The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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leaned across the table. “Men in high places have united in a ring of corruption, señora. They take bribes, arrest innocent men, steal land titles.”
“Who’s in the group, Juan?” Noah caught Isobel’s hand and pressed it to silence her. “Do you have names?”
“Governor Axtell, of course. But even more dangerous is the United States district attorney. Thomas Catron is a friend to Jimmie Dolan. The two are working together to take the whole territory. Your boss will be lucky ever to get out of jail.”
“But McSween’s here in Lincoln,” Noah said. “How did he get out of jail?”
“McSween was set free to settle his business. But Chisum refused to reveal his properties.”
“So he’s still in jail.” Noah looked at Isobel. “We may want to have you go on up to Santa Fe.”
“Santa Fe?” Juan frowned. “But why?”
“Belle has relatives up there.” Noah glanced at Isobel. “Juan, would you send her people a telegram? I may need to send her up there right away if things get worse.”
“Of course.” Juan stood. “I was planning to pay McSween a visit anyway. We’ll rouse Mr. Paxton to open the telegraph office. Will you come?”
“Glad to.” Noah rose and patted Isobel’s shoulder. “You stay and visit with Señora Patrón, honey. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go with you, honey,” Isobel sputtered as she leapt to her feet and nearly upset her chair. Hot anger radiated from the place where Noah had patted her as if she were no more than a dog. “If you send a telegram on my behalf, I must know what it says.”
Juan chuckled. “Your new wife has a strong will. You must mend your stubborn ways, Noah—or break her spirit as you break the wild horses.”
Noah was silent a moment before speaking again. “Stay here, Belle. I’ll take care of this.”
Isobel clenched her jaw as the two men walked to the door. The señora and her children eyed their guest as she stepped to an open window.
“You did the right thing, Buchanan.” Juan Patrón’s words carried across the night. “A woman should stay at home. If your new wife isn’t happy with that now, she will be soon. You’ll see.”
Battling fury at Noah, Isobel shifted her attention to the bustling Patrón family. The table was spotless now, its rough pine top scrubbed clean and its mismatched chairs pushed beneath. A clamor of giggles and pleas arose from the kitchen, where Beatriz, surrounded by reaching arms and grasping hands, was doling out portions of yellow custard.
“Flan?” she asked Isobel, holding out the dish.
Isobel shook her head. “Where is Alexander McSween’s house?”
“¡No, señora—por favor!” The woman’s eyes were wide with pleading. “You must stay here! There is much trouble in Lincoln. ¡Violencia!”
As the children swarmed their mother again, Isobel turned away. A cramped home, rough-hewn furniture, hungry children, corn to grind, clothes to mend. This was the life of a woman in Lincoln.
Thanking God that she would be leaving Noah Buchanan soon, Isobel sank into a chair. Even now he was sending a telegram to Guillermo Pascal, alerting her betrothed in case she needed a quick escape from Lincoln.
But if Guillermo came here, he would take Noah’s place as her protector, as the one to help solve her father’s murder. Noah would be free of her. And she of him.
Isobel closed her eyes, imagining the life she had always dreamed of having. A vast hacienda. Countless cattle. A home filled with beautiful furniture. Gracious parties attended by dignitaries.
Her eyes snapped open. There would be no visits by members of the Santa Fe Ring if she had any say. And she would have no hacienda to manage if Guillermo had his say. Noah had been right on that account. The Pascal family would swallow up her land. She would be mistress of a prison more than a house. There would be small mouths to feed, meals to plan, stitching to fill her days. How different would that life be from the difficult lot of Señora Patrón?
A gentle tugging at her skirt caught Isobel’s attention. A bright-eyed little girl with shiny black braids smiled up at her. “La casa McSween is very close. It is just past Tunstall’s store.”
Isobel shook the girl’s hand. “Gracias, mi hijita.”
The child scampered away to join her brother in a chasing game. Their mother leaned against the kitchen door, watching her children. As her son ran by, she swept him into her arms and kissed him.
Amid the laughter and fun, Isobel took her pistol from her saddlebag, drew her shawl around her shoulders and slipped outside. But a glance back at the flat-roofed house revealed a subtle transformation in what she had termed a prison. In the window, mother and child made a picture of happiness. The whitewashed adobe walls glowed almost translucent in the moonlight. The home was swept and scrubbed, the children well fed and cheerful, the mother content.
Turning away, Isobel wondered if she would find such peace with Guillermo Pascal. Passing a saloon, she saw several men leaning against a crude wooden bar and lifting mugs of beer. They were the likely compadres of a man like Noah Buchanan—common, obstinate, inconsiderate.
So why did her lips still burn from his kiss? Why did her breath catch in her throat at the memory of his hands around her waist? Worse, far worse, was the persistent image of his gentle smile. She could see that smile even as she hurried down the road, her leather boots stumbling over frozen wagon ruts. There it was as he poured steaming water into her basin, as he offered her a spoonful of scrambled eggs, when he plunged his arms into the dishwater to teach his new wife the mysteries of housekeeping.
Men were not supposed to be gentle. They were matadors, toreros—vanquishing life as if it were a bull that might rip open their hearts. Brave, strong, intelligent, bold. Fighting the sense that Noah Buchanan might be all these things as well, she hurried past the courthouse, a corral, a small shop.
As she pulled the shawl over her head, she heard the thunder of hoofbeats on the road. There! A band of men—five or six—riding at a gallop toward her. Clutching the pistol, she crossed the road toward a tumble of stones that had been cemented with mud to form a knobby tower. She crouched down into spiky, frozen grass and watched the riders approach. As they neared the tower, their leader reined his horse.
“You see that, Evans?” His breath formed a cloud of white vapor.
“See what?” Another rider edged forward. “We got an ambush?”
The first man was silent for a moment, listening. Isobel studied the low-slung jaw, the wide, flat nose, the narrow eyes searching the darkness. “I seen something run across the road just as we rounded the curve. It was her.”
“Confound it, Snake, if you don’t stop seein’ that Mexican gal in every crick and holler, one of us is gonna have to give you what fer.”
“I ain’t seein’ things this time, Evans.” Snake drew his gun and leveled it at the tower. “She’s over near the torreón. She had somethin’ white on her head, just like that Mexican that seen us level Tunstall.”
“So what if she’s here? Who’d believe a no-account Mexican over us? We’re deputies of the law, remember?”
Snake reached into his saddlebag and jerked out a handful of delicate fabric. Isobel caught her breath. Her mantilla! He draped it over the barrel of his gun and waved it in the air. “Listen up, señorita,” he called. “I got your veil—and I’m gonna get you.”
“Aw, come on, Snake.” Evans spat onto the road. “What is it with you and Mexicans? They ain’t worth half the heed you pay ’em.”
Snake flipped the mantilla into his open hand and shoved it into his bag. “Let’s go, boys. Dolan’s waitin’.”
But