The Outlaw's Bride (9 page)

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Noah tipped his hat and headed for the Tunstall porch, where Dick stood guarding the women.

As Noah neared, Isobel stepped out from behind Dick and ran to meet him. Noah caught her and pulled her close. “Why’d you tell him, Isobel? Why’d you tell Snake you knew he shot your father?”

“I was so frightened when he came suddenly from behind the tree. He put his hand around my neck!” Tears filled her eyes. “He called me unspeakable names. He told me that a Mexican had murdered his parents in Laredo, and now he would kill every Mexican he could lay his hands on. He said if I tell what I saw in the forest, he will strangle me. Oh, Noah, I was so afraid, and then
my fear became anger, and I told him I knew he had murdered my father.”

She bent and buried her face in her open hands. Sobbing, she allowed Noah to fold her into his arms. “I have no choice,” she choked out. “I must kill that man before he kills me.”

“You can’t go after Jackson, honey,” he murmured. “You’re a woman. And a woman’s place is somewhere safe and quiet.”

“The pair of you better get out of Lincoln fast,” Dick said, joining them. “Snake means what he says.”

Susan touched Isobel’s arm. “
Señor
Patrón told me your trunks came this morning. They’re at the hotel.”

“My trunks…” She looked at Noah.

“I’ll borrow a buckboard from McSween. Dick, will you help me load up?”

“Count on it.”

The women started down the covered wooden porch in front of Tunstall’s store. Dick set off after Susan, but Noah stood back a moment.

Not far away, men stomped down the mound of soil that covered John Tunstall’s grave. Odd, the peace he had felt as he had lifted his voice in song. He could easily imagine the joy he would feel standing with the saints at the river that flows by the throne of God.

But Noah wasn’t ready for heaven yet. For the first time in his life he had touched the fringes of serenity. He had found a haven in the sweet kisses and warm embrace of Isobel Matas. He wasn’t ready to let that promised land slip away. Not yet.

It took four days to drive the loaded buckboard to John Chisum’s South Spring River Ranch. Concerned
that Snake might ambush them, they bumped and jolted southeast along the edge of the Rio Bonito before making the slow climb over the foothills that bounded the Rio Ruidoso. They passed the Fritz ranch, and Isobel asked whether they might spend the night there. Noah shook his head.

“Emil Fritz died nearly four years ago, and the wrangle over his estate started the mess in Lincoln,” he explained. “The Fritz family hired Alexander McSween to settle the will. Emil had once been Jimmie Dolan’s business partner, so Dolan claimed the Fritz money was owed to his store. McSween refused to give up the inheritance. So Dolan accused him of stealing it.”

“Everyone has accused everyone else,” she said with a sigh. “One man arrests another…and then is arrested in turn. Both claim to be in the right.”

“The main thing is that you and I have no part of either side,” Noah said. “We’ll settle at Chisum’s ranch and bide our time until the trouble blows over.”

“And what about Rattlesnake Jackson? Am I to let him escape justice?”

“You have no choice, Isobel.” Noah set his hand on hers. “If Dolan’s bunch wins this feud, Snake will have the law on his side. If McSween’s group comes out on top, they’ll lock Snake up without needing your testimony. Snake reminded me that the affidavits sworn after Tunstall’s murder don’t mention us.”

Isobel fell silent. She was held hostage by a man who deserved the worst fate she could wish upon him. Ensnared, yes, but a cornered animal—one with spirit to live—didn’t lie down and die. It fought. It snarled and clawed and bit. And perhaps…perhaps it won its freedom.

A silver pistol was nestled in the folds of her green silk gown, packed in a trunk on the buckboard. Isobel knew how to use that pistol. She had the skill and the desire. Now all she needed was the opportunity.

Focusing on the large brown hand that covered hers, she noted the fingers hardened with callus. This was a good hand. It held the promise of protection, nurture, passion.

Isobel knew Noah wanted her to be at peace. He hoped to mold her into the sort of woman to whom a simple blue-calico dress and white shawl might belong. He believed he could hide her away and erase the pain in her heart.

As darkness settled over the road, she studied his profile beneath the black felt Stetson. His face was outlined in the last ribbons of golden light. As the days had passed, Noah somehow had shed his common, dusty vaquero image. Isobel had almost forgotten the dark-bearded cowboy who had swept her onto his horse. In his place she saw a human being, a man who held hopes, dreams and desires in the palms of his rough hands.

It frightened her to think how much of herself she had given him, yet how little she knew him. Perhaps Noah was right to insist she step out of the fray and let someone else give Snake the fate he deserved. But this was not the way she had been brought up.

“Noah,” she said as they rode on through the darkness. “You told me I have no choice but to abandon the revenge that calls me.”

“No choice at all. You just give up the notion, like any woman with a thread of common sense would.”

“What do you know about my people? About Catalonia?”

“Not much more than could fit in a thimble. I reckon it’s part of Spain. That means everybody speaks Spanish—”

“We speak Catalan.” She saw his brow furrow. “The Spanish government forbids us to speak our language, but we speak it anyway. We are fierce, artistic, political people. Catalonia leads the rest of Spain in the production of textiles. Barcelona has grown far beyond its fifteenth-century walls. We dream of autonomy from Spain.”

“Autonomy? You folks want civil war—like the one we went through a few years back?”

“Why not? The rest of Spain is poor and ignorant. But we are a high-minded, cultured people. We have the Jocs Florals, our famous poetry contest. We have painting schools and choral societies. We love fraternity and liberty.”

“Those sound like revolution words to me,” he grumbled.

“In Catalonia, we do not sit and wait for our future. We have a heritage of progress. Change. We will fight for our freedom.”

“So, you’re one of these high-minded, revolutionary Catalonians. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“What I’m telling you is this,” she said in a voice so low the rattle of the buckboard wheels almost drowned it. “I am a Catalan. I have a noble spirit and blood of fire. My father has been murdered and our family heritage stolen. These are crimes I cannot allow to go unpunished.”

“Now, Isobel—”

“I must prepare myself, Noah. I must find Jim Jackson. And then I must kill him.”

N
oah wasn’t much in the mood to chat by the time the buckboard pulled into San Patricio. It was almost midnight according to the moon-silvered hands on his pocket watch. The little town lay in the valley where the Bonito and Ruidoso rivers joined to create the Rio Hondo was shut tight. Noah directed the buckboard into a wooded copse and set the brake.

Isobel sat shivering while he built a fire. They spoke little. She knew Noah regretted yoking himself to a Catalan firebrand. She was pondering the mule-headed vaquero she’d married. By the time they’d eaten the supper of tortillas and roasted meat Beatriz Patrón had packed, both were feeling positively hostile.

“Shall I sleep in the buckboard?” Isobel asked after washing the plates in a chilly stream while Noah banked the fire.

“Unless you’d rather pack a rifle and stand guard over your fancy dresses all night,” Noah shot back.

Isobel tossed her head. “Better to appear foolhardy and defend one’s possessions than to be so concerned for safety that one loses everything. To run is cowardly.”

“Who’re you calling a coward, woman?”

“Certainly I’m not the one who chose to flee danger.”

“No, you’re the one who was so scared she blabbered every secret we were trying to keep under wraps.”

Isobel could hardly argue there. She had collapsed in front of Snake Jackson. But with the clarity of reflection, she realized she should have stood her ground with Noah and insisted they remain in Lincoln.

“A brave person may have a moment of weakness,” she asserted, “but it is your stubbornness that prevents justice.”

Without another word, she climbed onto the buckboard and settled in a pile of blankets in the midst of the trunks.

“Me stubborn?” Noah grumbled as he tended the horses. “She’s so ornery she wouldn’t move camp in a prairie fire. Spanish hothead.”

Isobel pulled a blanket over her head.

“Thinks she’s going to kill Jim Jackson,” Noah muttered.

But as Isobel drifted to sleep, she heard him singing in a low, almost inaudible voice.

The sun was blazing high overhead when Noah drove down the trail to the home of John Simpson Chisum. Isobel descended from the buckboard, her face aglow with pleasure at the sight of the rambling adobe house built around a central patio.

“This is lovely!” she exclaimed.

“And well built.” Noah slapped the side of the house with a gloved hand. “Long planks are buried inside the walls so no one can saw through it with a horsehair rope.”

“The roof has a
pretil,
” Isobel whispered.

“A parapet,” Noah corrected. “That wall can protect a lot of armed men from attackers. The place is a fortress. And it’s where I aim to keep you safe from Snake Jackson.”

Isobel looked at him fully for the first time in many hours. “Is this where you stay, Noah?”

“My house is a few miles north. It’s not near as fancy as Chisum’s.”

“Take me there. I want to see your home.”

Noah’s brow lifted. “You’re not leaving Chisum’s for a minute, hear? And while I’m on the subject, I’ve got a few things to tell you.”

“Are these the thoughts that have made you scowl at the world today?”

Noah took off his hat, eyed it a moment, then spoke. “Until John gets out of jail, Isobel, we don’t need to pretend we’re married. Which is good because I don’t want to let things get out of hand.”

“You’re unhappy because you kissed me?”

“Yes. Well…no.” He met her gaze. “It’s not good. Kissing. It
is
good, but it’s wrong.”

“Pardon me?”

He stuffed his hat back on his head. “We made this arrangement, and we plan to end it one day, right?”

“Yes,” she answered. But it came into her mind as she spoke the word that she could not imagine the day when Noah Buchanan would ride out of her life as swiftly as he had ridden into it.

“So,” he was saying, “I’m going to check on my place while you stay here. You’ll be safe. Nobody can get into John Chisum’s house.”

“Or out?” Anger flared. “You intend to imprison me.”

“I intend to protect you. When John comes home, we’ll act married again. After he sells me the land and we’ve found out what’s become of Snake Jackson, we’ll go our separate ways.”

“And you’ll be rid of me.”

“You’ll be rid of me, too, darlin’.” He touched her chin with the tip of one finger. But he drew away quickly. “I’ll take your trunks inside and then head upriver.”

From the nearby corral, three men wandered over to the buckboard, and Noah greeted them by name. Isobel stood aside as Noah directed the removal of her trunks. Noah carried himself with a quiet authority that Isobel had never noticed. In his long coat, black hat and leather boots, he resembled a military officer. Tall and powerfully built, he stood well above the other men. But it was the confident air with which he gave orders that revealed his true position among them.

Isobel watched, trying to memorize him, yet trying to accept the truth that their marriage was a sham. The moments of tenderness meant nothing to Noah, and she must not forget that.

She walked toward the house, past the rosebushes, willows and cottonwoods. As she stepped into the front room, a voice called out.

“Mrs. Buchanan?” A small, plump woman extended a hand. “I’m Mrs. Frances Towry, Mr. Chisum’s housekeeper. My husband and I moved here from Paris, Texas, a while back. He runs the harness and saddle shop. Our son works on the range. He’s a good friend of your husband. ’Course, I don’t know a soul who ain’t fond of Noah. You got yourself a mighty fine man, Mrs. Buchanan.”

“Thank you,” Isobel said, mustering a smile.

“Welcome to South Spring River Ranch. And this here’s our cook.” She gestured to a chocolate-skinned man. “Pete, say howdy to Mrs. Buchanan.”

As they greeted one another, Isobel began to see that John Chisum enjoyed the same lifestyle in which she had been reared. The house was large, cool and well-appointed with furniture and plush carpets. Mrs. Towry prattled on as she led Isobel to a fine bedroom.

“I’m gonna put you and your husband right here in Mr. Chisum’s room. Now, don’t look so shocked. See this beautiful bed?” A mattress, feather tick and bolster rested on an elaborately carved bedstead. “He won’t touch this. Every night, he sets up his camp bed.”

“But why?”

Mrs. Towry smoothed a hand over the embroidered shams. “Says it’s too much trouble to fold up the bedding.” A twinkle lit her gray eyes as she glanced at Isobel. “Mr. Chisum is known for pulling jokes. So…if he don’t like his own bed, I’ll settle you and your husband into it. See how that suits him.”

Isobel didn’t see how such a joke would endear her
to John Chisum. Before she could protest, Noah entered the room, and Mrs. Towry scuttled out.

“Everything okay?” he asked, jamming his hands into the pockets of his denims, as though fearful he might touch her.

“It’s good,” she said, trying to smile.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?”

“You’ve threatened to chase down Snake Jackson.”

“If I leave, everyone will know I’m not Belle Buchanan. That would ruin your plan to buy land from Mr. Chisum.”

“Isobel.” He stepped closer. “I’ll get my land one way or another. That’s not why I want you to stay away from Lincoln. Snake will kill you.”

She shrugged. “If I’m dead, you won’t have to bother with me.”

“Listen, woman.” He clamped her shoulders in his hands. “I swore to protect you, and I’m not backing down on that.”

“You also swore to be my husband.”

“I’m not your husband. Don’t tempt me, Isobel.”

“How do I tempt you? Tell me.”

“Your eyes…your hair…your lips.” He drew her against him.

“Noah,” she murmured. “I, too, decided some days ago that I must look to my own future.”

“That’s right.” His blue eyes searched her face.

“We are very different. And we want such different things from life.”

“Isobel…”

“Kiss me once, Noah. Before you go.”

“Isobel…” But his lips pressed hers in a kiss that broke the flimsy barriers of restraint. She slipped her
arms around him as she had dreamed of doing. But in a moment, he broke away.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice strained. “No. It’s not right.”

“Then go, Noah Buchanan. Go to your safe little house. Run away from me. Run from every danger in your life.”

“I’m no coward, girl. But steering clear of calamity is how I keep myself alive long enough for my dreams to come true.”

“And going
mano a mano
—hand to hand—with calamity is how I make dreams come true.”

He shook his head. “Isobel…Isobel.”

“Goodbye, Noah.” She turned away lest he see the tears brimming in her eyes. This was the last time he would ever hold her, the last time their lips would touch. Their destinies called them in opposite directions, and each had to obey the beckoning whisper.

By the time the moon rose Noah had settled into the four-room adobe
jacal
he had built at the edge of the Pecos River. He checked on the old milk cow and dozen hens he kept penned in a roughshod barn. His neighbor downriver, Eugenio Baca, looked after the stock when he was gone.

By lantern light Noah meandered down to an old cottonwood tree and dug up his pail of money. It was all there—ten years’ worth of scrimping and saving. More than enough to buy the acreage adjoining his home. As he reburied the pail and shifted the heavy slab of limestone back into place, he couldn’t help but smile. He had the money. He had the wife. And pretty soon he’d have the land.

He slept well. The following morning, he swept and mopped, gathered eggs, milked his cow. Woman’s work, but he was used to it. He couldn’t imagine Isobel doing the common chores that made a house a home. She would expect servants to obey her every command. Good thing she was settled at Chisum’s place.

The next day, Noah unpacked his pens and ink and started writing a story that had been tickling his thoughts ever since Tucson. Working hard, he stayed up half the night, his thoughts racing and the precious oil in his lamp burning. He could hear the men talking inside his head. He could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder and taste the dry dust in his mouth with each new sentence, each paragraph, each page.

He wrote all day Thursday. Almost forgot to milk the cow. Forgot to chop wood. Snow began to fall outside his window, but Noah didn’t see it. He was out on the prairie, sun beating down on his shoulders, sweat trickling from his brow. He was shooting wild turkeys and riding a fiery black stallion and bunking down at night with an Indian blanket twixt him and the ground. Stars by the million twinkled overhead. The smell of blooming cactus filled his nostrils by day. The low of the cattle made music in his ears. Amazing how writing could transport you to another time and place.

Around three o’clock in the morning, Noah fell asleep at the kitchen table. His lamp flickered out. Snowflakes slipped in under the front door. Frost crept up the new glass windowpanes.

“Noah? Are you in there?”

He lifted his head. Running a hand across his chin, knocking ice crystals from his beard, he scowled at the shuddering door.

“Noah Buchanan! Open this door at once!”

No mistaking that voice. “Isobel,” he croaked. “What in tarnation are you doing here?”

“I’ve come with my furniture, Noah.”

What was that supposed to mean? he wondered as he tried to stand. Oh, no, must have forgotten to light a fire. He stepped to the door, suddenly aware he felt hungry enough to eat a saddle blanket.

“Isobel, what do you…” He was growling as he dragged the door open, but the sight of her stopped his words.

Oh, the woman was a beauty. Dressed in a royal-blue wool cloak with the hood pulled up, she stood like a queen on his porch. Her red gloves and red boots were the only spots of contrasting color, save her bright pink cheeks and lips. Her hazel eyes flashed as one eyebrow lifted.

“You have been drinking, Noah Buchanan,” she announced.

Pushing past him with a sweep of her hand, she stepped into the icy room. At the sight of rumpled blankets, dirty dishes and the table piled with papers, she gave a cry.

“Shame, Noah!” She stripped off her gloves and headed for the woodstove. “I let you out of my sight and you become a
borrachón
. What have you been drinking? Whisky? Rum?”

Noah watched dumbfounded as she clanked open his stove door and began to build a fire. A lopsided effort that would smoke up the house before it caught flame.

“I had hoped we might never see each other again,” she was saying. “I knew you planned to keep me from my appointed task.”

“Killing Snake Jackson is not your appointed—”

“Unfortunately, my furniture arrived.”

A prickly feeling wandering up his back, Noah looked out the front window. Two oxcarts loaded with crates waited by the porch.

“You brought the furniture here?”

“Storing it for me is the least you can do, Noah, since you have refused to help me go after Snake Jackson.”

They stared at each other.

“Well, you look good anyhow, Isobel,” Noah told her.

“You look terrible.” Her glance fell on the table littered with reams of paper and inkwells. “You have been writing!”

“Finished my first story last night.” Suddenly enthusiastic, he grabbed the sheaf of paper from the table. “‘Sunset at Coyote Canyon.’ That’s the title. You wouldn’t believe the ending. There’s a no-good skunk of a fellow who sneaks up, and then…well…”

“And what happens?” Isobel settled on a chair, water from her cloak puddling around her feet as the room warmed.

“Well…” Noah fumbled. “Aw, never mind…”

“Is it ready to mail to New York? I’ll take it to the post office when I return to Lincoln.”