The Outlaw's Bride (19 page)

In the frozen instant he’d watched her tumble behind that pile of rocks, his heart had nearly stopped. When he’d made it to her side and had seen her life’s blood oozing out of that shoulder wound, a red rage had filled him. The fear of losing her had convinced Noah that he loved her.

If Dick Brewer meant a lot to him as a pal and confidant, Isobel meant far more. They could laugh, talk, even cry together. He had told her his dreams of writing,
his ambitions and hopes for his land and future. And she shared hers with him. The thought of losing her was more than he could bear.

But the trouble with Snake Jackson would continue unless somebody stopped him. With Jimmie Dolan and now John Kinney fueling his fires, Snake wasn’t about to back off. All three needed a dose of strong medicine. Lead poisoning would do the trick, and Noah knew just the man to deliver it.

“Darlin’, after I settle you here I’m going back to Lincoln,” he whispered into Isobel’s ear as they neared the hitching post in front of the Chisum house. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled about it. When I’m sure you’re in good hands, I’m going after Snake and Dolan.”

“Noah, they almost killed me!” Her hazel eyes filled with terror. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m going
because
they almost killed you.” He took her hand. “The way I see it, Isobel, the only way to stop killin’ is to kill. You were right about that. My big speeches about being strong enough to stay out of the trouble were like spittin’ in the wind.”

“Noah, I can’t lose you. Not again.”

But he was already handing her down to the waiting arms of Mrs. Towry and the men who had rushed to meet the riders. She recognized the faces of several Regulators before she was carried into a cool room, tucked into bed with a damp cloth on her forehead and abandoned.

“Noah!” she croaked. “Noah, please!”

But her voice echoed off the bare walls.

N
oah sat at Isobel’s bedside for three days. She was exhausted from the ride, but her pain had eased. Better still, the shoulder wound was healing well.

Mrs. Towry tended Isobel like a mother hen. Tongue clucking, she bustled back and forth, fetching ointments from John Chisum’s medicine box, chicken soup, fresh bandages and cool, sweet lemonade. Finally Isobel was able to sit up on her own and then walk about the room while leaning on Noah’s arm.

One morning after breakfast he settled on a chair by her bed. “Today’s the Fourth of July,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Know what that means?”

“A celebration of the day the United States declared its independence from England.” She smiled at Noah’s patriotism despite the fact that New Mexico was still a territory.

“When I lived in Texas,” he said, “Mrs. Allison used to fix a picnic for everybody. Feel up to a picnic today, darlin’? Me and some of the other Regulators thought we’d ride over to the Pecos.”

“What about Sheriff Peppin’s posse?” she asked. “Aren’t they staying in Roswell?”

Isobel had heard that the hastily assembled posse included notorious outlaws known as the Seven Rivers Gang—led by deputies Marion Turner and Buck Powell.

“Aw, they’re just a bunch of rascals,” Noah said.

“But they’re fifteen men, and we have only twelve. Some of ours will have to stay behind to keep an eye on Mr. Chisum’s place.”

“Regulators have been riding between the Pecos and the ranch without any trouble from that posse. I just thought it would be fun to get you out of the house. You can ride in the buckboard. Take in some fresh air. Think you’re up to it?”

A day in the outdoors appealed to Isobel. If she rode in the buckboard, she could wear a dress. Just the idea of putting on a fresh gown, brushing her hair into artful waves, setting her feet in a pair of slippers instead of heavy leather boots—

“I’d love it!” she exclaimed.

He bent over the bed and kissed her cheek. “I’ll give you half an hour. Mrs. Towry’s fixing a basket. She might come along with—”

“Buchanan!” Billy Bonney kicked open the door and charged into the room. “Buchanan, hit the rooftop! It’s Buck Powell and the Seven Rivers Gang.”

“What do they want?”

“Who knows? Me and the Coe boys was ridin’ back from Ash Upson’s store this mornin’.” Billy brandished his six-shooter as he spoke. “Twelve of ’em jumped us! It was a runnin’ gun battle all the way back to the house. Now they’re takin’ potshots at the boys on the roof.
You gotta get up there and help afore somebody gets killed!”

Noah glanced at Isobel, but before she could say anything to try to hold him back, he dropped his hat on his head and drew his gun.

“Stay away from the windows, Isobel,” he called back as he and Billy ran from the bedroom. “And don’t go looking for trouble!”

She watched the door slam shut as their boots pounded down the hall. “I found trouble when I married you,” she murmured, settling back against her pillow. “And you found it when you married me.”

The shooting went on all day and most of the night. The picnic was abandoned, though Mrs. Towry got a big holiday meal onto the table anyway. The Regulators took turns coming down from the parapet roof to eat before heading back upstairs.

It was clear to Isobel that the Regulators were confident in their position. With Chisum’s fortifications and a large supply of ammunition, they were having no trouble holding off Buck Powell and his posse. Isobel and Mrs. Towry spent the night in the central courtyard of the house. If not for the occasional burst of gunfire, it would have seemed idyllic.

Roses in full bloom scented the air. Beds dragged onto the patio offered down comforters, pillows, bolsters, shams and embroidered sheets. But the two women sat up most of the night, speculating on how the battle was proceeding and worrying about the men.

At dawn the following day, Isobel woke with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Buck Powell and the others have
gone,” Noah said. “We think they’ve headed to Lincoln for reinforcements.”

“Has anyone been hurt, Noah?” she asked.

“We’ve had the upper hand the whole time.” He gave her the hint of a smile, then his face grew solemn. “I’ve been talking with the other Regulators, Isobel. We figure we can’t end this trouble without all-out war on Jimmie Dolan.”

“War?” Isobel whispered.

“Justice, darlin’. Dolan is responsible for too many deaths. Any way you look at it, Isobel, he’s got to be put away.”

In silence she gazed at the embroidered coverlet, lit pink with the sunrise. She ran one finger over a red rose entwined with green leaves.

“And then there’s you,” Noah added before she had a chance to speak. “Snake Jackson won’t rest until he kills you, Isobel. He’s got nothing to lose by pulling your picket pin. And he’s got plenty to gain—the land titles, money from Pascal and Catron, elimination of an eyewitness, and one less ‘Mexican’—”

“I’m Spanish.”

“Isobel!” Noah clenched her hand tightly. “Hear what I’m saying. Your life is in danger.”

“I know that,” she said, rubbing her shoulder.

“The Regulators will ride to Lincoln this morning. A couple of the boys are headed to San Patricio to round up the rest of the bunch. Everyone plans to meet at McSween’s house and decide how to finish this business. Isobel…I’m going with them.”

She snatched her hand from his. “What’s happened to you, Noah? What has become of the man with gentle
hands who lifted me from the path of a bullet? Where is the writer who would rather leave a fight than shoot an enemy?”

“That man is gone.”

“Oh, Noah…”

“I’ve been around a few years, darlin’, but I didn’t learn what was what until I met you. The fact is, Isobel Buchanan, I love you. I’m not going to let Jimmie Dolan or Snake Jackson or anyone else hurt you. Never again. And the only way to fight fire is with fire. Gunfire.”

“Noah, please don’t do this!”

“What’s happened to my little spitfire? When we met, you were bent on vengeance. If I had helped you instead of trying to stop you, Snake Jackson might be dead right now—instead of wounding you with a bullet. You were right. It’s time for revenge.”

He stood suddenly, knocking back the wooden chair. “I’m going now.” He settled his hat on his head. “Heal up, Isobel, you hear?”

He started across the patio, and she called his name. But he didn’t turn.

“I love you, too, Noah,” she whispered.

Moments later, Isobel heard the drumroll of horses’ hooves as the Regulators rode away. She eased herself to the floor and stood. In the week since the shooting, her arm had grown stronger, and she was able to move it more comfortably now. She made her way into her bedroom and gazed out the window.

A light cloud of brown dust trailed the men, and an overwhelming sense of loss enveloped her. What she had known and loved of life was about to end.

Mrs. Towry crossed the garden near the window, a
basketful of roses on her arm. She waved at her guest. “Shootin’s over, honey. It’s safe to move around.”

Isobel tried to smile. “May I join you in the garden?”

“You still look mighty pale.” The older woman shook her head. “Such high talkin’ them boys was doin’ this morning. I wish Mr. Chisum was here to preach some sense into ’em. They think they’re gonna be heroes—shootin’ up Lincoln and killin’ all their enemies. What next?”

“Noah went with the others, didn’t he?”

Mrs. Towry nodded. “Good thing, too. He’s the most levelheaded of the bunch. He should be leader of the Regulators. Doc Scurlock ain’t a bad feller, but your husband’s got horse sense. He reminds me of Mr. Chisum—smart, peaceable, strong. I sure wish Mr. Chisum would hurry back from St. Louis…. Well, honey, come on out to the garden.”

A week had passed since the Regulators’ departure when Mrs. Towry rushed onto the porch where Isobel was stitching.

“Mrs. Buchanan! Look what come in the mail from Lincoln. I bet your husband sent it.”

Isobel grabbed the letter and tore open the envelope. “Dear Mr. Buchanan,” she read aloud.

Mrs. Towry frowned as she studied the envelope. “This ain’t from Mr. Buchanan, is it?”

“Noah’s story,” Isobel said. “It’s going to be published.”

“Mr. Buchanan writ a story?” Mrs. Towry muffled a laugh. “Ain’t what I expected of a cowboy like him, but here’s fifty dollars to prove it’s true. That ought to go a good way toward payin’ off the land he bought from Mr. Chisum.”

Isobel gazed at the letter. Noah’s story would be published. His dream would come true. But where was he now, this man with a gift so few possessed? No doubt he was in Lincoln warring with someone who would still his voice with a bullet through his heart.

It was her fault, she thought, tucking the letter into her pocket. If she hadn’t been so headstrong, so determined to seek out Snake Jackson, Noah wouldn’t be caught in Lincoln’s troubles.

When they’d met, he’d been on his way to buy land and write stories. He was the man Mrs. Towry had described—peaceable, gentle. Thanks to his untimely marriage to a selfish Spanish woman, he had tossed away that cloak and assumed the one she had brought—revenge. Now, because of Isobel, he was chasing down Jimmie Dolan with an outlaw’s bloodlust.

She had ruined Noah. While he had taught her to find the beauty in life, she had taught him to seek vengeance. From Noah she had learned to cook meals that would satisfy, to plant a garden, to value marriage and
home. She had discovered that what she wanted most was love. Noah’s love. She ached for him. Nothing else in the world mattered.

Leaving Mrs. Towry to her flower arranging, Isobel hurried to her room, found her saddlebag and groped around inside. Yes—her pistol. She contemplated the weapon for a moment before tossing it onto the bed.

Quickly she changed into riding clothes and leather boots. She transferred Noah’s letter from the New York publisher into a pocket. Stopping by the kitchen, she took some bread and cheese, along with a knife and a box of matches. After stuffing these items into the saddlebag, she slung it over her good shoulder and slipped out the door.

Fussing over the roses, Mrs. Towry hummed on the porch. Isobel left the house through a back door. In the corral, she selected a horse that had not yet been unsaddled from a morning’s ride. Pain shot through her shoulder as she mounted.

“Now,” she breathed as she goaded the horse’s flanks. “Take me to Lincoln. I have to save my husband.”

Though Isobel knew the trail, travel was more difficult than she had anticipated. Riding alone, she had to be alert for outlaws who roamed Lincoln County’s roadways. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave her pistol behind, but Isobel never again wanted to touch a weapon. As she rode she recited the words she ached to say to Noah.

I was wrong! Wrong! Revenge is not the way. Leave it to God, my love. Come home with me to the little adobe house by the river.

Would she ever get the chance to say those words?
Isobel prayed as she had heard Noah pray—the deep and soul-drenching pleas of her heart. “Please, dear God, let Noah live. Let me atone for my errors. Allow me to lead Noah away from violence and into a life of love.”

Each night she lay bundled in blankets and listened to the rush of the river. As she gazed at the stars through piñon branches, Isobel recounted her life and its many blessings. Noah Buchanan was the greatest blessing of all. Before it was too late, she had to convince him to leave Lincoln.

Though her shoulder had regained strength and flexibility, she knew how easily the pain could resurface. For the rest of her life, she would bear a scar—a round patch of smooth, tender skin, a reminder of the man who had killed her father and had tried to kill her.

Her fourth night on the trail, Isobel camped at the spot where the Rio Hondo met the Rio Bonito. Lincoln lay only a few miles away, and her sleep was restless.

Early the next morning she rose as dawn was breaking over the mountains. In the pale purple light she took the kitchen knife from her saddlebag and cut off a slice of cheese and a hunk of bread. After eating, she set Dick Brewer’s old hat on her head and mounted her horse.

Isobel had not been riding long when she noticed a horse and rider coming toward her on the trail. Her pulse began to pound in her neck and temples. Could it be Noah? The man removed his hat and tipped his head.

“Mornin’,
señorita,
” he said.

Isobel’s breath hung in her throat. “Jim Jackson.”

“Most folks call me Snake.”

She glanced around for a path of escape, but he was already drawing his six-shooter.

“Me and some of the boys just happened to be passin’
Casey’s Mill yesterday,” Snake said, casually taking aim at her heart. “One of the hands mentioned seein’ Mrs. Buchanan ridin’ all alone. That’s when I realized I hadn’t finished a job I started the other day. Seems yer like a cat, huh? Nine lives.”

“Mr. Jackson, you can see I’m unarmed,” Isobel said. “I’m going to Lincoln to find my husband. I have no business with you.”

“No business with me? What about this here packet of papers I been carryin’ around for five years? Ain’t that yer business,
señorita?
” He slapped his saddlebag and gave her a wink. “Took it off yer papa, y’know. The day I shot him dead.”

Isobel clenched her jaw. Snake had ridden close enough now that she could see his eyes set deep beneath his heavy brow.

“Now, don’t deny it,” he teased. “You been chasin’ me ever since you come to Lincoln County,
señorita
. First you seen me do Tunstall in. Then you figured out I blew yer papa to kingdom come. You followed me to Murphy’s ranch and tried to shoot me. Then back to Lincoln where you and your Mexican-lovin’ husband tried again to gun me down.”