Outlaw's Bride

by Lori Copeland

  A moment later, “ You’re Mercer?”

  Johnny winced at the sheriff’s incredulous tone. Because of his deafness he always spoke loudly, and his voice carried well through the crowd.

  Heads swiveled. Jaws went slack.

  “ That’s Mercer!”

  “That can’t be the shootist. That man couldn’t fight his way out of a wet periodical!”

  “It’s him, all right. Look at Carl. He looks fit to be tied.”

  Johnny saw the man’s steely stare. It was Mercer all right. The town just didn’t care to believe it.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Minnie turned away in disgust.

  “Now, Minnie,” Muriel Davidson was overheard trying to pacify her. “Warren always says it’s not a person’s size—”

  “I don’t care what Warren always says. Look at him. He can’t fight these gangs. He’s no bigger than a termite.”

  “Send him back, Mayor,” Mazilea yelled. Mayor Rayles held up his hand and demanded silence. When the clamor died enough for people to hear, he lifted his voice above the confusion. “Folks, er…now, calm down. It seems there’s been a mistake—Warren! Stop playing that blessed tuba!”

  Tuba strains died away.

  “Is that Mercer?” someone in the crowd shouted.

  “Er…yes. Now, let’s not jump to conclusions…”

  The crowd pushed forward. Mayor Rayles and Sheriff Lutz were forced to step back or be trampled.

  “We want our money back!”

  “Oh, my.” Ragan pressed her hanky to her forehead. “This is just awful.”

  Judge McMann stood and tried to peer over the frenzied gathering. “They should at least talk to the man. Why, this is a disgrace.”

  Johnny parted his way through the crowd, moving toward the gunman. Granted, Mercer didn’t look as if he could whip cream, but looks were deceiving.

  “Send him back!”

  Johnny couldn’t believe his ears. In their midst was one of the deadliest guns in the West, and they were complaining because he wasn’t as big as they had imagined he would be?

  He reached Mercer as the crowd formed a ring around the mayor, calling for his removal. By now Mercer stood to the side, stiffly watching the exhibition.

  “Lars Mercer?”

  Mercer’s eyes narrowed, his hand dropping to his holster concealed beneath a dark blue suit coat. “Who wants to know?”

  Johnny extended his hand. “John McAllister.”

  Mercer ignored the gesture, refusing to shake. “What’s going on here?”

  Johnny studied the crowd. He wasn’t about to apologize for others’ bad manners. Then he saw Ragan, and his thoughts tempered. This was her town, and it was a troubled town. “They’re having a rough time right now. They don’t mean any disrespect.”

  Mercer leaned over and spat. “Who’d they expect? Wyatt Earp?”

  Glancing at the judge, who was moving forward, Johnny said quietly, “Do you know Dirk Bledso?”

  Mercer kept an eye on the restless crowd. “Sure, I know the Viper. Why?”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  The gunman’s eyes returned to Johnny. “What’s it to you?”

  “I have something that belongs to him.” A bullet with Bledso’s name on it.

  Mercer leaned over and spat again. “So?”

  Johnny kept his tone casual. “Bledso’s a hard one to catch up with. I suppose he and his brothers are still tearing up towns?”

  Mercer made a sound like a laugh, but it was easy to see he wasn’t amused. “Yeah, those boys are real mean.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, Mercer frowned. “Haven’t seen Dirk in a while. Last time I bumped into him was over in Callum County—two, maybe three years ago.” The two men turned to look as the noise around the platform swelled again.

  “Send him back,” the crowd yelled in unison.

  Mercer eyed them sourly. “Them people are nuttier than a pet coon.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ragan watched the unfolding spectacle, sick at heart.“

  Roll me to the platform,” Judge McMann said to her. “I’m going to put a stop to this.”

  Ragan pushed the chair through the noisy crowd, her eyes centered on Johnny and Mercer. What were those two talking about? Her heart sank. Did Johnny and Mercer know each other? Was Johnny thinking about doing something foolish? It would be simple to cause a ruckus and slip off through the crowd. Don’t jump to conclusions. She was being as unfairly judgmental as the others.

  “Mayor Rayles!” Judge McMann shouted above the noise. The crowd parted and allowed the judge access to the platform.

  When the mayor spotted McMann, he stepped down, mopping his brow. “Judge.” He nodded to Ragan. “We got ourselves in a real fine predicament here.”

  Judge McMann moved closer. “What’s the problem, Carl?”

  “Well…just look at Mercer. He’s not exactly what we had in mind.” Carl wiped his nose and then shoved the handkerchief back into his hip pocket. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

  Heads swiveled to stare at the shootist.

  Mercer stiffened, nailing the entire assemblage with a hard look, his hand perched defiantly on his Colt revolver.

  Eyes switched back.

  “Exactly what about him don’t you like, Carl?” the judge asked.

  Carl leaned closer. “Look at him, Procky. He’s little—skinny as arail. And reedy—real reedy. We need a man for this job.”

  Judge McMann’s eyes traveled to Mercer. “Seems to me you’re being a little unfair, aren’t you, Carl? Can’t tell a book by its cover.”

  “I can read that book, Judge.” They turned to look at the spindly shootist.

  “We’re sending him packing and demanding our money back,” Minnie declared.

  “We can’t ask for our money back.” Carl mopped his forehead with his coat sleeve. “The man’s come all the way out here. We can’t ask for our money back just because he’s small.”

  “We’ll pay for his fare, but you’ll have to get our deposit back, Carl.” Minnie snapped open her parasol. “And be quick about it. No use wasting the man’s time.”

  Carl, perspiration trickling down his face, went to break the unpleasant news to Mercer.

  Johnny moved back to stand by the judge as the mayor told Mercer that due to an unforeseen circumstance, his services would not be needed.

  Judge McMann said softly, “Something tells me we’re making a mistake.”

  Ragan turned, concern lining her face. “What do you think, Mr. McAllister? Could Mercer do the job?”

  Removing his hat, Johnny ran a hand through his hair. What he thought didn’t matter. By now, there wasn’t enough money in the state to make Mercer stay. “Looks and size don’t make a man.”

  “That’s true,” the judge murmured.

  Everett added his two cents. “That’s entirely right, Judge. A man’s size don’t matter—it’s his abilities that count.”

  The crowd dispersed as Mercer got back on the stage. A moment later, it pulled slowly from the platform.

  “Well, so much for a shootist!” Roberta straightened her hat.

  “It’s only a minor setback. We’ve made a sound decision,” Minnie said. “To think that a pint-sized man like that believing he could clean up a town.”

  Snapping open their parasols, the two women went to begin the picnic.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following Monday afternoon, Ragan poured lemonade for the ladies’ quilting group in Judge McMann’s living room. The subjects of Lars and the raids had been thoroughly discussed, and conversation had turned to the upcoming Founders’ Day celebration, held the first weekend in September.

  “Why, Frank can’t wait for the pie tasting,” Kensil Southern exclaimed. “He’s talked of nothing else since he was a judge last year. His favorite is blueberry, but Minnie’s pecan holds a close second with him.”

  The mayor’s wife blushe
d. “Oh, Kensil, it’s a very average pecan. I use just a dribble of sorghum, you know. That’s what gives it that bit of an edge.”

  “I don’t see how your Frank stays so skinny, eating all that pie!”

  “He never has been one to put on weight. Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Mazilea, are you entering your green tomato chow-chow this year? That’s always a winner.”

  “Yes . Shorty’s eaten most of it already, but I have some put back, so I’ll have an entry. Bringing some pickled watermelon rind and okra too.”

  “Oh, you make the best pickled okra around. My mouth waters just thinking about it.”

  “Alvin’s gathering hay and targets for the shooting match. Justine, are your boys shooting this year?”

  The blacksmith’s wife nodded. “Couldn’t keep them away.”

  “Poor Everett. He’ll be in there trying again, though he can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  “Yes, dear boy. He really is a dismal shot.” Roberta Seeden glanced at Ragan and then back to her sewing.

  “Well,” Minnie bit off a thread. “One thing’s going to change this year.”

  The ladies turned their attention to the mayor’s wife. “There’ll be no liquor at the celebration. I’ve made that very clear to Carl.”

  “How’re you going to prevent it, Minnie? You know some of those men and their spirits. My mister doesn’t partake, but it will take more than you to stop the troublemakers.” Though Haleen’s hands were now too arthritic to sew, she always came to the meeting.

  “I put my foot down, that’s how. I’ve been checking the cellar every evening after Carl’s in bed. Nary a drop of spirits down there. And Florence is watching Hubie to be sure none are sneaked from the saloon.”

  Florence’s needle paused. “Well, they are two of the biggest offenders. The past few years, Hubie’s stashed away rum for Carl to pick up on his way home in the evenings. Now when Carl comes by, I keep a close eye on those two.”

  The ladies exchanged sympathies, except for Minnie.

  Lillian Hubbard frowned. “Alcohol should never have been introduced to the celebration. If it weren’t for that Harold Layman and his shiftless ways, our men wouldn’t think about consuming.”

  Minnie sniffed. “My Carl, for one, will not consume this year.”

  “Minnie, you always say that, and at every celebration Carl imbibes. The men always find a way,” Kensil Southern said.

  Haleen nodded in agreement. “Men will be men.”

  “They won’t this year, I tell you. I’ve made my intentions clear. There’s not a single drop in the cellar—nor will there be between now and Founders’ Day.”

  Sighing at the familiar argument, Ragan set aside her sewing and got up to bring more lemonade for her guests. She glanced out the kitchen window and saw Johnny scrubbing screens. Powerful arm muscles flexed as he worked.

  With each passing day, she knew, knew in her heart, that he had been falsely accused. Johnny McAllister wasn’t a bank robber. He might be guilty of poor judgment, but she knew a criminal when she saw one. And he wasn’t one.

  Chapter Twenty

  Early the following morning Ragan announced she was out of coffee, so after breakfast Johnny walked her to the mercantile. When they parted at the door, he smiled. “Don’t spend all day in there talking.”

  “Since when did you get to be so bossy?”

  Winking, he tugged one of the ribbons on her bonnet and walked away grinning. He could feel her eyes following him as he stepped off the porch.

  Minnie Rayles emerged from the general store and looked both ways for Carl. The mayor was across the street at the surveyor’s office, but it was obvious Minnie didn’t know where her husband had gone.

  Johnny sauntered toward her and took the two large bags from her arms. “I’ll get those for you, Mrs. Rayles.”

  Minnie had to take two steps with her plump little legs to his one, and she bustled to keep up. “Thank you, Johnny. You’re a sweet man.” She reached up and pinched his cheek, and he winced.

  He set the groceries on the buckboard seat, his cheek stinging. Tipping his hat, he smiled. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  Minnie tittered. “Oh, I shall. Ta-ta!”

  How that woman could be so much like Grandma’s sister, Aunt Tess, he’d never know. He felt like a nine-year-old around the mayor’s wife. Aunt Tess had pinched his cheek like that when he’d done something to please her.

  Leaning against the bank railing, he took inventory of the town. People went about their business as if they hadn’t made complete fools of themselves with Mercer. Music already spilled from the open doorway of the Oasis Saloon.

  He wondered if there was any real chance Bledso’s gang would ever come through Barren Flats. Every other lowlife seemed to.

  Removing his hat, Johnny wiped sweat off the headband. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, and it was hot enough to cook an egg on the board walk. His eyes swept Main Street as time dragged. Well, if there was anything he had, it was time.

  His hand crept down his thigh to feel the space left by his missing pistol. What if he got his chance at Bledso before his gun was returned? The thought plagued him. Judge McMann might let him use an ax to chop wood, but his trust didn’t carry over to a gun.

  “There is one more requirement you must fulfill before this court is satisfied that the correct sentence has been handed down.” Judge Leonard leaned forward in his chair. “John McAllister, I want your word, as a man, that you will serve the sentence and will return before this bench at its completion.”

  “You have my word, sir.”

  The judge nodded gravely. “I’m an old man. Some folks don’t like my sentences—sometimes I wonder myself if they’re sound. Tomorrow morning at daybreak, you’ll be transported to Paradise, California, where you will begin your punishment. I’ll expect to see you back in this courtroom at the successful completion of your term.”

  Johnny nodded. He would be back—unless he ran into Dirk Bledso. In that case the judge’s efforts on his behalf would be in vain. If, and when, he met up with Bledso, he would kill him. He’d never get Grandpa’s gun back, and that bothered him. But the way Bledso had butchered his family in cold blood disturbed him more. Besides, if he killed a man he’d hang. He’d have no need of a gun to hand down to his son.

  Was killing Bledso worth it? Sometimes he looked at the people here in Barren Flats and envied their home lives. Their children. When he was twelve he hadn’t thought about a wife and kids; only revenge. He hadn’t known then that carrying a grudge could wear a man down.

  Bitterness gnawed at him, an acridity he couldn’t shake. Folks had wanted Mercer to clean up their town. He laughed. Couldn’t be done. Justice couldn’t be carried out without a lot of violence, and folks here didn’t have the stomach for it. Bledso had ended life as he knew it, in one senseless act. He’d destroyed almost everyone who ever cared about him. Grandpa had loved him, but now he was gone too. He focused on Ragan, who was talking to Roberta Seeden in the mercantile. If things were different, he might court a woman like that. Or at least he’d try. But he couldn’t have a decent woman and kill Bledso. Ragan was a strong believer, and at times he envied her faith. She might not be the Scripture-quoting kind, but she lived her faith. He’d seen it in the way she took care of the judge and her family. She worked long hours to keep them all fed, clothed, and healthy. Killing wouldn’t be in her vocabulary. So he’d go on searching for Bledso. Sleeping in a lonely bed at night. Awaiting a hangman’s noose.

  His restless gaze traced the streets, pausing at the telegraph office. The clerk—Everett…what was his last name? Pidgin?—leaned on the counter, chin propped in his hand, gawking at Ragan through the mercantile window.

  Poor besotted fool.

  Ragan’s laughter floated through the open doorway. A man would be hard pressed not to desire a woman like her. Soft, sweet, smelling of rosewater, exuding domesticity.

  An elusive thought teased him. Pidgin had mentio
ned wanting to learn to shoot a gun. He, on the other hand, needed access to a gun but was forbidden to handle a firearm.

  Pushing away from the post, Johnny sauntered across the street to the telegraph window. Everett was so engrossed in watching Ragan that he didn’t hear Johnny’s footsteps.

  “Hot today.”

  The clerk’s head snapped around and suspicious eyes centered on him.

  Everett’s face was too long, his eyes narrow set. He had a lantern jaw, a five o’clock shadow, thick lips, long sideburns, and he was thirty pounds too light for his six-foot-four frame.

  The clerk watched as Johnny approached. “Can I help you?”

  Johnny casually adjusted the brim of his hat. “Just waiting for Ragan to finish up at the mercantile. Thought it might be cooler over here.”

  Everett busied himself straightening papers. His open resentment was amusing—no, actually, it was pathetic. Pidgin carried a torch the size of Texas for a woman he could never have. Obviously Everett considered his presence at the McMann house threatening, though he couldn’t imagine why.

  Ragan was out of his league. Women like her had always been out of his league. She wanted home and family; he wanted Dirk Bledso to pay for his sins. The two didn’t mesh, and it would be foolish to ever think otherwise. That would be a fatal error on his part, and his goal was to make as few errors as possible. The last one had cost him at least one year, maybe two, of his life.

  Lifting the dipper out of the water pail, Johnny took a long drink. He glanced at Pidgin, who was now busy scribbling on a yellow pad. It was possible they could accommodate one another. He couldn’t be caught with a gun in his possession, but he did need to know where he could get his hands on one if Bledso showed up. Taking a final swig, he tossed the remainder of the water onto the ground.

  “Founders’ Day a big celebration around here?”