“You’re the man who married me, Noah Buchanan, and I command you to treat me with respect!”

      “If I’m the man you married, Isobel, then you’d better do as I say. That means no taking matters into your own hands and getting somebody killed. If I’m your husband, I’m the boss. You hear?”

      Simmering, Isobel stared at the towering cowboy who presumed to rule over her by his bartered title of “husband.” His blue eyes fairly crackled as he met her gaze.

      “You know nothing,” she managed.

      “I know that right now you’re starting to look like a blushing bride.”

      “Oh, yes, my strong, brave husband,” she responded, bat ting her eyes for effect. “I will stitch and bake—and weep for joy when I hear your footsteps on the porch.”

      “You do that, sweetheart.” Chuckling, Noah tucked Isobel close and strolled with her toward the adobe home.

      At the warmth of his arm around her shoulders and the graze of his unshaved jaw against her cheek, it occurred to Isobel that perhaps she wouldn’t mind being a wife who would sew and bake and wait for her husband to come home at night. What a curious thought.

      CATHERINE PALMER

      The author of more than fifty novels with more than two million copies sold, Catherine Palmer is a Christy Award-winner for outstanding Christian romance fiction. Catherine’s numerous awards include Best Historical Romance, Best Contemporary Romance, Best of Romance from Southwest Writers Workshop, and Most Exotic Historical Romance Novel from RT Book Reviews. She is also an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award winner.

      Catherine grew up in Bangladesh and Kenya, and she now makes her home in Georgia. She and her husband of thirty years have two sons. A graduate of Southwest Baptist University, she also holds a master’s degree from Baylor University.

      The Outlaw’s Bride

      Catherine Palmer

      Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says the Lord.

      —Romans 12:19

      To Sharon Buchanan-McClure who introduced me to the real Belle Buchanan

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Epilogue

      Acknowledgments

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      February 18, 1878

       Lincoln County, New Mexico Territory

      Isobel stood, her crimson boots side by side like drops of bright blood on the snow. She stared at her feet for a moment, thinking how far they had come from the sprawling pasturelands of her beloved Spanish Catalonia to this slushy trail in the New World. Weeks aboard a wave-tossed ship, days across the Texas prairie to Fort Belknap, miles along the Goodnight-Loving cattle trail toward Santa Fe…and for what?

      Sighing, she pulled her lace mantilla closer around her face, lifted her chin and walked on through the scrubby, wind-whipped trees. Her emerald hem swept across fallen, brown pine needles, the ruffle on her skirt rippling along behind.

      It had happened here, she thought, near this very place. A shiver of apprehension coursed through her as she looked in the twilight at the secluded forest. Five years earlier, her father—the powerful Don Alberto Matas—had been jerked from his buckboard wagon and shot.

      Isobel tightened her knotted fingers inside her muff and squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of tears. As a child, she had believed her father invincible.

      Forcing away the fear that haunted her—transforming it to the more comfortable heat of anger—she gritted her teeth. Why had the lawless Americans done nothing to find her father’s murderer? Not only a murderer but a thief. The killer had stolen the packet of land-grant titles and jewels that had been her inheritance—the dowry to secure her marriage to Don Guillermo Pascal of Santa Fe.

      She inhaled a deep breath of crisp, pine-scented air. Five years had passed, yet the anger and betrayal still burned brightly in her heart. Despite the pain, the five years spent managing her father’s vast estates in Spain had been good ones. She had overseen lands, governed workers and carved a faith that could not be shaken. And then she had traveled to America.

      Though at twenty-three she knew her hopes of marriage might appear dim, she still was betrothed to Don Guillermo. She would see to it that he married her. She would recover her stolen inheritance as well. Isobel Matas was not one to cower when faced with a challenge. Glancing behind, she scanned the scrub oak and twisted-pine woods. The small party of travelers who had accompanied her from Texas to New Mexico—an itinerant preacher, a missionary doctor and his family, a schoolteacher—rested from the journey. Their horses grazed, tethered a safe distance from the trail.

      The delay would put them in Lincoln Town after dark, too late for her to speak to the sheriff. She chose not to tarry and drink coffee. Instead she walked alone through the forest and thought about her father. If he hadn’t come to the New Mexico Territory, he would still be alive, his golden hair shining in the sunlight, his deep laughter echoing over the rolling hills of Catalonia.

      Hoofbeats thudded across the damp snow. Her eyes darted toward the trail. Highwaymen? Banditos, like the men who had murdered her father?

      Alarm froze her breath. Her traveling companions were too far away to be of help, and she had left her pistol in her saddlebag. Clutching her mantilla at her throat, she melted into the shadows of a large juniper. Leaning against the rough trunk, she peered through the lace in the direction of the sound.

      “Things are unhappy indeed in Lincoln Town, Noah.” A young voice. English—not American.

      “We’re glad you’re back from the trail. Mr. Chisum is wise to let you run his cattle. South Spring River Ranch profits under your management.”

      Isobel counted three riders, one dapper in a brown tweed coat, the others roughly dressed, their faces obscured by hats and heavy beards. Livestock behind. More men at the rear.

      The man called Noah rode tall on his black horse. He wore a long coat of black leather and was massively built, with broad shoulders and lean, hardened legs. With skin the color of sunbaked adobe, his face was grim beneath the wide brim of his black felt hat. His blue eyes flashed back and forth…alert, missing nothing.