The Outlaw's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  Noah stiffened and eased Isobel’s shoulders away until she was at a safe distance. “I want you to hear me once and for all, girl. You’re not a Matas any longer. You’re a Buchanan. I swore an oath to keep you safe, and I always abide by my word. I’ll go to Tunstall’s funeral tomorrow, and the minute it’s over, I’m taking you to South Spring River Ranch. No arguing. And none of this revenge nonsense, understand?”

  “I understand, Noah,” she said.

  She would not obey him, he thought to himself. Not at all.

  That evening in Lincoln, Isobel eagerly listened to Juan Patrón’s account of the day’s developments. He was worried that Dolan’s gang would attend the funeral the following morning. With Alexander McSween’s party there—along with Tunstall’s friends and employees—violence could be expected.

  As predicted, McSween had demanded Squire Wilson charge Sheriff Brady and his bunch with the unlawful appropriation of property for using Tunstall’s hay to feed Fort Stanton horses.

  Brady was arrested and bound over to the grand jury for the coming term of court. Everyone in town, Juan explained, knew that the sheriff now sided squarely with Jimmie Dolan.

  After dinner Noah insisted on patrolling Patrón’s home and store. He circled the house through the night, checking windows and doors. Isobel could not sleep. She listened to his footsteps until dawn.

  When breakfast ended, they joined the crowd gathered for the funeral. McSween had selected a burial plot east of Tunstall’s store, just behind the land for the church that Dr. Ealy planned to build.

  “John Henry Tunstall,” Dr. Ealy said to begin the solemn service, “a mere twenty-four years of age, met an untimely death. The son of John Partridge Tunstall of London, England, our friend was brother to three sisters, whom he loved with an extreme devotion. Many are unaware that John was blind in his right eye, but he overcame this difficulty with the determination of the gentleman he was.”

  Isobel studied the row of heavily armed men who made up the Dolan faction. Snake Jackson was not among them. They stood beyond a pile of newly turned earth beside the open grave. The casket, a simple pine box, sat unopened on the ground.

  As the service began, Noah slipped one arm around Isobel. She glanced at Dick Brewer standing protectively beside Susan Gates. Like all the McSween men, they rested their fingertips lightly on their holsters.

  The detachment of Company H, the Fifteenth Infantry, from Fort Stanton kept watch at a distance. Isobel surmised that Lieutenant Delany had instructed them to be a respectful but obvious presence. No doubt the soldiers were the only thing preventing a clash between the two angry groups.

  “My text today is from the Gospel of St. John, Chapter eleven, verse twenty-five.” Dr. Ealy cleared his throat as he opened the heavy black Bible. “Jesus said unto Martha, ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believeth in me, though he die, yet shall he live.’ We are to understand by these words that those who believe in Jesus Christ unto salvation will abide with Him in heaven after their earthly death.”

  Recalling Noah’s declaration of absolute faith in God, Isobel reflected on the beauty and grandeur of the New Mexico Territory. At such a display, who could discount the power of the Creator?

  “I’d like to ask now,” Dr. Ealy said, “that we close this service with a hymn. Noah Buchanan, I’m told you’re blessed with the best voice among us. As we stand here by the Rio Bonito, would you lead us in singing ‘Shall We Gather at the River’?”

  Isobel glanced at Noah in shock as he began to sing. Yet another surprise from this man. His deep voice drifted over the stream and across the grassland toward the distant mountains.

  “Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod,” Noah sang, “with its crystal tide forever, flowing by the throne of God?”

  The entire company, even the Dolan men, joined in the chorus.

  “Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river;

  Gather with the saints at the river

  That flows by the throne of God.”

  Not knowing the words as the others did, Isobel shut her eyes and absorbed the vibrations in Noah’s chest. Though it was a funeral, at this moment she felt more peace than she had known in the entirety of her life. She was folded in the arms of a man who had sworn to protect her. Sweet golden sunlight warmed her. The anger that had driven her to this land faded, leaving in its place the gentle lull of tranquillity.

  “Soon we’ll reach the shining river, soon our pilgrimage will cease,” Noah sang.

  “Soon our happy hearts will quiver

  With the melody of peace.

  Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river;

  Gather with the saints at the river

  That flows by the throne of God.”

  Dick Brewer was weeping, his head bowed and his curly hair resting against Susan’s. Alexander McSween mopped his eyes with a white handkerchief. When the song ended, the lawyer cleared his throat and announced that he had a message from Billy Bonney.

  The Kid, Isobel recalled, was still in jail. A murmur of discomfort rippled through the crowd as McSween began to read. “Though I cannot be present for the burial of John Henry Tunstall, I want it known that he was as good a friend as I ever had. When Mr. Tunstall hired me, he made me a present of a fine horse, a good saddle and a new gun. He always treated me like a gentleman, though I was younger than him and not near as educated. I loved Mr. Tunstall better than any man I ever knew. Signed, William Bonney.”

  McSween folded the letter and placed it on the casket. As the pine box was lowered into the ground, Noah turned Isobel away from the scene.

  “There’s a meeting at McSween’s house,” Dick Brewer whispered. Noah had left Isobel’s side for a moment to confer with his friend. “Folks are spitting mad that Sheriff Brady won’t arrest anyone for John’s murder. I think we ought to ask Brady outright what he means by it.”

  “I’m with you, Dick, but I can’t stay for the meeting. I’ve got to get Isobel out of town. I told her about Snake Jackson murdering her father, and she’s hot for blood. The woman’s a spitfire, Dick, and—”

  “Noah!” Dick grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Over by the tree. It’s Snake. He’s talking to Isobel.”

  Noah swung around, fingers sliding over the handle of his six-shooter. “Snake!” he shouted, half-sick with fear. “What do you think you’re doing, talking to my wife?”

  The heavy-jawed man straightened. “Buchanan, this Mexican ain’t your wife.”

  “She sure is.” Noah reached the tree just as Isobel opened her mouth to speak. He grabbed her arm, stopping her words and pressing her toward Dick, who hauled her quickly out of earshot—and pistol range.

  “You stay away from my woman, you hear?” Noah growled. “If I see you near her again, I’ll bore a hole in you big enough to drive a wagon through.”

  “Forget it, hombre. The jig’s up with your little Mexican chiquita now. This morning the stagecoach dropped a pile of fancy trunks at the hotel. The name on ’em was Miss Isobel Matas. Later on, that uppity Mexican so-and-so Juan Patrón came a-wanderin’ into the hotel. He took one look at the trunks and then, all sneaky-like, he wrote a new name on ’em. Mrs. Belle Buchanan.”

  Snake gave Noah a triumphant smirk. “All through this sorry funeral, I been studyin’ your so-called wife. She’s the señorita who was in the woods the day Tunstall got laid out, ain’t she? She was wearin’ this Mexican veil.”

  He shook the fragile white mantilla in Noah’s face. “And you know what your woman just told me? She thinks I’m the man who done in her Mexican papa a few years back. Well, guess what?”

  Noah glanced behind him at Isobel. She was staring, white-faced, her eyes luminous with rage. “What have you got to tell me that I don’t already know, Snake?”

  “Just this. I’m the man who made her papa a free lunch for the coyotes. And I’m the man who’s got what she came
to Lincoln lookin’ for—her package of fancy papers. And I’m the man who’s gonna pull her picket pin the minute your back is turned. So get ready, Buchanan. The next funeral you sing your pretty songs at is gonna be hers.”

  “Why, you lowdown—”

  “Now, just a minute here, gentlemen.” The burly Lieutenant Delany stepped between the men. “Haven’t the two of you got better things to do this morning? Especially here in the presence of the dearly departed.”

  Noah glanced at Tunstall’s grave. It was nearly filled with dirt now, and the reality of it was a punch in the gut.

  “Listen up, Lieutenant,” he barked. “This man shot down John Tunstall in cold blood.”

  “Now, you don’t know that, Buchanan,” Delany countered. “You weren’t even there.”

  “I was there, all right. And I’ve got a witness who’ll swear the man who pulled the trigger on Tunstall was Jim Jackson.”

  “Aw, Buchanan, quit your jawin’.” Snake laughed. “Tunstall’s own men swore out a statement about who was at the killing, and your name weren’t on it, nor the name of your witness. If Tunstall’s men didn’t say neither of you was there, how you gonna convince a judge of it? Huh?”

  “Don’t sell me short, Jackson,” Noah retorted.

  “Go on your way, Mr. Buchanan,” the lieutenant spoke up. “You, too, Snake. Captain Purington charged me with the protection of life and property around here. Now, get along, the both of you.”

  Chuckling, Rattlesnake Jackson lumbered across the clearing. He gave Isobel a sideways glance and formed his hand into the shape of a gun. As he walked past her, he aimed at her heart and pulled the imaginary trigger. Tossing his head back in laughter, he sauntered along the side of Tunstall’s store toward the Dolan Mercantile.

  “If you know something about him, Buchanan,” the lieutenant said, “watch your back. He used to run with the Horrells. Now he’s in deep with Jesse Evans and the Dolan bunch. Steer clear of him, that’s my advice.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Nine

  Noah 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.