Outlaw's Bride

by Lori Copeland

  “A group of young men who keep the thugs out of Brown Branch, that’s who.”

  “How hard is that? Brown Branch is thirty miles from the border.”

  “Never you mind, Carl Rayles.” Minnie gave her husband a warning look. “It would be money well spent, I say.”

  Carl glanced at Ragan on his way out. “We’d better hope those boys, whoever they are, weigh three hundred pounds each and eat glass. Otherwise, she’ll order them back on their horses and send them packing.”

  Ragan bent her head to her work, covering a smile.

  Minnie didn’t appear to be affected by Carl’s lack of vision. She sat back down in her chair. “My, I don’t know how you and the judge do it. Writing that book, taking in those desperadoes.”

  “Johnny isn’t a desperado.” The denial was out before Ragan knew it. She hadn’t decided what he was, but she sensed that below that embittered exterior was a decent man.

  One who was badly in need of love, whether he knew it or not.

  “Why, Ragan Ramsey.” Mazilea’s needle paused. “You sound as if you’re actually attracted to this fellow.”

  “Me?” Ragan’s face flamed and she jumped when she jabbed her finger with the needle. “Don’t be silly, Mazilea. I would never be attracted to one of the judge’s subjects. What a thing to say.” She jumped as she accidentally jabbed her finger again.

  A series of quizzical looks passed among the ladies.

  Noting the exchange, Ragan laid her needlework aside, feeling quite flushed. “Plain silly, Mazilea, and you know it. Anyone else care for lemonade?”

  The sun hung low in the west as Ragan and Johnny started home. Ragan had never seen the church looking better. A couple of more days, and the painting would be done.

  “You did a wonderful job on the building. I’m surprised more didn’t show up to work today.”

  She glanced at Johnny curiously. He kept tilting his head as if trying to clear his ears. Usually when she talked, he at least looked at her. Tonight he periodically thumped his head, staring straight ahead as if he were deaf.

  “Carl said to tell you he’d be available in the morning to paint the inside, if you’re willing to help again.”

  Johnny turned to look at her. “Milk?”

  “Help.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t in years, but I suppose I can.”

  She shook her head to clear her own ears. “I noticed Everett stopped by. Did he paint?”

  When he didn’t respond, she tried again. “I had a lovely day. Minnie made a delicious lunch. She had fresh poke from the garden and pork roast.”

  He glanced at her quizzically.

  “Poke. And pork roast.”

  “Toast?”

  “Roast.”

  “Poke toast?”

  “Poke toast? I’ve never heard of such a thing. She served poke and pork roast! What’s wrong with your ears?”

  He frowned. “Why would she cry about toast? Did she burn it?”

  Ragan stopped and faced him, pointing to her ears. “Is something wrong with your ears?”

  His face closed. “No.”

  They walked on in silence, their boots kicking up bits of dust. Grasshoppers jumped back and forth on the road. The sun sank lower, bathing the sky in shades of pink and red.

  “Did you hear that loud gunshot earlier this afternoon? We all dove for cover, but apparently the outlaw rode right through town and never stopped.”

  He continued walking as if he hadn’t heard what she said, let alone a loud gunshot.

  “Johnny?”

  When he didn’t answer, she repeated louder, “Hey!”

  His head snapped around. “What?”

  This was exasperating! Carrying on a conversation with him was like talking to a fence post. Staring straight ahead, she walked faster. “Minnie thinks we should hire the boys from Brown Branch to get rid of the gangs. She says there are no raids in Brown Branch. The people won’t allow it.”

  “It’s going to take more than a branch to scare them off.”

  She paused, staring at him. Were they having the same conversation? “Minnie says the town doesn’t have any raids because they have fearless young men in Brown Branch who deal with the problem.”

  He stopped, his hands coming to his hips in exasperation. “Sideshow freaks? How does being earless qualify a man to clean up a town?”

  “I didn’t say earless young men—for heaven’s sake, what is wrong with your hearing?”

  “Nothing.” He passed her and walked on ahead.

  Fine, just ignore her! Stooping over, she picked up a dirt clod and hurled it at him. It splattered at his feet.

  Stiffening, he slowly turned around to meet her sheepish gaze.

  “Acting like a child, Ragan?”

  The sound of her given name startled her. He always called her Miss Ramsey. She hung her head, ashamed of herself. Usually not much could rile her, but he sure could. She straightened her hat brim.

  His features sobered. “You really want my opinion on this whole mess?”

  Meeting his gaze evenly, she said, “Yes.”

  “The town is trying to get someone else to solve its problems.”

  She started to protest, and then she pursed her lips as he continued.

  “The people here need to take the situation in hand, stop acting like frightened children, and take care of the trouble themselves.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? The gangs shoot our stock and take anything that isn’t nailed down. They—”

  He leveled his finger at her. “If this town doesn’t have the gumption to stand up for itself, no one else will.” Turning, he walked on.

  She watched his retreating back, seething. He had no right to criticize. The town had tried to stop the gangs, and their efforts resulted in nothing but more trouble. While he was offering his sterling opinion, why didn’t he explain exactly how to stand up? What more could they do than what they’d already done?

  She blinked as he bent over and picked up a dirt clod, turned, took aim, and lobbed it back at her. She hopped backward as dirt splattered near the hem of her skirt.

  “It’s getting dark, Miss Ramsey! The judge’s supper is two, that’s two, hours overdue.”

  “Stew?” she mimicked. “I hate stew.”

  He acted as if he didn’t hear and walked on.

  Swiping the dirt off her dress, she trailed him toward the judge’s house. Tonight she was going to write a whole chapter on arrogant men who refused to cooperate. Deaf arrogant men who refused to cooperate.

  “And there is something wrong with your hearing!” she shouted at his disappearing back. You’d think the gunshot that afternoon had gone off in his ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ragan was snapping beans when Johnny came in the back door Saturday afternoon. She smiled, one of those womanly acknowledgments that affected him deep in his gut. No wonder Everett was in love with her. When she turned those innocent eyes on any man who was a man, it was all he could do to keep his mind on business.

  “Finished at the church so soon?”

  It seemed to be an effort for her to speak. Was she feeling poorly today? Walking to the washstand, he poured water into the ceramic bowl, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  “The handrail is fixed. I repaired the bottom step while I was at it.”

  “Roberta will thank you. She’s complained about that loose step for months. Her arthritis makes it a real chore for her to climb up or down.” She sighed. “And Sheriff and Haleen have stayed home because they’re afraid of falling.”

  “Well, their worries are over. The step’s solid as a new stump.” He reached for a bar of soap to lather up. The pleasant scent of lye and sun-dried towels reminded him of his mother.

  “Supper will be a little late.” Ragan sighed again. “I thought it best to finish the beans before we ate.”

  Nodding, he was about to leave her to her work, when he noticed her red eyes and nose. It was obv
ious that she had been crying. She fumbled for her handkerchief, touching it lightly to her eyes.

  Leave now, McAllister, before you wade into something that doesn’t concern you. He made it to the doorway before her voice stopped him.

  “Mr. McAllister?” Her tone had that helpless inflection that usually—no, always—meant trouble.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind helping me finish these beans?”

  He’d mind. Snapping beans was right beneath peeling potatoes, which was right behind mending on the list of his least favorite chores. And he sure didn’t want to get involved in whatever had her sniffing and red-eyed.

  She briefly touched the corner of her eyes with the hanky again. “The canning took longer than I expected, and the judge will be up from his nap any moment now.” She lifted her eyes and gave him a wan smile. “You know how Procky is when his meal is late.” She met his uncertain frown. “Do you mind?”

  Pulling out a chair, he sat down at the table. A sizable pile of beans immediately appeared in front of him.

  “Is there a proper way to do this?” Anything like the complicated instructions he’d received on button sewing?

  “Pinch the ends off, remove the strings, and snap the bean in two—unless, of course, it’s a long bean. Then snap it in three pieces.”

  He picked up a bean and looked at it. He turned it end over end. Was this a long one or a short one? “How long is a long one?”

  “About this long.” She spread her thumb and forefinger to the proper size.

  He hadn’t known there was a proper way to snap beans.

  They worked a few minutes in silence. An occasional furtive glance in her direction assured him she was weeping, all right. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t want to know why, because he couldn’t do a thing about whatever had her upset. He was becoming too attuned to her moods as it was. Before long, they’d be rocking on the front porch together. The reason he was stuck in this godforsaken town in the first place was because he’d stuck his nose in somebody else’s business.

  But when her sniffling grew more pronounced, he sighed in resignation, crossed his arms, and asked gruffly, “What are you crying about?”

  She glanced up, seemingly surprised that he noticed. “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s been a trying day.”

  He reached for another bean, snapped it, and pitched it into the pan. Trying, was it? She didn’t know the meaning of the word. She ought to try teaching Everett to shoot. One shot and his ears were still ringing. “Is the judge ill?”

  “No, not Procky. It’s my father.”

  Definitely a subject to avoid. Fathers meant family, and family meant feelings he didn’t want to be reminded of.

  He sighed again. “What about your father?” He scooped up a pile of strings and discarded them, mentally groaning when she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  Never ask a weeping lady why she’s crying.

  She sobbed into her hanky, her slender shoulders heaving with grief. His first instinct was to abandon the beans and allow her privacy. It sure wasn’t his place to comfort her, even if for some insane reason he wanted to.

  But her soft, pitiful mewlings, so like Kitty’s when she wanted something, tore at his gut.

  Getting up from his chair, he wet the end of a towel and carried it back to the table. Awkwardly removing her handkerchief, he pressed the damp cloth into her hands.

  “Dry your tears,” he said softly. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

  She held the cool cloth to her eyes.

  Squatting beside her chair, he met her teary gaze. “Look. I’m not very good with these things, but if you want to talk, I’m a decent listener.”

  Wiping her tears, she said, “Mama passed away on this date. Papa and I take flowers to her grave every year.” She sniffed. “This morning, when I mentioned going, Papa didn’t even know who I was talking about.”

  She dabbed at the moisture filling her eyes. “I don’t know why it still bothers me so. Papa’s been getting worse for months now. It isn’t as if I just woke up today and realized he would never be back.” Her chin quivered. “He’s here, but he’s not the old Papa…my strong, proud Papa.”

  His eyes softened, and he took her into his arms, where she sobbed softly against his shoulder.

  “Would you stop that? It makes me want to kiss you, and I’m in no mood to have my face slapped.”

  She hiccupped, laughing and crying at the same time. Then she smiled at him. “Are you asking permission?”

  Was he? Oh, he wanted to kiss her, wanted to almost as bad as he wanted to find Bledso, but he wouldn’t.

  “I think we’d better solve your problem first.”

  He brushed a lock of her hair into place. She looked prettier than any woman ought to look with a red nose and teary eyes. “So,” he asked softly, “what makes today particularly difficult?”

  “It just seems another part of Papa is gone. I have to admit to myself that both Mama and Papa are gone now.”

  Removing the towel from her hand, he got up and wet it again. She accepted the cool cloth with a sigh.

  “Is your mother’s grave around here?”

  “No, Papa wanted her buried next to her parents. The family plot is in Searcy County. Jacob’s there too. It’s almost a two-hour ride from here.”

  Two hours? Well, it could be worse. She could need to go to San Francisco. She glanced at him.

  He averted his eyes and sat down and concentrated on the beans. He separated strings from the pods. Measured the two halves of the bean. Dropped one in the pot. Then the other. He looked back at her.

  The silence lengthened.

  Finally, he drew a deep breath. “A two-hour ride isn’t that far. It’s still early, and the days are long.”

  She bent her head. “No, not that far. But Procky doesn’t like me to go alone—not with so much trouble going on.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “I know.”

  Only the occasional snap of a bean and a discreet sniffle broke the silence.

  “I’d take you, but I don’t have a gun.” It was a sore spot with him. A gun was a man’s only protection.

  “Having a gun isn’t a problem. There’s an old mining road that hardly anyone uses anymore. Papa and I travel it so we won’t meet up with the gangs.”

  The prospect of traveling without a gun worried him. A man could run into all kinds of trouble along the way. Wild animals, robbers, no telling what he might encounter. He didn’t like being without protection.

  He could ask Everett to come along, but somehow he didn’t think Ragan would want that. It didn’t appeal to him much either. Throwing a bean in the pot, he made an offer he was sure he would regret. “If you want to go, I’ll take you.”

  Hope sprang to her eyes. “Would you do that? Really?”

  It wouldn’t be his first choice, but her tears touched something inside him, something he thought he’d buried a good many years ago. The way she looked at him, all soft and needy, stirred his protective instincts, even though he fought it. The grateful look she gave him troubled him even more.

  The last thing he or Ragan needed was to involve themselves in each other’s lives. He would be dead or behind bars once he found Bledso. She had her whole life ahead of her, and he doubted that her faith would ever allow her to fall in love with a criminal. She was strong in her beliefs. She didn’t preach, but she lived her trust. He envied her.

  “I’ll take you,” he heard himself saying. “I’ll hitch a wagon.”

  The smile that lit her face more than assuaged his doubts. A fourhour ride wasn’t much—not considering the gratitude shining in her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Judith Ramsey’s grave lay in a small grove of scrub oak behind Frank and Lucy Daniel’s homestead. Her son, Jacob, was on the right. Johnny stopped the wagon and helped Ragan down.

  “Thank you. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time.
”

  He stepped to the shade and waited as she laid flowers on her grandparents’ graves, and then she moved to her mother’s mound to clear the weeds that had overtaken the simple wooden cross. Songbirds flittered in and out of the bushes. In the distance, a creek trickled peacefully along the edge of the property. The setting was so restful it was easy to see why Fulton wanted his wife and son laid to rest here.

  He studied Ragan’s expression as she tidied the site with loving devotion, and he thought of his own mother’s grave, abandoned now. No one was left to bring her flowers or clear away weeds. Grandpa was gone, and he hadn’t been home in years. If he ever made it back, he promised himself he would cover his parents’ graves with flowers. And the little girls’ too. He’d buy all the flowers they deserved.

  “I’m guessing you and your mother were close?”

  Ragan got to her feet and brushed the grass off her skirt. “I suppose we were. I was her firstborn, so I had to help out more than the other girls did.” She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. The air was close, as if it might storm, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “I didn’t mind, but sometimes I feel like I never had a childhood.”

  And not much of a life now. Johnny had heard the whispers around town, the well-meaning but careless remarks the women directed at her. Old maid? He found himself tensing when he heard the insinuations. Ragan outshone every woman in Barren Flats, and she should be applauded because she chose to accept responsibility for her father and younger siblings. Instead, the town hens reveled in discussing poor Ragan and her impossible situation.

  “What about you? Are you close to your mother?” She returned to pulling weeds around the other graves.

  Squatting on his haunches, he watched her work. “I don’t have any family.”

  She yanked a particularly stubborn yucca root. “Everyone has family at one time or another. You didn’t just appear on earth one day a full-grown man, did you?”

  “Could be.”

  She turned to look at him. He tried to stop the slow grin that threatened to reveal itself.

  “You most certainly did not appear from nowhere, so you have a mother.” Sitting back on her heels, she faced him.