink.
Soon their horses, too, began to flag from the long chase. As they ascended the brow of a low hill, they realized the other men were no longer in view.
“They’ve given out!” the Kid crowed. “I bet they’re hiding in that patch of tule. Who’s going in with me?”
Dick’s riders followed Billy down a gully toward a large clump of thick-stemmed grass. As the Regulators closed in, an arm waving a dirty white handkerchief rose out of the tule.
“Hold your fire, men!” Dick shouted.
“Brewer, we give up! Don’t shoot!”
“Come on out. We won’t shoot. You’re going back to Lincoln to stand trial.”
The Outlaw's Bride Page 11