Outlaw's Bride (6 page)

Judge McMann cleared his throat. “It seems to me that we should be able to confront this problem without outside interference.” He eyed the audience. “We have plenty of men right here in Barren Flats.”

“Who can’t do a thing to stop these gangs,” Lillian Hubbard said. She looked at her daughters. “When will our children be safe again? I say hire this shootist! Pay him anything he wants! We want our town back!”

An outcry went up. “Get the shootist!”

“Get our town back!”

“Pass the hat. I’ll put in five dollars,” one man said.

“Five dollars—now hold on here,” his wife cautioned.

“Money isn’t the issue. Getting our town back is, and you can’t put a price on freedom! It’s worth whatever the cost,” someone else shouted.

Ragan’s eyes met Johnny’s as the uproar continued. It wasn’t hard to read her silent plea. Did he have a suggestion
?
He calmly looked away.

Judge McMann rapped the bar for order. “All right! We’ll take a vote. Those in favor of sending for a shootist, raise your hand.”

Twenty hands shot up.

“Those opposed?”

Johnny counted sixteen.

“The yeas have it.” The judge banged his gavel. “Everett, send a wire inviting Mercer to come in and clean up the town.”

As everyone got up to leave, Johnny shook his head. These people had spit for brains. Mercer wouldn’t hang around forever, and then the gangs would return. But stupid plan or not, Johnny supposed they all went home thinking they would have fresh eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning.

S
tick the needle through the hole, and pull the thread tight.”

Tongue wedged between his teeth, Johnny concentrated on spearing the eyes of the button.

“That’s it, nice and easy. You’re quite good at sewing buttons.”

“I’d rather shoe a horse.”

“Judge McMann believes sewing builds character.” That wasn’t exactly true. Actually, Procky said the busier a man was, the more likely he was to stay out of trouble, and Ragan was running out of things to keep Mr. McAllister busy. He’d beaten rugs, hoed the garden, whitewashed the fence, and helped Mrs. Curbow with her garden. The afternoon loomed ahead when Ragan spotted the basket of sewing.

Johnny swore as the tip of the needle pricked him for the third time.

“Mr. McAllister…” Ragan reminded.

“Shoot!”

“Let your nays be nays and yeas be yeas,” Ragan reminded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t curse.” She glanced at his work. “You sew as if you’re branding cattle Think: lightly, carefully.” She selected a button and effortlessly attached it to a shirt. Johnny eyed the exhibition with cool detachment, but his jaw tightened and she heard his teeth grind.

Demoralizing him wasn’t her intention. Indeed, she was starting
to be amused by his fumbling attempts to serve his sentence. Though he didn’t talk a lot, she did glimpse an occasional smile, tempting her to think that he was warming, if not to his sentence, then at least to his surroundings.

Lately, her thoughts were plain worrisome. Like noticing how nice his hair looked after a bath, all soft and touchable in long, brown waves. Or when he nicked himself on the chin while shaving. She found herself wanting to wet a cloth and wipe the tiny flecks of dried blood away. She glanced at him and then back at her handwork.
He is a criminal, Ragan
. But she
had
been taught to love one another. Papa had drummed the Lord’s commandment into his family’s heads day after day when he’d been younger.

But after three weeks Johnny had finished most of the house repairs along with other sundry chores, and now she simply did not have the resources to keep him busy other than the daily session with the judge. It had been easy enough to send Max Rutherford outside to play stick ball when his work was finished. He’d spent many idle hours honing his batting skill. She even played catch with the boy a few times.

She held the repaired shirt up for inspection. “See? Good as new.”

Johnny glanced at her and then the shirt. “Sewing’s woman’s work.”

Ragan set a pile of mending in front of him. No matter how the Lord softened her heart toward this man, it would be nice if he would cooperate with a more willing spirit because, for now, they were stuck with each another.

“By the time you’ve worked your way through that pile of mending, you’ll be able to sew on buttons as well as or better than any woman.” She smiled sweetly. “In case you ever wish to take up tailoring.”

He grunted something, and yanked thread through a button-hole.

Untying her apron, she slipped it over her head. Sewing wasn’t her favorite chore either. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

The needle drew blood again. “Sweet Hilda!” he muttered under his breath. He gave her a look black enough to sour milk.

“Lightly, carefully,” she repeated over her shoulder. Closing the door behind her, she released a sigh.

Soon she was bent over the woodpile, chopping kindling. The sharp ax bit into the fine wood, causing chips to fly. The sun was warm, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed outdoor chores far more than indoor ones. She picked out a few pieces for her father and laid them aside. He was prone to leave the house to search for wood when his basket was empty.

Absorbed in her work, she didn’t hear approaching footsteps. A shadow fell over the woodpile as she raised the ax above her head to swing. A hand shot out to clasp her wrist. Startled, she stared into John McAllister’s unsmiling face. Her heart flew to her throat, and her hand automatically tightened around the ax handle.

His eyes darkened to a black hue at her response. “Afraid of me, Miss Ramsey?”

If she were, he would never know it. Her gaze met his steadily. “Are you through with the mending?” He couldn’t be. There were enough missing buttons to keep him busy all afternoon.

His eyes shifted back to the woodpile. “I’ll swap chores with you.”

Shaking off his hand, she raised the ax and swung it. Kindling flew. “No, thank you. I’d just as soon chop wood.” She’d just as soon do about anything other than mend.

He took a step back to avoid being hit. “Women sew. Men chop wood.”

She took another mighty swing, splitting a log in half. “Not in Barren Flats.” He stared at the two pieces and then at her.

They’d had the same argument this morning when he wanted to paint the eaves instead of beat rugs. She refused to humor him. He would never learn discipline if she caved in every time he disagreed with her instructions.

Reaching for another log, she jerked back when a green garter snake slithered from under the pile. Dropping the ax, she hopped aside. Try as she would, she couldn’t overcome her snake jitters. The little reptile
darted her way, and she whirled, colliding with a wall of solid chest muscle. Her eyes locked with McAllister’s, and a ridge of goose bumps broke out on her arms. She’d never been this close to a man.

Swallowing hard, she tried to keep her voice even. “Would you please pick it up and carry it to the garden?”

Johnny cocked his head and frowned. “It? You mean the kindling?” He bent to pick up the wood she had just split.

She gritted her teeth. “No, Mr. McAllister. The snake.”

A slow grin started at the corners of his mouth and spread across his face. Her cheeks grew hot and her heart sank. This was his moment of triumph. That snake could dart straight up her skirt and he wouldn’t lift a hand to prevent it.

“Oh,
it
. The snake.” His innocent eyes held hers. “Sorry. I have buttons to sew on.” He turned and sauntered back to the house.

She glared at his retreating back. Where was a good-size rock when you needed one? Well, all right! The battle lines were drawn. By cracker, she was through being pleasant to this man!

Keeping one eye on the snake and the other on McAllister’s retreating back, Ragan picked up the ax and prodded the slithering creature toward the garden with the handle. Just let McAllister ask her for help with the dishes—or mending—or rug beating—or anything else!

The screen door slammed shut.

She fanned her face.

Rogue.

When she returned to the kitchen a short while later, the judge was up from his nap. The two men sat at the table, sorting buttons. Kitty was perched in the middle of the activity, batting at strays. Dumping an armload of wood into the kindling box, Ragan gave Johnny a sinister look as she reached for a match. “Up from your nap so early, Procky?”

The judge frowned, placing a blue button on a pile. “I couldn’t sleep. Came to the kitchen for a glass of buttermilk, and John looked like he could use my help.”

Ragan closed her eyes. Procky was too softhearted to deal with
prisoners. If only he would realize that his sympathy with his subjects made her job that much harder.

Her gaze touched briefly on Johnny’s hands. They looked like raw meat where he’d pricked himself with the needle. A pile of mending was still in front of him. Her heart turned over.

Johnny avoided meeting her eyes.

The judge frowned, reaching for another button. “Are all those potatoes for us? Are we feeding an army this evening?”

“No. I fixed extra so I could take some home to Papa tonight.” “Your sisters don’t know how to mash potatoes?”

“Of course they do, but Papa seems to think mine are special.”

“Well, I’d have to agree with Fulton on that one.” He smiled at Johnny. “Guess you’ve noticed she’s a dandy cook.”

“The grub’s edible.”

Ragan struck a match and threw it in the stove.
Edible. He sure
eats my apple pies without complaint.
The kindling caught, and she shoved the iron lid into place. Shooing Kitty off the table, she moved to the cabinet.

The judge dropped another button on the pile and began as he did every day about this time. “You know, John, you’ve been mighty quiet since you got here. Tell us a little more about yourself.”

Ragan pretended interest in what she was doing, but her ear was tuned to the conversation. She’d like to know something about him. Where he came from, how he came to be in his present situation. Anything but those stone-cold eyes—she knew them far too well.

Johnny focused on his task. “There’s nothing of interest to tell, Judge.”

Cutting through the underbrush, Johnny rode a dry riverbed through a canyon. The horse was winded, but he pushed the animal harder, up and down ravines, in and out of thickets. He turned up a steep incline. When they burst out of the brush, the sorrel’s head jerked up, and the animal shied nervously.

Johnny found himself staring down the barrels of a half-dozen rifles.

Crows cawed overhead. Heat bore down as the posse leisurely rode toward him, forming a circle, their rifles centered on the middle of his chest.

“Throw down your gun,” the sheriff ordered. Johnny shifted in the saddle. “Look. I know how this seems—”

“Throw it down, boy!”

Johnny’s hands were already in the air. He gingerly lifted the pistol from its holster and let it drop into the dirt.

The sheriff swung off his horse and walked toward him. The man was big and stocky, and he had thirty pounds on Johnny. There was no way to take him, and even if there was, he couldn’t take on six men.

“Where’s the money?”

“Left saddlebag.”

“Get off your horse.”

Johnny dismounted and stood beside his horse, hands above his head.

The sheriff rummaged through the bag. “Ain’t here. Where is it?”

Johnny took a step toward the horse to search. A gun clicked.

“Stay where you are, mister,” one of the men said. “I don’t relish dragging a corpse back to town.”

Johnny lifted his hands higher. “I don’t relish that either.”

The sheriff wasn’t amused. “Where’s the money?”

“I put the bag in my saddle pouch.”

“Ain’t no money here.” The leather saddlebag landed at Johnny’s feet.

He grabbed it and shook it upside down. His heart sank as the contents spilled to the ground. The bank pouch wasn’t there. He studied the men. Not an eye blinked as they stonily returned his look.

“I must have lost it on the trail.”

Heads swiveled to stare back at the way they’d come.

Straightening his shoulders, the sheriff leveled the barrel of his rifle at
Johnny. “Get back on your horse, son.”