Then Fulton’s face sobered. “But he also expects his people to look after themselves.”
Johnny studied the older man. Ragan favored him in some ways. Same blue eyes, same shaped nose. Those eyes focused clearly on Johnny now, not clouded as they usually were. “Because I didn’t stand up to the gangs, my son was taken from me. You can’t let that happen. Give me your promise that you won’t let that happen again.”
“Mr. Ramsey—”
Fulton took Johnny by the arm, his eyes burning with conviction. “If I had stood up, the town would have followed me. If we had stopped the raids, Jacob would be alive.”
Johnny was relieved when he caught sight of Ragan crossing the lawn, balancing three pieces of watermelon in her hands. Concentrating on the melon, she called out, “Anyone still hungry?”
Her smile faded when she looked up and saw Johnny’s somber expression. She glanced at her father and then back at him. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Your father and I were talking.”
She frowned. “Talking?”
“Yes. Your father was talking about your brother.”
“Oh, Papa.” Ragan set the watermelon slices aside and leaned down to adjust the light throw draped across Fulton’s legs. “Do you want to go home now? Are you tired?”
Fulton rummaged in his pocket and came up with a wooden fish. He handed the treasure to her. “Two fishes and five loaves of bread were all that were needed to feed the multitude.”
“Come, I’ll—”
He flashed a smile, his eyes clear again. “No, daughter, I don’t want to go home. I’ll stay for the fireworks, thank you.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
I thought I might find you here.” The following Monday morning, Ragan set her bundles on the general store floor and knelt beside Johnny, who was loading nails into a sack. Their eyes met, and she drank in the sight of him. He looked so handsome this morning, his dark hair damp with rain. “Good morning.”
He checked to see if Mazilea was at the front of the store before leaning to steal a brief kiss. “I thought you had baking you wanted to do this morning.”
She pressed her forehead against his. “Bread’s cooling on the counter. It’s raining.”
He checked Mazilea’s whereabouts again, and then stole another kiss. “Did you come all the way over here to remind me that it’s raining?”
“Of course not. But that means you can’t work on the tower.”
He dropped the last nail into the sack and stood up. “Not until it lets up. Everett’s catching up on some work at the telegraph office, so I decided to come for supplies. Do you need something?”
She rose to face him. “You.” Slipping her arm into his, she led him toward the front door. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” Breezing by the register, she called, “Mazilea, put two dozen nails on Johnny’s account.”
The store’s owner was busy sacking cornmeal. She tied off a bag and set it on a shelf, waving an acknowledgment as they went out the door.
The couple stepped onto the porch, and Ragan popped open her umbrella. The sky was dark; the steady rain that had fallen since daybreak drummed on the tin roof. The drought was broken.
“What’s this about?” Johnny asked, ducking under the canvas awning.
Flashing an impish smile, she inclined her head toward the end of the street. “Follow me!”
They darted down the steps and across the street, sidestepping mud puddles. They were halfway down Main when the sky opened and rain fell in torrents. Racing up the porch steps, Ragan flung open the door, propped the dripping umbrella on its handle, and dashed into the foyer.
Johnny, close on her heels, closed the door behind him. They stood in the hallway, dripping on the polished oak floor.
“I’ll clean that up later.” Ragan impatiently grabbed his hand and proceeded up the stairway, dragging him behind her.
The noise prompted the judge to wheel his chair to the parlor doorway. “That you, Ragan?”
She stopped midway and turned to lean over the railing. “It’s me, Procky. I have something to show Johnny in the attic.”
“In the attic?”
“I’ll leave the door open!” she called.
Frowning, the judge patted Kitty, who was stretched lengthwise on his lap. “Can’t imagine where she gets all her energy,” he said to the cat. Shaking his head, he returned to his journals.
Johnny and Ragan exchanged conspiratorial glances, and she continued up the stairs.
Rain pattered off the eaves of the musty-smelling attic. Ragan lit a candle and set it on a nearby trunk. Rubbing her arms, she smiled. “Procky hasn’t quite gotten used to the idea that he can’t run up and down the stairs anytime he wants to anymore.”
Johnny returned her smile. “Should he check on us?”
She shivered, ignoring the innuendo. He was still a bit rough around the edges, but that would change. “It’s chilly up here,” she murmured, trying to still her chattering teeth.
His gaze scanned the cramped quarters. “Just show me what you want to show me, and I’ll be running along. Got a lot a work yet today.”
She picked up an old blouse, and started drying off. “We are courting, aren’t we? Sort of.”
His gaze sobered. “I’m not in any position to be courting.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
He stepped deeper into the attic, his eyes scanning the discarded furniture and crates.
“Do you spend much time up here?”
“Some. It was Maddy’s sewing room. She said it was the only peace and quiet she could find, so she came up here most every day and sat in that corner by the window to read or sew or to just think about things. I’ve sorta picked up her habit. I do quite a lot of thinking up here, myself.”
Johnny bent to look out the window. “Not much of a view. All you can see is the porch roof.”
“I didn’t bring you up here for the view.” He turned around, and her eyes met his. “I have something for you.” Taking him by the hand, she moved toward a table on the other side of the window. The surface was cluttered with sewing notions and stacks of cotton material. Scissors, thread, pins, a tape measure, and patterns attested to its recent use.
Ragan picked up a wrapped bundle and handed it to him. “Go ahead and open it,” she said with anticipation.
Johnny unwrapped the package and removed two new shirts. Holding them up, he stared at them.
“Do you like them? I finished them after breakfast this morning.”
“They’re…real nice.”
“Just nice?”
He looked at her, confusion evident in his eyes. “Who are they for?”
“For you, silly.” She moved around the table, tidying up. “I had all this material just lying around. I made the judge shirts for Christmas, and I thought you’d enjoy having something new too.” The two shirts he owned were threadbare, and they’d been washed so many times the colors were faded to nothing.
He appeared to be struggling with accepting the gift. Had she embarrassed him? That wasn’t her intention—far from it. She longed to take care of him, the way a wife cares for a husband.
Thunder shook the old house, rattling the windows. Rain sluiced down the glass panes. Johnny held one of the shirts up to his chest for fit. “I can’t pay you for your work.”
“Pay me?” She paused, overcome with disappointment. “I wouldn’t accept money, Johnny. They’re a gift.”
“I don’t remember the last time I had a gift—or a new shirt, for that matter.”
“Well, you have two new ones now. I have a good eye. I think they’ll fit,” she said as he stepped in front of a mirror and held a shirt up to his chest.
Slipping the new shirt on over his old one, he assessed his image.
“What do you think?” she asked. He looked powerfully handsome in the blue-and-black plaid.
“You did a good job.”
&nbs
p; “Thank you, sir.”
Drawing her closer, he bent to kiss her. She looked up at him, her heart hammering. “I love to make things for you.”
“You want to know something?”
She nodded, loving him so overwhelmingly she felt that she might explode.
“I like you to make things for me.” They were the most heartfelt words she’d ever heard from him. And the most welcome.
Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she savored the moment. There had been too few good ones lately. “You’ve been so quiet the past few days. Withdrawn, the way you were your first few weeks in Barren Flats. I thought we had moved past that.”
“Sorry. I’ve had things on my mind.”
“Still Dirk Bledso?” she guessed softly.
Gently releasing her, he stared into the mirror.
How could she reach through this shell he’d built around himself? How could she make him see that all he wanted was right here, standing beside him, with her heart in her eyes?
“It’s funny,” he mused.
“What’s funny?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old. I have no home, no family, my horse was sold for restitution, and someone other than family has Grandpa’s pistol.”
She heard what he couldn’t say, that he had no purpose other than to kill a man. “Papa would say a man makes his own purpose.”
“Your papa’s wiser than I am.”
Johnny fell silent as he reflected on his mirrored image.
Was she getting through to him? It was hard to tell. His hurts were buried so deep. But she wouldn’t stop trying until she did.
He turned from the looking glass and drew her back into his arms. Closing her eyes, she held him tightly, surrounding him with her love. Please God, let me make a difference in this man’s life.
But for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure her Maker was listening.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The rain slacked off shortly before noon. The sun popped out, and the air grew steamy. Ragan mopped her forehead with her sleeve, but she smiled when she saw the rainbow over the shed. Johnny was inside, working on window frames for Widow Keeling’s house. The widow had caught him on his way back to the dynamite shack. The man had more work than he had time.
In addition to the dynamite shack, new church pews were in progress. A special Transformation Fund had purchased the lumber, and the church members donated the other supplies.
Town projects were mounting up too. Minnie had put in her bid for a speaker’s platform in the open space east of the churchyard. After donating a nice sum, she challenged others to do the same to build back the town. Contributed materials were accumulating at an amazing rate. Barren Flats had enough work to keep Johnny busy for years. Gangs were inevitable, but the town would repair and keep rebuilding. They would make Barren Flats a decent place to live, regardless.
“Johnny! Ragan! Judge McMann! Johnny! Ragan! Judge McMann!”
Ragan’s heart lurched to her throat, and she reached the front door just as Everett burst through the gate.
“Johnny! Ra—”
“Everett, what’s wrong?”
Johnny rounded the corner of the porch, hammer in hand.
The judge’s cane pounded the oak floor. “What in the world? What’s happened?”
Kitty darted out the door in front of him and disappeared under the rail.
Everett stood at the foot of the porch steps, his sides heaving, gasping for breath. He waved a paper in his outstretched hand. “Just came in…for…the judge.”
Johnny took the paper out of his hand and handed it to Judge McMann.
“It’s a telegram,” Everett managed between gasps.
“We can see that, son. Who died?”
“No one died. They found the money.”
“The money? What money? Just take a minute to get your breath.” Judge McMann scanned the wire and then reread it.
“Well, well, well.” He turned to Johnny, his weathered face breaking into a smile. “It’s from Robert. They’ve found the bank money pouch. Located it in a pile of brush two miles out of town.”
“That’s…that’s what I was trying…to tell…you.” Everett pressed his side, nodding vigorously. “Word just came in.”
Julia Curbow came through the gate like a shot, then Millie Crocker, followed by Maggie Anglo. Shorty Lynch and Hubie Banks followed Roberta Seeden.
“Is it true?”
“What does it mean?”
“Did they find the money?” Shorty demanded. “Is Johnny cleared of the charges?”
“Whoa, now.” Judge McMann raised his voice and rattled the paper for attention. “Let me read this again so there’ll be no mistakes.” He bent over the paper and took his time reading the message for the third time.
“Says right here the money’s been found and it’ll be returned to the rightful owners, the patrons of the First Territorial Bank of California in Canyon City.” He looked up. “Sadly, that doesn’t mean John’s sentence will be excused.”
A chorus of disappointed murmurs rippled through the audience.
“Seems to me that if they found the money, that’d be good enough,” Julia said.
Hubie turned to look at Johnny. “Guess that proves you’ve been telling the truth all along.”
Johnny took off his hat. “I had nothing to do with the bank robbery or the money. But like the judge says, finding the money doesn’t prove that.”
Disappointment colored Everett’s features. “I was hoping Judge Leonard would at least reduce your sentence.”
“I’ve been praying so hard.” Ragan came down the steps to join Johnny. They locked hands, and Ragan didn’t care that Roberta’s brows lifted.
“Well, the boy’s a fine carpenter, and I believe he’s innocent of the charges.” With that declaration, Hubie turned and headed out the gate. Shorty followed.
“A hard worker,” Roberta added as she turned to leave.
“Deserves a break.”
“Got a bad deal.”
“Building a shed fit for a king.”
Julia waved her fingers at Johnny as she left. “Keep your chin up, Jonathan. You’re a good boy.”
“Thank you, Julia.”
Ragan squeezed Johnny’s hand, and he squeezed hers back.
“Plain ain’t fair,” Everett mumbled.
Chapter Fifty
By mid-October the new dynamite shack was finished and pronounced far sturdier than its predecessor. Gangs still rode through, shooting up the place, but the dynamite shack sat impenetrable. It would take an act of God to destroy it. Barren Flats declared Johnny, in Mayor Rayles’ words, “The finest carpenter this side of the Mississippi River.”
As far as Ragan was concerned Johnny was the finest everything, and she didn’t let a day go by without reminding him of it. Each week drew them closer, and she dreaded the day he’d ride away. She had failed to convince him that Bledso had already stolen sixteen years of his life; he shouldn’t allow him to have more. Johnny still searched the faces of every gang that rode through, convinced that one day Bledso would show up.
He caught her in the shed late one rainy afternoon in a playful mood.
“Johnny—”
Drawing her away from the open door, he kissed her soundly.
“I am going to miss you so much when you leave,” she whispered when they came up for breath. Please, God, let him realize that what we have together is more important than seeking retribution.
“I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
But in her heart Ragan knew it was only a matter of time before Johnny would be tested, perhaps far beyond his newfound strengths.
“In conclusion, I feel the program, while experiencing occasional setbacks, has proven effective. In the future, I recommend that the penal system offer rehabilitation to those first-time adult violators exhibiting the willingness and common sense to change.”
Judge McMann closed the folder, and sighed. Outside a humid wind whipped
against the kitchen windowpanes. “And that’s that.”
Ragan drew a stitch through the pillowcase she was embroidering. “Feels good, doesn’t it.”
“Indeed, it is gratifying to know the book is completed. And while the program wasn’t as successful as I had hoped, it wasn’t a total failure.”
Ragan glanced at Johnny, who was stacking wood next to the cookstove. “So what do you think?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, sir. Did we leave out anything?”
“Nothing except you don’t know the outcome of my case.”
Ragan glanced at the judge. “We feel certain we do.”
“This project,” the judge declared, lifting the manuscript to study it, “is the most important thing I’ve accomplished for society, with the exception of marriage and fatherhood, in my lifetime. I wish Maddy were here to share this.”
Ragan smiled, taking another stitch. “She doesn’t have to be here. She knows, Procky.”
Proctor’s gaze moved to Johnny, even though he still addressed her. “Don’t ever forget what’s important in life. Love, family, loyal friends. It’s easy to lose sight of the things that matter.”
Ragan bit off a thread and tied it. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“Well.” The judge yawned. “It’s past my bedtime. I assume you’ll be mailing the manuscript first thing in the morning?”
“First thing in the morning. Then I have an errand afterward. Did you know that Mary Linder is getting married next week?”
“Yes, her mother cornered me after church. I hadn’t realized Mary was old enough to get married.”
“She’s seventeen, Procky.”
“Couldn’t be. She was born just a few weeks ago.”
Ragan grinned. “Mary’s not feeling well, and in order for Estelle to have her gown finished on time, she’s asked me to stand in for Mary’s final fitting tomorrow. I’ll mail the book and then stop by the seamstress’s on the way home.”
“Take your time; no hurry.” The wheels on the chair squeaked as the judge rolled out of the kitchen calling for Kitty. “Come on, old girl. It’s bedtime.”
Early the following morning, Ragan watched Everett unlock the telegraph office.
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