Читать книгу The Outlaw's Bride - Catherine Palmer - Страница 12

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?”

Dr. Ealy gave an uncomfortable cough. “I am.”

“Then two doctors must perform the postmortem,” she declared. “Or Dr. Ealy might help with the embalming. It cannot be difficult to record the truth.”

The men gawked in silence until Dick Brewer finally spoke up. “She’s right, fellers. Doc Ealy, we’ll make sure you help with the postmortem—if you don’t mind. Thank you, Mrs. Buchanan.”

Isobel tilted her head. “You may call me Belle.”

As the sea of men parted to let Isobel through, Billy Bonney called to Noah. “Hey, Buchanan, you bringin’ your pretty wife to McSween’s fandango Saturday night?”

Noah’s blue eyes flicked toward Isobel. “We’ll see. I want to get on over to Chisum’s place.”

“Come on, Buchanan! I deserve at least one dance with the lovely lady. You may be faster on the draw than me, but I guarantee I’m the best dancer in town.”

“You’ve got the biggest mouth in Lincoln County, that’s for sure.” Noah shifted his attention as Juan and Isobel joined him. “Hey, Dick. Come here a minute.”

The young foreman detached himself from the group. As he neared, Susan Gates emerged from the shadows of a back room. Clutching her skirts in her hands, she rushed toward Isobel.

“Susan!” Isobel caught her friend. “Susan, what’s wrong?”

“You know this woman?” Patrón asked, his brow drawn into a furrow.

“I’ll explain later,” Noah said. “Miss Gates, meet Juan Patrón. Looks like you already know Dick.”

Susan gave Juan a polite nod, but when she looked into Dick Brewer’s eyes, a pink flush spread across her cheeks. Noah’s friend and the schoolteacher had met only the day before, Isobel realized, but there was an obvious attraction between them.

She wondered if anyone saw such a spark between Noah and herself. Surely not. After all, Noah was just her protector. He cared nothing for her. And she had no more feeling for him than she might for a loyal stable-hand at her family’s hacienda.

While he informed the men that Snake Jackson and the posse were in town, Isobel and her friend stepped aside.

“You’ve lost a button,” Susan said. “My dress doesn’t fit you well. Why don’t we buy some fabric at Tunstall’s store? I’ll sew a new dress for you. Isobel?”

“That cowboy is looking at you, Susan.” She maneuvered her friend away from Dick Brewer’s line of focus. “Stay away from him. He is in the midst of the trouble.”

Susan glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t you think he’s terribly handsome?”

Isobel shrugged. She preferred a man with a stronger frame, with broad shoulders and hands that could bring down a steer. She preferred a man whose face bore the weathering of life, who had seen good and evil—and who knew to choose the good. She preferred—

“Noah!” she gasped as he caught her around the waist.

“Let’s get out of here,” he growled against her ear. “This place is a powder keg.”

As he led them away, Isobel turned and caught her friend’s hands. “Don’t let any man capture your heart, Susan,” she said softly. “Never let anyone take away your dreams.”

“Oh, Isobel, I…”

“I’ll come tomorrow. We’ll go to the shops.”

Susan waved as Isobel, Noah and Patrón stepped outside. As the three started down the moonlit road, Noah spoke. “I see Dick’s taken a fancy to your friend.”

“Susan’s red hair charms everyone,” Isobel replied. “She is lovely.”

“She’s skinny,” Noah pronounced.

“Dick was never a man to take after women,” Patrón added. “Is that not so, Noah?”

“Yeah, he’s like me. Prefers the company of a few good cowboys around a campfire to the meaningless chatter of women.”

Isobel bristled. “What do you know about women, anyway?”

“Not enough,” Patrón interjected. “I am surprised my friend chose a wife. The rumor in Lincoln says these men—Noah, Dick, Chisum and more—were all wounded by love.”

Noah grunted. “Chisum told me he proposed marriage years ago. The gal wanted to carry on being the belle of the ball a bit longer. Chisum got impatient. Told her it was now or never. She chose never.”

“And he’s been a bachelor ever since,” Patrón concluded. “Too bad for him. But what about you, Noah? You always had a reputation as a man to leave alone. Women have given their hearts to you, but you never kept them long.”

“Settling down with a wife is the farthest thing from my thoughts,” Noah said. “God didn’t make me the marrying kind.”

“But now you’re married!” Patrón exclaimed. “And you found a beautiful wife. She’s smart, too. Smart enough to capture you.”

Isobel held her breath in anticipation of Noah’s reply, but he changed the topic. “How’s your leg these days, Juan? Looks like you’re walking pretty good.”

Patrón patted his leg. “It is not the leg, my friend. It is my back.”

“Did the Horrell Gang peg you the night they killed your father?”

“No, no. My father died in seventy-three. John Riley shot me two years later—but for the same reason. Hatred of Mexicans. Riley accused several Mexicans of stealing, and shot them dead. I demanded an investigation. When we went to arrest Riley, he shot me in the back.”

“In the back?” Isobel stopped on the frozen road. “Did he face trial?”

Patrón shook his head. “Riley is allied with Jimmie Dolan. He was never even arrested.”

Isobel was beginning to piece together a picture of Jimmie Dolan. The man held great power and he used it for evil.

“Did Dolan have anything to do with your father’s murder?” Noah asked Juan.

“No, the Horrell Gang was just a group of worthless men.” Patrón’s voice held a note of bitterness. “Outlaws, renegades. In early December, the gang rode into Lincoln, shot up the town and got into a tangle with the Mexican constable. Several men were killed on both sides. A couple of weeks later, the Horrells returned for revancha—revenge. The Mexican community was having a Christmas dance at Squire Wilson’s hall. The Horrells stormed into the room and began shooting. That night, my father was shot and killed.”

Isobel walked in silence, imagining the horror of a celebration transformed into a bloodbath.

“Did you go after the Horrells?” she asked.

“Killing and more killing?” Patrón shook his head. “That is futile, señora. My father was dead. Another man’s death could never bring him back. You understand?”

She nodded, but she didn’t truly understand. Where was the venganza—a man’s proud avenging of his father’s spilled blood? By all that was right, Patrón should have gone after the killers.

“The Horrells made a pact to kill every Mexican in Lincoln County,” he was saying. “For a month, they rode through the countryside slaughtering Mexicans. Finally they went to Texas, stealing mules and horses, murdering both Mexicans and gringos along the way. Eventually, the Seven Rivers Gang ambushed and killed some of them, but the rest made it safely to Texas. They were indicted, of course, but none was ever taken into custody.”

He paused. “I’ve heard that some of the gang—not the Horrell brothers, but others who rode with them—returned to Lincoln. But we don’t talk of this. It’s better left alone.”

Isobel studied the tower of stones as they passed it in the moonlight. If the Horrell Gang had ridden through the countryside in 1873 killing every Mexican in sight, might they have murdered her father? His golden hair would have distinguished him from the Mexicans of the territory, but his native tongue was Spanish. Perhaps he had encountered the Horrell Gang on their journey to Texas. Perhaps they had heard him speak and gunned him down.

“These men,” she said softly. “Which of them returned to Lincoln? What are their names?”

Before he could answer, Noah spoke up. “Juan, I need to tell you that my wife’s father was killed near Lincoln about the same time your father was shot down. We’re looking for his murderer.”

“I guessed there was more to this marriage than met the eye. So you wonder if the Horrells may be involved? What else? This woman knows more than she says.”

“I witnessed Tunstall’s murder,” Isobel admitted. “Snake Jackson has vowed to kill me.”

“Noah, you must take your wife to Santa Fe,” Patrón said. “To her relatives. In Lincoln County, no one is far from violence. Look at Billy Bonney. John Tunstall gave him a clean slate, taught him to read, paid him well. Now I fear the boy’s past will catch up with his present.”

“Billy’s always hot for blood,” Noah said. “The kid would rather pull the trigger than talk things over.”

Patrón gave a wry chuckle. “How many men is Billy claiming to have killed now? Seventeen? Or is it twenty-one? Señora Buchanan, the men of the West will tell you many things. Do not believe one tenth of what they say, and you will have no trouble here.”

Glancing at Noah, Isobel lifted her damp skirts and stepped into the warm Patrón house. If Juan was right, she should not trust her own protector. Nor could she be sure that the Tunstall-McSween faction was nobler than the Dolan gang. After all, Jimmie Dolan had the law on his side, and he was allied with the powers in Santa Fe.

Doubt slinking through her stomach, she drew her shawl tightly over her shoulders as Juan placated his agitated wife in Spanish. Isobel understood every word, of course, and had to work at maintaining a look of innocence. Once Juan had assured Beatriz she was not to blame for Isobel’s disappearance, she led them down the hall to a bedroom. After unlocking the door with one of the keys at her waist, she lit a pair of candles on an ornate bureau.

Awash in a yellow glow, the guest room held a bed, a washstand, a chair. A small crucifix hung over the bed, and a cross of woven palm leaves topped the washstand. Beatriz pointed out logs and kindling, then nodded, smiled and left.

Noah knelt and began building a fire. “What was Juan telling Beatriz?”

“He said I followed you because I’m so devoted to you. And that you’re in love with me.”

Noah’s hand halted. He glanced across at Isobel. She was looking out the window. “Juan is going to talk to you tomorrow,” she continued. “To tell you the correct way to treat your wife.”

Striking a match, Noah held it to the tinder. Was Juan really fooled about the marriage? Did he see something that neither he nor Isobel could admit? Sitting back on his heels, Noah spread his hands over the crackling flames. He didn’t trust himself with the woman. Maybe she didn’t feel anything, but he sure did.

“My parents had two bedrooms at our hacienda in Catalonia,” Isobel said as she joined him by the fire. “With a door to connect them. Where will you sleep?”

Noah looked up, read the trepidation in her eyes and stood. “I said I wouldn’t touch you.”

“And Juan told me not to trust any man in the West.”

“Do you have a choice?” At her nervous expression, he pulled a chair to the fire. “Relax, Isobel. Sit here. I want to talk about your father.”

She perched on the edge of the chair. “What about him?”

Noah pushed a log with the poker, and a spray of sparks shot into the air. “Do you know which day your father was killed?”

“No. Only that it was late December. He had spent Christmas with my uncle at Fort Belknap, then he followed the Goodnight Trail north.”

“Is your father buried here? In Lincoln?”

“At the cemetery. I promised my mother I would go there.” Her lips trembled, and she stopped speaking.

Noah knelt again, reached out and covered her hand with his. “I’ll go with you.”

Isobel was cold, shivering. She clutched the ragged shawl close around her in one white-knuckled fist. How vulnerable she was, Noah realized. She was scared, too, though she would never admit it. Without her land titles, Isobel had nothing. She insisted she could shoot well enough to protect herself, but a cold-blooded murderer had threatened to gun her down.

“We’ll visit the courthouse tomorrow,” he told her. “They’ll have the record of your father’s burial. We can check the date and look for someone who remembers where the Horrell Gang was that day. But, Isobel, you’ll never be able to track down the killer. You should go to Santa Fe and try to stop the transfer of the titles.”

“You’re asking me to forget my father’s murder? Do you really think I can stop a land transfer without any documents or proof?” She shook her head. “Impossible without the titles. And without the land, I cannot marry Don Guillermo.”

At the mention of her intended husband, Noah stood and slapped the wood dust from his thighs. “Who cares about ol’ Don when you’ve got me? I mean, what more could a lady want?” He couldn’t hold back a grin as her eyes went wide. “Why, there’s a gal right here in Lincoln who’d be mad as a peeled rattler if she knew about this arrangement.”

“What arrangement?” Isobel stood. “Your woman has no cause to feel jealous. We have a contrato, a contract.”

Edging past Noah, she walked to the washstand, drew her shawl from her shoulders and draped it on the bed. After pouring water into the bowl, she splashed her face and rinsed her hands. Dabbing an embroidered linen towel on her cheek, she turned back toward Noah.

“For that matter,” she said softly, “there are many men who would gladly trade places with you, vaquero.”

Noah took a step toward her. “I don’t doubt that. For a woman who’s fretting over land titles and a Spanish dandy, you have a lot more assets than you know.”

“What do I have? My father left me nothing but empty land in a bloodthirsty country where no man can be trusted. And Don Guillermo—”

“Don Guillermo doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He caught her hand and pulled her close. “You’ve got everything you’ll ever need right now. You’re smart, Isobel. Gritty, too.”

“Gritty? What is that?”

“Brave. You’d take on Snake Jackson and the whole Dolan gang if you had to. You know how to ride and shoot. And you’re pretty. Real pretty.”

She removed her hand from his and turned her shoulder. “I have gowns and jewels, but here I dress as a peasant.”

“You don’t need fancy gowns to be beautiful, Isobel.” He lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair from her shoulder. “You’ve got those eyes—green, brown, gray—what color are they?”

“My brother used to say they matched the mud in a pig’s pond.”

“What do brothers know?” He placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face toward the candlelight. “There’s a wild cat that hangs around Chisum’s bunkhouse. We call her La Diabla, and she’s a devil, all right. Always in trouble, always getting into things she shouldn’t. If you can catch her long enough to get a good look, you’ll see the fire in her eyes—a green fire that makes them glow like emeralds. Your eyes are like that, Isobel.”

For a moment she didn’t speak, and Noah stood trans-fixed by the scent of her hair and skin. He could almost feel the velvet touch of her cheek against his fingertips. Trying to breathe, he knew if one of them didn’t talk soon, he would lose himself.

“You should write a book, Buchanan,” Isobel suggested, her voice husky. “Any man who sees emeralds in my mud-pond eyes has lost his senses.”

“I will write a book,” he told her. “And my senses never let me down.”

Noah’s finger now traced the line of her jaw. He knew she was unaware of how her full, damp lips entranced him. His throat tightened, and his breath went ragged with just one stroke of her skin. She was soft, silky, dangerous. Like the barnyard cat, she was elusive. He knew he shouldn’t try to catch her. One look in those eyes, and all of his careful plans could go up in smoke.

“I trust my senses, also,” she was saying. “And I sense you are not keeping our contract.”

“I’ll keep the contract, Isobel. I’m a man of my word. But your lips are telling me one thing, while your eyes are telling me something else.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

She tried to step aside, but he caught her shoulders and drew her close. His hands slipped up and cupped her head. His fingers weaving through her silky hair, he pressed his lips against hers.

Her breath was sweet, fragrant, coming in shallow gasps as she stood rigid in his arms. Puzzled, he studied her face. Surely this gun-toting, haughty, gutsy woman had been kissed many a time. But she trembled against him, her eyes deepening to pools as she gazed into his.

“Isobel,” he whispered, uncertain what to do next.

“Kiss me one more time,” she murmured, her eyelids drifting shut. “Just once, and never again.”