Outlaw's Bride

by Lori Copeland

  Johnny avoided meeting her eyes.

  The judge frowned, reaching for another button. “Are all those potatoes for us? Are we feeding an army this evening?”

  “No. I fixed extra so I could take some home to Papa tonight.” “Your sisters don’t know how to mash potatoes?”

  “Of course they do, but Papa seems to think mine are special.”

  “Well, I’d have to agree with Fulton on that one.” He smiled at Johnny. “Guess you’ve noticed she’s a dandy cook.”

  “The grub’s edible.”

  Ragan struck a match and threw it in the stove. Edible. He sure eats my apple pies without complaint. The kindling caught, and she shoved the iron lid into place. Shooing Kitty off the table, she moved to the cabinet.

  The judge dropped another button on the pile and began as he did every day about this time. “You know, John, you’ve been mighty quiet since you got here. Tell us a little more about yourself.”

  Ragan pretended interest in what she was doing, but her ear was tuned to the conversation. She’d like to know something about him. Where he came from, how he came to be in his present situation. Anything but those stone-cold eyes—she knew them far too well.

  Johnny focused on his task. “There’s nothing of interest to tell, Judge.”

  Cutting through the underbrush, Johnny rode a dry riverbed through a canyon. The horse was winded, but he pushed the animal harder, up and down ravines, in and out of thickets. He turned up a steep incline. When they burst out of the brush, the sorrel’s head jerked up, and the animal shied nervously.

  Johnny found himself staring down the barrels of a half-dozen rifles.

  Crows cawed overhead. Heat bore down as the posse leisurely rode toward him, forming a circle, their rifles centered on the middle of his chest.

  “Throw down your gun,” the sheriff ordered. Johnny shifted in the saddle. “Look. I know how this seems—”

  “Throw it down, boy!”

  Johnny’s hands were already in the air. He gingerly lifted the pistol from its holster and let it drop into the dirt.

  The sheriff swung off his horse and walked toward him. The man was big and stocky, and he had thirty pounds on Johnny. There was no way to take him, and even if there was, he couldn’t take on six men.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “Left saddlebag.”

  “Get off your horse.”

  Johnny dismounted and stood beside his horse, hands above his head.

  The sheriff rummaged through the bag. “Ain’t here. Where is it?”

  Johnny took a step toward the horse to search. A gun clicked.

  “Stay where you are, mister,” one of the men said. “I don’t relish dragging a corpse back to town.”

  Johnny lifted his hands higher. “I don’t relish that either.”

  The sheriff wasn’t amused. “Where’s the money?”

  “I put the bag in my saddle pouch.”

  “Ain’t no money here.” The leather saddlebag landed at Johnny’s feet.

  He grabbed it and shook it upside down. His heart sank as the contents spilled to the ground. The bank pouch wasn’t there. He studied the men. Not an eye blinked as they stonily returned his look.

  “I must have lost it on the trail.”

  Heads swiveled to stare back at the way they’d come.

  Straightening his shoulders, the sheriff leveled the barrel of his rifle at Johnny. “Get back on your horse, son.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Judge McMann assembled a pile of red buttons as the mantle clock ticked. “I find it hard to believe that you’d have nothing to tell. Every man has something interesting to speak about. How did you come to be involved in a bank robbery?”

  “I didn’t.” Another button hit the pile. “I’m innocent of the crime.”

  “So you’ve said.” The judge continued sorting. “Well, there must be something you’d like to tell us about yourself. How do you feel about God?”

  Johnny shook his head. “If you’re asking if I believe in God, yes. If you’re asking if we’re on friendly terms, no.”

  Drawing on his pipe, the judge nodded. “I understand. There have been a few times I’ve been a little put out with God, but eventually he brought me around to seeing things his way. What about family? You have parents, don’t you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Family? Brothers? Sisters?”

  “No. No brothers or sisters. No parents.”

  Johnny’s tone was guarded now, evasive. The judge had struck a nerve. What was he hiding? He didn’t just materialize out of thin air. Was he being stubborn? Was he ashamed of his behavior and trying to protect his parents’ identity? Ragan studied the prisoner’s dark good looks as she dumped flour into a bowl. At least he wasn’t a heathen, yet what set a man like him on the path of self-destruction? He made it plain that he was a loner, a man with a chip on his shoulder, daring her or anyone else to befriend him. She gasped as the flour spilled over.

  “Been on your own for some time, huh?”

  “A long time, Judge.”

  Ragan swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Vulnerability in his voice was the last thing she’d expected to hear. He’s a criminal, she reminded herself, shoving sentimentality aside.

  He was as uncaring as the men who terrorized Barren Flats. She detested them all for the misery they caused innocent people, and Johnny McAllister was no better than any of them. At least that’s what the law said. If Judge Leonard hadn’t shown this particular hoodlum leniency, he would have hanged by now.

  Judge McMann changed the subject. “You attended the meeting yesterday, John. Think hiring Mercer is a smart move?”

  Annoyance flooded Ragan. The town didn’t need a shootist. What they needed was less talk and more action on their part.

  “Well?” The judge prompted when Johnny didn’t answer.

  “Perhaps Mr. McAllister doesn’t care to offer his advice.” Ragan set a stack of plates on the table. The prisoner had made that clear when Procky broached the subject earlier.

  Judge McMann glanced up. “Is that true, Mr. McAllister? I don’t want to bother you. I just thought that now you’d had a spell to think about the problem, you might have advice that might help some fellow or someone on down the line. You know, ‘Do unto others.’ ”

  Johnny reached for another button. “Clean out of advice, Judge.”

  The older man cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “I understand the circumstances of your involvement in the bank robbery are questionable.”

  Silence dominated the room. Then, “I told you. I’m innocent. I didn’t commit that robbery.”

  Judge McMann glanced at Ragan and continued. “You can be honest with us. We’re all in this situation together, and you might as well reconcile yourself to the fact that you’re going to be here a while, sure as the sun comes up in the east. Now, Ragan and I, we’re bound to this project by endless hours of research and writing. I must say, I still harbor the hope that the program will work and will be of benefit to future generations. I’d say you’d better lower your guard and make the most of your situation.”

  It was as close to a lecture as Ragan had ever heard from Procky.

  The judge leaned forward and patted Kitty. “Isn’t that what you’d say, old girl?”

  Kitty merely rubbed against McAllister’s leg. Her wound was barely discernible now. Back and forth she moved, gracefully arching her back and purring loudly. Johnny moved his foot to the side. The cat followed, rubbing against his boot.

  He met the judge’s gaze evenly. “Judge Leonard has my grandfather’s pistol. I intend to get that pistol back.”

  “And you will, as long as you serve your sentence with no trouble. Break your word, and the matter is out of my hands. We’re not going to ride shotgun on you. You have access to tools of destruction—such as the ax for chopping wood. What you choose to do is your responsibility. The idea of the program is to allow a convicted man to prove his say. Have you
had your say, Mr. McAllister?”

  Johnny reached for another shirt. “I won’t give you any trouble.” He gave the cat a slight nudge with his boot. She moved back to sit beside the judge.

  “I’m glad to hear it. We should get along fine.” Judge McMann wheeled his chair from the table. Patting his knee, he invited Kitty to join him. She leaped gracefully to his lap, and he chuckled when her nose nudged his ruddy cheek. “Yes, old girl, I love you too.”

  His eyes met Johnny’s look over the cat’s head.

  Ragan reached for the shirt, taking it out of his hand. “I’ll finish the mending. There’s another pile of wood to be split.”

  Johnny was on his feet before she completed the sentence. The judge reached to steady the table.

  “Supper’s in a half hour,” Ragan called as he disappeared out the screen door. She slid a pan of cornbread into the oven, avoiding the judge’s gaze. “I believe he’d rather do men’s work than sew on buttons.”

  Judge chuckled. “That’s the impression I get.”

  “I’m not sure about the wisdom of handing an ax to a prisoner.”

  “In some cases I’d say no, but I don’t believe McAllister’s a threat.

  I’m surprised you’ve kept him inside as much as you have.”

  She brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “He’s just not responding. He has a chip on his shoulder and refuses to warm to anyone.”

  “Now, missy.” She always knew the judge disagreed with her when he called her “missy.” “All of our guests have begun their time with a chip on their shoulders. That’s a part of the process. Our success is measured by the wearing down of that chip. Sometimes it wears away fast, but others…well, others have to be whittled away a little at a time. It depends, to a degree, on how the chip was formed in the first place. Did it come a little at a time through years of abuse, or did it fall across his shoulders like a tree felled in the forest?”

  He pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket. “I think there’s more to John McAllister than meets the eye. There’s something about this man…” He smoothed the paper and pushed it toward Ragan. “Here’s the message I received from Robert this morning. He contends his suspicions at the time of the trial were strongly in favor of Johnny’s innocence. There’s no concrete proof that McAllister is a member of the Puet gang. None at all.”

  Ragan stood at the window and watched the mystifying man chop wood. Powerful muscles played across his back as he swung the ax with a vengeance. She sighed. Whoever he was, he didn’t intend to let anyone—most of all her—near him.

  “Come away from the window, Ragan. We need to work on the book.”

  Heat seared her cheeks as she quickly turned away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After supper Ragan packed a large crock of mashed potatoes and a pot roast into a basket and closed the lid. She handed a bowl of green beans to Johnny and picked up the basket before she stepped to the parlor doorway. “Goodnight, Procky. Mr. McAllister is helping me carry food home tonight. He won’t be gone long.”

  The judge waved back from his spot in front of the window where he was reading. “See you in the morning.”

  She held the screen open for Johnny. Carrying the bowl of green beans, he preceded her to the porch. The judge’s earlier words rang in her head. He didn’t believe McAllister was a violent man, but they didn’t know that for certain. And here she’d just asked that he accompany her home. The Lord surely must watch over fools.

  “Let me carry the basket. You carry the beans.”

  “Thank you, but it’s not that heavy. Be careful, Mr. McAllister. The beans are still hot.”

  As they reached the gate the sound of galloping horses caught their attention. Riders came into sight. Banditos, holding liquor bottles in the air, shouted drunken obscenities and spurred their mounts faster, heading straight for the house.

  Grabbing Ragan’s hand, Johnny pulled her the few steps back and dove for the porch floor, shielding her body with his. Her heart slammed against her ribs as he curled around her, putting himself between her and the riders.

  Glass shattered, and green beans spilled down the wooden steps. The judge’s petunia patch exploded in a barrage of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off rooftops, accompanied by derisive shouts and ribald laughter.

  Together Johnny and Ragan scrambled under the porch swing, ducking as gunfire riddled the house.

  “Keep down,” he warned, crawling on his belly across the painted wood toward the screen door. “Judge?” he shouted.

  Judge McMann’s muffled voice came back. “I’m all right. Kitty and I are in the hall closet.”

  The riders fired into the air, their horses toppling a section of picket fence. Weaving back and forth, they shot out windows, and bullets pinged against the weather vane on top of the judge’s house.

  Trampling the lawn, they fired aimlessly, their merriment filling the once peaceful early evening.

  Then, as quickly as they appeared, they galloped off. Johnny crawled from behind a wicker settee and helped Ragan to her feet. Green beans and bits of purple and white petunias littered the porch floor.

  Ragan surveyed the damage, outraged. “The hoodlums!”

  She was about to thank Johnny for protecting her when she noticed how his dark eyes followed the riders’ trail of disappearing dust. She frowned when she saw his features harden.

  “Mr. McAllister?”

  His eyes remained on the fading riders.

  “There…is there something you’d like to say?” Perhaps now that he’d almost been killed, he would drop his guard and offer a solution to this horrendous problem.

  His gaze went to the littered porch floor. “Green beans are getting cold.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shaken to the core, Ragan checked on the judge a second time and refilled the bowl with beans before they set off again. The evening was calm, the sinking sun a fiery glow in the west. Rattled though she was, Ragan tried to relax.

  “I meant to put salve on your hands,” she apologized as they walked to the Ramsey homestead. “Those pricked fingers will be sore by morning.” She bit back a grin. Needles could be painful when used incorrectly.

  “I don’t need any salve.”

  “Too girley, huh?”

  “I don’t use salve.”

  She glanced at him impatiently. He never thought he needed anything, much less attention. He was being obstinate again and for no reason. If he didn’t need salve for the nicks, then why had he flinched every time she passed him a bowl during supper? You’d think a man could accept a little concern without feeling threatened.

  “How long have the raids been going on?”

  Ragan was so surprised he’d initiated a conversation that it took her a moment to organize her thoughts. “Um…years. They had lessened for a while, but all of a sudden they’re back in full force.”

  “And the reason the town does nothing to stop it is?”

  “Not enough able-bodied men to fight them off.” Ragan shook her head. “We’ve tried, but there are too many different gangs and the men fear that if they’re shot their families will have no one to look after them. Folks have simply lost the will to fight. We’re all terrified they’ll burn the town down. Most of us have to live and work here. We can’t afford to lose everything.”

  “A shootist isn’t going to solve your problem.”

  She glanced at him. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “It’s not my place to have an idea.”

  “Saying a shootist isn’t going to help is having an opinion.”

  “Having an opinion is not the same as having an answer.”

  Conversation ceased, and they walked in silence until they turned the bend in the lane leading to the Ramsey place.

  “What you said about having no family—is that true?” The smell of honeysuckle hung sweet along the path in the fading twilight.

  He was quiet for so long she wondered if he would answer. Finally, he said, “Does it ma
tter? I’m the one serving time, not my family.”

  “No, it doesn’t matter. I just wondered who you are. Family’s important to me. Is your family here in California?”

  “You could say that.”

  She could say that and still know nothing about him, and it wasn’t likely she ever would. Still, she knew she had no right to pry. Even a man serving time was entitled to his privacy.

  “Papa pastored the church here in town until a couple of years ago.” He didn’t respond, but she went on anyway. “The gangs burned his church, and then our house and barns. We were able to build the house back, but they just torched it again. Then my brother died, and after seeing everything go up in smoke a third time, Papa broke. He just couldn’t take any more.”

  She didn’t know why she was telling him about her problems. He clearly wasn’t interested, but talking made her feel better. She didn’t need him to say a word, just listen. Once again, the town had chipped in and built the house back, only smaller this time.

  “Mama died ten years ago, so with Jacob gone, it’s just me and my sisters. The money I earn working for the judge isn’t much, but it’s enough to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs. Holly and Jo take in sewing, and I put up a large garden every year. We get by.”

  “The town’s foolish to waste money on a shootist.”

  She turned to look at him. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “We have to do something.”

  A young man on horseback stopped at the end of the lane and waved at Ragan.

  She returned the greeting. “Everett Pidgin,” she said under her breath. She realized she made the name sound like a curse. Thank goodness he headed on and didn’t approach to talk as he usually did.

  Johnny glanced in Everett’s direction, but he didn’t offer a response. They turned at the fork and proceeded up the rutted path leading to the Ramsey house. The lid on the green bean bowl rattled as they covered the uneven ground.

  “Everett lives on a farm south of the dynamite shack.” She gestured toward the direction in which the young man was headed. “Papa owns the town’s only deep well. Folks pay us what they can afford for water, but mostly they catch the rains when they come. You’ve seen the dynamite shack out near Muriel Davidson’s place?”