The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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of land transfer. Unable to learn the name of the man who possessed the Spanish land-grant titles—no doubt the same man who had killed her father and stolen them—Isobel had departed for America.
As she dried dishes at Noah’s side, he suddenly relented. They would go to Lincoln instead of Chisum’s ranch. But the town would be up in arms over Tunstall’s murder, he warned. Rattlesnake Jackson, Jesse Evans and the rest of the posse would be there, along with Alexander McSween and Tunstall’s men. It would be a powder keg waiting for a match.
“You’d better get to know New Mexico if you want to run cattle here.” Noah spoke in a low voice as they entered the town. “That plant with the spiky leaves is a yucca. The cactus over there is a prickly pear.”
Riding a horse borrowed from Dick Brewer, she pointed to a twisted vine. “That’s a sandía, a watermelon.”
Noah shook his head. “We call it a mala mujer.”
“A bad woman?”
“Looks like a watermelon vine. Promises a man relief from his hard life on the trail. But the mala mujer grows only cockleburs.”
“And so it’s a bad woman—promising much but delivering only pain?”
“Yep.” He straightened in the saddle. “There’s Sheriff Brady’s place. His neighbor is my friend Juan Patrón. We’ll stay with him.”
A lump formed in Isobel’s throat. She was here at last, in the town of her father’s burial. And no doubt a place well known to his killer. A dozen flat-roofed adobe houses lined the road. Where it curved, she saw a few finer homes and a couple of stores.
“Listen, Isobel.” Noah slowed his horse. “I brought you to Lincoln, but while we’re here, you’ll do as I say. Got that?”
“Sí. But if we disagree, you may go your way. Isobel Matas makes her own decisions.”
“You’re not Isobel Matas anymore, sweetheart. You’re Belle Buchanan—and you’d best not forget it.”
He reined in outside a small house with two front doors. “Patrón’s store. He used to be a schoolteacher and a court clerk. When his father was killed in seventy-three, he took on the family business.”
“Seventy-three?” She slid from her horse into Noah’s arms. “My father was killed in seventy-three.”
For an instant she was drawn into a dark cocoon that smelled of worn leather and dust. Resting her cheek against Noah’s flannel shirt, she relaxed in its warmth. But at the sound of his throbbing heartbeat, she caught her breath and stepped away.
“Seventy-three,” she mumbled. “My father—”
“Old Patrón was murdered by a gang,” Noah cut in. “The Horrell Gang went on a rampage, killing Mexicans.”
“But my father was from Spain.”
“Wouldn’t matter. If you speak Spanish around here, you’re a Mexican.” He absently brushed a strand of loose hair from her cheek. “And remember, you’re an American. You don’t understand a word the Patróns are saying. Your name is Belle Buchanan. You’re my wife.”
She nodded, aware of his fingertips resting lightly on her shoulder. His face had grown gentle again, with that soft blue glow in his eyes, that subtle curve to his mouth. He was too close, his great shoulders a fortress against trouble, his warm hand moving down her arm.
Her eyes flicked to his. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form words, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. Gentle, tender, his mouth moved over the moist curves as if searching, seeking something long buried.
She softened. This male kiss, the first of her life, held a delight she had never imagined from the perfunctory pecks of mother and aunts. But it was over as quickly as it had begun. Noah lifted his head and focused somewhere behind her. “Buenas noches, Juan,” he said. “Put down your six-shooter. It’s me.”
“Noah?” The stout young man started across the darkened porch, walking with a limp. He was sturdy yet trim in a tailored Prince Albert coat. “¡Bienvenidos! You’ve been away too long. Come in, come in!”
“Juan, I want you to meet someone.” Noah set his hand behind Isobel’s waist. “My wife, Belle Buchanan.”
“Your wife?” The snapping black eyes widened. “So pleased to meet you, Señora Buchanan.”
“And I you,” Isobel said softly.
“Noah, you are the last man on earth I would guess to take a wife. But come inside! You must meet my family.”
As they started up the steps, Isobel caught Noah’s hand and raised on tiptoe to his ear. “The murder! You must ask him about the murder.”
He nodded and gave her hand a squeeze. She struggled to dismiss his easy intimacy. The man at her side was only pretending, after all. The kiss had been nothing more than a signal of the role each must play as man and wife.
She brushed at her dusty skirts and tucked the strand of hair into her chignon. But the burning on her lips remained as she watched Noah’s shoulders disappear through a door leading from the porch.
“Please meet my wife, Beatriz!” Juan held the door for Isobel. “She is of the family Labadie, from Spain. But they have lived in New Mexico many generations. Beatriz, can you believe Noah has brought a bride?”
“Señora Buchanan, welcome.” Beatriz, surrounded by children of various sizes, curtsied in greeting.
At the sight of the woman’s lace mantilla and comb, it was all Isobel could do to keep from hugging her. She managed a whispered, “Thank you.”
“Sit—Noah, señora.” Juan gestured toward the fire. “How long will you stay with us? A week or more?”
Noah chuckled as he settled on a bench. Playing the dutiful wife, Isobel took her place at his side. He stretched an arm along the bench back. “We’re just passing through, Juan. I need to settle up with Chisum and then—”
“But do you not know?” Juan sat forward on the edge of his chair. “Chisum is in jail! Lincoln is in a terrible state. I believe it will soon be war.”
Noah’s arm moved to Isobel’s shoulders. “What’s going on, Juan?”
“It is difficult to speak of.” He lowered his voice. “John Tunstall was ambushed and killed yesterday. Shot twice. Most believe it was Jimmie Dolan’s posse.”
“Dolan. No surprise there.”
“Tunstall’s men brought his body here. The judge took affidavits from Dick Brewer and Billy Bonney and issued arrest warrants for the men in the posse. A coroner’s jury is taking testimony even now.”
“Who’s named in the warrants?”
“Jim Jackson, the one they call Rattlesnake. Jesse Evans. Others. Maybe up to forty men.”
“How’s McSween taking it?”
Juan shook his head. “You know Alexander McSween. A lawyer—so mild, always thinking of law and justice. I saw the shock on his face when they told him about Tunstall. But he is busy. His house is full of guests. A doctor and his wife, their children, a schoolteacher.”
Isobel bit her lip to keep from asking about Susan. Noah inquired about his boss as Beatriz set a bowl of steaming posole on a nearby table.
“Chisum won’t get involved,” Juan predicted, watching his wife ladle out the spicy pork and hominy stew. “But come. I shall tell of Chisum’s predicament at dinner.”
Isobel followed Noah and hoped she was creating the right impression. But she might as well have been invisible for all the attention paid her.
“McSween told me the story of Chisum’s jailing,” Juan said after he had asked a blessing on the meal. “Just