Outlaw's Bride

by Lori Copeland

  “Put me down! Let me go!” The girl twisted and gave Johnny a hard uppercut to the jaw. His teeth rattled and stars floated overhead. He fought to stay astride, biting back the metallic taste of blood spreading through his mouth. She could have knocked out his teeth with that blow! He did an inventory—uppers, then lowers—all there. The only casualty was his tongue.

  Tightening his grip on her, he warned, “Don’t do that again, young lady.” He grasped her wrists, pinning them against the saddle horn. The big sorrel galloped headlong down the road behind the gang.

  “You put me down this minute!” She thrashed, striking out until her heel connected with his shin.

  “I’ll be only too glad to do that as soon as you’re out of danger.” He glanced at the bank bag, spurring the horse harder. At least the money had been saved.

  Lawmen pounded behind them, firing their weapons. Whipping the sorrel faster, he kept the retreating bank outlaws in sight. Far ahead, the four gunmen cut off the road and ducked into a creosote thicket.

  The girl twisted in the saddle and looked back at Johnny, her face contorted. Johnny hitched her tighter. “Don’t you start crying on me. You’re all right.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?” she whimpered. Her body quaked against his chest.

  “Why would I hurt you?” He was trying to save her from harm. “Just calm down. This will all be over in a few minutes.”

  He slowed enough to trail the robbers but stay out of the range of their gunfire. With the girl in front, he couldn’t take a chance on her taking a bullet. The sheriff and his posse were closing in. Soon the thieves would be apprehended, the girl could be safely returned, and the money safe. He cut his horse through the thicket and up a steep embankment.

  A bullet zipped by his ear. He bent lower in the saddle, glaring back at the posse. Why didn’t they hold their fire? The robbers were out of range.

  “My daddy’s going to be very unhappy,” the girl promised in a voice jolting with each hoofbeat.

  Her daddy would be unhappy? What about him? One minute he was minding his own business reading the wanted posters, and the next he was in the middle of a bank robbery, trying to save her hide. And she was complaining? He ducked another round of posse fire.

  She started sobbing, great, anguished wails, and Johnny finally had enough. Forget the robbers. Let the lawmen do their jobs without his help. Slowing his horse, he awkwardly patted the young woman’s heaving back. “Okay, okay. It’s over. I’m not going after them. Dry your tears. You’re safe.”

  She shook her head, sobbing louder. “You’re horrible…and…and you’re mean! You robbed our bank, and kidnapped me. You are in so much trouble!” She glared at him, then her lip quivered, and the corners of her mouth dipped downward.

  “Robbed your bank? Do you think I was a part of that?” The irony of the situation hit him. That’s exactly what she thought. Why wouldn’t she? He did a quick take at the fast-approaching posse. Did they think he was part of the gang? “Young lady, I didn’t rob that bank.”

  “Oh, yes you did.” She sniffed. “I saw you.”

  Shifting her to the side, he set her on the ground. He was getting out of here. “Stay right there. The posse will take you home. I’m out of this. They don’t need me anymore.”

  She gazed up at him, tears spilling from her big brown eyes.

  “Look, I know what you think, but I’m not one of them.”

  She sniffed again. “If you’re not a bank robber, what do you have in that bank bag?”

  He glanced down, and his stomach pitched. The bank bag. He quickly rammed the bag into his saddlebag, fumbling with the strap.

  A shot whizzed by his ear, and his horse lunged forward. He let the animal have his head, turning for a final glance at the girl, who stood, hands on her hips, in the middle of the road.

  “You can’t just leave me here!” she wailed, stomping her foot. She hopped up and down, stomping and yelling.

  Whipping his horse, Johnny flew down a ravine. The sorrel’s hooves pounded the brush, and then slid on loose rock. The posse was on his heels now.

  Chapter Five

  Grimacing, Johnny snapped back to the present. He turned, his eyes roaming the small bedroom. Time and love had gone into the furnishings. He touched the spread pattern, running his rough fingertips along the intricate stitching.

  Grandma had made quilts. On summer evenings she sat on the front porch, a basket of outgrown clothing by her side. She cut and sewed for hours, patiently explaining the history behind each scrap of fabric, weaving stories and spinning tales as she sewed. Assuring him that God loved him and that he’d always look after him. Right.

  Little Elly loved the pink remnant of her baby blanket, and Lara always pointed a chubby, dimpled finger at the flower print of Ma’s work dress. Winters, Grandma sat by the fireplace, her needle flashing as she tackled her piecework with a vengeance. That seemed a lifetime ago. He turned from the window.

  He moved to the side of the bed and sat down, careful not to muss anything. Sitting up straighter, he bounced once, testing the old mattress. It had been a long time since he’d slept in a real bed. Months—maybe a year.

  He lifted a pillow and smelled soap, sunshine, and fresh air, a far cry from his sleeping bag. Arranging the feather tick carefully back in place, he glanced around him. Now what? Instead of searching for Dirk Bledso, he was stuck in a blue-flowered prison with a quilt made from scraps of a shirt an old man wore fifty years ago. He could walk away. He’d thought of nothing more for the past week, but in the end he’d be a fool. He’d serve his time, and then he would resume his search. Grandma was right. God had sure looked after Bledso. He had given him another year or two to live.

  A light tap sounded at the door, and he waited. A few seconds later the knock sounded again, followed by a woman’s voice. “I have your water.”

  She was stubborn. He’d told her he’d get it himself. It had been a long time since he’d had a pitcher of water in his bedroom. It had been a long time since he’d had a bedroom. “Leave it in the hall.”

  The bowl clanked as she set it down. “Mr. McAllister?”

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot overemphasize how the judge likes his meals on time. Supper is at five.” Johnny glanced at the clock over the bedstead. It was ten of five.

  When he didn’t answer, she rapped soundly. “Did you hear me?” “

  I heard. I’m not hungry.” Or deaf.

  “Are you coming?” “

  Pretty soon.”

  He wasn’t about to sit at a stranger’s table and make polite conversation. He had nothing to say. Nothing these folks cared to hear.

  Her tone firmed on the other side of the door. “Judge McMann hates cold food. Unpack your clothes. Supper won’t be on the table for another few minutes.” Her footsteps sounded as she went back downstairs.

  Johnny rolled off the bed and walked to the dresser. How long would it take to unpack an extra pair of pants, a shirt, and a change of long johns? There were three large drawers in the chest. One for pants, one for shirts, and one for underwear. He found an extra blanket in the bottom drawer. He’d need an extra blanket in this desert town about as much as he needed that woman firing orders at him.

  Stretching, he moved to the north window. Leaning out the sill, he watched the lazy activity below. Not much stirring this time of day.

  Scents drifted up the stairway, and he turned and stared at the closed door. Something smelled mighty good. His stomach growled. Maybe he would go down to supper. No, he was a prisoner. Weren’t they supposed to bring his meals to him?

  He sat back down on the side of the bed. He’d be so docile they’d think they were babysitting the archangel Gabriel himself. He’d keep his nose clean and his eyes open for word of Dirk Bledso. Maybe he’d get lucky, and Bledso and his no-good cutthroat, yellow-bellied, baby-murdering gang would save him the trouble of tracking them down. Lying back on his pillow, he closed his eyes. Maybe, with a little luck, they’
d pay him a visit right here in “Paradise.” The grudge he was carrying was a little heavy after sixteen years.

  And when they did, he would shoot them. One by one, he’d put a hole through each of their black hearts, and then he would kick dust in their faces before he walked away.

  Grandpa’s voice echoed in his mind. Johnny boy, the Lord will avenge the enemy.

  But he hasn’t avenged mine. Bledso is still alive. His stomach rumbled. That chicken smelled mighty good.

  The sun sank lower. Johnny lay across the bed, careful not to muss the quilt. The hands on the clock crept past five, then five thirty. Six. Quarter to seven. He could hear the judge’s voice, and what did she say her name was? Ragan. Colonel Ragan.

  Seven o’clock and not a hint of a breeze came through the open window. His eyes fell on the slop jar. There was no way he was using one of those, so he opened the door and quietly descended the staircase, heading for the outhouse. Muffled voices floated up from the first floor.

  Pausing on the landing, he glanced toward the dining room and did a double take when he saw the woman and the judge sitting at the table. Their plates were clean, napkins folded carefully at the side, the silverware untouched on each napkin. A third place was set opposite the woman.

  The judge spotted him and smiled. “There you are. Take your seat, Mr. McAllister. Supper is getting cold.”

  Ragan gave him a dark look and rose to pour him a glass of tea. Platters of food that had been hot two hours ago sat stone cold in the middle of the table. She motioned to the chair. “I’ll get the burnt biscuits out of the warming oven.”

  Johnny edged through the doorway and sat down, his eyes trained on the judge. What was this? Some sort of joke?

  When Ragan returned, Judge McMann waited until she sat down, and then he bowed his head. “Blessed Lord, allow this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Thank you for blessing us with the presence of yet another of your children at our table. Let us be a light unto his path and a lamp unto his feet. Amen.”

  He looked up pleasantly. “Mr. McAllister, I hope you like fried chicken and biscuits. Please, help yourself.”

  Johnny shook his head. He’d been sentenced to a loony bin. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Nonsense. A man has to eat.” The judge picked up a bowl of greens and dished up a healthy serving onto his plate. “We’ve found if we keep our meals on time, the day runs more smoothly. Breakfast is at six, dinner at noon, and supper at five.” He handed Johnny the bowl of greens. “And we do appreciate our guests being on time. Try to remember that.”

  Johnny was about to pass the greens along untouched, but Ragan patiently ladled a serving onto his plate. “Do you like sorghum with your biscuits, Mr. McAllister? Or do you prefer butter?”

  Two fat biscuits plopped onto his plate before he could protest.

  “Butter…I guess.”

  The biscuits weren’t burnt, but the chicken was cold and so was the gravy, yet it was the best cold gravy and chicken he’d ever eaten. Before he realized it, he was putting food away like a half-starved animal. When apple pie was served, he downed two pieces, feeling ashamed of himself. He hadn’t tasted food this good since Grandma died.

  Judge McMann rolled his wheelchair back from the table, a merry twinkle in his eyes. “I like to see a man with a healthy appetite. Another slice of pie, Mr. McAllister?”

  “No. Like I said, I wasn’t hungry.” Johnny pushed his empty plate aside. He met Ragan’s mocking eyes—eyes as blue as the ocean—and then looked away.

  The judge chuckled. “My dear old mother used to say she’d rather feed a hungry man any day of the week than one who wasn’t hungry—saved on food. Better reconsider that other piece of pie. You’ll need your strength. You’re doing the dishes tonight. Supper’s run late, and Ragan needs to be getting on home.”

  Dishes! He’d rinsed out his coffee cup for years, and he had washed a skillet in a stream occasionally. He’d never washed a whole pan of dishes.

  The judge pulled a pipe out of his pocket. “We all take our turn at the sink.”

  Ragan picked up their plates and the food bowls, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back in a few moments untying her apron.

  “Before I go home, I want to take a piece of pie to the reverend.” She moved aside as the judge wheeled by her and into the parlor.

  “Be careful walking home.”

  “I always am.” She turned back to Johnny, who still sat at the table, uncertain as to what he should do. She seemed to read his thoughts, and he didn’t like it. His thoughts were his own; the law couldn’t take those away from him. She sighed. “You’ll find hot water on the stove. Clean dishcloths and towels are in the top drawer to the right side of the sink.”

  They were serious. They expected him to wash dishes! He’d anticipated man’s work. Since when did a man wash dishes?

  “Any questions?”

  “What’s the chance of an early parole?”

  “None. Be sure to rinse the dishes twice with scalding water.”

  Chapter Six

  Johnny rinsed the soap off the last dish and laid it on a clean towel to drain. He glanced up when the judge wheeled into the kitchen.

  “Looks like you found what you needed.” Johnny nodded and hoped his sentence didn’t include keeping the old man company.

  “Hmm,” Judge McMann murmured, pulling on his pipe and sending a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

  “Don’t have a lot to say.”

  The judge chuckled. “The world might be a better place if more folks thought that way. Well, no matter. We have plenty of time to get acquainted.”

  Johnny picked up a dish and dried it. That was an understatement. Two years in this tea parlor wasn’t going to be easy.

  Judge McMann drew on his pipe thoughtfully. “Tasty chicken; Ragan’s a good cook. She’s a fine woman. All the Ramsey girls are. It’s surprising Ragan’s not been snatched up by some young man, but the girls have their hands full with their father.”

  “Yes, sir.” Johnny wasn’t sure what he was expected to say, but he was sure the judge spoke the truth. Ragan was a fine-looking woman. Bossy, but fine looking.

  “Fulton Ramsey’s well thought of in this town, and we don’t make light of his problems. He pastored our flock for thirty years.” Judge McMann leaned forward, knocking the ashes of his pipe onto a plate. He repacked the pipe bowl and lit it. “He led many a man to God in his day. Now that his mind’s taken leave of his body, folks look after him. He spends his time whittling and telling rambling stories to children. I feel real sorry for the Ramsey girls. They lost their mama early on. Now they have a hard row to hoe.”

  Johnny dried a skillet and set it aside. Ragan Ramsey’s problems weren’t his concern. Sticking his nose in other folk’s business had landed him here, and he wasn’t about to repeat the mistake.

  Ragan came into the kitchen carrying a wicker basket. “Reverend was appreciative of the pie. He sends his best, Procky. I need to be getting on home now.”

  “Hold on a minute, missy. I want to talk to the two of you while I’ve got you both in one place.”

  Johnny mentally groaned, hoping a lecture wasn’t coming. He’d had about all of this cockamamy sentence he could take today.

  The judge motioned him toward a chair. “Sit down, son.”

  Glancing at Ragan, Johnny lay the dishcloth aside and took a seat. Ragan sat across the table from him, looking uneasy.

  “Mr. McAllister, I suppose you’re wondering what’s expected of you,” the judge began.

  Johnny’s eyes shifted to Ragan. “She told me.”

  “She did?”

  Ragan shrugged. “I told him no profane language, no liquor or tobacco, daily sessions, and that you like your meals on time. Nothing more.”

  “I understand the rules,” Johnny snapped. “I’m a prisoner; not a moron.”

  The air in the room charged as the young couple faced off.

  Sitting up
straighter, Ragan met his stare. “Mr. McAllister, I’m getting a little weary of your attitude. I have been trying my best to be civil to you. I offered hot water and invited you to supper, and you refused both courtesies.”

  “I don’t like fried chicken.”

  “You ate four pieces.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I was hungry.”

  She glared back at him. “You said you weren’t.”

  “Get off my back, lady. I don’t need a mother hen clucking over me. I can take care of myself.” His eyes shifted to the window.

  “Obviously you haven’t,” she muttered.

  He snapped back to confront her. “Where do you get off telling me how to run my life?”

  “Where do you get off talking to me like a—”

  “Children!” The judge threw up his hands. “We’re having a civil conversation. Let’s not turn this into an all-out war.”

  Crossing his arms, Johnny refused to meet Ragan’s eyes. He didn’t have to put up with her—or did he?

  Judge McMann cleared his throat. “I’m sure Judge Leonard explained our program—”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Well, then permit me. Robert and I have been working closely on a plan designed to rehabilitate prisoners, men whom we judge to be worthy of a second chance. Robert has obviously seen something in you he feels is worth saving. Ragan and I are writing a book on the project, and you will be one of our subjects, perhaps the last one. I’m sad to say the program doesn’t seem to be working out. Now, we’re not hard to get along with, Mr. McAllister. You’re at liberty to move about freely, but you’re not to be out of our sight without permission. Weekdays we will spend about an hour talking with you. Your thoughts, what’s led you to a life of crime? That sort of thing. And once you prove that you can be trusted, you will be permitted more freedom. I ask very little: my meals on time, Ragan treated with the utmost respect, and that you keep yourself out of trouble.”

  Johnny sent a sour glance in Ragan’s direction. Her fiery stare returned the sentiment.

  “Are there any questions?” “