The Outlaw's Bride

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by Catherine Palmer


  Lest he see the tears that spilled down her cheeks, Isobel dug her heels into her horse’s sides and rode for the home of Alexander McSween.

  When Isobel arrived, she found Susan Gates very ill. Dick Brewer’s death had come as a terrible shock, and nothing Dr. Ealy had tried helped.

  While Isobel wept with her friend, she cried her heart out to God. How could Noah let her go so easily? How could he turn his back on what they had begun to build? La venganza was not worth such sacrifice.

  Days passed, and Isobel saw nothing of Snake Jackson or the wounded Jesse Evans and their bunch. Though the town swarmed with people, she often escaped to sit beside her father’s grave. Don Alberto Matas really had died, she accepted finally. She would never see his golden hair or hear his laughter again.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of Noah, she stopped at the courthouse several times. He was nowhere to be seen in the crowded room.

  Isobel breathed a sigh of relief when district court concluded on April 18, and that evening Dr. Ealy brought a summary of the news. Most of the trials, he said, had turned in favor of the McSween faction. For the killing of John Tunstall, indictments had been brought against Jesse Evans, Jim Jackson and several others as principals, along with Jimmie Dolan as accessory. But of the principals, only Jesse Evans could be found. He was put under a five-thousand-dollar bond. Dolan was arrested and placed under a two-thousand-dollar bond. The judge continued his case.

  For the killing of Sheriff Brady and his deputy, four indictments had been handed down—all to Regulators. For the killing of Buckshot Roberts, only Charley Bowdre had been indicted. Since neither Bowdre nor any other Regulators were to be found, no arrests could be made. The sheriff held the warrants.

  Alexander McSween was cleared of criminal charges, and Fort Stanton released him. The grand jury indicted Jimmie Dolan for encouraging cattle stealing.

  Sitting in a rocker beside Susan’s bed later that evening, Isobel recognized that Noah’s prediction of peace in Lincoln had come to pass at last. But when someone began hammering on the back door, she tensed, remembering the day she had helped hide Billy the Kid under that very floor.

  Dr. Ealy opened the door. “Noah Buchanan—good to see you again!”

  Noah stepped into the room and swept off his black Stetson. “I need to talk to Isobel,” he said. His focus flicked to her. “Would you step outside for a minute?”

  Isobel glanced at Susan. The ache in her friend’s face mirrored what she saw in Noah’s. Taking her white shawl from the peg by the door, she stepped onto the back porch and looked up at the sliver of moon hanging just over the roofline.

  “I’m riding for Santa Fe tomorrow morning,” Noah said. “If you want, I’ll take you to the Pascals’.”

  Isobel ached to feel Noah’s arms around her. But she saw that his intentions toward her had not changed.

  “Why Santa Fe?” she asked him.

  “This afternoon, Dolan left Lincoln headed that way. Rumor has it he’s planning to talk to Governor Axtell and Tom Catron, the U.S. district attorney for the territory. Catron holds a lot of property mortgages and loans around these parts. Axtell and Catron are both in the Santa Fe Ring, and if Dolan gets their help, he can turn things to his favor pretty quick.”

  “And you mean to stop him?”

  “Legally, if I can. If not…” He shrugged.

  “Why must you be the one to pursue Dolan?” she asked. “Billy is always hot for blood. Let him do it.”

  “The Regulators are in hiding, and nobody’s after me. Besides, I know how to talk to men like Catron.”

  Isobel pondered the painful consequences of riding with Noah again, bearing his rejection day and night. And what of Guillermo Pascal? Her betrothed had never responded to the telegram sent so long ago. Surely he would not want Isobel to appear on his doorstep like some windblown beggar.

  But when she looked into Noah’s blue eyes she heard herself whisper, “Yes. I will go with you to Santa Fe.”

  The sun had not risen when Isobel rode through Lincoln Town at the side of Noah Buchanan.

  “Don’t let him get away from you,” Susan had whispered as she had hugged her friend goodbye. “He’s a fine man.”

  But what good had it done Susan to fall in love, Isobel wondered. Dick Brewer had been killed as easily as Noah might be. Now Susan had to live with loss for the rest of her life.

  Loss and rejection seemed to hound the women of Lincoln County. It would not be long before Isobel had to face the rebuff of Guillermo Pascal and his family. She could no longer deny her land grants had been lost forever. She would return to Catalonia with nothing but heartache to show for all her months in New Mexico.

  Yet—against all better judgment—Isobel loved Noah Buchanan. She knew she could live without him. She also knew she didn’t want to. God had given her one week in which to win the heart of her husband. Would He help her mend the rifts between them?

  Noah chose a difficult passage over the mountains to Santa Fe. He hoped Jimmie Dolan might have opted for a longer but safer route up the Pecos River. If Noah had his way, he would beat the Irishman to the capital and speak with Catron first.

  Climbing the mountainous trail with Isobel only a few feet behind gave Noah time to think. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to the McSween house to propose such a venture. The moment he had stepped through the front door and had seen Isobel sitting on the rocker by Susan’s bed, he knew he ought to back right out the door and run.

  Great stars, she had looked beautiful that night! Waves of golden hair had hung shimmering over her shoulders. She must have sewn a new dress, a pink confection with ruffles at the wrists and around the neck.

  On seeing him, she had risen from the rocker with her hazel eyes shining. When he had taken her out in the moonlight, it had been all he could do to keep from gathering her up in his arms and kissing her the way he wanted to.

  He turned around now to check on her. She wore fancy Spanish riding clothes—a black outfit that covered her neck and swung down to her boots. She had swept her hair up into a tight knot high on the back of her head.

  But Isobel was no marquesa on this ride. Around her waist hung a belt studded with a row of bullets. Dick Brewer’s old hat dipped low on her brow, and she looked ready for battle.

  Letting out a breath, Noah focused on the winding trail. He had to force away memories of their days in the little adobe house by the river. He had to forget the letter that had come to him in Lincoln saying his story had been passed to a magazine editor in New York.

  There was no room for dreams in the real world, and he’d better not forget it. For too many years he had believed people were better than they were. He had prayed for a peaceful future. He had expected to become a writer.

  Nonsense, all of it. It had taken the death of his best friend to show him. People were liars, cheaters, murderers. A man in the West could bet his bottom dollar a bullet would put him in the grave.

  It was no good getting attached, Noah reasoned—especially not to a pretty Spaniard who made a fellow lose sight of the facts. He clenched his jaw and made up his mind he could last one week on the trail alone with Isobel and not get tangled. He had to.

  With the help of the Good Lord, he would keep his mind on the job at hand—bringing Dolan down. He had to resist taking Isobel into his arms…and into his heart.

  On the first day of May, 1878, Noah and Isobel caught a glimpse of the Pascal hacienda. As they approached the house in the rolling foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Noah struggled to swallow the lump of grit in his throat. The Pascal spread was a grand affair—much grander than his ramshackle home and milk cow. This house had a roof of red tiles and a deep, shady porch. From its perch on a pole near a flowering lilac bush, a green parrot eyed the two riders.

  Sleek black horses pranced for their trainers in a nearby corral. Fat cattle, belly-deep in green grass, dotted the foothills. Caballeros in leather chaps and wide-brimmed hats rode among the herds.


  As Isobel and Noah dismounted, a man in a blue uniform greeted them.

  “I’ve brought Isobel Matas,” Noah explained. “The Pascals are expecting her. I sent a wire from Lincoln almost two months back.”

  The man’s dark eyes swept up and down, taking in Isobel’s dusty riding clothes, pistol and battered felt hat. With a taut smile, he extended a hand. “Won’t you come inside?”

  Isobel waited on the sofa in a grand salon while Noah paced, his hat swinging in his hand. Through large glass windows he studied the hills. Then he focused on the interior of the elegant home.

  “Looks like your dream’s about to come true.” He halted, his deep voice echoing off the wooden vigas on the ceiling.

  “The Pascals have a fine home,” Isobel noted.

  “I expect you’ll be happy. I’ll send your furniture and trunks—if you still want them.”

  She fiddled with the string that bound her holster to her thigh. “How long will you stay in Santa Fe?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be busy bringing Dolan down…and getting our marriage annulled.” He started pacing again. “Just do your best to get this fellow to keep his end of the bargain he made with your father.”

  “Are you so eager to be rid of me?”

  His eyes darted to her face. There was a moment of silence as each gazed at the other.

  “This was the plan, wasn’t it?” Noah said. “I was to take you safely to your fancy don.”

  Isobel stood. “But, Noah, that was before—”

  “Buenas tardes. Good afternoon.” The chocolate-rich voice drew their attention to the doorway. Tall, with slick black hair, a thin mustache and crackling brown eyes, Don Guillermo Pascal removed his hat and gave the slightest of bows.

  “Señorita Matas,” he said. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Noah took a long look at the man who soon would be Isobel’s husband. And a dandy he was. He wore a brown suede suit with black leather trim and rows of buttons. At his hip hung a pistol with a carved ivory handle. Every inch of his holster and gun belt had been tooled. And on his feet gleamed the shiniest pair of pointed-toe boots Noah had ever seen.

  He glanced down at his own leather boots, crusted with dried mud and worn down at the heels. His denims had been washed hundreds of times and were threadbare to prove it. The cuffs of his chambray shirt had frayed so badly there was no point mending them. A layer of dust had coated his hat, and his duster smelled of saddle leather and old horseflesh.

  Don Guillermo glided toward Isobel and took her hand. Lifting it to his lips, he placed a kiss on her fingertips.

  She smiled.

  When the Spaniard lifted his head and saw that flash of white teeth and those full lips, Noah knew right off Isobel had won her man. His eyes sparkling, Don Guillermo bent for a second kiss. “Cariña, you must be exhausted from your journey,” he said. “I’ll order a servant to prepare your room. You must bathe and refresh yourself before dinner.”

  Isobel tipped her head.

  “You may go, señor,” he told Noah. “Señorita Matas will have no further need of your services.”

  With that he stepped through the door, boot heels ringing sharp rat-a-tats on the tile floor.

  Noah fixed his eyes on Isobel. Her high cheekbones held a flush that told him she’d been pleased by the attentions of the elegant señor. He tried to squelch the image of the man ever touching Isobel again. His prickly mustache poking into her lip as he kissed her. His long, thin fingers toying with her hair.

  “Noah—”

  “Isobel—”

  Their words overlapped. She cleared her throat. He stuffed his Stetson on his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You will leave me here?” she said. It was more a plea than a question.

  He walked to the door. “Take care, Isobel.”

  As he crossed the long hall, Noah passed a woman who must have been Guillermo’s mother, hurrying to meet their guest. A black lace mantilla billowed behind her.

  “¡Ah, Señorita Matas—que bonita!” the woman cried. “¡Bienvenidos, cariña!”

  Noah hightailed it to his horse and rode away, thinking how glad he was to have Isobel off his hands. Yes, sir. No looking out for somebody else’s skin. No wild-goose chases after Snake Jackson.

  He had to admit they’d had a good time together, all in all. The cowboy and the señorita. Memories filtered through his mind—the first moment he saw her in that new blue dress, the night she slipped off her horse into his arms, the way she typed page after page of his story, the hours she spent working that kitchen garden, the way she fit so perfectly against him as he held her….

  But she was where she’d always wanted to be—with her rich Spaniard instead of some old dusty…what had she called him?…vaquero.

  Isobel didn’t need to be out riding the trail, hiding from bad hombres like Snake Jackson and sleeping under the stars. She deserved a fine hacienda, fat cattle, fiestas. She deserved a man like Guillermo Pascal.

  Noah reined his horse and looked over his shoulder at the hacienda. He would never forget the woman he loved.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Doña María Pascal gave her eldest son the privilege of showing their visitor around the house and grounds. Isobel searched in vain for any sign of Noah as she walked down a flagstone path lined with blossoming red roses.

  When Don Guillermo extended a hand to assist her over a bridge, she had no choice but to take it. Tucking her arm through his, he drew her close.

  “So you came all the way from Catalonia?” he asked.

  Isobel nodded. “A telegram was sent from Lincoln. I’ve been in New Mexico more than two months.”

  “But cariña, you should have come directly to Santa Fe. If I had known—”

  “Known what?” she retorted, losing patience. “You knew my father had been murdered and the land-grant titles stolen. My mother sent a letter saying I was traveling to New Mexico—so you knew that, also. What did you not know, señor?”

  “We speak honestly, I see.” He took a breath. “Very well, señorita. I did not know you were so beautiful.”

  The honest avowal caught her off guard. “How can my appearance possibly matter in this situation?”

  “It matters very much. To me.” Stroking his narrow black mustache, he eyed her. “At my father’s death, I became the head of our family, and I lack nothing. Your land appealed to me when your father offered it as part of the betrothal agreement. But I’ve acquired much property since. If I regain your titles—and I have no doubt that I can—I will absorb the land into my own. The jewels, of course, are of value, as well. Land, jewels…these I have in plenty. But women are scarce in this rough land.”

  “Especially beautiful women?”

  He smiled. “You are a beautiful woman with a quick mind. Our fathers were wise to have arranged our marriage.”

  “You intend to follow through with it, Don Guillermo?”

  “Only time will tell, Señorita Matas.”

  In the following days, Isobel spent much of each day nosing through local newspapers. Don Guillermo had little patience for her preoccupation with reading and marking the latest events in Lincoln County. If she didn’t participate in the activities of the estate, he informed her, he would have the newspapers removed from the house.

  Isobel did her best to behave as a future doña in the familia Pascal. After all, she had once made a marriage of convenience—why not again? But the answer was obvious. She had grown to love Noah Buchanan with a passion she knew could never be matched. Even so, she wrote a letter to Dr. Ealy, asking where he had registered the hasty marriage and how she might end it with equal quickness.

  Guillermo Pascal was not unpleasant, she admitted to herself. His appearance was tolerable. His manners were impeccable. But what attraction could she possibly feel for this self-absorbed, shallow man?

  And so, reading the Cimarron News Press, she wept over the memorial Alexander McSween had written for Dick Brewer. His glowing
praise reminded her of the deep loss Noah and Susan had suffered.

  Editorials in the Santa Fe New Mexican, the Trinidad Enterprise and Chronicle and the Mesilla Independent volleyed the situation in Lincoln County back and forth—some writers favoring Dolan, others praising the bravery of McSween and the Regulators.

  Jimmie Dolan began to defend himself in the newspapers. Isobel felt his whining letters only revealed his many weaknesses.

  A short notice buried in the New Mexican brought her hope for Noah’s case against Dolan. James J. Dolan & Co. was temporarily shuttering its mercantile in Lincoln due to unstable conditions. Was it possible the outcome in the district court had driven the tyrant from the county?

  More good news came when Alexander McSween wrote that he had been authorized by John Tunstall’s father in England to offer a reward of five thousand dollars for the apprehension and conviction of his son’s murderers. Isobel knew this would improve the reputation of the Regulators, even though they themselves had been outlawed. Bounty hunters would set their sights on Snake Jackson and the rest of Dolan’s bunch.

  When Guillermo left the hacienda to look after his properties in Santa Fe, Doña María began joining Isobel on the patio. At first they simply enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air wafting down from the Sangre de Cristos. But soon the elder woman began leafing through newspapers, too.

  “This cannot be good for the Regulators,” Doña María commented one afternoon as she was browsing the Cimarron News and Press. “They’re killing again in Lincoln County.”

  “Who died?” Isobel craned to read the news over the doña’s shoulder.

  “Somebody shot a man at the Fritz ranch on the Rio Bonito—Frank Macnab.”

  “Macnab was the leader of the Regulators! Who shot him?”

  “The Seven Rivers Gang—from the Rio Pecos.”

  Isobel tried to breathe. More men had joined the Dolan forces. And they’d murdered Frank Macnab, leaving the Regulators leaderless again.

 

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