The Outlaw's Bride (20 page)

“You chased us from Lincoln,” Isobel corrected.

“Aw, well, it don’t really matter now. Point is, it’s time for one of us to finish the game. I reckon it better be me.”

“I renounce my claim, Snake. Take my family’s land. Take our jewels. Just let me go to Lincoln.”

“What’s this? Has the little she-devil lost her fire?”

“Yes, I have. I’m through fighting. I’m going to pass you in peace and go on my way.”

Flicking the reins, Isobel rode toward Snake. Their
horses brushed on the narrow trail. She kept her focus straight ahead and tried to push back the terrible images of blood and death. Don Alberto Matas. John Henry Tunstall. Dick Brewer. Sheriff Brady. “Oh,
señorita
.” Snake grabbed her arm, nearly jerking the wounded shoulder from its socket. As he pulled her backward in the saddle, he released the safety on his six-shooter. “I’m afraid we got unfinished business.”

“Let me go, Snake!” she ordered.

“You really thought I was gonna let you ride by me?”

“I hoped you would be man enough to holster your gun.” She stared into the slitted eyes. “I have no quarrel with you, so set me free.”

Smiling, he raised the gun to her head and jabbed it into her temple. “Yer dumber than I thought,
señorita
. See, I got a lot of killin’ to do to make up fer the bunch of Mexicans that murdered my parents.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” she gasped as cold steel pressed against her head. Pain wrenched through her shoulder where he pinned her against him. “I want only peace. Let me go. Please!”

“Somebody’s gotta pay. Might as well be you.”

With his last word Snake pulled the trigger. An instant before the blast, Isobel tilted her head and sank into the saddle. The bullet blew off Dick Brewer’s hat and slammed into a tree. Both horses bolted, but Snake still gripped Isobel’s arm. The horses struggled, turning in circles. With her free hand, Isobel fumbled for the knife in her saddlebag.

Snake muttered a curse. He righted his gun and took aim a second time. Isobel whipped the knife across his
arm, and the six-shooter tumbled onto the grass in a spray of blood.

“Curse you!” Snake yelled.

He lunged at Isobel and both riders tumbled to the ground. The air whooshed from her lungs. She rolled, trying to escape, but Snake tangled her legs with his as he pulled his own knife from his belt.

“Now,” he growled. “Now we’ll see.”

Just as he lunged for her throat, she stabbed his back. Her knife sank into flesh and struck bone. Snake bellowed and bolted upright with the pain. Then his knife flashed downward and buried in her arm, not an inch from the bullet wound.

“Stop!” she shrieked, twisting in agony.

“I’ll kill you first.”

He yanked the knife from her arm and went for her throat a second time. She squirmed and thrust. Her blade buried deep in his stomach. He shuddered.

Barely able to breathe beneath his weight, she tried to jerk her weapon away but lost her grip on it. If only she could escape…now…while he was wounded. She tried to push out from under him.

Snake reared. His eyes flashed with hatred. She grasped at the swinging steel in his hand. The blade nicked her cheek, and she screamed.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and still he grappled with her. He caught a handful of her hair and twisted her head backward, grinding her scalp into the dirt. She could see nothing but trees. Her throat exposed to his blade, she waited for the final slash. “
Señorita,
” he mumbled. As he slumped forward, she felt his knuckles brush her neck.

“Dear God, help me!” Isobel labored to catch her
breath. She lay beneath Snake and listened as the last gurgle of life left his chest. Gasping, she shoved his body to one side and struggled to her knees. At the scene of horror, she cried out.

Snake Jackson lay on the ground, her knife buried in his stomach. His blood puddled on the road. “I’ve killed him,” she whispered. “I’ve killed him after all.”

She buried her face in her bloodied hands. Bile rose in her throat. She staggered up and hung over a tree branch, retching with fear and revulsion. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped pink bloodstains in the grass. For a moment she could do nothing but lean against the tree and cry.

How had it come to this? Once she had longed to end the life of Jim Jackson. But now…now that she had killed him…

“God,” she murmured. “Dear God, forgive me!”

Weak and in terrible pain, she lurched down to the river, filled her hands with water and splashed her face. Cradling her injured shoulder, she slumped into the grass, stretched out her legs and shut her eyes.

She had no idea how long she lay still. With every breath she saw Snake’s face. She had taken his life. She had killed. Covering her eyes with her good arm, she wept more bitter tears. Once, she had imagined satisfaction, even joy, after her revenge was complete. But death was ugly, senseless.

She had to find Noah and turn him from the same path. It was her only hope of atonement.

In time, she struggled to her feet. The two horses grazed side by side near the trail. She studied Snake Jackson’s body for a moment, then she touched each
eyelid to press it closed before she walked to the horses.

She knew what she must do. She had battled for her birthright with her own life and had won it at the cost of another’s. Slipping her hand inside Snake’s saddlebag, she found a slender packet. Her father’s neat handwriting graced the yellowed envelope. “Spanish Land-Grant Titles,” the words read in both English and Spanish. “The Possession of Isobel Matas.”

Bowing her head, Isobel held the packet close. Land. With it, she could draw the hand of any eligible man in New Mexico or Spain. She could have Don Guillermo or any other husband she chose. She would be a landowner at last.

But there was only one man she wanted. It was time to find him.

W
hen Isobel rode into Lincoln that night, Sheriff George Peppin met her on the road, his rifle drawn from its scabbard. The middle-aged man, known to many in town as “Dad” Peppin, frowned.

“Mrs. Buchanan? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is.” She tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear, as if that might tidy her appearance. “Do you know where my husband is? It’s an urgent matter.”

“He’s holed up in McSween’s house with the other Regulators. Don’t you know what’s goin’ on here, ma’am?”

“I’ve come for my husband. That’s all I know.”

“Well, you can’t just ride into town and—”

“Who’s this?” Jimmie Dolan rode out of the shadows, a dark hat perched on his thick, glossy curls.

“It’s Noah Buchanan’s wife,” Peppin said.

“What happened to you, woman? You’re covered in blood.”

“Never mind my appearance, sir,” Isobel told the Irishman. “I’ve come for my husband.”

“Your husband is camped out with fourteen other
outlaws on the roof of Alexander McSween’s house,” Dolan spat. “They’ve knocked holes in the parapet and made the place a firing range.”

“I’ll go and fetch him, then.”

“And my men will shoot him to the ground the minute he sets foot out of that house. This is war, Mrs. Buchanan. Twenty of McSween’s men are inside José Montaño’s store. Nearly as many are over at Isaac Ellis’s store.”

“I’ll speak to Juan Patrón. He’ll help me.”

“That Mexican grabbed up his family and rode to Las Vegas like a banshee was after him. Five McSween men are camped at his house.”

“If McSween has taken the town,” Isobel said, “how do you propose to keep me from my husband?”

“Because my men hold the
torreón
,” Dolan shot back. “And now I’ve got you.” He gave Peppin a nod. “Take this woman to the Cisneros house, Sheriff. We’ll hold her there. Maybe we can use her to bargain with.”

“Hold me?” Isobel exploded. “James Dolan, I will not be made a prisoner—”

“Take her away, Peppin.”

The sheriff nudged Isobel with the end of his rifle. She refused to move.

“Mr. Dolan,” she said, “I own the finest land in New Mexico. I took my title papers from Snake Jackson this morning. If you’ll set my husband free, I’ll give them to you.”

“Land, eh?” Dolan squinted at her. “You took those titles from Jackson? Rattlesnake Jim Jackson? Did you kill him?”

Isobel looked away. “You’ll find his body on the road to Roswell where the Bonito and Hondo rivers join.”

“You’re a banshee yourself. Hand over that packet, ma’am,” Dolan commanded, drawing his own gun.

“I don’t have them with me,” she retorted. “You don’t think I’m so foolish as to carry valuables into this murderous town, do you? I buried them. But if you’ll set my husband free—”

“Ah, just take her away, Peppin. I’ll get the titles later. Can’t have a banshee roamin’ the town, can we?”

“Mr. Dolan, this woman is wounded,” the sheriff said. “I’d better take her over to Tunstall’s store and let Doc Ealy have a look at her.”

“Any woman who could kill Snake Jackson and steal those land titles he’s been so proud of all these years can’t be underestimated. Especially if she’s tryin’ to break out one of the Regulators. Give her husband and the rest of McSween’s bunch a look at my ace-in-the-hole. Then take her to the Cisneros house. And lock her up tight.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Irishman rode away into the darkness. Peppin gave Isobel an apologetic shrug and prodded her forward.

“Will you send Dr. Ealy to me, Sheriff?” Isobel asked as they neared a three-room adobe house opposite McSween’s. “Jackson wounded me in the shoulder. Please, I need help. Dr. Ealy won’t cause trouble. He’s a missionary—a man of God.”

“I’ll do what I can for you, Mrs. Buchanan.”

Peppin paraded Isobel past Alexander McSween’s house, but it was so dark she couldn’t be sure Noah saw her. The Cisneros family had fled Lincoln, the sheriff told her, as had most of the town’s peaceable citizens. Dolan had taken the Cisneros house, though it was too
small to hold many fighters. Peppin led Isobel to the front bedroom, locked her in and stationed an armed man at the door.

From a curtained window, she could see a row of silhouettes lining the roof of the McSween house across the street. She tried to identify Noah among them, but there was not enough moonlight to see clearly. For some time, she waited in hopes that Dr. Ealy would come—not so much to tend her wounds as to reassure her that Noah was all right.

When no one came, she bathed her wounds in a washbasin and lay back on the bed. Though she had not planned to sleep, the sun was well up when she was awakened by the sound of her bedroom door swinging open.

“Breakfast, Mrs. Buchanan?” Her young guard walked in with a loaf of bread under one arm and a pot of hot coffee in his hand. His other hand rested lightly on the handle of his pistol. “Sorry to bust in on you. If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, ma’am, you don’t look too perky this mornin’.”

Isobel attempted to smooth her wrinkled shirtwaist while the guard set the bread and coffee on the dresser.

“Say, did you really kill Rattlesnake Jim Jackson?” he asked, giving her a sideways glance. “That’s the rumor.”

“Yes, and I’d rather not discuss it,” Isobel informed him. “When will I be set free?”

“Soon as things settle down. Dolan sent a letter to Fort Stanton askin’ for soldiers.”

Isobel studied the young man whose limp, blond
hair hung almost to his shoulders. “Thank you for this information,” she said.

He smiled. “I reckon John Kinney and the rest will hightail it up from San Patricio when they hear what McSween’s done. Dolan thinks his posse will be here by this afternoon.”

“And then?”

“A shootin’ match, I’d guess.” He backed toward the door, keeping his eyes on his prisoner. “I’ll be outside if you need me. Just holler.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Ike Teeters. I’m from Seven Rivers.”

“You’re in the Seven Rivers Gang?”

He chuckled, showing a row of uneven teeth. “Not hardly. My eyes don’t see too good from a distance, ma’am. Truth be told, my shootin’s downright pitiful. But I can do guardin’ work. I’m fine at that.”

“Why don’t you wear spectacles, Ike?”

“I ain’t got the money. Chisum pushed my family off our land, and it’s all we can do to get by.”

“John Chisum?”

“Who else? Us Seven Rivers folks is small cattle-men—law-abidin’, hardworkin’ fellers—and we can’t do nothin’ against a powerful man like him. We joined Dolan to fight Chisum.”

As he was shutting the door, Ike poked his head back in. “I’ll see if I can get you a doctor, Mrs. Buchanan.”

As he spoke, John Kinney’s posse rode into Lincoln and began shooting at the McSween house, their bullets shattering windows and gouging holes in the adobe walls. When the Regulators returned fire, Isobel spotted Noah on the roof. His black Stetson moved back and forth behind the parapet.

The gunfight raged until sunset. As darkness brought an end to the shooting, Ike managed to slip Dr. Taylor Ealy across the street to the Cisneros house. The missionary doctor hurried to Isobel’s bedroom with his bag of medications and bandages.

“Dr. Ealy,” Isobel couldn’t contain herself as he brushed aside her hair to take a look at her shoulder. “Can you get a message to Noah? Please help me save my husband’s life!”

“Your
husband?
I see things have taken an interesting turn since that hasty wedding in the forest. Good thing I got nowhere trying to annul your marriage.”

“Noah and I are still married?”

“In the eyes of God and the territory of New Mexico you are.” The doctor patted her hand. “Now, you must try to rest. With more than sixty gunmen on his side, McSween has the advantage. Dolan’s posse numbers just forty.”

“Is it all-out war, then?”

“Only God knows,” he said as he placed a clean bandage on her wound. “I’ll try to speak to Sheriff Peppin about you. If you’re being held for the death of Jim Jackson, you deserve the chance to post bail. If Dolan is holding you hostage, it’s illegal.”

As he prepared to leave, gunfire again erupted on the street. Ike Teeters burst into the bedroom. “Doc, you better get back to Tunstall’s store. They’re shootin’ it out again, and I’m only supposed to protect Mrs. Buchanan.”

Dr. Ealy hurried for the door.

“Take my message to Noah!” Isobel called out. But the door slammed behind him. As she crawled into bed, she breathed a prayer for her husband’s safety.
She recalled his vivid blue eyes, his bronze skin, his dark hair, his gentle hands.
Dear God,
she lifted up her prayer.
I’m responsible for one man’s death. Please keep it from becoming two.

Dawn on the fifth day of Isobel’s imprisonment brought the customary pop of gunfire as the sniping began again. She changed into a dress Ike had found in the house, a simple gown of pale yellow cotton. As bullets slammed into the wall outside, she washed and combed her hair. Then she knocked on her bedroom door.

“Ike,” she called out. “I must speak with you.”

He unlocked the door and stepped into the room. “Yer lookin’ spunky this mornin’, Mrs. Buchanan. I’ve just about got yer breakfast ready.”

The loaf of bread and pot of coffee was more food than many people in town would have by now. Supplies were running low, and children would be hungry.

“I can’t eat, Ike.” She held her aching shoulder. “I must see my husband. Will you escort me across the street?”

“Aw, I can’t do that, ma’am. It’s against Dolan’s orders.”

“Please, Ike! After I talk to Noah, you can bring me back here. Hold a gun on me if you like.”

The young man scratched his scraggly locks. “It’d be risky. Things is hot out there this mornin’.”

“Just let me go—”

“What on earth is that?” At the sound of shouting and horses’ hooves, Ike bolted to the window. Isobel rushed to his side.

“What’s goin’ on, ma’am? I can’t see nothin’.”

“It’s soldiers from Fort Stanton,” she cried.

“Wahoo! That means we got the army on our side, Mrs. Buchanan!” Ike did a little dance around the room. “Count ’em for me, would ya?”

“There’s Colonel Dudley,” she said. “Four officers. Eight…nine…ten…eleven black cavalrymen. More than twenty white infantrymen. And they’ve brought cannons!”

“It’s the howitzer!” Ike whooped as he squinted to see. “Dudley’s brung the howitzer! She’s a twelve-pounder. And there’s a rapid-fire Gatling gun comin’ along behind. Dolan’s won the war now. Mac might as well give up.”

Isobel sank onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. It was too late. Too late. The soldiers had come to obliterate Alexander McSween’s forces. Among the dead would be Noah Buchanan.