Johnny mentally groaned when he saw the mayor’s wife wave at him. He didn’t have to appease Minnie Rayles by eating her pie; he was sentenced to monotony, not gluttony. He halfheartedly waved back before turning back to face Ragan. “Who said I didn’t like you?”
“You.” She sat down, setting the pie plate on his chest. She was still upset, but she never stayed mad long, just long enough to pin his ears back. A grin played at the corners of his mouth.
The smell of pecan pie drifted to him, and he sat up. He’d eat the pie. He didn’t want accusing female eyes on him all day.
“Exactly when did I say I didn’t like you?” He bit into the tender crust. How could a woman take flour and lard and nuts and come up with something that tasted so good?
“You haven’t ever specifically said it, but I know you don’t.” Ragan pushed a damp strand of wheat-colored hair out of her eyes. He forgot the pie.
Clearly she believed what she was saying, and why wouldn’t she? He’d given her a hard time from the moment he got here. He supposed he was blaming her for his troubles, troubles she had no part in.
She sighed, her tone softer now. “I don’t blame you for being resentful. I know what you’re going through is hard, but you should understand that what I’m doing isn’t personal, it’s the program. When I caution Jo to stay away from you, I’m only concerned about her welfare. Surely you’re aware it isn’t proper for a young woman her age to—”
“Associate with the likes of me?” He took another bite of pie. “So you keep reminding me.”
“I never said that,” she contended.
His features tightened. “Yes, you have.” She said it every day in her tone, in the way she looked at him, in the suspicion in her eyes when he caught her staring. She didn’t have to say it. Her opinion of him came through loud and clear.
She shook her head. “When did I ever say such a hateful thing?”
He cut off another bite of pie. “You say it all the time without words.”
“Then I apologize. I don’t disapprove of you, Mr. McAllister. I disapprove of your ways, but I’m trying very hard to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s real big of you.” It puzzled him why her respect mattered, but it did. These were good people, and he didn’t like them thinking he was a criminal. “If this is a dressing down, Miss Ramsey, I’m not getting the point. Be specific. What do you want me to do?”
“Try harder. You do what you’re told without complaint, but your heart isn’t in it.”
“You want me to like my circumstances? That will be a cold day in…”
“No,” she interrupted hastily. “I don’t expect you to like your punishment. I just want you to be more accepting of it. A year is a long time to carry a grudge against the judge and me. We’re trying to make your sentence go as smoothly—and briefly—as possible. It will make it easier for everyone if you cooperate.”
Polishing off the last of the pie, he settled back against the tree again and rested the empty plate on his chest. She was right. So why was he resisting? These people didn’t ask for him to be here, and they’d been decent to him from the start. Other than being kept busy and staying in Barren Flats for the confines of his sentence, he had a reasonable amount of freedom. A lot more than the grave offered.
“All right.” From now on he would attempt to make the best of the situation. And he would discourage Jo’s interest in him, even though her presence brought Lara back, if only for a few minutes.
She shot him a skeptical glance. “All right, what?”
“You’re right about me not liking you. You’re headstrong, bossy, and opinionated, and you get on my nerves like a new blister.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from her.
If possible, she got even prettier when she was angry. When her chin jutted upward, he added, “But you’re only doing your job. I suppose I could try harder to get along.”
To her credit, she took the character assassination in stride, only giving him a distant smile. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. At first I didn’t like you either. Your annoying refusal to get involved here makes me want to slap you silly.” Color rose to her cheeks, and she took a deep breath. “But you don’t seem to be the violent sort, and you can be almost nice when you set your mind to it.” Their eyes met, and he couldn’t quite swallow his grin.
To her credit, she took the character assassination in stride, only giving him a distant smile. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. At first I didn’t like you either. Your annoying refusal to get involved here makes me want to slap you silly.” Color rose to her cheeks, and she took a deep breath. “But you don’t seem to be the violent sort, and you can be almost nice when you set your mind to it.” Their eyes met, and he couldn’t quite swallow his grin.
She hurriedly added, “The judge likes you. You must know that.”
“And that burns you.”
“No, but I think it could pose a problem. Procky misses his son terribly. Blake lives in Denver, and I’m afraid he doesn’t get home often.”
“You’re afraid the judge will start to think of me as Blake.”
She opened her mouth to reply and then closed it. Well, at least she knew when to stop. She looked thankful that he let it pass. He wasn’t blind; he knew the judge was lonely. Who wasn’t?
“Set your pretty head to rest, Miss Ramsey.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll make sure Judge McMann doesn’t confuse me for his son.”
“Thank you.” The relief in her voice was so blatant that it rubbed him the wrong way.
“And don’t you forget on occasion that I’m a criminal, a vile man.”
She gasped, but immediately she said snippily, “See. You’re not even trying.”
He wickedly grinned as she watched the activity going on around her. The silence stretched. He reached and pulled his hat over his face to shade the sun. “You ever get a good look at the gangs who ride through here?”
“Not often. We’re usually in the hall closet or under a table. Why?”
“Ever hear of Dirk Bledso?” The outlaw was notorious. If he and his murdering brothers had ever ridden through Barren Flats, someone would have noticed.
“It sounds familiar, but there are so many who ride through.” Ragan settled herself against the tree trunk, her brow creased in concentration. “Dirk Bledso. Isn’t he also known as the Viper?”
“That’s the one.”
“I do recall a wanted poster bearing that name. He rides with his brothers, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. How long ago did you see the poster?”
“Three—maybe four years. I remember because Papa and I talked about how vile the brothers looked.”
“Vile” didn’t begin to cover it.
Raylene Plummer fastened the ties of her apron and called to Ragan. “We could use your help, dear!”
Ragan sighed softly as though reluctant to leave.
“Thanks for the pie,” he murmured. He listened for the rustle of her skirt as Ragan stood. A moment later he felt her fingers brush against his chest as she picked up his empty plate and fork.
Tilting his hat back slightly, Johnny studied her swaying skirts as she walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
A few days later, the hot summer morning was charged with excitement as townsfolk milled around the stage station, ears tuned to the north. Children balanced on the boardwalk railing and scampered back and forth across the road under the watchful eyes of their parents.
Voices hummed as the clock hands inched past two o’clock. Of all days, the stage was late.
The town band warmed up on a carefully erected platform covered in blue-and-white bunting. Their instruments clogged the air with disjoined harmony. Decked out in his Sunday best, Mayor Rayles paced in front of the dais, lips silently moving as he rehearsed his speech. In his left front pocket a town proclamation awaited the notorious gunslinger, Lars Mercer.
Lowell Homer stepped out of the mercantile, patting his ample stoma
ch. “Fine day, Mayor.”
“Couldn’t be better!” Carl Rayles indicated the elderly man by his side. “Sheriff Lutz is looking forward to this more than anybody. Right, Alvin?”
The sheriff looked blank. “Eh?”
“You’re looking forward to gettin’ rid of the gangs!”
Alvin nodded. “Yep. If Mercer cleans up the town, maybe I can get some rest.” He tapped the badge on his shirt.
“Maybe,” Lowell agreed. “Nervous?” he asked the mayor.
“Me?” Mayor Rayles laughed. “Looking forward to the excitement. How about you, Shorty?”
“Can’t wait.” Shorty Lynch stepped out of the store with Mazilea and locked up. “Coming to the picnic afterward, Carl?”
“Wouldn’t miss it! I imagine our guest of honor has many a fascinatin’ story to tell.”
“Stage is comin’!”
A shout went up, and the band struck up a spirited rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Folks craned their necks to see Mercer roll into town. Long minutes passed before they realized the speck of dust they thought was the stage was actually Austin and Raylene Plummer, with their sons, coming to greet the stage. The music died away, and the townsfolk resumed chatting.
“How we gonna know it’s him?” Florence Banks asked. “Nobody’s ever actually seen this Mercer.”
“No one has to see him. We’ll know,” Hubie assured his wife. “Can’t miss a legend like Mercer.”
“Anyone know what he looks like?” someone else called out.
No one did.
“He’s mean.”
“Mean, and so fast on the draw not a single man’s ever lived to tell about meeting him.”
“That’s why no one knows what he looks like,” a voice declared.
The hum rose and fell as anticipation mounted. The suspense was murder, but it wouldn’t be long now.
Austin Plummer walked up to join the conversation. “Has to be a big guy. Swede, I’ll bet.”
“No doubt. Big man for a big job.”
“Wonder if Mercer wears an eye patch? Seems I read somewhere he does.”
“Probably. He’s in a risky business. Could lose an eye real easy.”
It was generally agreed the shootist was big, mean, fast, of Swedish descent, and probably missing an eye.
The town had put their money to good use.
“I see the stage!”
The band started up, and heads turned. Tubas and horns filled the air with patriotic tunes. Dogs barked, and babies, startled by all the noise, squalled at their mothers’ bosoms. It was minutes before someone realized this was another false alarm. This time, a hay-laden wagon driven by a citizen of nearby Brown Branch was passing through.
The tubas died off, followed by the trombones and cymbals. Eyes returned to the north end of town.
“I’m nervous,” Lillian Hubbard said as she tightened little Trish’s hair ribbon.
Haleen Lutz fanned herself with a hanky, her matronly features flushed from the heat. Tiny beads of perspiration lay on her forehead. “Well, I’d like to have Mr. Mercer to supper, but I surely do hope he doesn’t plan to stay long. We don’t need his likes on a regular basis. Got enough riffraff the way it is. Don’t you agree, Alvin?” She tugged her husband’s sleeve, raised her voice, and spoke directly into his ear. “I said Mercer needs to move on when he’s through here. Don’t you agree?”
The sheriff checked his watch fob. “Stop frettin’, Haleen. You don’t have to yell. It won’t take Mercer long to do his job. He’s got a reputation to uphold.”
Minnie Rayles frowned. “Carl’ll make sure he leaves the moment the job is done. I’ll have him for pot roast and maybe one of my lemon pies, but I agree with you, Haleen. He cannot be hanging around afterward.”
The mayor’s features tightened. “Don’t start naggin’, Minnie. A man don’t just clean up a town, eat post roast and lemon pie, and leave overnight. Ya gotta give Mercer enough time to do what he’s gotta do.”
“Thou shalt not kill—”
“An eye for an eye, Minnie. I read my Bible too.”
“Nonetheless, Carl. Mercer must not be allowed to remain in Barren Flats one moment longer than necessary.”
The mayor ground his teeth into his cigar. “Yes, Buttercup.”
The excitement was contagious. The town’s troubles were over, no doubt about that! Best money they had ever spent.
“He’s going to kill the gangs, kill the gangs, kill the gangs,” young Mary Hubbard sang, and her sister, Trish, immediately picked up the chant. The two girls held hands and hopped from one foot to the other. Pigtails flew as they twirled in a circle, forcing others to sidestep them. “Kill the gangs, kill the gangs!”
“Trish! Mary! Who’s been filling your minds with such thoughts?” Ragan asked. “We must stop the gangs from destroying property and possibly killing one of us.” She shaded her eyes, peering down the road.
Judge McMann, Johnny, and the Ramsey family were all gathered to welcome the shootist. Ragan dabbed at the trickle of perspiration on her forehead.
Mary paused, hands on slender hips, eyes narrowed with challenge. “If he’s not gonna kill anyone, how come he’s called a ‘shoots it’?”
Ragan bit back a smile. She glanced at Johnny and blushed when he grinned and murmured, “Why indeed?”
“Shootist, Mary, shootist,” Ragan said. “It doesn’t mean—oh, look! Is that the stage I see?” Eyes shifted northward again and focused on a coach dragging a cloud of dust as it approached.
A cheer went up as word spread that the legend was, for sure this time, about to arrive.
Ragan pulled Holly aside. “Watch Papa closely this afternoon. With all the excitement, he’s likely to wander off.”
“Ragan! Yoo-hoo!”
Ragan clamped her eyes shut, and then she reopened them to see Everett coming toward her. She spared him a brief glance before cupping her hand to her eyes and expectantly peering down the road.
Becca poked Johnny, giggling. “Everett loves Ragan.” “Rebecca!” Ragan shot her youngest sister a stern look.
“It’s true!”
Ragan glared, but Becca only reiterated, “Well, he does.”
“Everett.” Ragan smiled as the tall, painfully thin telegraph clerk approached. “You’ve met Mr. McAllister?”
Everett eyed Johnny, and then he looked back at Ragan. “I’ve seen him around.” He reached out and touched Fulton’s shoulder. “Afternoon, sir. It’s good to see you out and about.”
Reverend Ramsey seemed confused, as if he had just awakened and realized there were people around him. He focused on Johnny, a smile breaking across his features. “Why—who’s this fine young man?” He frowned. “Ahh, of course…the new schoolmaster. Looks as though we have a good one this time. I’ve brought the children to meet you. Say hello, children.”
Fulton Ramsey’s daughters exchanged embarrassed looks before murmuring obedient hellos.
Sliding her arm protectively around her father’s shoulders, Ragan said, “Papa, this isn’t the new schoolmaster. It’s Johnny McAllister. Remember? He’s staying with Procky.”
“Oh, yes.” Fulton smiled pleasantly, extending his hand. “You’ll be good for Paradise,” he told Johnny. “An education is extremely important for our young people. They can’t read the Good Book if they don’t have an education.”
Everett edged closer to the small circle. “Ragan, you look mighty fetching today.”
“Thank you, Everett.” Ragan quickly changed the subject. “We’ll be meeting Mercer any moment now. Isn’t it exciting?”
“I intend to learn to shoot a gun more accurately.” His eyes darted to Johnny and then to the stage finally pulling to a halt in front of the mercantile. “Very soon, actually. Just have to find the spare time.”
Judge McMann had to shout to be heard over the band. “Better leave the shooting to the experts, son.”
Everett ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, damp from the bui
lding heat. “I can shoot, Judge! I just need more practice, that’s all.”
Four men piled from the top of the stage. A twitter went through the crowd, and all eyes were glued on the descending passengers. The young men turned out to be area boys, and excitement turned into a disappointed buzz. Not an eye patch in the bunch.
The Thompson sisters alighted from inside the coach, back from their aunt’s funeral in San Francisco. For a moment they looked startled at the gathering before they threaded their way through the crowd.
Eyes switched back to the open door. A small, innocuous-looking man stepped off the coach. He couldn’t be more than five foot four and a hundred ten pounds, with thinning brown hair. The new arrival paused, squinting over the rims of thick spectacles.
Then a young boy carrying a portmanteau tied with string hopped down. He scanned the crowd, brightening when he spotted his grand parents.
“There’s your grandson, Cap,” someone called.
Racing toward the older couple, the child embraced Sylvia Kincaid. The three then set off for a nearby wagon, oblivious to the townsfolk waiting for Mercer. Cap’s red hat bobbed in the crowd as he lugged the boy’s bag.
Eyes shifted back to the front of the coach. Ragan stood on tiptoes, searching the crowd.
Becca pressed closer. “Do you see him?”
“No. I don’t think he came.” A sick numbness ran through her.
Disappointment spread through the onlookers. The music died away.
“Didn’t come? We wired a deposit—he’d better come!”
“Maybe he missed the stage. Maybe he’s on the next one.”
Tempers flared to match the temperature.
“Of all things! The whole town’s out to welcome him, and he doesn’t show up. What does that say for his credibility?” Minnie Rayles blustered. “Carl? What’s going on here?”
“Don’t go gettin’ yourself worked up, Minnie. Give the man time.”
Johnny focused on the small-statured, bespectacled figure threading his way toward Alvin Lutz and Carl Rayles. Mercer? He’d read stories about the gunslinger, but none ever gave a description that he could recall. He watched the man exchange a few words with the sheriff. Shock registered on Alvin’s face. He stepped back, cupping his hand to his ear.
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