Outlaw's Bride (4 page)

J
ohnny rinsed the soap off the last dish and laid it on a clean towel to drain. He glanced up when the judge wheeled into the kitchen.

“Looks like you found what you needed.” Johnny nodded and hoped his sentence didn’t include keeping the old man company.

“Hmm,” Judge McMann murmured, pulling on his pipe and sending a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

“Don’t have a lot to say.”

The judge chuckled. “The world might be a better place if more folks thought that way. Well, no matter. We have plenty of time to get acquainted.”

Johnny picked up a dish and dried it. That was an understatement. Two years in this tea parlor wasn’t going to be easy.

Judge McMann drew on his pipe thoughtfully. “Tasty chicken; Ragan’s a good cook. She’s a fine woman. All the Ramsey girls are. It’s surprising Ragan’s not been snatched up by some young man, but the girls have their hands full with their father.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnny wasn’t sure what he was expected to say, but he was sure the judge spoke the truth. Ragan was a fine-looking woman. Bossy, but fine looking.

“Fulton Ramsey’s well thought of in this town, and we don’t make light of his problems. He pastored our flock for thirty years.” Judge
McMann leaned forward, knocking the ashes of his pipe onto a plate. He repacked the pipe bowl and lit it. “He led many a man to God in his day. Now that his mind’s taken leave of his body, folks look after him. He spends his time whittling and telling rambling stories to children. I feel real sorry for the Ramsey girls. They lost their mama early on. Now they have a hard row to hoe.”

Johnny dried a skillet and set it aside. Ragan Ramsey’s problems weren’t his concern. Sticking his nose in other folk’s business had landed him here, and he wasn’t about to repeat the mistake.

Ragan came into the kitchen carrying a wicker basket. “Reverend was appreciative of the pie. He sends his best, Procky. I need to be getting on home now.”

“Hold on a minute, missy. I want to talk to the two of you while I’ve got you both in one place.”

Johnny mentally groaned, hoping a lecture wasn’t coming. He’d had about all of this cockamamy sentence he could take today.

The judge motioned him toward a chair. “Sit down, son.”

Glancing at Ragan, Johnny lay the dishcloth aside and took a seat. Ragan sat across the table from him, looking uneasy.

“Mr. McAllister, I suppose you’re wondering what’s expected of you,” the judge began.

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Ragan. “She told me.”

“She did?”

Ragan shrugged. “I told him no profane language, no liquor or tobacco, daily sessions, and that you like your meals on time. Nothing more.”

“I understand the rules,” Johnny snapped. “I’m a prisoner; not a moron.”

The air in the room charged as the young couple faced off.

Sitting up straighter, Ragan met his stare. “Mr. McAllister, I’m getting a little weary of your attitude. I have been trying my best to be civil to you. I offered hot water and invited you to supper, and you refused both courtesies.”

“I don’t like fried chicken.”

“You ate
four
pieces.”

His eyes narrowed. “I was
hungry.
”

She glared back at him. “You said you
weren’t.
”

“Get off my back, lady. I don’t need a mother hen clucking over me. I can take care of myself.” His eyes shifted to the window.

“Obviously you haven’t,” she muttered.

He snapped back to confront her. “Where do
you
get off telling me how to run my life?”

“Where do
you
get off talking to me like a—”

“Children!” The judge threw up his hands. “We’re having a civil conversation. Let’s not turn this into an all-out war.”

Crossing his arms, Johnny refused to meet Ragan’s eyes. He didn’t have to put up with her—or did he?

Judge McMann cleared his throat. “I’m sure Judge Leonard explained our program—”

“He didn’t.”

“Well, then permit me. Robert and I have been working closely on a plan designed to rehabilitate prisoners, men whom we judge to be worthy of a second chance. Robert has obviously seen something in you he feels is worth saving. Ragan and I are writing a book on the project, and you will be one of our subjects, perhaps the last one. I’m sad to say the program doesn’t seem to be working out. Now, we’re not hard to get along with, Mr. McAllister. You’re at liberty to move about freely, but you’re not to be out of our sight without permission. Weekdays we will spend about an hour talking with you. Your thoughts, what’s led you to a life of crime? That sort of thing. And once you prove that you can be trusted, you will be permitted more freedom. I ask very little: my meals on time, Ragan treated with the utmost respect, and that you keep yourself out of trouble.”

Johnny sent a sour glance in Ragan’s direction. Her fiery stare returned the sentiment.

“Are there any questions?” “

She’s in charge of me?”

“No one’s ‘in charge’ of you, Mr. McAllister. You’ll be judged on
how you take responsibility for yourself while helping others, but Ragan will generally be supervising your efforts. My advancing age keeps me close to my chair and the couch, I’m afraid.”

Johnny wanted to tell him what he thought of the so-called program, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d do what he was told. All he had to do was survive for two years. Maybe less if he behaved.

“So, do we understand each other?”

Johnny nodded and kept his eyes trained on the wall opposite the table.

“Good.” The judge gave a wide yawn. “Well, it’s this old man’s bedtime. If you’ll turn out the lamp when you’re finished, I’d appreciate it.” He rolled to the doorway and then looked back over his shoulder. “Ragan has breakfast on the table at six.”

And dinner at noon and supper at five. Got it.
“Yes, sir.”

Ragan got up from the table, looping the basket over her arm. Brushing past him on her way out, she said, “You can make this as hard or as easy as you want, Mr. McAllister. I’m willing to make this arrangement amicable, but it’s entirely up to you.”

“Don’t press your luck, lady.”

Lifting her chin, she proceeded to the back door and left. He winced when the slamming door rattled the kitchen window.

He might have to be under her wing for the next couple of years, but he didn’t have to like it.

Chuckling, the judge rolled to the doorway. “My, my, Mr. McAllister. I do believe you’ve touched a chord with her. I’ve never seen Ragan slam a door.”

J
ohnny woke at daylight to the sound of a rooster crowing. The smell of frying sausage drifted up to him as he shaved.

Shots broke out. He jumped, muttering an expletive when his shaving mug crashed to the floor and his razor dropped into the water. Whirling, he stepped to the window. Chickens squawked, dogs barked, and a bullet hit the side of the house. Yells and whoops and the sound of galloping horses jolted the early morning silence.

He saw two riders hightailing it northward, firing toward one house and then another. The riders paused to reload, and then they spurred their horses on down Main Street.

A movement in the side yard caught Johnny’s eye. Ragan ducked, hurrying across the grass and onto the back porch. He heard the screen door flap shut as she let herself in. Turning from the window, he walked back to the shaving bowl and picked up the pieces of broken glass.
Breakfast at six,
he reminded himself.

Raids weren’t his problem. Dishes were his problem.

Judge McMann took his seat at the breakfast table, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. McAllister. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gunshots startle you?” “

No, sir.”

Ragan sailed through the kitchen door, carrying a plate of eggs and biscuits. Johnny’s eyes followed her movements.

“Well, they certainly scared the wits out of me. I almost broke the eggs I’d just gathered.” She turned to address Johnny, obviously taking the judge’s warning about civility last night to heart. “Alvin Lutz, our town sheriff, is getting up in years, and he’s as deaf as a fence post. He needs a successor, but no one will take the job. And nobody, including Alvin, will stand up to those thugs.”

The judge nodded, buttering a stack of flapjacks. “We have to do something. We won’t have any dishes to eat off of if it doesn’t stop soon. Maddy’s entire cherry blossom pattern is almost gone. Bounced right off the shelves with all the commotion and noise. She loved those plates.”

“It’s not safe for little ones to be on the street,” Ragan agreed. “And everything but our milk cows and chickens has been stolen.”

“They took the Tilsons’ old heifer the other night.”

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t heard. I’ll take them some fresh milk and butter.”

Images flashed through Johnny’s mind. Elly’s screams, little Lara’s terrified cries.

Sweat beaded his forehead, and he set his knife aside, his appetite gone. Would he ever be rid of the nightmare? Could he ever see a little girl again without feeling pain?

Ragan reached to pour his coffee. A shock coursed through him as her arm brushed him and her rosewater scent filled his senses. “Holly and Jo have learned to avoid the raiders,” she said. “Everyone avoids the main road.”

Johnny was still aware of the spot she’d touched after she moved on.

“Holly, Jo, and Rebecca are my sisters, Mr. McAllister. Holly’s engaged to Tom Winters, and they plan to marry in the fall, if finances work out. I don’t know what I’ll do without her when she leaves. Jo, who’s fourteen, and Becca, who’s nine, help with the housework and cooking, but much of the responsibility of our home falls on Holly’s shoulders. More biscuits?”

He took a couple more.

“Jo’s a dear girl, but she’s still young in many ways. It’s not easy to grow up in such difficult times, with Papa and all.”

Done serving breakfast to both men, she sat down to fill her own plate.

He didn’t care, he reminded himself. He didn’t care about this town, about these people, or about her. Being here only delayed him from tracking down his family’s murderers.

“Mr. McAllister?”

Johnny stiffened when he heard Ragan call his name three days later. She marched toward him like a woman about to beat a rug.

If she was looking for him, it meant one thing. She wanted him to do more demeaning housework. What did she want now, mattress stuffing? Polishing the stair railing?

He pretended to be interested in the porch step he was repairing. “Need something?”

“Actually, I do.”

It figured. “What?”

“I need your help in the kitchen. The ladies’ auxiliary is having their annual library bake sale, and I’ve promised to contribute nine dozen sugar cookies.”

“So?”

“So, I need your help.”

He turned to stare at her. “Baking cookies?” She wasn’t serious. He could barely boil water without burning it.

“It won’t take that long. If you’ll just roll out the dough and cut them out, I’ll get them in the oven.” Her brow lifted combatively when he gave her a cool look. “I need help. I’m way behind on my chores and have to get these cookies baked.”

Work my foot.
It was just another thing to harass him. During the daily meeting with the judge, he was forced to talk about his private life, though he told very little. Hang the judge’s research. He wasn’t a
criminal, and his private life was his, nobody else’s. He resented the sentence more every day. Hanging might have been more merciful. Tossing the hammer aside, he stood up.

“You’ll do it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice. You can go back to jail. We are not ogres, Mr. McAllister.”

He trailed her into the kitchen and spotted a large bowl of dough sitting on the table. A rolling pin, with flour sprinkled on top, rested beside it.

“The ladies’ auxiliary is small—just Minnie, Pearl, and Roberta, when Roberta’s not busy at the millinery—but they manage to have a lovely bake sale every year
.”
She stopped and assessed him. “I assume you’ve never baked cookies before?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Call me Ragan,” she tossed. “I am not here to torture you, Mr. McAllister.” Tying an apron around her waist, she added, “We’ll make this as painless as possible. Do you want an apron?”

He stiffened and muttered an expletive. “No, I don’t want an apron
.
”

Stepping around him, she admonished, “Language, Mr. McAllister. You are in a lady’s presence, and I do not tolerate that sort of talk.” She picked up the sifter and dusted a generous amount of flour onto a large, white cloth. “Do you have a favorite cookie?”

Images of Ma making oatmeal cookies surfaced in his mind. She’d blend rich yellow butter, sugar, eggs, oatmeal, and flour, allowing him to lick the spoon when she’d finished. The memory curled around his heart as warm and sweet as the treat itself.

“Pie’s more to my liking.”

She glanced up, her face flushed from the kitchen heat. For a moment it was hard for him to take his eyes off of her. “That’s a shame. Personally, I favor molasses cookies.”

Molasses gave him a bellyache.

Reaching for a mound of dough, she laid half of it on the floured
cloth and then picked up the rolling pin. “Roll the dough very thin, and then use this water glass rim to form a shape.”

She rolled the dough smooth, pressed the glass on it, and a second later laid a perfect round on the pan.

Johnny studied the glass rim.

“Now, let’s put you to work rolling out more dough. Do you want to stand or sit?”

“Stand.”

She brushed by him, trailing her flowery scent. What was it? Lemon? No, rose. Definitely a rosebush today. Handing him the rolling pin, she said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

His first attempt was pathetic, even to his untrained eye. The dough wadded into a sticky ball and clung to the rolling pin. Lifting the tool, he looked at her helplessly. “What’s the problem here?”

“Inexperience.” She took the pin away from him and cleaned it. “You need lots of flour, but not too much or the cookies will be dry.”

Lots, but not too much. What was that supposed to mean? A bushel or a teaspoon?

Moving around him, she looped her hands around his waist and steadied the pin, rolling the dough to a delicate consistency. His fingers moved over the wood to capture hers. He’d see if he was in the presence of a
lady
.

The pin paused, and she eyed his hand.

“Mr. McAllister.”

“Yes?” Running his fingers lightly over the satiny texture of her skin, he deliberately invited a response.

“You’re touching my fingers.”

He looked down. “So I am.”

“Are you trying to gain my attention?”

“Could be.”

She removed the roller from his hand and smacked his fingers. He winced and drew back, smile fading.

She picked up a glass. “We have nine dozen cookies to bake, mister. You’d best get busy.”