Outlaw's Bride (3 page)

S
o this is Paradise.

Johnny’s eyes roamed the room again. Someone needed to buy Judge Leonard a dictionary. Johnny didn’t know much about spiritual things other than what Grandpa had taught him, but he’d gotten the impression that Paradise—or heaven, if there were such a thing—didn’t look a thing like this town. He stood up and walked to the window to part the curtains. God. He mentally scoffed. It had been a long time since he’d thought about his Maker.

Main Street stretched north to south. He’d noticed a livery and blacksmith shop as they came into town. Then they’d passed a general store, telegraph office, bank, the sheriff’s office, saloon, surveyor’s office, and title office. Didn’t look like a place where there would be much buying and selling going on. The buildings were peppered with bullet holes, and he’d noticed more than one buckshot-riddled windowpane. The town looked like a battlefield.

At the south end sat a steepled white building that looked to be in bad shape. He hadn’t seen a cow, goat, or steer in the area.

Johnny let the curtain drop back into place, his mind going back to the ill-fated day two weeks earlier that had brought him here.

After stepping down from his saddle, Johnny climbed the three wooden steps to the First Territorial Bank of California and scanned the row of
weathered wanted posters flapping in the hot breeze for information on outlaw Dirk Bledso. Two smiling women emerged from the land title office. He touched the brim of his hat. “Morning, ladies.”

They eyed his trail-worn appearance and ragged shoulder-length hair. Chins tilting upward, they pointedly looked in the opposite direction. One raised a dainty lace handkerchief to her nose and sniffed as she passed.

And a good morning to you. He wasn’t surprised by their lack of civility. A lot of folks didn’t cotton to drifters.

His gaze shifted back to the posters. No telling how old these things were. He smoothed a torn fragment, holding it down with his palm. Outlaw Jack Brooks, wanted for thieving horses. He’d been hanged two years back, in seventy-four, for his crimes.

A gust of hot wind ruffled the tattered flyers, and Johnny reached to steady one. Nothing posted about the Bledso gang, in particular Dirk, the yellow-bellied coward who had consumed Johnny’s life since the day he shot and killed the McAllister family. Bledso, known in some circles as the Viper, always seemed to be one county ahead of him. Then, about two years ago, all news of the Bledso brothers had dried up. They seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

The slaughter drilled through Johnny’s mind as it had hundreds of times in the past sixteen years—Mama’s screams, her pleas that the children be spared. Baby Elly’s frightened whimpers while little Lara slept, never knowing the terror she faced. Johnny’s hand tightened into a fist. Pa’s angry shouts, in his struggle to save his family, still rang in his ears. The images cut through his soul like a knife.

Memories tightened Johnny’s stomach, and the acrid taste of sun-dried hay choked him. Sweat had rolled down his temples into his shirt collar as he huddled in the barn loft, terrified for his life. No twelve-year-old should have to witness such carnage. No one of any age should have to see those horrors.

A ruckus inside the bank jerked Johnny back to the present. Raised voices barked orders, growing persistently louder. He stepped toward the open door as three masked men burst through in a hail of bullets. Two aimed their pistols over their shoulders, returning fire.

A big man with a bushy red beard encircled the waist of a young, screaming girl with one arm while he shot with the other. Fighting to break free, she kicked and struggled.

Johnny dodged another round of bullets. Instinctively, his hand flew to his holster. Before he could pull his pistol, the frantic girl latched onto his hand. His fingers reflexively clamped around her arm and he pulled, trying to break her assailant’s grip.

The outlaw held on.

“Let her go!” Johnny shouted.

The bearded man tightened his hold, trying to drag his squirming hostage toward a waiting horse.

Diving in headfirst, Johnny knocked the man to the ground. They scuffled, each trying to gain control of the hysterical girl.

The young woman kicked and clawed. Her skirt flipped over her bonneted head and Johnny blindly grappled with a sea of frilly petticoats. Bystanders stood rooted to their spots, eyes wide and mouths agape.

A fourth man backed out of the bank, guns blazing. Two doors away, the sheriff and a deputy spilled from their office, weapons drawn. Bullets zinged and ricocheted in rapid-fire volleys.

Johnny finally gained control of the female. He tucked her close, and in a split-second decision, he made a break for his horse, shielding her with his body. The girl fought like a wildcat, flailing and squealing, pounding his chest as he forced her across the porch, keeping low.

She dug her toes into the boards. “Let go of me this instant!”

Clamping his arm tighter around her waist, he grasped the saddle horn and his foot found the stirrup. Something heavy slammed into his chest and wedged itself between him and the girl. He glanced down to see a bank bag. Teetering in the stirrup, he strained to balance, and then he swung into the leather, positioning her protectively in front of him. His spurs dug into the horse’s sides.

The riders disappeared in a hail of bullets, hightailing it out of town.

Dust rose in red plumes as the sheriff and his deputy returned fire toward the disappearing cloud.

“Put me down! Let me go!” The girl twisted and gave Johnny a hard
uppercut to the jaw. His teeth rattled and stars floated overhead. He fought to stay astride, biting back the metallic taste of blood spreading through his mouth. She could have knocked out his teeth with that blow! He did an inventory—uppers, then lowers—all there. The only casualty was his tongue.

Tightening his grip on her, he warned, “Don’t do that again, young lady.” He grasped her wrists, pinning them against the saddle horn. The big sorrel galloped headlong down the road behind the gang.

“You put me down this minute!” She thrashed, striking out until her heel connected with his shin.

“I’ll be only too glad to do that as soon as you’re out of danger.” He glanced at the bank bag, spurring the horse harder. At least the money had been saved.

Lawmen pounded behind them, firing their weapons. Whipping the sorrel faster, he kept the retreating bank outlaws in sight. Far ahead, the four gunmen cut off the road and ducked into a creosote thicket.

The girl twisted in the saddle and looked back at Johnny, her face contorted. Johnny hitched her tighter. “Don’t you start crying on me. You’re all right.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” she whimpered. Her body quaked against his chest.

“Why would I hurt you?” He was trying to save her from harm. “Just calm down. This will all be over in a few minutes.”

He slowed enough to trail the robbers but stay out of the range of their gunfire. With the girl in front, he couldn’t take a chance on her taking a bullet. The sheriff and his posse were closing in. Soon the thieves would be apprehended, the girl could be safely returned, and the money safe. He cut his horse through the thicket and up a steep embankment.

A bullet zipped by his ear. He bent lower in the saddle, glaring back at the posse. Why didn’t they hold their fire? The robbers were out of range.

“My daddy’s going to be very unhappy,” the girl promised in a voice jolting with each hoofbeat.

Her daddy would be unhappy? What about him? One minute he was minding his own business reading the wanted posters, and the next he
was in the middle of a bank robbery, trying to save her hide. And she was complaining? He ducked another round of posse fire.

She started sobbing, great, anguished wails, and Johnny finally had enough. Forget the robbers. Let the lawmen do their jobs without his help. Slowing his horse, he awkwardly patted the young woman’s heaving back. “Okay, okay. It’s over. I’m not going after them. Dry your tears. You’re safe.”

She shook her head, sobbing louder. “You’re horrible…and…and you’re mean! You robbed our bank, and kidnapped me. You are in so much trouble!” She glared at him, then her lip quivered, and the corners of her mouth dipped downward.

“Robbed your bank? Do you think I was a part of that?” The irony of the situation hit him. That’s exactly what she thought. Why wouldn’t she? He did a quick take at the fast-approaching posse. Did they think he was part of the gang? “Young lady, I didn’t rob that bank.”

“Oh, yes you did.” She sniffed. “I saw you.”

Shifting her to the side, he set her on the ground. He was getting out of here. “Stay right there. The posse will take you home. I’m out of this. They don’t need me anymore.”

She gazed up at him, tears spilling from her big brown eyes.

“Look, I know what you think, but I’m not one of them.”

She sniffed again. “If you’re not a bank robber, what do you have in that bank bag?”

He glanced down, and his stomach pitched. The bank bag. He quickly rammed the bag into his saddlebag, fumbling with the strap.

A shot whizzed by his ear, and his horse lunged forward. He let the animal have his head, turning for a final glance at the girl, who stood, hands on her hips, in the middle of the road.

“You can’t just leave me here!” she wailed, stomping her foot. She hopped up and down, stomping and yelling.

Whipping his horse, Johnny flew down a ravine. The sorrel’s hooves pounded the brush, and then slid on loose rock. The posse was on his heels now.

G
rimacing, Johnny snapped back to the present. He turned, his eyes roaming the small bedroom. Time and love had gone into the furnishings. He touched the spread pattern, running his rough fingertips along the intricate stitching.

Grandma had made quilts. On summer evenings she sat on the front porch, a basket of outgrown clothing by her side. She cut and sewed for hours, patiently explaining the history behind each scrap of fabric, weaving stories and spinning tales as she sewed. Assuring him that God loved him and that he’d always look after him. Right.

Little Elly loved the pink remnant of her baby blanket, and Lara always pointed a chubby, dimpled finger at the flower print of Ma’s work dress. Winters, Grandma sat by the fireplace, her needle flashing as she tackled her piecework with a vengeance. That seemed a lifetime ago. He turned from the window.

He moved to the side of the bed and sat down, careful not to muss anything. Sitting up straighter, he bounced once, testing the old mattress. It had been a long time since he’d slept in a real bed. Months—maybe a year.

He lifted a pillow and smelled soap, sunshine, and fresh air, a far cry from his sleeping bag. Arranging the feather tick carefully back in place, he glanced around him. Now what? Instead of searching for Dirk Bledso, he was stuck in a blue-flowered prison with a quilt made from
scraps of a shirt an old man wore fifty years ago. He could walk away. He’d thought of nothing more for the past week, but in the end he’d be a fool. He’d serve his time, and then he would resume his search. Grandma was right. God had sure looked after Bledso. He had given him another year or two to live.

A light tap sounded at the door, and he waited. A few seconds later the knock sounded again, followed by a woman’s voice. “I have your water.”

She was stubborn. He’d told her he’d get it himself. It had been a long time since he’d had a pitcher of water in his bedroom. It had been a long time since he’d had a bedroom. “Leave it in the hall.”

The bowl clanked as she set it down. “Mr. McAllister?”

“Yes?”

“I cannot overemphasize how the judge likes his meals on time. Supper is at five.” Johnny glanced at the clock over the bedstead. It was ten of five.

When he didn’t answer, she rapped soundly. “Did you hear me?” “

I heard. I’m not hungry.” Or deaf.

“Are you coming?” “

Pretty soon.”

He wasn’t about to sit at a stranger’s table and make polite conversation. He had nothing to say. Nothing these folks cared to hear.

Her tone firmed on the other side of the door. “Judge McMann hates cold food. Unpack your clothes. Supper won’t be on the table for another few minutes.” Her footsteps sounded as she went back downstairs.

Johnny rolled off the bed and walked to the dresser. How long would it take to unpack an extra pair of pants, a shirt, and a change of long johns? There were three large drawers in the chest. One for pants, one for shirts, and one for underwear. He found an extra blanket in the bottom drawer. He’d need an extra blanket in this desert town about as much as he needed that woman firing orders at him.

Stretching, he moved to the north window. Leaning out the sill, he watched the lazy activity below. Not much stirring this time of day.

Scents drifted up the stairway, and he turned and stared at the closed door. Something smelled mighty good. His stomach growled. Maybe he would go down to supper. No, he was a prisoner. Weren’t they supposed to bring his meals to him?

He sat back down on the side of the bed. He’d be so docile they’d think they were babysitting the archangel Gabriel himself. He’d keep his nose clean and his eyes open for word of Dirk Bledso. Maybe he’d get lucky, and Bledso and his no-good cutthroat, yellow-bellied, baby-murdering gang would save him the trouble of tracking them down. Lying back on his pillow, he closed his eyes. Maybe, with a little luck, they’d pay him a visit right here in “Paradise.” The grudge he was carrying was a little heavy after sixteen years.

And when they did, he would shoot them. One by one, he’d put a hole through each of their black hearts, and then he would kick dust in their faces before he walked away.

Grandpa’s voice echoed in his mind.
Johnny boy, the Lord will avenge the enemy.

But he hasn’t avenged mine. Bledso is still alive.
His stomach rumbled. That chicken smelled mighty good.

The sun sank lower. Johnny lay across the bed, careful not to muss the quilt. The hands on the clock crept past five, then five thirty. Six. Quarter to seven. He could hear the judge’s voice, and what did she say her name was? Ragan. Colonel Ragan.

Seven o’clock and not a hint of a breeze came through the open window. His eyes fell on the slop jar. There was no way he was using one of those, so he opened the door and quietly descended the staircase, heading for the outhouse. Muffled voices floated up from the first floor.

Pausing on the landing, he glanced toward the dining room and did a double take when he saw the woman and the judge sitting at the table. Their plates were clean, napkins folded carefully at the side, the silverware untouched on each napkin. A third place was set opposite the woman.

The judge spotted him and smiled. “There you are. Take your seat, Mr. McAllister. Supper is getting cold.”

Ragan gave him a dark look and rose to pour him a glass of tea. Platters of food that had been hot two hours ago sat stone cold in the middle of the table. She motioned to the chair. “I’ll get the burnt biscuits out of the warming oven.”

Johnny edged through the doorway and sat down, his eyes trained on the judge. What was this? Some sort of joke?

When Ragan returned, Judge McMann waited until she sat down, and then he bowed his head. “Blessed Lord, allow this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Thank you for blessing us with the presence of yet another of your children at our table. Let us be a light unto his path and a lamp unto his feet. Amen.”

He looked up pleasantly. “Mr. McAllister, I hope you like fried chicken and biscuits. Please, help yourself.”

Johnny shook his head. He’d been sentenced to a loony bin. “I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. A man has to eat.” The judge picked up a bowl of greens and dished up a healthy serving onto his plate. “We’ve found if we keep our meals on time, the day runs more smoothly. Breakfast is at six, dinner at noon, and supper at five.” He handed Johnny the bowl of greens. “And we do appreciate our guests being on time. Try to remember that.”

Johnny was about to pass the greens along untouched, but Ragan patiently ladled a serving onto his plate. “Do you like sorghum with your biscuits, Mr. McAllister? Or do you prefer butter?”

Two fat biscuits plopped onto his plate before he could protest.

“Butter…I guess.”

The biscuits weren’t burnt, but the chicken was cold and so was the gravy, yet it was the best cold gravy and chicken he’d ever eaten. Before he realized it, he was putting food away like a half-starved animal. When apple pie was served, he downed two pieces, feeling ashamed of himself. He hadn’t tasted food this good since Grandma died.

Judge McMann rolled his wheelchair back from the table, a merry twinkle in his eyes. “I like to see a man with a healthy appetite. Another slice of pie, Mr. McAllister?”

“No. Like I said, I wasn’t hungry.” Johnny pushed his empty plate aside. He met Ragan’s mocking eyes—eyes as blue as the ocean—and then looked away.

The judge chuckled. “My dear old mother used to say she’d rather feed a hungry man any day of the week than one who wasn’t hungry—saved on food. Better reconsider that other piece of pie. You’ll need your strength. You’re doing the dishes tonight. Supper’s run late, and Ragan needs to be getting on home.”

Dishes! He’d rinsed out his coffee cup for years, and he had washed a skillet in a stream occasionally. He’d never washed a whole pan of dishes.

The judge pulled a pipe out of his pocket. “We all take our turn at the sink.”

Ragan picked up their plates and the food bowls, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back in a few moments untying her apron.

“Before I go home, I want to take a piece of pie to the reverend.” She moved aside as the judge wheeled by her and into the parlor.

“Be careful walking home.”

“I always am.” She turned back to Johnny, who still sat at the table, uncertain as to what he should do. She seemed to read his thoughts, and he didn’t like it. His thoughts were his own; the law couldn’t take those away from him. She sighed. “You’ll find hot water on the stove. Clean dishcloths and towels are in the top drawer to the right side of the sink.”

They were serious. They expected him to wash dishes! He’d anticipated man’s work. Since when did a man wash dishes?

“Any questions?”

“What’s the chance of an early parole?”

“None. Be sure to rinse the dishes twice with scalding water.”