“War?” Isobel whispered.
“Justice, darlin’. Dolan is responsible for too many deaths. Any way you look at it, Isobel, he’s got to be put away.”
In silence she gazed at the embroidered coverlet, lit pink with the sunrise. She ran one finger over a red rose entwined with green leaves.
“And then there’s you,” Noah added before she had a chance to speak. “Snake Jackson won’t rest until he kills you, Isobel. He’s got nothing to lose by pulling your picket pin. And he’s got plenty to gain—the land titles, money from Pascal and Catron, elimination of an eyewitness, and one less ‘Mexican’—”
“I’m Spanish.”
“Isobel!” Noah clenched her hand tightly. “Hear what I’m saying. Your life is in danger.”
“I know that,” she said, rubbing her shoulder.
“The Regulators will ride to Lincoln this morning. A couple of the boys are headed to San Patricio to round up the rest of the bunch. Everyone plans to meet at McSween’s house and decide how to finish this business. Isobel…I’m going with them.”
She snatched her hand from his. “What’s happened to you, Noah? What has become of the man with gentle hands who lifted me from the path of a bullet? Where is the writer who would rather leave a fight than shoot an enemy?”
“That man is gone.”
“Oh, Noah…”
“I’ve been around a few years, darlin’, but I didn’t learn what was what until I met you. The fact is, Isobel Buchanan, I love you. I’m not going to let Jimmie Dolan or Snake Jackson or anyone else hurt you. Never again. And the only way to fight fire is with fire. Gunfire.”
“Noah, please don’t do this!”
“What’s happened to my little spitfire? When we met, you were bent on vengeance. If I had helped you instead of trying to stop you, Snake Jackson might be dead right now—instead of wounding you with a bullet. You were right. It’s time for revenge.”
He stood suddenly, knocking back the wooden chair. “I’m going now.” He settled his hat on his head. “Heal up, Isobel, you hear?”
He started across the patio, and she called his name. But he didn’t turn.
“I love you, too, Noah,” she whispered.
Moments later, Isobel heard the drumroll of horses’ hooves as the Regulators rode away. She eased herself to the floor and stood. In the week since the shooting, her arm had grown stronger, and she was able to move it more comfortably now. She made her way into her bedroom and gazed out the window.
A light cloud of brown dust trailed the men, and an overwhelming sense of loss enveloped her. What she had known and loved of life was about to end.
Mrs. Towry crossed the garden near the window, a basketful of roses on her arm. She waved at her guest. “Shootin’s over, honey. It’s safe to move around.”
Isobel tried to smile. “May I join you in the garden?”
“You still look mighty pale.” The older woman shook her head. “Such high talkin’ them boys was doin’ this morning. I wish Mr. Chisum was here to preach some sense into ’em. They think they’re gonna be heroes—shootin’ up Lincoln and killin’ all their enemies. What next?”
“Noah went with the others, didn’t he?”
Mrs. Towry nodded. “Good thing, too. He’s the most levelheaded of the bunch. He should be leader of the Regulators. Doc Scurlock ain’t a bad feller, but your husband’s got horse sense. He reminds me of Mr. Chisum—smart, peaceable, strong. I sure wish Mr. Chisum would hurry back from St. Louis…. Well, honey, come on out to the garden.”
A week had passed since the Regulators’ departure when Mrs. Towry rushed onto the porch where Isobel was stitching.
“Mrs. Buchanan! Look what come in the mail from Lincoln. I bet your husband sent it.”
Isobel grabbed the letter and tore open the envelope. “Dear Mr. Buchanan,” she read aloud.
“It is my great pleasure to inform you that your story, ‘Sunset at Coyote Canyon,’ has been accepted for publication in our magazine, Wild West. It will run in five installments, beginning in December. Congratulations. Enclosed please find a check for the sum of fifty dollars. Wild West would like to see more of your fine writing, Mr. Buchanan.
Sincerely, Josiah Woodstone, Editor.”
Mrs. Towry frowned as she studied the envelope. “This ain’t from Mr. Buchanan, is it?”
“Noah’s story,” Isobel said. “It’s going to be published.”
“Mr. Buchanan writ a story?” Mrs. Towry muffled a laugh. “Ain’t what I expected of a cowboy like him, but here’s fifty dollars to prove it’s true. That ought to go a good way toward payin’ off the land he bought from Mr. Chisum.”
Isobel gazed at the letter. Noah’s story would be published. His dream would come true. But where was he now, this man with a gift so few possessed? No doubt he was in Lincoln warring with someone who would still his voice with a bullet through his heart.
It was her fault, she thought, tucking the letter into her pocket. If she hadn’t been so headstrong, so determined to seek out Snake Jackson, Noah wouldn’t be caught in Lincoln’s troubles.
When they’d met, he’d been on his way to buy land and write stories. He was the man Mrs. Towry had described—peaceable, gentle. Thanks to his untimely marriage to a selfish Spanish woman, he had tossed away that cloak and assumed the one she had brought—revenge. Now, because of Isobel, he was chasing down Jimmie Dolan with an outlaw’s bloodlust.
She had ruined Noah. While he had taught her to find the beauty in life, she had taught him to seek vengeance. From Noah she had learned to cook meals that would satisfy, to plant a garden, to value marriage and home. She had discovered that what she wanted most was love. Noah’s love. She ached for him. Nothing else in the world mattered.
Leaving Mrs. Towry to her flower arranging, Isobel hurried to her room, found her saddlebag and groped around inside. Yes—her pistol. She contemplated the weapon for a moment before tossing it onto the bed.
Quickly she changed into riding clothes and leather boots. She transferred Noah’s letter from the New York publisher into a pocket. Stopping by the kitchen, she took some bread and cheese, along with a knife and a box of matches. After stuffing these items into the saddlebag, she slung it over her good shoulder and slipped out the door.
Fussing over the roses, Mrs. Towry hummed on the porch. Isobel left the house through a back door. In the corral, she selected a horse that had not yet been unsaddled from a morning’s ride. Pain shot through her shoulder as she mounted.
“Now,” she breathed as she goaded the horse’s flanks. “Take me to Lincoln. I have to save my husband.”
Though Isobel knew the trail, travel was more difficult than she had anticipated. Riding alone, she had to be alert for outlaws who roamed Lincoln County’s roadways. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave her pistol behind, but Isobel never again wanted to touch a weapon. As she rode she recited the words she ached to say to Noah.
I was wrong! Wrong! Revenge is not the way. Leave it to God, my love. Come home with me to the little adobe house by the river.
Would she ever get the chance to say those words? Isobel prayed as she had heard Noah pray—the deep and soul-drenching pleas of her heart. “Please, dear God, let Noah live. Let me atone for my errors. Allow me to lead Noah away from violence and into a life of love.”
Each night she lay bundled in blankets and listened to the rush of the river. As she gazed at the stars through piñon branches, Isobel recounted her life and its many blessings. Noah Buchanan was the greatest blessing of all. Before it was too late, she had to convince him to leave Lincoln.
Though her shoulder had regained strength and flexibility, she knew how easily the pain could resurface. For the rest of her life, she would bear a scar—a round patch of smooth, tender skin, a reminder of the man who had killed her father and had tried to kill her.
Her fourth night on the trail, Isobel camped at the spot where the Rio Hondo met the Rio Bonito. Lincoln lay only a few miles away, and her
sleep was restless.
Early the next morning she rose as dawn was breaking over the mountains. In the pale purple light she took the kitchen knife from her saddlebag and cut off a slice of cheese and a hunk of bread. After eating, she set Dick Brewer’s old hat on her head and mounted her horse.
Isobel had not been riding long when she noticed a horse and rider coming toward her on the trail. Her pulse began to pound in her neck and temples. Could it be Noah? The man removed his hat and tipped his head.
“Mornin’, señorita,” he said.
Isobel’s breath hung in her throat. “Jim Jackson.”
“Most folks call me Snake.”
She glanced around for a path of escape, but he was already drawing his six-shooter.
“Me and some of the boys just happened to be passin’ Casey’s Mill yesterday,” Snake said, casually taking aim at her heart. “One of the hands mentioned seein’ Mrs. Buchanan ridin’ all alone. That’s when I realized I hadn’t finished a job I started the other day. Seems yer like a cat, huh? Nine lives.”
“Mr. Jackson, you can see I’m unarmed,” Isobel said. “I’m going to Lincoln to find my husband. I have no business with you.”
“No business with me? What about this here packet of papers I been carryin’ around for five years? Ain’t that yer business, señorita?” He slapped his saddlebag and gave her a wink. “Took it off yer papa, y’know. The day I shot him dead.”
Isobel clenched her jaw. Snake had ridden close enough now that she could see his eyes set deep beneath his heavy brow.
“Now, don’t deny it,” he teased. “You been chasin’ me ever since you come to Lincoln County, señorita. First you seen me do Tunstall in. Then you figured out I blew yer papa to kingdom come. You followed me to Murphy’s ranch and tried to shoot me. Then back to Lincoln where you and your Mexican-lovin’ husband tried again to gun me down.”
“You chased us from Lincoln,” Isobel corrected.
“Aw, well, it don’t really matter now. Point is, it’s time for one of us to finish the game. I reckon it better be me.”
“I renounce my claim, Snake. Take my family’s land. Take our jewels. Just let me go to Lincoln.”
“What’s this? Has the little she-devil lost her fire?”
“Yes, I have. I’m through fighting. I’m going to pass you in peace and go on my way.”
Flicking the reins, Isobel rode toward Snake. Their horses brushed on the narrow trail. She kept her focus straight ahead and tried to push back the terrible images of blood and death. Don Alberto Matas. John Henry Tunstall. Dick Brewer. Sheriff Brady. “Oh, señorita.” Snake grabbed her arm, nearly jerking the wounded shoulder from its socket. As he pulled her backward in the saddle, he released the safety on his six-shooter. “I’m afraid we got unfinished business.”
“Let me go, Snake!” she ordered.
“You really thought I was gonna let you ride by me?”
“I hoped you would be man enough to holster your gun.” She stared into the slitted eyes. “I have no quarrel with you, so set me free.”
Smiling, he raised the gun to her head and jabbed it into her temple. “Yer dumber than I thought, señorita. See, I got a lot of killin’ to do to make up fer the bunch of Mexicans that murdered my parents.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” she gasped as cold steel pressed against her head. Pain wrenched through her shoulder where he pinned her against him. “I want only peace. Let me go. Please!”
“Somebody’s gotta pay. Might as well be you.”
With his last word Snake pulled the trigger. An instant before the blast, Isobel tilted her head and sank into the saddle. The bullet blew off Dick Brewer’s hat and slammed into a tree. Both horses bolted, but Snake still gripped Isobel’s arm. The horses struggled, turning in circles. With her free hand, Isobel fumbled for the knife in her saddlebag.
Snake muttered a curse. He righted his gun and took aim a second time. Isobel whipped the knife across his arm, and the six-shooter tumbled onto the grass in a spray of blood.
“Curse you!” Snake yelled.
He lunged at Isobel and both riders tumbled to the ground. The air whooshed from her lungs. She rolled, trying to escape, but Snake tangled her legs with his as he pulled his own knife from his belt.
“Now,” he growled. “Now we’ll see.”
Just as he lunged for her throat, she stabbed his back. Her knife sank into flesh and struck bone. Snake bellowed and bolted upright with the pain. Then his knife flashed downward and buried in her arm, not an inch from the bullet wound.
“Stop!” she shrieked, twisting in agony.
“I’ll kill you first.”
He yanked the knife from her arm and went for her throat a second time. She squirmed and thrust. Her blade buried deep in his stomach. He shuddered.
Barely able to breathe beneath his weight, she tried to jerk her weapon away but lost her grip on it. If only she could escape…now…while he was wounded. She tried to push out from under him.
Snake reared. His eyes flashed with hatred. She grasped at the swinging steel in his hand. The blade nicked her cheek, and she screamed.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and still he grappled with her. He caught a handful of her hair and twisted her head backward, grinding her scalp into the dirt. She could see nothing but trees. Her throat exposed to his blade, she waited for the final slash. “Señorita,” he mumbled. As he slumped forward, she felt his knuckles brush her neck.
“Dear God, help me!” Isobel labored to catch her breath. She lay beneath Snake and listened as the last gurgle of life left his chest. Gasping, she shoved his body to one side and struggled to her knees. At the scene of horror, she cried out.
Snake Jackson lay on the ground, her knife buried in his stomach. His blood puddled on the road. “I’ve killed him,” she whispered. “I’ve killed him after all.”
She buried her face in her bloodied hands. Bile rose in her throat. She staggered up and hung over a tree branch, retching with fear and revulsion. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped pink bloodstains in the grass. For a moment she could do nothing but lean against the tree and cry.
How had it come to this? Once she had longed to end the life of Jim Jackson. But now…now that she had killed him…
“God,” she murmured. “Dear God, forgive me!”
Weak and in terrible pain, she lurched down to the river, filled her hands with water and splashed her face. Cradling her injured shoulder, she slumped into the grass, stretched out her legs and shut her eyes.
She had no idea how long she lay still. With every breath she saw Snake’s face. She had taken his life. She had killed. Covering her eyes with her good arm, she wept more bitter tears. Once, she had imagined satisfaction, even joy, after her revenge was complete. But death was ugly, senseless.
She had to find Noah and turn him from the same path. It was her only hope of atonement.
In time, she struggled to her feet. The two horses grazed side by side near the trail. She studied Snake Jackson’s body for a moment, then she touched each eyelid to press it closed before she walked to the horses.
She knew what she must do. She had battled for her birthright with her own life and had won it at the cost of another’s. Slipping her hand inside Snake’s saddlebag, she found a slender packet. Her father’s neat handwriting graced the yellowed envelope. “Spanish Land-Grant Titles,” the words read in both English and Spanish. “The Possession of Isobel Matas.”
Bowing her head, Isobel held the packet close. Land. With it, she could draw the hand of any eligible man in New Mexico or Spain. She could have Don Guillermo or any other husband she chose. She would be a landowner at last.
But there was only one man she wanted. It was time to find him.
Chapter Twenty
When Isobel rode into Lincoln that night, Sheriff George Peppin met her on the road, his rifle drawn from its scabbard. The middle-aged man, known to many in town as “Dad” Peppin, frowned.
“Mrs. Buchanan? Is that you?”
“Yes, it is.” She tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear, as if that might tidy her appearance. “Do you know where my husband is? It’s an urgent matter.”
“He’s holed up in McSween’s house with the other Regulators. Don’t you know what’s goin’ on here, ma’am?”
“I’ve come for my husband. That’s all I know.”
“Well, you can’t just ride into town and—”
“Who’s this?” Jimmie Dolan rode out of the shadows, a dark hat perched on his thick, glossy curls.
“It’s Noah Buchanan’s wife,” Peppin said.
“What happened to you, woman? You’re covered in blood.”
“Never mind my appearance, sir,” Isobel told the Irishman. “I’ve come for my husband.”
“Your husband is camped out with fourteen other outlaws on the roof of Alexander McSween’s house,” Dolan spat. “They’ve knocked holes in the parapet and made the place a firing range.”
“I’ll go and fetch him, then.”
“And my men will shoot him to the ground the minute he sets foot out of that house. This is war, Mrs. Buchanan. Twenty of McSween’s men are inside José Montaño’s store. Nearly as many are over at Isaac Ellis’s store.”
“I’ll speak to Juan Patrón. He’ll help me.”
“That Mexican grabbed up his family and rode to Las Vegas like a banshee was after him. Five McSween men are camped at his house.”
“If McSween has taken the town,” Isobel said, “how do you propose to keep me from my husband?”
“Because my men hold the torreón,” Dolan shot back. “And now I’ve got you.” He gave Peppin a nod. “Take this woman to the Cisneros house, Sheriff. We’ll hold her there. Maybe we can use her to bargain with.”
“Hold me?” Isobel exploded. “James Dolan, I will not be made a prisoner—”
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