The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer

Noah said. “The kid would rather pull the trigger than talk things over.”

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

      “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