The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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“Let me go!” she cried out, the nearness of the man plunging fear like a knife into her heart.
Relaxing his shoulders, he stepped back. “I won’t hurt you, Isobel. I made a vow.”
She swallowed in confusion at the change in him. “I must trust you to take me to Lincoln Town. Yet I know nothing about you.”
“You know me real well. John Chisum says if you want to know a man, find out what makes him mad. If you draw a gun on me again, you can say adios to the best shot west of the Pecos.”
“The best shot west of the Pecos?” She laughed. “I will have to see that to believe it, señor.”
The moon kindled a silver flame in his eyes as he spoke. “Stick around Lincoln County and you’ll see it. I can outdraw any man in the territory. But that’s not what I aim to do with myself from here on.”
She lifted the blanket to her chin. “And what is your aim?”
“The minute John Chisum gets out of jail, I’ll introduce you as Isobel…no, Belle. Belle Buchanan, a slip of a lady I met and married on the trail.”
“My name is Isobel Matas.”
“You’d better be Belle Buchanan if you don’t want Snake Jackson after your hide. And Belle is just the shiest, quietest little thing Lincoln Town has ever seen.”
“If I’m to be Belle Buchanan, quiet and shy for your John Chisum, you had better be the fastest gun west of the Pecos—or your little wife will change swiftly into Isobel Matas, the fastest gun in Catalonia.”
Noah chuckled. “I’ve tangled with a few women in my time, but never one as sure talking, high strung and mule stubborn as you.”
“Nor as pretty,” she added.
“Ornery is more like it,” he said with a grin. “You put on a shy smile, and I’ll keep my trigger finger ready. We’ll settle the matter of my land first. Then we’ll check into this question of your father.”
“My father first. Then your land.”
“The trouble over Tunstall’s death needs to die down before we start poking around in Lincoln. We’ll go see Chisum first.”
“I have waited five years,” she told him. “I have traveled many miles. I will wait no longer. Now, leave me to sleep, Buchanan. I must speak to the sheriff tomorrow.”
“Sheriff Brady deputized that posse you saw today. He gave Snake Jackson a lawman’s badge. Brady’s a Dolan man. You ride into Lincoln tomorrow and you’ll be eating hot lead for supper.”
He headed for the open door, but he paused with his hand on the latch. “And it’s Noah…Noah to you…not Buchanan. Don’t forget I’m your husband.”
As he shut the door behind him, Isobel sagged against the bed frame. How could she forget? The man would be with her every moment, ordering her around, insisting on his own way. He was a bull. Rough and unrefined. Headstrong and stubborn. So powerful he frightened her.
Sinking onto the lumpy mattress, she closed her eyes. But instantly she saw him. Noah Buchanan. She felt the grip of his hand on her shoulder. He was a brute—nothing like Don Guillermo Pascal of Santa Fe.
At that thought, she left the bed again and searched through her saddlebag until her fingers closed on an oval locket. Holding the pendant up to catch the moonlight, she studied the tiny painting of her intended. His jutting chin, firm mouth, deep-set brooding eyes and shock of black hair made her proud. Here was the splendid Spaniard who could outwit the roughshod cowboy. This was the torero who could defeat the bull.
For ten years Isobel had known that Guillermo Pascal would become her husband. He owned a sprawling hacienda, a fine stable, countless cattle, land that stretched many miles across the New Mexico Territory. He was wealthy, noble, Spanish. And he was hers.
She snapped the locket clasp and slipped the golden chain back into her bag. As she crossed to the bed, she noticed the shards of glass from the shattered lamp. She ought to sweep them up.
But Isobel Matas had never touched a broom in her life. She was to be served—not to be a servant. Someone else would have to sweep the glass, someone meant for menial tasks. Shrugging, she found the fallen pistol, pushed it beneath her pillow and climbed back into bed.
The first rays of sunlight were slipping over the pine trees when Isobel waded from the shallows of slumber. She fought to catch the remnants of her dream—of that magnificent man who strode through the purple-ribboned depths, his chest broad, his shoulders strong, his eyes so blue. Blue?
Isobel frowned. Guillermo Pascal’s eyes were not blue.
At a tinkling sound in the room, she eased onto one elbow. In the gray light she made out a tall figure. Noah Buchanan.
His black hat tilted toward the back of his head. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He wore a leather belt with a silver buckle. In his hand he held a stick. A rifle?
No…a broom.
Humming, he swept the broken glass. Unaware of her watchful eye, he raked it into a tin dustpan and stepped out of the room. She shook her head. This vaquero who could knock a loaded gun from her hand, who could guide his horse through darkness, who had walked through her dreams all night…this cattleman of the plains was sweeping!
As she rose from the bed, she caught the smell of frying bacon. He sweeps, he cooks, what else? Mystified, she peered around the door frame.
His worn brown boots thudding on the floor, the bull stalked across the room. His shoulder grazed a hanging pot, one knee knocked a rickety chair aside. But as he leaned over the fire, Noah Buchanan might have been a cocinero in a nobleman’s kitchen. As he broke six eggs into sizzling grease in a frying pan, he hummed.
Bemused, Isobel eased the bedroom door shut and propped a chair beneath the handle. She wanted no intrusions this time. As she took a petticoat and faded skirt from the bundle Susan Gates had given her, she smiled. Noah Buchanan was rugged and earthy, but he was gentle and unpretentious, too. Perhaps they would do well together for the few days of their marriage.
A wash of guilt crept over Isobel as she slipped on Susan’s petticoat. She had married Noah Buchanan under God’s eyes. For as long as she could remember, she had faithfully attended church and said her prayers. She knew this marriage was a sin worthy of the harshest punishment.
As she fastened the row of buttons lining the bodice of the blue gown, she wondered what she would suffer. Would she lose her chance to wed Guillermo Pascal? Would she never learn the truth behind her father’s death? Or something worse?
“Dear God,” she whispered in prayer. “Forgive me, please.” She knew God was harsh, vengeful, given to anger. His sacraments were not to be treated lightly. Yet she had done just that.
Struggling with the shadow such thoughts cast across the morning’s bright sunlight, she slipped on a pair of boots and laced them. She would make the best of the situation, she decided. She would see to it that the contrived marriage lasted no longer than necessary. Noah Buchanan would remain the stranger he had been from the beginning. For a few days Isobel would become Belle Buchanan—a soft-spoken, common woman, like Susan Gates, the schoolteacher.
Setting her shoulders, Isobel wound her hair into a tight chignon and buried her tortoiseshell comb deep in the saddlebag. Facing the world without her mantilla was uncomfortable. To be bareheaded in public was a disgrace.
Sighing, she thought of the trunks making their way by mule train to Lincoln Town for transfer to Santa Fe. Gowns of silk, ivory linen, satin and taffeta. Lace mantillas, velvet jackets, cloaks, stockings of every hue. She had packed ebony combs, gold pendants, pearl earrings.
But an uneven hem, sagging petticoats and a limp cotton dress were the lot of Belle Buchanan. Drawing a shawl around her shoulders, she recalled the hours she and her mother had spent choosing the perfect gowns for a dance or