She’s in charge of me?”
“No one’s ‘in charge’ of you, Mr. McAllister. You’ll be judged on how you take responsibility for yourself while helping others, but Ragan will generally be supervising your efforts. My advancing age keeps me close to my chair and the couch, I’m afraid.”
Johnny wanted to tell him what he thought of the so-called program, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d do what he was told. All he had to do was survive for two years. Maybe less if he behaved.
“So, do we understand each other?”
Johnny nodded and kept his eyes trained on the wall opposite the table.
“Good.” The judge gave a wide yawn. “Well, it’s this old man’s bedtime. If you’ll turn out the lamp when you’re finished, I’d appreciate it.” He rolled to the doorway and then looked back over his shoulder. “Ragan has breakfast on the table at six.”
And dinner at noon and supper at five. Got it. “Yes, sir.”
Ragan got up from the table, looping the basket over her arm. Brushing past him on her way out, she said, “You can make this as hard or as easy as you want, Mr. McAllister. I’m willing to make this arrangement amicable, but it’s entirely up to you.”
“Don’t press your luck, lady.”
Lifting her chin, she proceeded to the back door and left. He winced when the slamming door rattled the kitchen window.
He might have to be under her wing for the next couple of years, but he didn’t have to like it.
Chuckling, the judge rolled to the doorway. “My, my, Mr. McAllister. I do believe you’ve touched a chord with her. I’ve never seen Ragan slam a door.”
Chapter Seven
Johnny woke at daylight to the sound of a rooster crowing. The smell of frying sausage drifted up to him as he shaved.
Shots broke out. He jumped, muttering an expletive when his shaving mug crashed to the floor and his razor dropped into the water. Whirling, he stepped to the window. Chickens squawked, dogs barked, and a bullet hit the side of the house. Yells and whoops and the sound of galloping horses jolted the early morning silence.
He saw two riders hightailing it northward, firing toward one house and then another. The riders paused to reload, and then they spurred their horses on down Main Street.
A movement in the side yard caught Johnny’s eye. Ragan ducked, hurrying across the grass and onto the back porch. He heard the screen door flap shut as she let herself in. Turning from the window, he walked back to the shaving bowl and picked up the pieces of broken glass. Breakfast at six, he reminded himself.
Raids weren’t his problem. Dishes were his problem.
Judge McMann took his seat at the breakfast table, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. McAllister. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gunshots startle you?” “
No, sir.”
Ragan sailed through the kitchen door, carrying a plate of eggs and biscuits. Johnny’s eyes followed her movements.
“Well, they certainly scared the wits out of me. I almost broke the eggs I’d just gathered.” She turned to address Johnny, obviously taking the judge’s warning about civility last night to heart. “Alvin Lutz, our town sheriff, is getting up in years, and he’s as deaf as a fence post. He needs a successor, but no one will take the job. And nobody, including Alvin, will stand up to those thugs.”
The judge nodded, buttering a stack of flapjacks. “We have to do something. We won’t have any dishes to eat off of if it doesn’t stop soon. Maddy’s entire cherry blossom pattern is almost gone. Bounced right off the shelves with all the commotion and noise. She loved those plates.”
“It’s not safe for little ones to be on the street,” Ragan agreed. “And everything but our milk cows and chickens has been stolen.”
“They took the Tilsons’ old heifer the other night.”
“Oh, dear. I hadn’t heard. I’ll take them some fresh milk and butter.”
Images flashed through Johnny’s mind. Elly’s screams, little Lara’s terrified cries.
Sweat beaded his forehead, and he set his knife aside, his appetite gone. Would he ever be rid of the nightmare? Could he ever see a little girl again without feeling pain?
Ragan reached to pour his coffee. A shock coursed through him as her arm brushed him and her rosewater scent filled his senses. “Holly and Jo have learned to avoid the raiders,” she said. “Everyone avoids the main road.”
Johnny was still aware of the spot she’d touched after she moved on.
“Holly, Jo, and Rebecca are my sisters, Mr. McAllister. Holly’s engaged to Tom Winters, and they plan to marry in the fall, if finances work out. I don’t know what I’ll do without her when she leaves. Jo, who’s fourteen, and Becca, who’s nine, help with the housework and cooking, but much of the responsibility of our home falls on Holly’s shoulders. More biscuits?”
He took a couple more.
“Jo’s a dear girl, but she’s still young in many ways. It’s not easy to grow up in such difficult times, with Papa and all.”
Done serving breakfast to both men, she sat down to fill her own plate.
He didn’t care, he reminded himself. He didn’t care about this town, about these people, or about her. Being here only delayed him from tracking down his family’s murderers.
“Mr. McAllister?”
Johnny stiffened when he heard Ragan call his name three days later. She marched toward him like a woman about to beat a rug.
If she was looking for him, it meant one thing. She wanted him to do more demeaning housework. What did she want now, mattress stuffing? Polishing the stair railing?
He pretended to be interested in the porch step he was repairing. “Need something?”
“Actually, I do.”
It figured. “What?”
“I need your help in the kitchen. The ladies’ auxiliary is having their annual library bake sale, and I’ve promised to contribute nine dozen sugar cookies.”
“So?”
“So, I need your help.”
He turned to stare at her. “Baking cookies?” She wasn’t serious. He could barely boil water without burning it.
“It won’t take that long. If you’ll just roll out the dough and cut them out, I’ll get them in the oven.” Her brow lifted combatively when he gave her a cool look. “I need help. I’m way behind on my chores and have to get these cookies baked.”
Work my foot. It was just another thing to harass him. During the daily meeting with the judge, he was forced to talk about his private life, though he told very little. Hang the judge’s research. He wasn’t a criminal, and his private life was his, nobody else’s. He resented the sentence more every day. Hanging might have been more merciful. Tossing the hammer aside, he stood up.
“You’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you have a choice. You can go back to jail. We are not ogres, Mr. McAllister.”
He trailed her into the kitchen and spotted a large bowl of dough sitting on the table. A rolling pin, with flour sprinkled on top, rested beside it.
“The ladies’ auxiliary is small—just Minnie, Pearl, and Roberta, when Roberta’s not busy at the millinery—but they manage to have a lovely bake sale every year .” She stopped and assessed him. “I assume you’ve never baked cookies before?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Call me Ragan,” she tossed. “I am not here to torture you, Mr. McAllister.” Tying an apron around her waist, she added, “We’ll make this as painless as possible. Do you want an apron?”
He stiffened and muttered an expletive. “No, I don’t want an apron .”
Stepping around him, she admonished, “Language, Mr. McAllister. You are in a lady’s presence, and I do not tolerate that sort of talk.” She picked up the sifter and dusted a generous amount of flour onto a large, white cloth. “Do you have a favorite cookie?”
Images of Ma making oatmeal cookies surfaced in his mind. She’d blend rich yellow butter, sugar, eggs, oatm
eal, and flour, allowing him to lick the spoon when she’d finished. The memory curled around his heart as warm and sweet as the treat itself.
“Pie’s more to my liking.”
She glanced up, her face flushed from the kitchen heat. For a moment it was hard for him to take his eyes off of her. “That’s a shame. Personally, I favor molasses cookies.”
Molasses gave him a bellyache.
Reaching for a mound of dough, she laid half of it on the floured cloth and then picked up the rolling pin. “Roll the dough very thin, and then use this water glass rim to form a shape.”
She rolled the dough smooth, pressed the glass on it, and a second later laid a perfect round on the pan.
Johnny studied the glass rim.
“Now, let’s put you to work rolling out more dough. Do you want to stand or sit?”
“Stand.”
She brushed by him, trailing her flowery scent. What was it? Lemon? No, rose. Definitely a rosebush today. Handing him the rolling pin, she said. “Let’s see what you can do.”
His first attempt was pathetic, even to his untrained eye. The dough wadded into a sticky ball and clung to the rolling pin. Lifting the tool, he looked at her helplessly. “What’s the problem here?”
“Inexperience.” She took the pin away from him and cleaned it. “You need lots of flour, but not too much or the cookies will be dry.”
Lots, but not too much. What was that supposed to mean? A bushel or a teaspoon?
Moving around him, she looped her hands around his waist and steadied the pin, rolling the dough to a delicate consistency. His fingers moved over the wood to capture hers. He’d see if he was in the presence of a lady.
The pin paused, and she eyed his hand.
“Mr. McAllister.”
“Yes?” Running his fingers lightly over the satiny texture of her skin, he deliberately invited a response.
“You’re touching my fingers.”
He looked down. “So I am.”
“Are you trying to gain my attention?”
“Could be.”
She removed the roller from his hand and smacked his fingers. He winced and drew back, smile fading.
She picked up a glass. “We have nine dozen cookies to bake, mister. You’d best get busy.”
Chapter Eight
Johnny was in the kitchen two days later washing the breakfast dishes when raiders came through again. He paid them no mind until he heard footsteps rushing up the back porch steps. Ragan slammed inside with a choked, “Oh my goodness!”
Johnny dropped the cup he was washing and whirled to face her.
“What’s wrong?”
“The…the…”
She was so upset she couldn’t get the words out. Had she been shot? Had one of those roughnecks accosted her? He looked her over briefly, and she seemed to be unhurt.
He wiped his soapy hands on his denims and crossed to the screen door to look out. “Does the judge need a gun?” Proctor would have one somewhere.
She shook her head, biting her lower lip between small, even white teeth. “They shot all of our chickens!”
He frowned. “They shot what?”
“The chickens.” She wrung her hands, tears spilling from her eyes. “They shot the judge’s chickens !” She burst into tears.
Stunned, he awkwardly moved to calm her. For a moment he was so near even he knew she would object. She was hysterical over chickens? It just meant sixteen fewer beaks to feed.
His hand came up to stroke her hair, and then dropped away. “It’s not the end of the world. You can get more chickens.”
She lifted her head, sniffling. “You don’t understand. What am I going to do with sixteen dead hens?”
His smile waned, and then he groaned. He hadn’t thought about that. Sixteen chickens were a lot of birds to pluck.
That afternoon, the Honorable Proctor McMann dropped the notes he and Ragan were going over and dove under the dining room table as bullets again ricocheted through the front parlor. “The cat, Ragan! Get the cat!”
Johnny dropped out of his chair, dodging the hail of gunfire.
More shots and then Kitty yelped.
Procky turned white. “She’s been hit, Ragan!”
“Here, Kitty. Here, Kitty, Kitty.” Ragan crawled along in front of the sofa, groping underneath for the wounded pet. Her eyes focused on a tuft of black fur quaking beneath the round lamp table. “There you are.” Reaching for the feline, she gently tugged. The cat dug into the wool rug, refusing to budge.
“Kitty!” Judge McMann yelled. “How bad is it, Ragan?” His voice hinged on panic.
Ragan gently extracted the pet and examined the superficial wound. “She’s all right, Procky. She’s just nicked.” Ragan ducked as more shots pinged through the room, shaking her head in resignation as a pillow on the sofa exploded. The picture of a young Maddy McMann, which had been hanging over the mantel, spun across the floor like a toy top.
Ragan tucked the yowling animal safely under her arm and crawled under the table to join the judge. Motioning for Johnny to join them, she made room for him in the cramped shelter.
Judge McMann reached for his pet, tenderness shining in his eyes. “That was a close one. When the shooting stops I’ll clean that wound— nothing at all to be concerned about.” His lined features shown with pain. “So far we’ve lost livestock, but never people or pets.”
Kitty nuzzled the judge’s chest, purring loudly.
Ping!
Another bullet bounced off the porch.
The judge sat stroking Kitty as a crystal chandelier swung overhead, its dangling bangles tinkling and sending tiny flashes of light bouncing from wall to wall. One moment they’d been having their meeting, the next the place was exploding.
Horsemen galloped down the block before turning to make another pass by the judge’s house.
Johnny flinched as a bullet took a hunk out of the table leg. “Why do you people put up with this?”
“Because we don’t know how to stop it,” the judge said. “If we shoot ’em, then more come. What’s a body to do?”
“We’ve tried,” Ragan added.
“I suppose that’s what started our interest on doing a book on gangs and criminals,” the judge noted. “I can’t imagine what would make a man or woman enjoy a life of crime.”
Ragan glanced at Johnny. “It used to be a quiet town. Then the gangs started coming across the border once they were liquored up. Last month the citizens voted to change the town’s name from Paradise to Barren Flats.” She sighed as hot lead shattered a windowpane. “If only we knew how to stop this.”
“Well, your father tried,” the judge muttered, still peering at Kitty’s wound.
“Yes, and look where it got him.”
Chapter Nine
Fulton Ramsey, Ragan’s father, was once a community leader. He’d pastored Paradise’s only church and cared deeply about his flock. He had tried to stand up to the gangs and was burned out, his cattle shot, and the church torched and burned to the ground. The death of his only son, Jacob, was the final straw.
Ragan still hurt when she thought about her young brother. The boy had died racing his horse home to warn them that raiders were coming again. The horse stumbled, and Jacob was thrown in the lane leading to the Ramsey house. He died where he fell.
Papa finally succumbed to despair over his losses. His anguish was so deep, so irreversible, that he’d retreated into a world that no one, not even his daughters, were able to penetrate.
He now sat silently for hours either whittling toy animal figures or staring into space, a broken man. Once Fulton Ramsey had been looked upon as a charismatic man of God; now the townsfolk merely looked upon him with pity.
If Ragan could just hold the family together until Jo and Becca were raised, she’d be grateful.
Procky was getting on in years and Papa—well, there was no telling how long Papa would live. His body was healthy, even though his mind was not.
Once
her responsibilities were fulfilled, she wanted to leave this raucous town and attend school. Perhaps, if Procky had his way, she would study for the bar. There would be enormous sacrifices if she decided to do so. She’d have to move far away from her sisters because it was mostly Midwestern schools that admitted women for law degrees. Then she’d have to fight to prove that as a lawyer she could handle cases as well as a man. Most women took over practices begun by their fathers or husbands, but she would have to prove her own worth.
The judge had already told her he would provide funds for her tuition, and she could go anytime that she wanted. But right now that was impossible—too many people in Barren Flats were dependent on her.
Chapter Ten
By that evening the commotion had died away, Kitty’s wound was cleaned and dressed, and supper was over. The judge settled on the open porch where a cool breeze relieved the day’s heat. Ragan handed the men bowls of blackberry cobbler with a generous portion of thick cream over the top. Leaning back, Procky stroked his pet. “These raids are getting more and more violent. Kitty could have been killed today. It’s nothing short of a miracle that someone hasn’t been shot during the raids. It’s time to call a town meeting.” He focused on Johnny. “Son, I’m curious. What would you do about this problem?”
A muscle tightened in Johnny’s jaw. “It’s none of my concern.”
Disappointment lined the judge’s features. “Any suggestion would be welcome at this point. I would assume you are not a stranger to the problem. You’d have a fresh outlook on it.”
Pouring coffee, Ragan said softly, “Mr. McAllister, if you have any ideas—”
“I don’t.” He didn’t know a thing about gangs, and he resented the inference that he did. He’d been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Otherwise, he’d kept to himself. He wasn’t a criminal. At least, not yet.
Ragan glanced at the judge. They both shook their heads.
She finished pouring coffee and set the pot aside, and then she sat in a wicker chair beside the judge. “Shooting the chickens and wounding Kitty are really the last straw. I’m glad you suggested the town meeting, Procky. Surely someone can come up with a plan this time.”
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