LITMIR.BIZ

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until Dick Brewer finally spoke up. “She’s right, fellers. Doc Ealy, we’ll make sure you help with the postmortem—if you don’t mind. Thank you, Mrs. Buchanan.”

      Isobel tilted her head. “You may call me Belle.”

      As the sea of men parted to let Isobel through, Billy Bonney called to Noah. “Hey, Buchanan, you bringin’ your pretty wife to McSween’s fandango Saturday night?”

      Noah’s blue eyes flicked toward Isobel. “We’ll see. I want to get on over to Chisum’s place.”

      “Come on, Buchanan! I deserve at least one dance with the lovely lady. You may be faster on the draw than me, but I guarantee I’m the best dancer in town.”

      “You’ve got the biggest mouth in Lincoln County, that’s for sure.” Noah shifted his attention as Juan and Isobel joined him. “Hey, Dick. Come here a minute.”

      The young foreman detached himself from the group. As he neared, Susan Gates emerged from the shadows of a back room. Clutching her skirts in her hands, she rushed toward Isobel.

      “Susan!” Isobel caught her friend. “Susan, what’s wrong?”

      “You know this woman?” Patrón asked, his brow drawn into a furrow.

      “I’ll explain later,” Noah said. “Miss Gates, meet Juan Patrón. Looks like you already know Dick.”

      Susan gave Juan a polite nod, but when she looked into Dick Brewer’s eyes, a pink flush spread across her cheeks. Noah’s friend and the schoolteacher had met only the day before, Isobel realized, but there was an obvious attraction between them.

      She wondered if anyone saw such a spark between Noah and herself. Surely not. After all, Noah was just her protector. He cared nothing for her. And she had no more feeling for him than she might for a loyal stable-hand at her family’s hacienda.

      While he informed the men that Snake Jackson and the posse were in town, Isobel and her friend stepped aside.

      “You’ve lost a button,” Susan said. “My dress doesn’t fit you well. Why don’t we buy some fabric at Tunstall’s store? I’ll sew a new dress for you. Isobel?”

      “That cowboy is looking at you, Susan.” She maneuvered her friend away from Dick Brewer’s line of focus. “Stay away from him. He is in the midst of the trouble.”

      Susan glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t you think he’s terribly handsome?”

      Isobel shrugged. She preferred a man with a stronger frame, with broad shoulders and hands that could bring down a steer. She preferred a man whose face bore the weathering of life, who had seen good and evil—and who knew to choose the good. She preferred—

      “Noah!” she gasped as he caught her around the waist.

      “Let’s get out of here,” he growled against her ear. “This place is a powder keg.”

      As he led them away, Isobel turned and caught her friend’s hands. “Don’t let any man capture your heart, Susan,” she said softly. “Never let anyone take away your dreams.”

      “Oh, Isobel, I…”

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

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

      Patrón 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?”

      Patrón 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.” Patrón’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?” Patrón shook his head. “That is futile, señora. 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, Patrón 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

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