The Healer's Touch (18 page)

“I'm tired. I'll go back to my room now.” She fixed her gaze on him. “Thank you for reading, young man. I'll think about these words.”

She left the parlor. Returning to his chair, Joseph picked up the cup of cold coffee and sipped, musing over what had just taken place. Edwina was a lost soul, and he prayed that words stronger, more capable than his would reach her before she passed.

“Closer.”

“We
can't
get any closer or they'll see us!”

Lark peered over Boots's shoulder. The girls were hidden behind a fat cedar, watching the Younger house. Already the sun was slowly edging closer to the west and they would be walking home in the dark. They'd been waiting behind the tree for over an hour and not a single soul had come out of the place known to belong to the Youngers. Their now almost daily vigil had produced nothing. They were no nearer to knowing Joseph's identity than they'd been a week ago.

The front door opened and Boots drew in a sharp breath as a man stepped onto the porch, rolling tobacco in a thin white piece of paper. He stood gazing up at the sky as he worked, and then brought the cylinder up to his mouth and sealed the smoke with a lick. A match flared.

“Can you tell who he is?” Boots whispered. The girls had done their homework. They'd studied the posters tacked to the jailor's wall until he'd run them off yesterday, but not before he'd asked about the wounded stranger.

“Is he still alive?”

“He's alive but real sick.”

“You tell your sister that he's got a few more days and then I'll be coming for him.”

Lark's watchful gaze had shifted to the posters once more. “Lyric doesn't want me around him,” she'd said. “Besides, he could be gone by now, dead as a doornail. He looked mighty puny this morning. Who knows if he's still alive?”

Which wasn't a complete fib. He'd been smearing molasses on a biscuit when she left the house this morning, but who knew? He could have died of any number of horrible accidents since then.

The sheriff turned a skeptical eye on her. “You'd better not be lying to me, Lark Bolton. I'm planning to ride up that way when the weather breaks, and you people had better not be harboring a Younger.”

She fixed him with a pout. “Didn't your mother teach you about Jesus and how we're supposed to love one another?”

“This has nothing to do with Jesus, missy. And anyhow, the Good Book says ‘an eye for an eye.' ”

“Then take Joseph's eye.”

The man squinted. “Who's Joseph?”

“That's our man's name.”

“The man you got at your place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you said he was a Younger.”

“Don't know that for certain—that's for you to prove.”

“You're not making a lick of sense. Now you and Boots get on out of here. I got work to do. My word stands. I'll be up to get the prisoner as soon as I get a spare moment.”

Like he had
so
much to do. He was scared to confront Joseph. Lark stiffened her spine, turned, and slammed out.

Nobody could ever convince her that their man was an outlaw. Lyric didn't really believe it either. Lark could see it in her sister's troubled countenance.

She hadn't mentioned the sheriff's threat to Lyric because it would only heighten that uneasy look she'd had in her eyes lately. How long could a body stand at the window and look out and then pace the floor?

Her mind returned to the man standing on the porch smoking. He stood over six feet, was well proportioned, and had a fancy red kerchief tied around his neck. Brawny arms, thick neck. His features were well defined. Well cut lips, expressive mouth, prominent, rounded chin, sandy mustache—

Boots elbowed her sharply.

“What?”

“Stop ogling.”

“I'm not ogling; I'm being observant.”

“Do you recognize him from one of the posters?”

“Umm…he could Bob Younger…or maybe his younger brother, James.”

Boots shook her head. “Is it Bob or James?”

“It's hard to say. The poster images aren't that clear.”

The cabin door opened again and a second man joined the first. Both Lark and Boots wrinkled their noses. He wasn't nearly as pleasant to behold. Deep set eyes, a long, wide jaw, and heavy eyebrows. His eyes had a big long wrinkle over them, and the deep scars on both sides of his mouth made him downright scary.

“Recognize him?” Boots prompted.

“No—the hair is about same shade as Joseph's—or close—no. Our stranger doesn't look a thing like this man.”

Boots checked the sun's location. “Okay. We have time to wait a while longer.”

Activity started to pick up as the supper hour approached. Riders rode in and dismounted. Lark studied their appearances. One was tall and slender with a light complexion, and when he laughed she noted he had a couple of front teeth missing. Another had average
height, stooped shoulders, a light complexion, and a heavy build. It looked like the last thing he needed was another pan of cornbread.

The two girls shared dubious looks and shook their heads.

Hoofbeats approached. This rider looked to be short, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows. His thin upper lip showed the effort of a sprouting mustache but the hair was thin and sparse. His long fleshy nose didn't fit Joseph's shapely one.

Boots perked up when a couple of men rode up and dismounted. Her eyes fixed on the taller one. “What about this fella?”

Lark studied the specimen. He was nearly as handsome as Joseph. He stood well over six feet and had an oval elongated face, high cheekbones, arched brows, deep set eyes, and dark reddish hair inclined to curl at the neck. He removed his hat and her face fell when he called to a friend in a thick Irish brogue, “A good evenin' to you!”

Boots groused, “Bejiggers! I thought we were close.” Her animated voice echoed throughout the holler.

Heads snapped up. Hands moved to guns strapped on hips.

Lark grabbed Boots's hand and hissed. “Run!”

Lyric turned, spoon in hand, as Lark tramped into the kitchen. “Where have you been? I was worried sick. It's well past dark.”

“I know—I'm sorry. Time got away from us.” She handed her sister a limp clump of weeds.

“What's this?”

Cringing, Lark smiled uncertainly. “Dandelion greens.”

“This is nothing more than wild grass.”

“Really?” Lark shook her head and continued through the kitchen. “Well, we were picking after dark.”

When she entered her room she kicked off her wet shoes and moved to the dresser, where she carefully tucked the wallet she'd found earlier in the top drawer.

Somewhere a man must be wondering where he'd lost or misplaced it.

9

J
oseph was high on the rooftop fixing a hole when the day of reckoning arrived. The melting snow had caused so many leaks that Lyric couldn't keep track of them. The old Bolton place needed a man around. The fence was down, and the house needed so many repairs she'd stop counting.

Stirring gravy, Lyric hummed, casting a brief glance out the kitchen window. The spoon froze in place and she closed her eyes in sick despair. Three riders were approaching.

Sliding the skillet to the back of the stove she stepped to the back door and yelled up. “Joseph!”

“Yo!”

“Three riders are coming up the hill.”

The long silence that followed allowed time for her panic to mount. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Crouch behind the fireplace flue. Lie flat.”

“You don't want me to come down?”

“No! Whatever you do,
don't
come down.” The old roof was steeply pitched with alcoves and angles—if the shadow was right a man could hide in the depths without detection. She might live to regret her rash decision, but so be it. She was willing to take the chance. Bolton Holler would witness no hanging today.

Boots and Lark
. Where were they? Gone—they'd left earlier to do something. Pester Murphy, probably.

Moving swiftly to the front door, she opened it and nodded a greeting as the riders approached. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Ma'am.” The riders touched their fingers to the brims of their hats.

“What can I do for you this fine morning?”

The sheriff spoke. “We come for the Younger.”

She frowned. “The Younger?”

“The wounded man. He isn't dead, is he?” Was that a hopeful tone she detected?

She shook her head. “I haven't buried anyone that I recollect.”

The knot in the acting sheriff's throat worked. “Then hand him over.”

“Why, surely, but he isn't in the house.”

“Where is he?'

“Who?”

“The Younger.”

Her hand came to her chest. “Do I have a Younger?”

“Ma'am. Cut the act. Now hand the man over and we'll be on our way.”

“Well, sir, if you think I have a Younger in my house you're more than welcome to come inside and get him.”