The Outlaw's Bride (5 page)

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.”

M
oonlight wafted through the iron fretwork on the window to drape a lacy shadow over the room. Unaware, she drifted toward him as his lips brushed hers. She slid her arms around his chest. Reveling in the rich scent of leather and soft flannel, in the rough graze of his chin against her skin, she ran her fingers down his back, which was solid, as hard as steel.

The sense that he was someone she must keep at a distance evaporated in yet another crush of heated lips.

“Isobel,” Noah murmured. His blue eyes had gone inky in the flicker of the candles. “I promised not to touch you. I made a vow.”

Even as he spoke, she read his plea to be released from that oath. How should she respond to the unbearable tumult he had provoked inside her? She must think of who he was—a mere acquaintance, an American, a common cattleman.

But why did his words sound like poetry in her ears and his kisses feel like music? Perhaps it was the moonlight or the crackling fire. Maybe it was the turmoil that
spun through her heart. Or simply the magic of a man’s touch.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” she whispered.

“The same thing you’ve done to me. But it’s not right. For either of us.”

She wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. For endless minutes, they gazed at each other. Then with a deep sigh, Noah shook his head, grabbed his saddlebag and bedroll and left the room.

“Isobel.” A cool hand rested on her arm. “Isobel, wake up. The morning is half gone!”

Her eyes flicked open. But instead of the man with blue eyes who had walked through her dreams, she looked into the face of her sweet friend. “Susan? Where is…what time is it?”

“After eight. Noah sent me to look in on you.”

Isobel struggled to one elbow. “Where is he?”

“At Alexander McSween’s house. He and Dick have been talking since dawn.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. I was in the kitchen helping Mrs. McSween. Here’s your breakfast.” Susan set a basket of warm tortillas on a small table and glanced to the end of the bed. “Isobel, what happened last night? You look…rumpled.”

Isobel touched her tender lips, remembering. “I’m all right, Susan.”

“Did you and Noah…? Did he try to…?”

“No, it’s nothing.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “He wants me to go to Santa Fe. To Don Guillermo. Noah
is…a problem. A problem for me. I’m sorry I agreed to the arrangement.”

She tried to make the words ring true, but they sounded hollow and empty.

“Isobel,” Susan spoke up, “if that cowboy is bothering you, we’ll find a way to get you to Santa Fe. I know your don will protect you.”

She herself knew nothing of the sort, Isobel admitted as she rolled a tortilla and took a bite. The more she thought about the man who had never written to her, never even sent a token of commitment to her mother, the less she trusted Guillermo Pascal.

And Noah Buchanan wanted neither a wife nor children to clutter his life. Besides, the vaquero was too common. Any connection between them was impossible.

Isobel forced a laugh as she stepped to the washstand. “Noah thinks he’s a king,” she told Susan. “He makes me wash dishes. He sends telegrams without my permission. He gives orders left and right.”

Susan giggled. “He gives
you
orders?”

“Noah fancies himself my equal. But he has nothing.”

“Nothing except a good job and a quick draw. Out West that can make a man a king. Look at Dick Brewer. He works for the Tunstall operation, but he bought land and a house, and he manages his own cattle.”

“You were interested in Dick Brewer last night.”

Susan’s pale cheeks flushed. “I went outside for fresh air, and Dick came out, too. We talked.”

“Talked?”

“Oh, Isobel, he’s wonderful!” Susan hugged herself.
“He’s handsome and kind and strong. I’ve never met anyone so perfect. I love him, Isobel.”

“Love, Susan? So soon? In Spain we say,
Lo que el agua trae, el agua lleva.
It means what comes easily can also go easily. Your parents should secure a well-to-do husband—one who can give you a fine home. I stayed in Dick Brewer’s cabin. It’s too small for a family. His land is nothing but rocks. Keep your thoughts from love and you’ll be happier.”

Susan shrugged. “My Mexican friends in Texas used to say,
Más vale atole con risas que chocolate con lagrimas.”

“Better to have gruel with laughter than chocolate with tears,” Isobel translated the familiar adage. Susan was teasing her now, and she didn’t like it. It was bad enough that she’d hardly had any sleep, and that all night her mind had been possessed with thoughts of Noah Buchanan, but now she could hardly focus on her plans.

“I’d rather marry a cowboy like Dick Brewer,” Susan said as she helped her friend dress. “I’d rather live in Dick’s old cabin and bear him seven little roly-poly Brewers than go up to Santa Fe and marry someone like your rich Don Guillermo. You don’t even know him. He would protect you as his wife, but he might not care a fig about you. He can give you a big house and jewels, but can he give you his heart?”

“What do you know about a good marriage, Susan?” Isobel challenged her. “The great families of Spain have made such unions for centuries. No one sits about moaning for love. We marry well because it is our tradition. I am obligated to marry Don Guillermo.”

Susan embraced her friend. “Don’t be angry, Isobel.
We come from different worlds. To me, Dick Brewer seems like he stepped out of a dream.”

“Dreams vanish,
pffft!
” Isobel clicked her fingers. “Like that!”

Susan walked to the window. “I always wanted to fall in love. I know it happened fast, but I do love Dick.”

Fumbling with the unruly buttons of her wrinkled bodice, Isobel realized Susan looked different today. Filled with uneasiness at her memories of Noah’s kisses, she hoped she didn’t appear smitten, too.

“Let’s go down to the mercantile,” Susan chirped. “We need to sew you a gown that fits. You want to look pretty for Noah Buchanan, don’t you?”

“Such nonsense you speak!” Isobel chided her friend.

Aware she was blushing, she snatched her white cotton shawl and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders as she and Susan set off. The day was sunny, and the frozen road had begun to thaw. Scraggly dogs and snuffling pigs wandered through the mud. Wisps of piñon smoke floated from beehive ovens beside the adobe houses that lined the road. The smell of baking bread hung in the morning air, mingling with the scent of bacon and strong coffee.

“Are you going to the fandango Saturday night?” Susan asked. “Folks are saying it’ll help ease the tension in town. We could all use some fun.”

Isobel shook her head. “I’ve already spent too much time in the company of rough American men.”

“Last night, Dick asked me for the first three dances.”

“And the wedding? When is that happy event?”

“Wedding!” Susan elbowed her friend. “Stop teasing,
Isobel. I want to teach school for at least a year. After that, who knows?”

As she walked, Isobel pictured Noah as he’d been the night before, his arms around her, his kisses burning like fire on her lips.

“Susan,” she said. “Did you hear Noah Buchanan say anything to Dick about me?”

“Not this morning, no. But last night Dick told me a few things about Noah.”

“Yes?”

“He said that in the past few days it seemed like something was bothering Noah. Eating at him. Dick said Noah wouldn’t talk about it, but…”

“But what?” Isobel’s fingers tightened on her shawl. “What, Susan?”

“Well…Dick made me promise not to tell.”

Isobel stopped in the middle of the street, her sodden hem swaying against boots caked with mud. “Susan, you must tell me. Noah Buchanan is bound to me by that silly, reckless vow we made. He’s going to stay with me until I’ve found my father’s killer and recovered my land titles. You must tell me everything you know about him.”

Susan heaved a sigh. “If you must know…Noah writes.”

“Writes?
Writes what?”

“Stories. He hopes to publish them in a New York magazine. But Dick says that, with you to look after, Noah figures he’s going to have his hands too full to write. He sort of wishes he hadn’t agreed to protect you so you’d testify.”

Isobel stared down at the mud on her fine leather boots. Noah Buchanan was a
writer?
She tried to
visualize his big shoulders bent over a sheaf of papers, a pen gripped in his powerful brown fingers—fingers more suited to wrestling a steer than forming letters.

Noah had mentioned the woman in Texas who had read the Bible to him and taught him to spell and count. But what tales would a vaquero have to tell? Noah had no life beyond dusty trails and herds of longhorn cattle.

How dare he resent her for keeping him from his cow stories! Well, she must put all thoughts of the man out of her head and resume searching for her father’s murderer, Isobel decided. She must forget the heat of his touch and the pleasure of his lips. The best she could do for herself—and for Noah Buchanan—was to finish her business in Lincoln Town and leave.