Читать книгу The Outlaw's Bride - Catherine Palmer - Страница 11

The sun painted the New Mexico sky a brilliant orange as Noah Buchanan and his bride, Belle, rode into Lincoln.

She had not expected this victory.

While up to her elbows in soapy water, Isobel had told Noah about the letter informing her family that someone in Santa Fe had begun proceedings 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 after Christmas, John Chisum, together with Alexander and Sue McSween, left for St. Louis. McSween was to settle some legal problems for a client. Chisum wanted to see a doctor. He has poor health, no?”

Noah nodded. “Off and on.”

“When they reached Las Vegas, the sheriff and a gang of ruffians assaulted them. They knocked Chisum to the ground, and left Mrs. McSween crying in the buggy. She was taken to a hotel, but the men were thrown in jail.”

“On what charges?” Noah demanded.

“McSween was accused of trying to steal money from his own clients. Chisum was charged with debt, if you can imagine that. The sheriff wanted him to reveal all his properties, you see, as debtors must.”

“Dolan’s behind this.”

“It is bigger than Dolan, my friend. Never forget the ring in Santa Fe.”

“What ring in Santa Fe?” Isobel could no longer hold her tongue at this mention of her future home.

Juan leaned across the table. “Men in high places have united in a ring of corruption, señora. They take bribes, arrest innocent men, steal land titles.”

“Who’s in the group, Juan?” Noah caught Isobel’s hand and pressed it to silence her. “Do you have names?”

“Governor Axtell, of course. But even more dangerous is the United States district attorney. Thomas Catron is a friend to Jimmie Dolan. The two are working together to take the whole territory. Your boss will be lucky ever to get out of jail.”

“But McSween’s here in Lincoln,” Noah said. “How did he get out of jail?”

“McSween was set free to settle his business. But Chisum refused to reveal his properties.”

“So he’s still in jail.” Noah looked at Isobel. “We may want to have you go on up to Santa Fe.”

“Santa Fe?” Juan frowned. “But why?”

“Belle has relatives up there.” Noah glanced at Isobel. “Juan, would you send her people a telegram? I may need to send her up there right away if things get worse.”

“Of course.” Juan stood. “I was planning to pay McSween a visit anyway. We’ll rouse Mr. Paxton to open the telegraph office. Will you come?”

“Glad to.” Noah rose and patted Isobel’s shoulder. “You stay and visit with Señora Patrón, honey. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with you, honey,” Isobel sputtered as she leapt to her feet and nearly upset her chair. Hot anger radiated from the place where Noah had patted her as if she were no more than a dog. “If you send a telegram on my behalf, I must know what it says.”

Juan chuckled. “Your new wife has a strong will. You must mend your stubborn ways, Noah—or break her spirit as you break the wild horses.”

Noah was silent a moment before speaking again. “Stay here, Belle. I’ll take care of this.”

Isobel clenched her jaw as the two men walked to the door. The señora and her children eyed their guest as she stepped to an open window.

“You did the right thing, Buchanan.” Juan Patrón’s words carried across the night. “A woman should stay at home. If your new wife isn’t happy with that now, she will be soon. You’ll see.”

Battling fury at Noah, Isobel shifted her attention to the bustling Patrón family. The table was spotless now, its rough pine top scrubbed clean and its mismatched chairs pushed beneath. A clamor of giggles and pleas arose from the kitchen, where Beatriz, surrounded by reaching arms and grasping hands, was doling out portions of yellow custard.

“Flan?” she asked Isobel, holding out the dish.

Isobel shook her head. “Where is Alexander McSween’s house?”

“¡No, señora—por favor!” The woman’s eyes were wide with pleading. “You must stay here! There is much trouble in Lincoln. ¡Violencia!”

As the children swarmed their mother again, Isobel turned away. A cramped home, rough-hewn furniture, hungry children, corn to grind, clothes to mend. This was the life of a woman in Lincoln.

Thanking God that she would be leaving Noah Buchanan soon, Isobel sank into a chair. Even now he was sending a telegram to Guillermo Pascal, alerting her betrothed in case she needed a quick escape from Lincoln.

But if Guillermo came here, he would take Noah’s place as her protector, as the one to help solve her father’s murder. Noah would be free of her. And she of him.

Isobel closed her eyes, imagining the life she had always dreamed of having. A vast hacienda. Countless cattle. A home filled with beautiful furniture. Gracious parties attended by dignitaries.

Her eyes snapped open. There would be no visits by members of the Santa Fe Ring if she had any say. And she would have no hacienda to manage if Guillermo had his say. Noah had been right on that account. The Pascal family would swallow up her land. She would be mistress of a prison more than a house. There would be small mouths to feed, meals to plan, stitching to fill her days. How different would that life be from the difficult lot of Señora Patrón?

A gentle tugging at her skirt caught Isobel’s attention. A bright-eyed little girl with shiny black braids smiled up at her. “La casa McSween is very close. It is just past Tunstall’s store.”

Isobel shook the girl’s hand. “Gracias, mi hijita.”

The child scampered away to join her brother in a chasing game. Their mother leaned against the kitchen door, watching her children. As her son ran by, she swept him into her arms and kissed him.

Amid the laughter and fun, Isobel took her pistol from her saddlebag, drew her shawl around her shoulders and slipped outside. But a glance back at the flat-roofed house revealed a subtle transformation in what she had termed a prison. In the window, mother and child made a picture of happiness. The whitewashed adobe walls glowed almost translucent in the moonlight. The home was swept and scrubbed, the children well fed and cheerful, the mother content.

Turning away, Isobel wondered if she would find such peace with Guillermo Pascal. Passing a saloon, she saw several men leaning against a crude wooden bar and lifting mugs of beer. They were the likely compadres of a man like Noah Buchanan—common, obstinate, inconsiderate.

So why did her lips still burn from his kiss? Why did her breath catch in her throat at the memory of his hands around her waist? Worse, far worse, was the persistent image of his gentle smile. She could see that smile even as she hurried down the road, her leather boots stumbling over frozen wagon ruts. There it was as he poured steaming water into her basin, as he offered her a spoonful of scrambled eggs, when he plunged his arms into the dishwater to teach his new wife the mysteries of housekeeping.

Men were not supposed to be gentle. They were matadors, toreros—vanquishing life as if it were a bull that might rip open their hearts. Brave, strong, intelligent, bold. Fighting the sense that Noah Buchanan might be all these things as well, she hurried past the courthouse, a corral, a small shop.

As she pulled the shawl over her head, she heard the thunder of hoofbeats on the road. There! A band of men—five or six—riding at a gallop toward her. Clutching the pistol, she crossed the road toward a tumble of stones that had been cemented with mud to form a knobby tower. She crouched down into spiky, frozen grass and watched the riders approach. As they neared the tower, their leader reined his horse.

“You see that, Evans?” His breath formed a cloud of white vapor.

“See what?” Another rider edged forward. “We got an ambush?”

The first man was silent for a moment, listening. Isobel studied the low-slung jaw, the wide, flat nose, the narrow eyes searching the darkness. “I seen something run across the road just as we rounded the curve. It was her.”

“Confound it, Snake, if you don’t stop seein’ that Mexican gal in every crick and holler, one of us is gonna have to give you what fer.”

“I ain’t seein’ things this time, Evans.” Snake drew his gun and leveled it at the tower. “She’s over near the torreón. She had somethin’ white on her head, just like that Mexican that seen us level Tunstall.”

“So what if she’s here? Who’d believe a no-account Mexican over us? We’re deputies of the law, remember?”

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.”