The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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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 when the other men spurred their horses down the road, Snake circled around and approached the tower. Isobel shrank into the shadow, her hand trembling as she gripped her gun.
“I know you’re there, chiquita,” he growled. “One of these days I’ll make you wish you had never laid eyes on Jim Jackson.”
His horse whinnied as he dug in his spurs. Hooves clattered across the frozen track. With difficulty, Isobel got to her feet.
“Just try to kill me, asesino!” she ground out as she shook her gun at the retreating form. “Murderer!”
Her blood pulsing in her temples, she lifted her skirts and began to run, her heels pounding out her anger. The shawl slipped to her elbows, catching the frigid wind like a sail. She passed an empty lot and then came to a low-slung building. Its painted sign creaked as it swung in the crisp air.
“Tunstall Mercantile,” she read aloud. “Dry goods. Bank.”
Tunstall. Isobel saw again his young face, blue eyes wide with an innocence rarely found in men. The hat, the tweed coat, the brown kidskin gloves. So young, so naive. With a shiver, she set off again, knowing she must find Noah and tell him that Snake Jackson was back in town.
Grabbing up her skirts, she made for a large adobe house a few yards beyond the Tunstall store. She knocked on McSween’s door. When no one answered, she turned the handle and stepped inside.
All talking at once, a crowd of men sat around a table. Isobel picked out Dick Brewer, Tunstall’s foreman and Noah’s friend, bent over a sheaf of papers on the table. Billy Bonney had pointed his gun to the ceiling and looked as if he might fire it at any moment. Juan Patrón was shouting at Dr. Ealy, who was arguing back.
But where was Noah? She scanned the room again until her focus came to a window. On its deep sill Noah sat watching her, his blue eyes soft.
Isobel approached, her shawl sliding unnoticed to the floor. Her heart thundered as she came to a halt before him. Fingering a loose button at her throat, she shrugged. “I came.”
He nodded. “I was waiting for you.”
Chapter Four
Hand over her mouth, Isobel sagged against the wall. The men around the table turned to look, then resumed arguing. Noah took in the woman’s damp hem, muddy boots, fallen shawl. Her hair had scattered across her shoulders, a golden cape.
“If you knew I would come,” she murmured, “why did you tell me to stay at Patrón’s house?”
“I’m supposed to protect you, remember?” he said. Though color was slowly returning to her face, she was breathing as if she had seen a ghost. Noah battled the urge to take her in his arms. “Did Snake Jackson and his boys see you?”
“Only Snake. Do the others know they’re in town?”
“Not yet.” He jutted his chin at the boisterous group. “They’re squabbling over how to counter Dolan’s latest move. Sheriff Brady appointed Dr. Appel from Fort Stanton to perform a postmortem on Tunstall’s body. Appel’s a Dolan man. He’ll support the posse’s claim that Tunstall fired first.”
She frowned. “Then I must give my testimony now.”
“No.” He caught her hand, drawing her closer. “Don’t say anything, Isobel. Stay out of it.”
“Did you send a telegram to Santa Fe?”
“Yes.”
“You know I won’t go until I find my father’s killer.”
“If things blow here, you’ll need a place to run. Tunstall’s men are bent on revenge. Dolan’s gang will do anything for him.”
Noah made a place for her on the sill. He couldn’t tell if the woman was terrified or exhilarated by her second brush with danger. Her hazel eyes had gone green in the firelit room. Strands of hair brushed the arch of her brows. That button she was fooling with had dropped off, and he could see the creamy curve of her throat.
Looking away quickly, he ran his thumb and forefinger around the brim of his hat. Isobel could get herself shot by Snake Jackson. The man had a reputation for killing—he and Billy the Kid over there.
Isobel was staring at her knotted fingers, and he remembered how they had felt sliding tentatively up his back when he was kissing her. That kiss was a big mistake.
Noah shut his eyes, recalling the transformation of Isobel’s face from anger to hesitation to pleasure as she had rolled up her sleeves and dipped her arms into warm, soapy water. She had chattered the whole time—something about a horse she’d owned back in Spain. She’d talked on and on, unaware of the tingle that shot up his arm every time she handed him a dish and her wet fingers touched his.
The kiss had come from that, from the way she had gotten inside his mind. And now here she was beside him, her lips still beckoning. Even worse, he was beginning to care what happened to the señorita.
“Salir de Málaga para entrar en Malagón,” she said with a sudden smile. “It’s like when you say, ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire.’ My father used to shake his finger and call me la alborotadora, the troublemaker, of my family.”
“Now you tell me.” Noah shook his head. “Well, Miss Troublemaker, Snake Jackson’s in town, which means the constable hasn’t been able to serve the warrant. He’ll be at Jimmie Dolan’s house cooking up a plan. If we’re smart, we’ll lie low the next few days and then head for Chisum’s place.”
“Will you ask Señor Patrón about his father’s murder?”
Noah stood and took her arm. “Let’s head back to the house. Patrón will go with us. I’ll ask him then.”
They started across the room, and Noah lifted her shawl from the floor where she had dropped it. As he drew it over her shoulders, she leaned against him. It was all he could do to keep from catching her up in his arms right then and there. A kiss…just one more…and surely his craving would be satisfied.
As they passed the throng of arguing men, he realized Patrón had gotten into the thick of the debate, his face red above his collar and his shouts adding to the chaos in the room. Noah was about to suggest they talk to him later when Isobel slipped away from him and pushed through the crowd.
At the appearance of a woman in their midst, the men around the table fell silent.
“Excuse me,” she began. “My husband and I wish to return to the home of our host. Mr. Patrón?”
“Señora Buchanan,” Patrón spoke up, “forgive my rudeness. Mr. McSween has been kind enough to let us gather in his home to discuss the situation.”
Noah studied Alexander McSween. No older than thirty-five, the lawyer wore a drooping mustache that hung even with his chin. His tailored suit, polished boots and pocket watch set him apart from his colleagues. Noah had little doubt he was unarmed.
“A doctor has been bribed to perform the postmortem,” Patrón continued. “We must find a way to avert this injustice. Dick Brewer and Billy Bonney do not agree. Dr. Ealy and I—”
“Dr. Ealy?” Isobel lifted her eyebrows as if she had never seen the man who had ridden across half the New Mexico Territory with her. “Are you a medical doctor, sir?”