Outlaw's Bride (2 page)

Barren Flats, California

R
agan Ramsey parted the judge’s parlor curtains, her eyes widening as she got her first glimpse of the prisoner. Swallowing, she bit her lower lip. Procky had promised. No more subjects for six months. Now this one shows up. He came into town handcuffed inside a buckboard, dressed in black, looking meaner than sin and three times as evil.

“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” Papa’s favorite beatitude.

Somehow, she didn’t feel especially blessed this morning.

The buckboard rattled to a halt in front of the house. Two men with badges, rifles, and holstered firearms climbed down, knocking dust off their clothing. One moved to the back of the wagon and unlocked the prisoner’s foot shackles, then he nudged him out of the wagon bed with the rifle butt.

Ragan stepped onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.
Make the best of it, Ragan. You won’t leave the judge—you know that, though you’re so angry with him about this you could spit nails
. He’d sent the letter. She’d mailed it herself, but apparently Judge Leonard had not received it in time to prevent this “subject” from arriving.

The man got out of the wagon slowly, his bitter gaze fixed on the officer. Motioning toward the house, the lawman shoved the prisoner through the gate and followed him up the walk lined with blooming marigolds.

Obvious resentment burned hot in the bound man’s gaze. His scruffy
appearance couldn’t hide the pride and defiance of his stance. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days; purplish-blue circles ringed his dark eyes, eyes that lifted to confront hers without apology or shame.

She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and shivered against a premonition that this man was going to be more—much more than she’d so far encountered. Thick road grime layered his clothes, and his hair hung limp and dirty beneath a black hat. Her gaze fixed on the broad set of his shoulders, the muscular, unyielding stance, and the square chin that jutted defiantly upward.

Father, help us.

One guard paused in front of the steps and touched the brim of his hat. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

Ragan’s gaze focused on the prisoner’s handcuffs and shackles. It took a moment for her to force her eyes away. “Would you care for a cool drink?” The men were covered in dust and obviously trail worn.

The officer curtly shook his head. “Much obliged, but we’ll be movin’ along as soon as our business here is completed.”

She stepped aside, allowing room for them on the porch. Digging the barrel of the rifle into the man’s side, the lawman moved the prisoner slowly up the stairs.

Ragan’s gaze took in the criminal’s soiled boots. Old, scuffed, and in bad need of new heels. Her eyes lifted to his face, and she shook off a feeling of impending doom. It would take a lot more than a new pair of boots to improve this man’s disposition.

Maybe all her years of sitting under Papa’s sermons about love and patience helped her to feel his humiliation. He and others like him had ruined her town. She should feel nothing but revulsion. Instead, she felt pity. Pity that the young man hidden beneath all that grime would throw his life away for a few moments of excitement and a bag of bank money. Maybe Procky was right to care for him and others like him, but lately she had had to work at compassion a little harder.

He glanced her way, and she stepped back. Then again, maybe Procky was a fool, as he’d often been told, to try and rehabilitate men like this.

The guards paused before the screen door. “Where would you like him, ma’am?” one asked.

The judge, in his wheelchair, appeared in the doorway, his face flushed from an afternoon nap. His thatch of gray hair stood on end. “Bring him into the parlor, officer.” He opened the screen, and the aroma of frying chicken penetrated the air. Judge McMann smiled. “Come in, son. It’s hot out there.”

The three men stepped inside, and an officer unlocked the handcuffs. Straightening, he tipped his hat. “I’d watch this one, Judge. He’s a hardhead.”

The judge nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen. Sure you won’t stay to supper?”

As he chatted with the sheriff’s men, Ragan stepped into the foyer with the prisoner, flicking at imaginary dust on the hall table. She supposed she was uncomfortable because this prisoner was near her own age. The others had been either younger or older. She avoided his bitter gaze.

The man stood quietly, hands folded in front of him. His stance made it clear he wasn’t inviting conversation, so she didn’t have to worry about social niceties.

Well, this is plain silly,
she told herself when she felt perspiration begin to dampen her back. They couldn’t stand in this strained silence all day. The judge was a talker, and her chicken needed to be turned. The prisoner was here, so she would make the best of it.

“Would you like a glass of tea?”

The man shook his head, his dark eyes now avoiding hers.

“Procky does tend to go on at times. I’ll show you to your room.”

Judge Leonard had said the prisoner wasn’t considered unduly Dangerous. Bank robbery. He wasn’t to be locked behind bars, but his whereabouts were to be known by Ragan or Judge McMann at all times until they felt comfortable giving him more freedom. Ragan didn’t care for the idea of trusting a prisoner with any freedom, especially as the last two adult cases had proved Judge Leonard’s judgment erroneous.

She climbed the stairs leading to the second landing, motioning for
the prisoner to follow. He picked up a worn brown satchel and followed.
Pity that a man’s whole life can be carried in one insignificant bag.

Opening the door to the east bedroom, Ragan said, “I think you’ll be comfortable here.” The room was her favorite of the guest rooms. Sunny in the morning, shaded during the hot afternoons. Maddy McMann had stitched together the pretty wedding ring quilt the year she died. The walls were wallpapered blue, and the rosebush beneath the open window perfumed the room with its heavenly scent.

The prisoner’s gaze traveled the quarters dispassionately. She couldn’t tell if the room suited him or not. She supposed it didn’t matter; he had no choice. It would be his home for the next twelve to twenty-four months, if he made it that long.

“You’ll need a pitcher of water for the washbowl,” she said. “I’ll get it for you.”

He nodded, setting the valise on the floor. She turned and hurried to the door.

“Is that it?”

She turned. “Breakfast is at six, dinner at noon, and supper at five o’clock sharp. Please try to be prompt. Procky gets cranky if he doesn’t eat on time.”

He lifted a questioning brow.

“Procky—Judge Proctor McMann. His friends call him Procky.” She supposed he wouldn’t find that information all that useful, though whether or not the prisoner knew it, Procky would be his friend. “And one other thing: no profane language. Ever. Liquor is forbidden as well as tobacco.”

“And I suppose church every Sunday.”

“No. You are welcome to accompany us to services when we’re able to have them, but unfortunately our church is not fit for worship at this time. We hold services in our homes. You are invited to join the Judge for Bible study anytime you want, but he feels you can’t make a man come to the Lord. It must be of his free will.”

His gaze roamed the room, coming to rest on the open window. “Are you the judge’s daughter?”

“No. His housekeeper. I leave after the supper dishes are done and return in the morning to fix breakfast and clean.”

His eyes came back to meet hers briefly. Goose bumps rose on her arms as his dark gaze boldly assessed her. “That’s all that’s expected of me? Show up for meals on time?”

“Don’t curse, drink, or use tobacco and attend daily research sessions.”

He gave her a hard look. “Every day?”

“Monday through Friday.” Did he think this was a guest ranch? “You rest up from your trip and eat your supper. If you need anything, please inform me.”

He turned and walked to the window. Pushing the curtain aside, he looked out. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll have to sit at the table anyway.” Prisoners attended meals, hungry or not.

He slowly turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers. “Why is this town shot to pieces?”

She thought about the chicken frying in the skillet. “There’ll be time for chitchat later.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll get that water for you.”

“Don’t bother. I can wait on myself.”

Kitty shot through the door, darting between the man’s legs. He looked down as the cat purred, rubbing her whiskers against his scuffed boot.

Ragan’s eyes acknowledged the pet. “Kitty, the judge’s pride and joy. If she bothers you tonight just push her off the bed. She’ll likely end up trying to sleep with you.”

The man’s expression said the cat wouldn’t be sleeping with him.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

She opened her mouth to respond and then closed it. “My chicken needs turning.”

L
eaving the room, Ragan pulled the door closed behind her. Her legs felt a bit shaky as she descended the stairs, thinking about the coming months. How would she ever manage this man? Judge Leonard expected Procky and her to set his scuffed boots on a righteous path?

She couldn’t be sure she’d convinced him to come downstairs for supper.

Well, the judge couldn’t fault her. She’d warned him the subjects were getting increasingly worrisome. From the moment Everett delivered the wire from Judge Leonard, she’d made her protests vocal.

“Want me to get that?” the judge asked when the knock had sounded at the door.

“No, stay where you are.” Ragan wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it. When she opened the door, she found Everett Pidgin trying to catch his breath. The lanky telegraph operator panted as though he had run all the way from the telegraph station. His breath came in ragged jerks. He eyed Ragan, flushing four shades of red before he could state his purpose. “Afternoon, Miss…Miss Ragan.”

“Hello, Everett.”

“Tele…telegraph just came in for the judge. I came as soon as I could.”

He looked for the entire world like a puppy that wanted his owner’s approval for retrieving a thrown stick. Ragan had to squelch the urge to say, “Good boy.”

“Telegraph for me?” The judge made his way to the door to join them. “Now, who could be sending me a telegraph?”

Everett grinned, his eyes fixed on Ragan. “Robert Leonard in Barrow County.”

“Robert?” Judge McMann quickly scanned the missive.

“Procky,” Ragan warned. A telegram from Judge Leonard usually meant trouble. She returned Everett’s smile. “It’s warm out there today. Would you like to come in for a glass of lemonade?”

The besotted young man took a step backward and promptly dropped off the front of the porch. He landed in the rosebush at the side of the steps, his spindly legs floundering in the air.

Ragan hurried to assist him. “Are you hurt?”

The red-faced messenger thwarted her efforts. Arms flailing, he rolled to his feet, flushing a deeper hue. “Not hurt, thank you. Just a misstep. Could have happened to anybody.”

Ragan reached to brush off a clump of leaves, but Everett backed away.

Jerking his suit jacket into place, he stalked off, opened the whitewashed gate, and then latched it carefully. Striding toward the telegraph office, he kept his chin held high. She probably should have told him about the rose branch dangling from the back of his jacket, but it would only mortify him further.

“Poor man’s got it bad,” the judge chuckled when Ragan came back into the house.

“I know, and I wish he wouldn’t think of me in a romantic vein. He’s had his share of rejection, and I don’t want to hurt him too.”

After Sunday services, Everett followed Ragan around like a lovesick fool. During the week, he waited outside the mercantile to carry her parcels.

If the sun was too hot, he was there with a parasol to shade her. If it rained, he held an umbrella over her head.

It was a wonder he found time to run the telegraph office. He smothered
her, yet she couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt his feelings. Though he was a wonderfully kind young man, Ragan had no romantic feelings for him. His infatuation with her made him the laughingstock of Barren Flats. He had been in love with her since he was in the first grade and she was in the fifth. He refused to accept the fact that she didn’t love him back. She’d tried, desperately tried, to center his interests elsewhere, but he only had eyes for her.

“Well, well.” The judge refolded the message, following Ragan into the kitchen. “Seems we’re about to have company again.”

She whirled to face him. “Procky! You promised.”

“I know I did, and I wrote the letter, but apparently it didn’t reach Robert in time. Don’t get your skirts in a bunch. We’ll manage.”

Who was Judge Leonard sending now? Hopefully it wasn’t another sixteen-year-old. Last time Max almost did them both in.

“This particular fellow is a little older than you,” the judge mused. “Says here he’s twenty-eight.”

Ragan’s heart dropped. “After Max, Robert promised to send only older subjects, Judge.”

“I know, but Robert must feel this case is an exception. We do need the documentation, you know. Why, the book’s only half done.”

“Wire Robert back and tell him we can’t accept this man, and make it stick this time. We agreed. At least six months of rest.”

“I know you’re upset, but there’s not much we can do about it now,” the judge said. “The prisoner is already on his way.”

Ragan groaned.

“One last try,” the judge soothed. “If this one doesn’t pan out, then you have my promise that we will quit the program and complete the book as is.” The old man chuckled. “If Robert knew about all the trouble we’re having with gangs here, he wouldn’t have sent us another case.” The judge poured cream into a saucer and set it on the floor for Kitty. “He’d insist that I move.”

Ragan cracked an egg into a bowl. “If we had the sense God gave a goose, we’d all move.”

“And where would we go, missy?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” Ragan added salt and then began to knead the dough. “A town with a perfectly lovely name, Paradise, forced to change its name to Barren Flats because of gangs. Disgraceful.”

“I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.” The judge’s faded eyes roamed the kitchen, pausing on the cracked floor covering, walls begging for paint, and cabinets needing repair. The old house was falling down around his ears, but that obviously wasn’t important to him.

“This is where I brought Maddy the day I married her. This is where my three children were born, where two died of smallpox in infancy. Maddy drew her last breath there on the parlor sofa.” His tone wavered as it always did when he reminisced about Maddy and the twins, and he blinked to clear the mist from his eyes.

“I’m an old man. I’m not leaving the only home I’ve ever known. Paradise is where I was born, and it’s where I’ ll die. No matter how bad it gets, I’ll stay right here. They’ll bury me right out there next to Maddy and my babies. No-good hoodlums aren’t going to run me off.”

Covering the bowl with a cloth, Ragan set it on the counter to allow the dough to rise. The judge was lonely. His only living child was his son, Blake, who lived in Colorado. They were seldom able to see each other. The judge had never made the trip to Denver.

She sighed. “When will the new prisoner be arriving?”

“The wire didn’t say. I’d guess soon, if I know Robert. He insists on swift justice. He’ll either hang a man or dole out suitable punishment. He won’t keep a man guessing.”

Ragan shook herself free from her thoughts when she walked into the kitchen and smelled the chicken burning. Jerking off the skillet lid, she turned the scorched pieces, her mind now fixed on supper.