Free The Outlaw's Bride by Catherine Palmer

of any shopper’s approach long before the front door opened.
    “We need a code,” Noah said to Isobel under his breath. “You can’t testify unless we’re sure the killers are the men we think they are.”
    “When I see the man who murdered Mr. Tunstall,” Isobel said, “I’ll say the word yellow . Blue will be the man who shot second.”
    “Isobel.” He caught her hand. “You be careful. Don’t lose your head in there.”
    “Of course not. Belle Buchanan never loses her head.” She initiated a chat with Susan as the group stepped into the store. Noah lifted up a silent prayer for God to protect them all…and to put a lock on Isobel’s tongue.
    “Buchanan,” a gruff voice called out from a group of men standing around an iron potbellied stove. “Don’t you know better’n to come in here?”
    Noah took off his hat as the men touched the six-shooters on their hips. “Don’t get testy now, fellows,” he told them. “My bride here is looking to make a new dress.”
    “A dress?” Snake Jackson stepped to the front of the group. “Get your saddle-sore backside outa here, Buchanan. Jimmie Dolan don’t want no Chisum men—”
    “There!” Isobel moved forward and placed a hand on Snake’s arm. “Do you see that yellow fabric? Near the ladder? Will you get it for me, sir?”
    For an instant Snake’s focus slid across the room and scanned the rows of brightly colored fabric bolts. Then he jerked his arm away and spat a thick, arcing stream of brown-red tobacco juice into the brass spittoon near the door.
    “Get yer wife outa here, Buchanan,” he snarled, “before I blast the three of you to kingdom come!”
    “That’ll look good on the squire’s books,” Noah retorted, stuffing his hat back on his head. “Belle, honey, which bolt did you want Mr. Jackson to take down for you?”
    “The yellow. That bright yellow silk near the ladder.”
    “Ah, Mr. Buchanan. I’m afraid this is not an opportune day for shopping.” A short, slender man entered from a side door. He wore a black broadcloth tailcoat and trousers, a red vest and a stiff white shirt with a black bow tie. His hair was a thick mass of unruly curls.
    Noah nodded a greeting. “Hello there, Jimmie. I’d like you to know my new wife, Belle. And this is Lincoln’s new schoolteacher, Miss Gates. Ladies, meet Jimmie Dolan.”
    “Such a lovely store you have, Mr. Dolan.” Isobel dropped the barest of curtsies. “I’ve already found a yellow silk that will suit me just fine.”
    “Didn’t you hear the man?” Evans growled. “We don’t want a Chisum man in our territory.”
    “You know, dear, I also favor that blue,” Isobel told Noah, her voice breathless. She turned to Evans. “Sir, would you be so good as to fetch me that blue calico?”
    “Don’t you hear good, lady?” Snake started towardher, his eyes narrowing. “Jimmie Dolan ain’t gonna trade with no Chisum—”
    “It’s all right, Snake, Evans.” Dolan’s speech carried an Irish lilt that might have sounded pleasant on another man. “Mrs. Buchanan, I’m afraid we’ve had a little trouble in Lincoln. Perhaps you’d better do your shopping another day.”
    Noah glanced at Susan, whose fragile face had faded from pale to white. The schoolteacher looked ready to faint. But Isobel gave Jimmie Dolan a coy smile.
    “My dear Mr. Dolan,” she said in a soft, buttery accent. “I am in the uncomfortable situation of having almost nothing to wear. May I see that adorable blue calico? Please?”
    The Irishman glanced at the row of armed men lurking behind him. The one who was wearing a brass badge on his chest took a stump of cigar from his mouth.
    “I believe Mr. Dolan just said he’s not open for business,” the lawman informed them.
    “Sheriff Brady, what are you doing here?” Noah drawled. “If there’s trouble in Lincoln, shouldn’t you be down at the courthouse? It wouldn’t look too good if folks knew the sheriff was hiding out at Jimmie Dolan’s