Outlaw's Bride (20 page)

S
agging against the side of the livery, Ragan pressed her knuckles against her mouth. Tears smarted in her eyes.

The poster she’d seen of the murdering cutthroats floated to her mind, and she recalled how innocently she answered Johnny’s questions that day about Bledso and his gang, assuming he was simply making idle conversation.

But he had been dead serious.

She didn’t for a minute believe he had robbed that bank, but was he capable of something more horrendous? Was he capable of killing a man in cold blood?

If he were out to kill Dirk Bledso, then the judge’s work was in vain. Her work was in vain. Should she tell Procky what she’d just overheard, or should she plead with Johnny to reconsider before he destroyed not only the program, but more importantly, his life?

Turning away, she walked back to the house, struggling to regain her composure. If she told the judge, he would surely be forced to confront Johnny about the matter. But what if Johnny were only trying to scare Jo? Yes, scare her! That was very possible.

If Johnny kills Dirk Bledso, he’s as good as dead.

Biting her lower lip, she sidestepped Minnie Rayles.

“Oh, hello, dear. I was—”

“Not now, Minnie. I’m sorry. I have something cooking on the
stove.” Hurrying up the judge’s porch steps, she entered the house, slamming the screen door behind her.

“ ‘Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine’…”

The words lodged in Ragan’s throat.

“Go on,” the judge said, rocking in his chair. The evening air had cooled pleasantly; the scent of wild grapevine was sweet in the air.

She glanced up to see if Johnny was paying attention. She had deliberately selected this section of Scripture tonight. If he was attentive, he gave no indication. Her heart ached with the terrible knowledge of his secret.

“ ‘I will repay, saith the Lord,’ ” she read a little louder.

Judge McMann insisted on daily Bible readings. Some days he’d take the Bible from its stand right after breakfast, and other times the devotions were observed in the late afternoon following his nap.

On soft summer evenings such as this one, he often asked if Ragan would mind staying to “sit a spell” before she left for home. Tonight Ragan’s chair was turned in order to catch the light from the inside lamp on the entryway table.

Johnny rested his back against a porch column and idly moved the stem of a dried weed in front of Kitty, who was sitting at his feet. The cat’s head moved from side to side, her paw occasionally stabbing the pretend prey.

Smiling, he surrendered the weed to the cat and picked up a slingshot he was whittling for one of Jim Allen’s boys. He held it to catch the light, tracing his fingers over the wood to check for smoothness.

Christian Allen had cajoled Johnny into showing him how to down flies with a rock and a slingshot, then he had entreated him, “Make one for me, Mr. McAllister. Pleeeease.”

When the other five boys surrounded Johnny with pleas for him
to provide them with a weapon too, he’d been outnumbered. He was fashioning the second one tonight.

He held up the sturdy forked stick and sighted Ragan in the Y, moving it forward and back. Laugh lines appeared around his eyes, and he winked at her.

“Procky’s asleep, and you’re not listening,” she said crossly. She snapped the Bible closed.

The judge flinched but didn’t awaken.

Johnny laid the slingshot aside. “I am listening. Heard every word.”

“You are not!” Eyeing him sourly, she opened the Bible and read. “ ‘I will repay, saith the Lord—’ ”

He finished by memory: “ ‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head,’ ” he supplied.

If Johnny could quote the Good Book by heart, why didn’t he apply its teachings to his life? It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Procky about Bledso all evening, yet she’d held back. Why? Was she afraid Johnny would leave Barren Flats if the judge confronted him?

Chirping crickets and the sound of tree frogs blended with the judge’s even breathing. She forced her mind back to the Scriptures. When she thought of Johnny pursuing revenge, the tightness in her chest nearly squeezed the life from her.

The moon seemed to settle over the housetop, bathing the old porch in its amber light. The judge snorted and then settled deeper into his chair.

She sat up straighter. “What’s that noise?”

“The judge snoring.”

“Not that.” She turned to locate the barely perceptible squeak. “That sound, like a wagon’s coming.” She got out of her chair and walked to the end of the porch.

Johnny joined her and peered down the darkened road. “It’s a cart.”

“Whose cart?”

“I don’t know. It comes by once or twice a week.”

Ragan strained to make out the cart’s moonlit silhouette. “It looks like Carl Rayles’ rig. What would the mayor be doing out at this time of night—and who’s that with him? Minnie?”

“It’s not Minnie. It’s another man.”

She turned to face him. “How do you know so much about that cart?”

“I told you. It passes by here two, three times a week. It’s usually close to midnight, but lately it’s been coming by earlier. It turns just past the house and heads out toward Coyote Road.”

She turned back to have another look. “I never noticed it before.”

The squeak gradually receded into the distance.

“That’s strange. Where do you suppose it goes?” She wasn’t convinced it was Carl, but it did resemble the cart he used to haul wood for town events.

“Looks like it heads toward the dynamite shack.”

“I wouldn’t think Minnie would allow Carl out every night.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know he’s out.”

She glanced at him, and they both grinned.

“Whatever he’s hauling, he’s not bringing it back with him. When they return, the wagon bounces. And the men ride back, not walk.”

“Odd.”

They returned to their seats. Ragan closed the Bible. Johnny tied a rawhide thong onto the slingshot.

Judge McMann’s chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, and he exhaled with a light whistle.

“There’s lemonade if you want it.”

“No, thanks.” He studied the piece of wood. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Ragan rearranged the buttons in her sewing basket. “Pardon?”

“Why didn’t you tell the judge what you overheard in the barn earlier?”

Her gaze flew to his. How did he know? Had Jo seen her?

Clearing her throat, she said quietly, “I trust you’ll do the right thing.” She desperately wanted to believe that.

The judge stirred, and Ragan set her sewing basket aside. A moment later he drifted off again.

She got to her feet. “Let’s walk,” she said softly.

They stepped off the porch and went down the flagstone path to the gate. Johnny unlatched it, and they walked down the street in silence for a while.

“How did you know?”

“I saw the hem of your blue dress as you left.”

“You’ll put an end to the judge’s program if you follow through with this plan.”

“I know that.”

“But you’re willing to do it? To put the judge’s program in jeopardy?”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I don’t want to hurt the judge, but nothing will change my mind.”

“You know what the Bible says about vengeance.”

“If you’re suggesting I feed the hand that killed my parents and my sisters, forget it, Ragan. I’m not proud of what I’m going to do, but there’s no choice for me. From a hiding place in the barn I watched Dirk Bledso destroy everything I loved. I heard my parents plead for their children’s lives. I smelled the blood when he slit their throats.” He paused, turning to look at her, and his eyes narrowed. “Years, Ragan. For sixteen long years I’ve hunted him. I won’t rest until he’s dead.”

Emotion choked back her words. Until this moment, she hadn’t known she was fully and deeply in love with him. Somehow he’d found his way into her heart, and the thought of losing him to Dirk Bledso was more frightening than anything she’d ever faced.

“If I asked you to give it up, would you?”

He touched her cheek with his knuckle. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to hurt you.” His gaze softened. “If I could, I would. But there are some things a man has to do. This is one of them.”

“But I care for you—care very deeply.”

His smile was a sad one. “I never intended for anyone to care what happened to me. That way, when the time came, I could do what I
had to do and no one but the guilty parties would be involved. I’m sorry you’re part of it now.”

His touch, fleeting as it was, profoundly affected her. Warmth spread from her cheek throughout her body and into her heart, where it somehow gave her courage to speak. Her answer came from her soul. “John, I don’t want you to do it.”

It was moments before he answered. “It’s what I have to do.”

She blinked back tears as he turned and walked back to the house. The sight of his lone figure tore at her heart. That was to be Johnny McAllister’s life: alone and lonely. Did she blame him for his bitterness? Not at all. Did she understand his pain? In every imaginable way. If Bledso had murdered Papa and her sisters, she would have the same hatred festering in her heart. But she wouldn’t let it devastate her. That hatred would destroy Johnny McAllister.

Even worse, now that she’d fallen in love with him, it might well destroy her too.

F
ounders’ Day approached, and Barren Flats shifted into full swing for the yearly celebration. Held the first weekend in September, the holiday provided a time to let down. The raids were still coming on a weekly basis, but as Carl Rayles declared, “No ill-mannered, foulsmelling roughnecks are gonna spoil this year’s festivities.”

It was August now, and the town had voted to place guards at opposite ends of Main Street for the big day. Men would spell each other, allowing all to enjoy the celebration.

For the past three weeks Johnny and Everett had practiced out by the dynamite shack, near the first of the old mineshafts. Most of the town’s men now regularly visited the small stand of timber behind the church to practice for the contest, so it was much too risky to go there to shoot.

The mining road was farther away, and the spot of scrub timber was small but secluded. No one would be concerned about gunfire coming from out this way, since hunters often foraged the area, scaring up grouse, jackrabbits, and other fresh meat.

And since several of the men had declared their intentions to practice for the upcoming shooting contest, most gunfire was considered commonplace these days.

Everett fired off another round, ducking when the wild shot snapped a limb and sent a hail of dead branches crashing to the ground.

Johnny threw his arms over his head, protecting himself from a shower of dried acorns. He straightened, pinning Everett with a stem look. “You’re still jerking your arm.”

Everett fired again and grazed a chicken that had escaped its pen and wandered away. Feathers flew and the bird set up an earsplitting squawk, beating its wings through the undergrowth.

“Shoot.” Everett slipped another round into the cylinder and shot. Another miss. Heaving a sigh, the clerk turned to face Johnny. “I got something on my mind, and I need to ask it.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I figure you and me well…we’re friends now. Right?”

Johnny smiled. “Right.”

“Good friends. And good friends tell each other the truth. Right?”

Johnny felt this one coming. He hated to tell the guy he couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo. “Right.”

Everett sobered. “Did you rob that bank, John?”

The first choice felt better. But Everett was right. They were friends. “No.”

Nodding sagely, Everett lifted the gun and aimed. “Your word is good enough for me.” He fired again and missed again.

Gathering the spent shells, Johnny eyed the target. Everett might as well forget the Greener. There was no way short of a miracle he would ever win it.

The clerk took studious aim, and Johnny’s hand shot out to relocate the barrel. Everett glanced up, frowning. “Thanks.” He fired, shearing the top off of another scrub oak. The shrub caught fire, and fizzled out in a puff of smoke.

Johnny shook his head. “I say we quit for the day.” Everett had been shooting for more than an hour, and he was wild as a March hare today. “We’ll try it again tomorrow. It’s getting close to suppertime.” He thought about the roast he’d smelled cooking in the oven earlier. Ragan would be mashing potatoes and making gravy. She’d smell like vanilla, and her face would be rosy from the heat. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Just one more shot.” Everett leveled the pistol and closed one eye.

“Don’t aim over there!” Johnny reached to move the clerk’s arm away from the direction of the dynamite shack, but it was too late.

The bullet flashed and drilled toward the old building. A second later, a horrific explosion knocked both men flat on their backs. Timber and rock shot straight up in the air.

Shielding their bodies from the falling debris, they watched in horror as the blast collapsed the dynamite shack.