The Outlaw's Bride. Catherine Palmer

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      For ten years Isobel had known that Guillermo Pascal would become her husband. He owned a sprawling hacienda, a fine stable, countless cattle, land that stretched many miles across the New Mexico Territory. He was wealthy, noble, Spanish. And he was hers.

      She snapped the locket clasp and slipped the golden chain back into her bag. As she crossed to the bed, she noticed the shards of glass from the shattered lamp. She ought to sweep them up.

      But Isobel Matas had never touched a broom in her life. She was to be served—not to be a servant. Someone else would have to sweep the glass, someone meant for menial tasks. Shrugging, she found the fallen pistol, pushed it beneath her pillow and climbed back into bed.

      The first rays of sunlight were slipping over the pine trees when Isobel waded from the shallows of slumber. She fought to catch the remnants of her dream—of that magnificent man who strode through the purple-ribboned depths, his chest broad, his shoulders strong, his eyes so blue. Blue?

      Isobel frowned. Guillermo Pascal’s eyes were not blue.

      At a tinkling sound in the room, she eased onto one elbow. In the gray light she made out a tall figure. Noah Buchanan.

      His black hat tilted toward the back of his head. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He wore a leather belt with a silver buckle. In his hand he held a stick. A rifle?

      No…a broom.

      Humming, he swept the broken glass. Unaware of her watchful eye, he raked it into a tin dustpan and stepped out of the room. She shook her head. This vaquero who could knock a loaded gun from her hand, who could guide his horse through darkness, who had walked through her dreams all night…this cattleman of the plains was sweeping!

      As she rose from the bed, she caught the smell of frying bacon. He sweeps, he cooks, what else? Mystified, she peered around the door frame.

      His worn brown boots thudding on the floor, the bull stalked across the room. His shoulder grazed a hanging pot, one knee knocked a rickety chair aside. But as he leaned over the fire, Noah Buchanan might have been a cocinero in a nobleman’s kitchen. As he broke six eggs into sizzling grease in a frying pan, he hummed.

      Bemused, Isobel eased the bedroom door shut and propped a chair beneath the handle. She wanted no intrusions this time. As she took a petticoat and faded skirt from the bundle Susan Gates had given her, she smiled. Noah Buchanan was rugged and earthy, but he was gentle and unpretentious, too. Perhaps they would do well together for the few days of their marriage.

      A wash of guilt crept over Isobel as she slipped on Susan’s petticoat. She had married Noah Buchanan under God’s eyes. For as long as she could remember, she had faithfully attended church and said her prayers. She knew this marriage was a sin worthy of the harshest punishment.

      As she fastened the row of buttons lining the bodice of the blue gown, she wondered what she would suffer. Would she lose her chance to wed Guillermo Pascal? Would she never learn the truth behind her father’s death? Or something worse?

      “Dear God,” she whispered in prayer. “Forgive me, please.” She knew God was harsh, vengeful, given to anger. His sacraments were not to be treated lightly. Yet she had done just that.

      Struggling with the shadow such thoughts cast across the morning’s bright sunlight, she slipped on a pair of boots and laced them. She would make the best of the situation, she decided. She would see to it that the contrived marriage lasted no longer than necessary. Noah Buchanan would remain the stranger he had been from the beginning. For a few days Isobel would become Belle Buchanan—a soft-spoken, common woman, like Susan Gates, the schoolteacher.

      Setting her shoulders, Isobel wound her hair into a tight chignon and buried her tortoiseshell comb deep in the saddlebag. Facing the world without her mantilla was uncomfortable. To be bareheaded in public was a disgrace.

      Sighing, she thought of the trunks making their way by mule train to Lincoln Town for transfer to Santa Fe. Gowns of silk, ivory linen, satin and taffeta. Lace mantillas, velvet jackets, cloaks, stockings of every hue. She had packed ebony combs, gold pendants, pearl earrings.

      But an uneven hem, sagging petticoats and a limp cotton dress were the lot of Belle Buchanan. Drawing a shawl around her shoulders, she recalled the hours she and her mother had spent choosing the perfect gowns for a dance or a visit with friends.

      What would Noah think of her transformation? Cautious, she opened the bedroom door. He stood beside a rough-hewn pine table, setting out chipped white plates and spoons. Her heart softening to this strangely gentle man, she stepped out.

      At a sound from the door, Noah glanced up, straightened, and let his gaze trail down the slender figure approaching. Like some Madonna of the prairie, the woman wore a gown of soft blue with a white cotton shawl around her shoulders. Sunlight from the front window framed her, backlighting her golden hair.

      “Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head to clear the surprise and let out a low chuckle. “You sure have changed. You look regular now.”

      The light in her eyes dimmed as she glanced at the fire. “Susan Gates gave me the dress.”

      “It looks fine.” He wanted to rectify his careless comment, but the words came hard. “You look pretty, ma’am. Like you belong here.”

      “But I do not belong here.” She crossed the room and seated herself. “I belong at the Hacienda Pascal in Santa Fe. I have been trained as a marquesa—to oversee many servants, host officials of the government, plan fiestas and bear sons and daughters for my husband in accordance with our Spanish tradition.”

      “Sounds like a real humdinger of a life.” He sat down opposite her. “Care for some scrambled eggs, marquesa?”

      She bristled until he held the frying pan under her nose. “Sí. I suppose I should eat.”

      Noah set a spoonful of fluffy yellow eggs on her plate and a slab of crisp bacon beside them. He reached into an iron kettle, pulled out two steaming biscuits and tossed them onto her plate.

      Bowing his head, he spoke in a low voice. “God, thanks for this new day and Dick Brewer’s grub. Amen. Whew! Good thing Dick had his chickens penned up. Otherwise, we’d have been scrounging for breakfast.”

      At her silence, he glanced up to find her staring at him. “Was that a prayer?”

      “Sure. Talking to God like always.” He spread butter on a biscuit. “Tunstall did right making Dick foreman. He’s got education. He can read and keep record books.”

      “And you? Have you an education, Buchanan?”

      “Name’s Noah.” He took a sip of coffee. “I can read and write. Mrs. Allison taught me.”

      “Who is Mrs. Allison?”

      “Richard and Jane Allison. He owns land around Fort Worth. English folks.” He smiled, remembering. “Mrs. Allison took a liking to me. She didn’t have children of her own, see. She used to invite me into the library—books from floor to ceiling. She read me all kinds of stories, mostly from the Bible. Taught me to read, too. I reckon I read nearly every book in that library.”

      “But where were your mother and aunties to care for you? Why did you live with Señora Allison?

      “I СКАЧАТЬ