The Outlaw's Bride (12 page)

But Isobel’s thoughts were on a man whose face was imprinted on her soul. Dressing each morning, she recalled his admiration of her blue gown. Brushing her hair, she remembered him lifting a tress from her shoulder, turning it this way and that. Helping Mary Ealy prepare breakfast, she heard the clatter Noah had made as he’d searched for bowls, a frying pan, spoons.

Isobel had only to gaze out the window, and the scene brought Noah to her mind. Riding into town that first evening and sliding from her horse into his arms. Crossing frozen streets on the way to Juan Patrón’s house. Lincoln had become a part of her life. Her life and Noah’s, together.

“You love Mr. Buchanan,” Susan declared almost a week after the men had ridden away. “Don’t you, Isobel?”

She gave a weak smile. “The last time I told you how little Noah meant to me, he was standing just outside the door. Now…oh, how I wish he were here again.”

Susan reached out and covered Isobel’s hands with her own. “In the eyes of God, you and Noah are married. It’s all right to love him. Do you want a husband? Do you want Noah?”

“I tell myself I want to capture Snake Jackson,” Isobel said. “I want to regain my land titles. I want to marry Don Guillermo. But…Noah is the only man I’ve ever wanted in this way. I cannot imagine my life without him now.”

“I’ve got news!” Dr. Ealy strode through the back
door, his coattails flying in the March breeze. “It’s about Jesse Evans—one of the men who shot Mr. Tunstall.”

“Have they caught him?” his wife asked.

“Evans and some of the others have been hiding out in the Sacramento Mountains. A few days ago they sneaked over to a spread near Tularosa to loot it. They were having a merry time of it, but then the owner showed up. He grabbed a rifle and started firing.”

“Was anyone shot?” Isobel had realized at once that Snake Jackson often rode with the Evans bunch.

“Killed one and wounded Evans. Shot him in the wrist and the lungs.”

“Lungs!” Mary Ealy exclaimed. “Oh, he can’t last long.”

Dr. Ealy snorted. “Guess again. Evans escaped to friendly turf in the Organ Mountains. Just this morning he decided to give himself up to the commanding officer at Fort Stanton. So there he lies—safe from the Regulators and receiving the finest medical attention in these parts. Save for my own skilled hands, of course.”

“Is Evans a free man at the Fort?” Isobel asked.

“He’s under arrest until court convenes in April. They’ll try him under one of the old warrants he racked up—horse and cattle rustler, murderer, robber.” Dr. Ealy shook his head. “And here’s the humdinger of it all. Evans swore it was another man in the bunch who pulled the trigger on John Tunstall.”

“Another man?” Isobel exploded. “But I saw Snake Jackson and Jesse Evans kill him!”

Clenching her teeth, Isobel turned away and stepped outside. Never mind about Evans. The real object of her mission was Jim Jackson.

If she could have no part in Noah’s life…no station
as a doña in the Pascal family…no rights to her father’s land in Catalonia…then she had only one path.

She must find Jackson.

And only one man would know where he was hiding. Gazing up at the rolling green hills that rose above the river, Isobel made her decision. She would ride for Fort Stanton at once.

I
sobel knew Dr. Ealy and his wife would forbid her to leave McSween’s house. Instead she took Susan aside and explained the situation. If she confronted Jesse Evans while he was under arrest at Fort Stanton, he would be forced to tell her where Snake Jackson was hiding.

“And what then?” Susan asked, panic in her voice.

“Then…only God knows.”

Susan’s protests did no good. Isobel’s revenge would be complete only with the recovery of the land that belonged to her family. Vengeance was her only hope of peace.

Clad in borrowed denim trousers, chambray shirt and leather coat, Isobel set Noah’s black Stetson over her gold braid and mounted her horse.

Reaching down, she took Susan’s hand. “I shall return in a week. If not, you must write to my mother. Tell her I tried.”

“Oh, Isobel!”

“And tell Noah…tell him that I loved him.”

Fort Stanton was nine miles from Lincoln. Once under the authority of Kit Carson, it was now commanded by
Captain Purington. The towering snow-covered peak of Sierra Blanca dominated the horizon on one side of the stone bastion. On the other rose the mountains of El Capitan.

Entering the fort with little notice from the guards, Isobel scanned the barracks, irrigation ditches and spaded garden plots. Homes dotted the enclosure, and she noted more women and children than she had expected.

Troops of the Ninth Cavalry Regiment—one of four black brigades organized after the Civil War—were stationed at the fort. Highly respected by area settlers, the soldiers protected them from Apache attacks.

Noah had told Isobel that five years earlier, Jimmie Dolan had been the fort’s primary supplier of goods. Accused of defrauding the government, his services had been terminated. She assumed this meant the commanders would oppose Dolan in the Lincoln County conflict.

She was wrong. Noah had said the garrison’s orders lay with the law in New Mexico. And the law upheld every move Jimmie Dolan made. Determined to speak to Jesse Evans, Isobel tied up her horse and entered a building that served as the fort’s store, hotel and post office.

“Help ya?” The voice came from a row of mailboxes where a man was sorting through a stack of envelopes. “Name’s Will Dowlin. I’m the trader and postmaster here.”

“I want to speak with a medical prisoner.”

“Jesse Evans? He’s under guard at the hospital. Go to headquarters and ask for the officer in charge.” The
postmaster turned toward her. “Will you be needin’ a room for the night…ma’am? Or, is it sir?”

“My name is Isobel Matas Buchanan. I seek Jim Jackson, the man who murdered my father. And no, thank you, I won’t need a room.”

As she prepared to step outside, Dowlin called to her. “Miz Buchanan, I wouldn’t go tellin’ folks you’re lookin’ for Snake Jackson. He’s liable to start lookin’ for you.”

She tipped her head. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Dowlin.”

Captain Purington was frustrated with the War Department, he told Isobel, and tired of being fettered in his efforts to control the troubles in Lincoln County. Fearing more problems, he at first refused her interview request. But after much pleading, he said if she was fool-headed enough to hunt down a man wanted for murder, so be it.

Late that night, Isobel was ushered into the Fort Stanton hospital. Dr. Appel, the physician who had been paid a hundred dollars to examine John Tunstall’s body for the Dolan faction, pointed out Jesse Evans. The outlaw lay on a camp bed, his wrist and chest bandaged.

As she stepped to his side, she touched the place on her thigh where Noah’s six-shooter had hung. The holster was empty, the gun confiscated by the guard.

“Hello, Mr. Evans,” she said, her mouth dry.

The man stared at her, saying nothing.

She swallowed. “Mr. Evans, I’m looking for Rattlesnake Jim Jackson.”

“Snake?” he wheezed. “What fer?”

“He murdered my father, Alberto Matas.” The words
came easier now. “It happened five years ago, when Snake rode with the Horrell Gang.”

“Aw, not you again.” Evans began to cough. He spat a globule of bright blood onto the white sheet.

Isobel saw that none of guards intended to move. “Here,” she whispered, blotting his chin with a towel.

“Snake aims to kill ya, miss,” he grunted as she tucked the towel around his neck. “Hates Mexicans.”

“I’m from Spain.”

“Don’t matter. When he was a kid, some of your people done in his whole family. Besides, Snake seen you in the woods that evenin’.”

“When you shot John Tunstall? Yes. I saw it all.”

Evans coughed again. “If I tell you where Snake is and you go after him,” he gasped out, “yer gonna git killed.”

“If I were dead, I certainly couldn’t be a government witness against you.”

“Well, now…that sits purty good.” He lowered his voice. “Snake’s at the L. G. Murphy ranch, about ten miles northwest of the fort near White Oaks.”

Isobel stood. “Thank you, Mr. Evans. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Good luck,
señorita
. Yer gonna need it.”

Isobel dismounted as dawn cast a pink light over the mountains. The Murphy ranch house sat atop a small grassy knoll in the distance. At this hour no one stirred.

Perspiration broke out on her temples as she drew her gun and crept through the scrub piñon and oak brush. What would Noah say if he knew what she was doing? No doubt he would berate her for taking matters into her
own hands. One of his Bible verses would accompany the rebuke, of course. As if God even noticed a lone Spaniard stalking her father’s killer.

It wasn’t as though she really wanted to shoot Snake. If she could capture him and take him to the fort, Captain Purington would hold him with Evans until court convened in Lincoln. Then the law could hang them both.

Her breath sounded loud in the crisp morning air as she knelt beside a rail fence. No matter how distant and unfeeling God was, she needed divine help. Leaning her head against a post to whisper a quick prayer, she saw the faces of her father, her mother, her brother…and the gentle smile of Noah Buchanan.
Oh, Lord, keep him safe. Always.

Cradling her pistol, she flipped open the chamber and counted the six bullets. As she clicked it back into place, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

“Don’t scream. Don’t move.”

Fear knotting her throat, she struggled, twisting to see the man who held her. A dark hat, a bandanna, shadowed eyes. Gripping her hard, the man turned her to face him. Strong nose…unshaven chin…blue, blue eyes.

“Mule-headed woman,” Noah breathed. “What’re you doing out here?”

“How did you know I was gone?”

“Susan Gates sent for me.”

“But…but I told her—”

“Enough’s enough, Isobel. You’re coming back to Lincoln with me.”

She caught his arm. “Noah—look!”

The front door of the Murphy house swung open. Scratching his rumpled hair, Jim Jackson wandered
onto the porch, a rifle in his arms. He wore only a red union suit, its buttons half undone. As he leaned the rifle against a porch post, Isobel wrestled free of Noah’s grip.

“Jim Jackson!” she cried out. “Where are the titles to my land?”

“Get down, Isobel!” Noah hissed, drawing his gun as he tried to push her to the ground.

“I am the daughter of Don Alberto Matas—a man you murdered five years ago,” Isobel shouted. “Where have you put my family’s land titles and jewels? The ones you stole from my father’s coach.”

With a loud croak, Snake reached for his rifle, but Isobel cocked her pistol.

“Hold yer horses now,
señorita!
” he yelled.

“Shall I shoot you dead? Or will you talk?”

“Why should I tell you anything,
señorita?
”

“Tell me where you put the titles, or I’ll blast off your head!”

“And I’ll blast off yore sassy head!” Snatching up his rifle, Snake crouched just as Isobel pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the front door. As she squeezed the trigger a second time, Noah grabbed her by the waist and hurled her to the ground. A bullet zinged past her head and buried itself in a tree trunk behind them.

“Someone’s firing from upstairs!” Noah shouted.

“You made me miss my shot!”

“Head for that arroyo.”

As Noah dragged her toward the protection of the nearby ditch, Isobel aimed at a face in an upper window and fired her third bullet. A return shot struck a fence post, causing a spray of sawdust and splinters to explode
beside them. Isobel took aim at Snake as he scampered around the side of the house.

“Asesino!”
she hollered, pulling the trigger. “Murderer! Thief!”

A slug plowed into the dirt beside her. Another hit a rock and ricocheted. As Noah was tugging her down into the ditch, she squeezed off her two remaining rounds.

“Oh, if I could only get my hands on that man—”

Her words hung in her throat as she caught sight of a crimson stain spreading across Noah’s sleeve.

His blue eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the landscape. “C’mon—this way!”

“You’re…you’re wounded!”

“That’s what happens when folks shoot at you, darlin’. Follow me.”

Running in a crouch through the low shrubbery, they approached the road. The fire in Isobel’s blood still pumped like lava through her veins. Yet the man she loved had been shot defending her.

“Get on now!” Noah lifted Isobel in his arms and slung her onto the horse. Swinging a leg over his own saddle, he shouted, “Go, Isobel! Ride like the wind!”

Pistol drawn, Noah rode just paces behind Isobel. If Snake and his cronies gave chase, it would be close. Noah’s arm was on fire, and he knew that spelled trouble.

“Are you badly hurt, Noah?” she called over her shoulder.

“I’ll live.”

“Then we should circle behind the house. They won’t expect it.
Por la venganza!”

As she spurred her horse, Noah reined his. Busy
thanking the Creator for a relatively safe exit, he hadn’t quite caught her drift. Maybe it was the loss of blood, but his head didn’t feel right. Hadn’t he just rescued Isobel? Hadn’t he just dragged her to safety as bullets flew around their heads? Hadn’t he just gotten himself shot trying to get her away from Snake Jackson?

“Isobel!” he bellowed, goading his horse. “Isobel, get back here!”

A branch raked his hat from his head as he followed her horse’s flying hooves through a thicket. Stifling a curse, he gritted his teeth.

“We’ll take cover there,” she cried, wheeling her horse around. “Behind the privy.”

“Isobel!”

But she was off again. When her horse galloped across a stretch of open ground, shots rang out from the Murphy house. The horse shied, dancing sideways as Isobel fought for control.

Jaw clenched, Noah started across the clearing after Isobel. Bullets seemed to come from every direction. Feeling vulnerable without his hat, he hunkered down low.

“Isobel!” he called over the commotion.

“Noah—to the outhouse. My horse will follow yours. I can’t leave now. I’m too close!”

“Close to getting yourself killed,” he growled. “Get out of here, darlin’, and I mean now.”

Hostility bordering on hatred flashed from her eyes as she swung her horse away from the privy. He followed, this time steering clear of the road in case of an ambush. When they had ridden a couple of miles without hearing pursuit, Isobel reined her horse to a stop.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“Home.”

“I have no home—and you just made certain of it.”

“Snake Jackson won’t give up those titles, Isobel, even with you shooting at him from behind a privy.”

She shook her head and looked away. “How little you understand me, Noah Buchanan.”

“You can say that again.”

“At Fort Stanton, I will recruit soldiers. They’ll be brave enough to fight by my side against Snake Jackson.”

Noah snorted. “We’re not stopping at Fort Stanton, Isobel. Or in Lincoln. I’m taking you to Chisum’s ranch.”

“You will have to keep your gun on me, vaquero, because I mean to return to the Murphy house. I know my mission.”

“So do I,
señor
a.”

Cradling his wounded arm, Noah reached for his hat, then remembered he’d lost it. He ran a hand across his damp hair and let out a sigh. No hat. No breakfast. A hole in his arm. And one crazy spitfire. This arrangement was turning out to be some kind of fun.

As angry as she felt at being deterred from her goal, Isobel was worried about Noah’s wound. She insisted on bathing his arm in the clear, icy water of the Rio Bonito.

“It’s a clean wound,” she informed him as they sat under a tree near the stream. “The bullet passed through. God was with you.”

“He’s always with me. You, too.”

“How can you say such a thing? He is God! If you
saw the churches in Spain, you would understand His majesty.”

“Honey, I see it just fine in the New Mexico sky. Majestic as He is, God told us, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you.’ He loves us, Isobel.”

“If God loved you, He would not have let a bullet go through your arm.” As she bound his forearm with a strip of cotton torn from her petticoat, Isobel struggled against her own guilt. Noah had been injured protecting her. She didn’t like it that such a man could be hurt. He had seemed so strong, so invincible. Like her father.

Noah brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Didn’t your daddy ever let you do anything wrong, so you’d learn from your mistake and be a better person?”

Isobel thought back to the first time she had taken her horse over a fence. Though her father had warned her not to do it, he had stood by and watched as she disobeyed. When she’d fallen, he had been the first to her side.

“Why do you reject Him, Isobel?” Noah asked.

She tugged a necklace from inside her blouse. “I carry God with me, you see. You can never accuse me of rejecting Him.”

Noah lifted the gold crucifix with his fingertips. “You carry Him, but you won’t let Him carry you. You keep Him on this cross so He won’t interfere with your plan to wreak vengeance on Snake Jackson. You think you can direct your own life, Isobel. But you’re wrong.”