The Healer's Touch (11 page)

“If I go to all the trouble of fixin' for a hanging you are going to bring your man here, aren't you? You're not going to turn him loose if he lives. You'd be a fool.”

And she'd make a bigger fool of him. “If you'd like, you can come get him. Mother might even invite you inside.”

The jailer paled. “That ain't necessary. I'll take your word on it.”

She hadn't given her word. “You said this Cummins person was seen in the area recently?”

“He was—but something spooked him real good and he hightailed it outta town like a cat on moonshine—forgot all about buying his tobacco. What makes you ask?”

“Well, I'm thinking it could be him in my parlor.”

“No.” The jailer lifted a thoughtful hand to his jaw. “Don't reckon so. One of Cummins's cousins was in yesterday and he didn't mention anything about Jim. If Cummins had gone missin' in your parlor, the boy would have asked about him.”

The whole situation took on a troubling aspect. If the man on Mother's sofa was really an outlaw in need of hanging there should be an image of him among these…sterling-looking specimens. Shouldn't there?

“If you don't mind me saying so, I don't know why any of this should trouble you. Just hand him over and I'll take care of your problem. Don't matter if he feels good or not—in a split second he'll be out of his misery.”

“I thought you didn't go looking for trouble.”

“I ain't looking for it, but when it's handed to me I dispose of the matter. You bring him in and I'll hang him.”

She turned. “And if he isn't wanted by the law?”

“Well then, I'd say he'd be having a bad day and I'd also say if he's in these hollers he's wanted for something.”

Bad day, indeed. She'd consider being strung up like a smoked ham more than a bad day; it would be criminal if the man were innocent. Yet there wasn't a single reason for her to think him blameless. Just because he was dazed didn't mean he was harmless. Shaking her head she moved away from the board. “There's one other thing.”

“Yes'm?”

“If there is a bounty on this man's head what would it be?”

“Don't rightly know the amount, but a man like Cummins won't bring much. But if you had part of a Younger gang, now, you'd be looking at a lot more money.”

“A hundred dollars?”

“Ma'am, a bounty can to go five thousand and up if 'n it's the right person. Depends on the charges and if he's killed anyone important.”

Five thousand dollars. A fortune. The amount spun in her head. She and Lark would be set for life. They could go anywhere—on a ship, travel by coach, and stay in the nicest hotels.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “Not likely you got Frank, but anyone ridin' with that Younger gang is bad news. If you should happen to have one of them in your possession then we're talkin' real money.”

Nodding, she stepped around him and walked to the door.

“So you'll deliver him tomorrow early one way or the other?”

She paused. “He's worth more alive than dead, isn't he?” She had to be smart about this transfer. If a man was dead he wasn't much good to anyone, and it seemed to her folks in this town surely took delight in their executions.

The man shrugged. “Depends who he is.”

“I'll expect due pay when I bring him.”

“Yes, ma'am. Once we sort out who he is.”

When she shut the door his words still rang in her head. “Depends who he is.”

All she had to do was figure that out.

Lark turned red in the face. “I don't want to
leave
here. Boots couldn't go with us.”

“No, Boots can't go with us, but we're not staying.” Lyric set a wicker basket on the table. While she'd been in town she picked up a few supplies. Sugar, flour, and cornmeal.

“That's not fair, Lyric. You're the one who doesn't like the holler. Just because we're snubbed and feared doesn't mean we can't have a nice life here. Boots is the only friend I need. She's the only friend I've ever had.”

“You'll make new friends wherever we go.” Granted, Lark was more reclusive than she; her sister could bury her face in a book and stay there for hours, while Lyric sometimes felt the loneliness would choke her. But if Lark set her heart to something, nothing would change it. She made up her mind quickly and rarely if ever changed a decision. She didn't need adventures—not like Lyric.

Many was the time Lyric had sat on the front step and listened to the music floating from the church house on Saturday evenings and longed to be a tiny part of the socials. Sometimes she would bake a cake and enjoy a piece on the porch while the festivities went on below, pretending that she was there. Lark preferred to stay in her room, window shut, engrossed in a story.

“May I have this dance, Miss Bolton?”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Somebody. I would be honored.”

And then a handsome man would swing her into his arms and her feet would fairly fly over the wood floor, her laughter blending with that of other young women her age. Oh, she knew her dreams
were foolish, and a man would never hold her in his arms. When she began her new life she would be compelled to tell any suitor that her mother was a madwoman, and she had no doubts the news would dash cold water on any potential beau's fancies. After all, what if Edwina's craziness had been passed down to her daughters? A man had a right to know that sort of thing.

Lark scooted back from the table. “I won't go. I'm not leaving the holler. I've lived here all of my life and I plan to die here.”

“You plan to eventually marry Murphy Hake, but that is only a senseless, youthful dream, Lark. He's five years older than you and will most likely be married by the time you're of age.”

“He won't marry. He'll wait for me.”

Lark turned. “Does he know you think that?”

“If you're askin' if I've informed him, no. That would be silly. It would scare him away. I'll be grown in three years. Everything will be different then. He may want me to be eighteen or nineteen but I'm in no hurry.” She smiled. “God made that man just for me.”

“Lark, I have never thought of you as a foolish girl but you're talking like a child. We don't know God's plans and it's foolish to speculate that way.”

“It isn't foolish. And he won't marry just any woman. He'll wait for me.” She crossed her arms. “And I intend to be here when he starts looking.”

“You're hopeless. You will go with me when the time comes.” Lyric set a sack of flour and a tin of baking soda on the counter. There was plenty of yeast still in the pantry. Tonight the house would smell of fresh bread.

“You can't make me leave.”

“I'll hogtie and drag you if I have to.”

“That's so unfair! Wait…” Lark vacated her chair and went to Lyric's side as she pulled a sack of sugar out of her bag. “We actually have sugar?”

“I thought we'd celebrate. Once I take the stranger to town and
collect the reward we'll celebrate with a nice peach pie. I still have three jars of canned peaches from last summer.” She turned to peer over her shoulder. “Where's the man?”

“He was on the porch last I saw of him.”

“He made it out there on his own?” Panic filled her. Had he seen his chance to escape? It wasn't possible. If he tried to escape he wouldn't get far.

Lark nodded, slipping a pinch of sugar in her mouth. “He seems stronger today.”

“That's not possible. He's lost too much blood.”

“Still, I saw him try to go up and down the front steps. Twice. It took him a long time, but he made it. I don't think he's going to die. I think he's too stubborn or too strong.”

The man had to be weak as a kitten. He'd barely eaten a morsel since his injury and now he was attempting to climb steps?

“He must have an iron constitution.” Lyric closed the pantry door, her eyes scanning the kitchen. “What time is it?”

Lark glanced out the window. “I'd say shortly before noon.” Years ago they had learned to tell time by the sun's position. The clocks in the house were rarely wound.

“I'll go look for him. You need to make Mother some fresh broth.”

“She won't eat it, Lyric. She barely rouses these days. I think she wants to let go and pass on, but she can't.”

“Perhaps the Lord is allowing her more time.” Lyric sighed heavily. The years had been long, but she would miss Edwina when she passed. Her mother was cold and indifferent at the best of times, but Lyric did care. She'd seen moments when Edwina softened. She had cried when her favorite cat died. They'd sat on the back step that night and Lyric had cradled her like a small child.

“Do you think we'll end up crazy like her?”

“I don't know. I pray not.”

“If we do, there's no escaping it…so why not stay here and be content?”

“Because I can't be happy here; I want more than accusing stares and cold backs turned on me.” She lifted the window for a bit of fresh air. “I want to go to a dance someday.”

“You can go anytime you want. They have one twice a month at the church.”

“Wouldn't that be a sight? Me, Lyric Bolton, walking into the church. The room would empty.”

Lark stepped closer. “Only if you stepped into Mrs. Grannier's face and hissed.”

The sisters broke out laughing. Mrs. Grannier was a fussy old fiddlehead who ran the town and spread gossip thick as molasses. The picture Lark painted made Lyric hold her sides in merriment. She could see birdlike Mrs. Grannier screaming like a banshee, latching onto her husband's arm. Mr. Grannier couldn't fight his way out of butcher paper, but he was a pleasant enough soul. At least he didn't step to the opposite side of the street when one of the Boltons came to town.

Lyric's smile gradually faded. She could never go to a dance in this town; no use even considering it. “I'm going to search for the wounded man. Can you start the broth?”

“Sure. Boots is coming by later and we're going to pick greens this afternoon.”

“Good, bring some dandelion—and the polk might be up by now. Pull a few wild onions while you're at it.” Fresh vegetables were always a welcome sight on the table. The tender plants grew wild along the creek bank.

Sighing, she longed to just take a peaceful wade in the creek instead of searching for that bothersome stranger. He couldn't have gone far, not in his pitiful condition.

When she stepped onto the porch she spotted him, way down by the fence row. Frowning, she realized that her outlaw had more fortitude than good sense.

But at least he was still here.

The mild weather was so pleasant that Lyric had decided to air the house. March in Missouri could be warm, windy, and pleasant, or else bring some of the deepest snow of the year. Tender tree buds and blooming daffodils were often buried in soft white mounds. The old saying was true: If you didn't like the weather, stick around for an hour and it would change. And change it would, because winter wasn't finished with them yet. The low bank of clouds in the north promised rough weather, but today held the firm potential of spring, with lilacs and wild asparagus sneaking around the corner.