Outlaw's Bride by Lori Copeland Page A

killing. The Good Book says ‘thou shalt not kill,’ but unless we hire Mercer, we will be killed.”
    “Yes,” Austin agreed with a solemn nod. “Hate the thought of violence, vile as those gangs are, but we have to protect our women and children.”
    When Ragan realized others were watching her shamelessly gawk, she quickly averted her gaze, surprised at how giddy the sun made her feel. She should have worn her hat, as the judge suggested.
    A tall, thin, intense-looking man joined the conversation. “Roberta’s all the time talkin’ about calling the town Paradise again. That sure would be nice. It would do us a world of good to take back our rightful name.”
    The men readily agreed. Johnny McAllister contributed nothing except another nail.
    Ragan could hear the men’s banter as she set dishes of food on the long, cloth-covered tables. Crisp fried chicken, biscuits, and jars of pickles, corn relish, and spiced peaches scented the thick air. Nearly every able-bodied soul in Barren Flats had turned out to help with the reconstruction.
    The workers set upon the repairs as if with personal vendettas. Children worked diligently grooming the grounds. They piled debris to be burned later, and even the smallest tikes picked up tinder and hauled it away.
    The clock hands inched slowly toward noon. Finally, Mazilea Lynch reached for the dinner bell and swung it in a wide arch, and the workersquickly laid down their hammers and saws and migrated toward the food area. Children scrambled toward the tables and were taken in tow by their parents.
    Ragan poured lemonade and watched Johnny, who was helping the judge fill his plate. Procky seemed to be unusually picky about his food today, and she realized with a sinking feeling that he was actually enjoying Johnny’s attention.
    For a moment she struggled with a disturbing thought. Procky’s only son lived hundreds of miles from Barren Flats and rarely got home for a visit. The judge missed him terribly, and she prayed Procky wasn’t beginning to see Johnny as a substitute for Blake. That would only complicate matters and end up hurting Procky. She stole another glance at Johnny—whose thick, soft-looking hair gleamed in the sun—and realized she was the one in danger, not the judge. Their weeks together had mellowed her, and she had begun to look forward to her duties, to working with this man. She knew him well enough now to feel that when he said he wasn’t guilty of the bank robbery that he was telling the truth. Either that or he was a skillful fraud.
    But when Johnny’s time was up, he’d be gone, and neither she nor the judge would ever hear from him again.
    Remember that, Ragan, and don’t make me keep repeating the warning.

Chapter Sixteen

    J ohnny finished the last of his potato salad and leaned back against the tree trunk. Tipping his hat over his eyes, he dozed during the temporary respite. The sun was hot, and his belly was full. His mind wandered back to the day of his trial.
    The crowd was tight outside the building, and they booed when Johnny came through the doorway.
    “Clear the way,” the sheriff yelled, pushing bystanders aside.
    A burly onlooker pressed closer as Johnny was led from the courtroom.
    “McAllister.”
    Johnny turned at the harsh whisper, and a man stepped in close. His eyes narrowed, and a set of rotting teeth flashed beneath a bushy red beard. An evil smile widened on the man’s ruddy features.
    “You’re a dead man, McAllister.”
    Puet. The man who robbed the bank. Johnny halted and turned to say something to the deputy, but the officer shoved him ahead.
    “Get on,” he ordered.
    Johnny stumbled and righted himself. Turning to look over his shoulder, he searched the spectators for the outlaw.
    There wasn’t a person who looked remotely like him in the crowd.
    J ohnny shook his head. If Puet wanted him, he’d have to come to Paradise to get him.
    “More lemonade, Mr. McAllister?” Johnny cracked an eye to find Jo Ramsey