The Outlaw's Bride

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

Susan waved as Isobel, Noah and Patrоn 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,” Patrоn 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,” Patrоn 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,” Patrоn 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!” Patrоn 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.”

Patrоn 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?”

Patrоn 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.” Patrоn’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?” Patrоn shook his head. “That is futile, se?ora. 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, Patrоn 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,” Patrоn 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.”

Patrоn gave a wry chuckle. “How many men is Billy claiming to have killed now? Seventeen? Or is it twenty-one? Se?ora 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 Patrоn 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?”