The Healer's Touch (23 page)

“Of course not.” She tossed a nut into the bowl. “If the Lord hasn't taken her yet, there's a reason she's still here with us.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“This weak? Maybe six months.”

“What does the doctor say about her condition?”

“He won't come and examine her. He sent word that if I brought her to his office he'd do what he could, but she refuses to leave the house and I would have to carry her to a buggy with her fighting and screaming all the way. I'm sure you've noticed her labored breathing and the way she rarely talks for lack of air.”

“Actually, no. She speaks in short distinct sentences when she makes her unexpected visits.”

“Well, now you know why.” She dropped another nut in the pan. “She can't get enough air for carrying on long conversations.” Lyric offered him one of the shelled walnuts. “What would
you
do with a sudden windfall of money?”

He glanced up when she pierced his thought pattern. “Me? I'd spend it.”

“On what? Suppose we're talking about a good deal of cash. Suppose—just suppose—your bounty would be very profitable.”

“If we're going to suppose let's make it worthwhile. Let's say I'm worth fifty thousand.”

She paused, the pick in midair. “That would make you a very bad person.”

“Extremely bad.” Some folks would give a hand or foot for that kind of security.

“All right, you're worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“Thanks.”

“And you're an extremely bad man who shoots innocent people. And I have you, or I think I have you. What would you do if you were me?”

“Turn my sorry hide over to the sheriff.”

“Even though I'm not certain that you're wanted for anything? And I knew they intended to hang you? For all I know, you could be a salesman traveling the countryside peddling your wares.”

“Where's my wagon?” His eyes strayed to Norman. The horse
was pulling up tender green shoots. He caught back a laugh at the thought of the animal subserviently pulling a peddler's wagon. That horse didn't do anything that wasn't to his liking.

“Perhaps something happened—you took a fall or someone knocked you on the head and your riding through my barn door was purely accidental, and now you can't remember up from down. What if you're a decent man trying to make a living selling vanilla and smelling salts and I turn you over to the sheriff and they hang you?”

He shook his head. “That's a lot of supposing.”

“And you have a wife—and four—maybe five children waiting for you to come home?”

“What if I'm a black-hearted outlaw who would just as soon shoot you as look you in the eye? What if I haven't lost my memory at all, but I'm just biding my time until I take all the booty I can find and ride off?”

Her brow furrowed. “I don't think you're that kind of man.”

“You can't say for sure.” He could easily tell her he wasn't, but still he held back. He'd grown pretty fond of her—fonder than he cared to admit. Not only was she a pretty little thing, but she was as helpless in this holler as Norman would be on a pair of ice skates.

A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “I don't fear that at all, certainly not from a man wearing a woman's dress.”

“Well, I much appreciate your trust,” he mocked.

“You've earned it.” She stuck a bit of nut in his mouth. “Now, tell me what you would do with the money if it was yours.”

“Me?” He thoughtfully chewed. “I'd give it to my Grandpa and Grandma—or at least a good amount of it.”

“Are they in need?”

“Grandpa is a carpenter by trade. He's getting older but he still manages to bring in a little income and Grandma has her egg money, but they need a lot of things. A good plow horse, a new roof, and
the old henhouse needs a match thrown on it.” He sat up straighter. “And I'd buy Grandma one of those new sewing machines, the fancy kind that does a lot of different stitches. She'd be so happy the neighbors would complain her singing was disturbing their afternoon naps.”

“Ahh, that's so thoughtful of you.” She glanced up, curiosity mirrored in her eyes. “Wait—wait! How do you know all that?”

“How?” He scratched his uneven beard, searching for a plausible excuse and mentally berating himself for the slip. “I…I guess my memory's trying to come back. I can see Grandpa and Grandma in my mind, but I don't know where they are.”

Her face lit, and Ian felt his heartbeat quicken. She was so lovely. He'd never seen such a smile. “That's wonderful!” she cried. “Then you remember who you are?”

“Don't get excited. I recall Grandpa and Grandma. Maybe that's a good sign.”

“It's a wonderful sign! It means your mind is starting to clear.”

Reaching into her pan, he selected a nut and popped it in her mouth. She grinned, chewing.

“Good?”

She nodded. “I love walnuts,” she managed to say around the mouthful.

He scooped a handful and put them in her mouth and she broke out laughing, catching the specks of nuts spilling out.

“Taste good?” he teased.

Waving her hand wildly, she shook him away and tried to chew. He enjoyed her antics, grinning. “Want some fudge with those nuts?”

Holding her hand to her chest she managed to munch and swallow the mouthful, still giggling. The sound of her laughter had the effect of a soothing balm. When he looked away momentarily her hand darted to his mouth, and she shoved a handful of walnuts inside.

They broke into laughter and playfully scuffled, upsetting the pan of nuts. When they bent to try to clean up the mess, their eyes met and the laughter died. For a long moment they gazed deep into each other's eyes.

What did she see reflected there? A scruffy, good-for-nothing outlaw, or a solid man—one she longed to know better? He knew what he saw: a lovely young woman who would turn any man's head. Trim figure, tiny waist, wide, trusting eyes rich as brown sugar beneath a crown of honey-colored hair. A woman he could easily take home and proudly introduce to Grandpa and Grandma.

“You look real kissable,” he admitted softly.

“Then why don't you kiss me?”

“Because I'm not going to kiss you dressed like this.”

“What if I just close my eyes?”

He bent closer, whispering, their lips a breath apart. “When this is over,” he said, “I plan to kiss you once in the morning”—he touched her lips—“twice at dinner time”—he kissed her again—“and three more times in the evening.”

“I'm thinking I'd need a few of those kisses you're doling out during the day to tide me over till suppertime.”

“Yes, ma'am. As many and as often as you need.” Her fingers slipped up to lightly thread through his hair, a silent but unmistakable invitation to draw her into his arms and hold her, to bury his face in that mound of sweet smelling honey-colored hair. He closed his eyes, willing strength. This mess was so close to being settled, so very close, but it wasn't. Not yet. And until he was free to claim her, he needed to keep his mind on business.

“Joseph?”

“Yes?”

“Would you please go into the house and change your clothing? I feel really strange kissing you like this.”

“Oh. Sure.” He broke the gaze, tossed the handful of nuts in the
pot, and stood to go inside. He didn't feel good about keeping her in the dark about his memory returning, but it wouldn't be for long and it was to her benefit.

He'd have to remind himself of that often in the coming days.

12

L
ate that afternoon, Ian followed Boots and Lark through the thick undergrowth, swiping brush away from his face. The girls had insisted that he come with them, though he knew the trip was pointless. He knew his identity but he sure wasn't going to tell them. Not until the time was right.

He trailed Boots, who shoved the undergrowth aside and then released bare branches that smacked him in the face. He ducked when she did it a third time.

“Hey. Try to remember I'm behind you.”

“Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

Thwack
.

Shaking his head, he shoved the briar aside. Walking through the woods with these girls was about as discreet as a rhino stalking a squirrel. They could be heard for miles around.

“Keep it down a little,” he said. “They can hear us coming.”

“Sorry.”

Thwack.

He blinked, trying to work a piece of bark from his eye. “Are you sure the Youngers live out this way?”

“Positive,” Lark whispered. “We've been here before.”

“When?”

“Last week. We wanted to see if anyone looked like you.”

“Young lady, do you know how dangerous it is for two young women to be messing around alone in these woods? Lyric would tan your hide if she knew.”

“We were doing a good thing,” Boots argued.

“A real good thing,” Lark echoed. “If we don't investigate, how will we ever know who you are?”

His conscience nagged him. These good-hearted girls were trying their best to help him…and all the while he knew exactly who he was. He wasn't going to keep misleading them—not if it meant putting them in harm's way. He couldn't.

“It's not worth the time and effort. Let's turn back.”

“No way! It's not much further,” Boots argued.

He stepped over a fallen cedar branch. “We can get ourselves in big trouble if anyone spots us. I'm turning around.”

“Look—we're here.” The girls paused behind a tall cedar. Ian had no choice but to follow.

“Did you recognize anyone last time?”

“Several from the wanted posters in the sheriff's office, but none that have your features.”

They wouldn't. “Okay, we've been here. Let's go back.”

“Not yet. We just got here.” Lark eased a branch aside and peered through the cedar.

He spotted a structure a hundred feet ahead sitting in a thick sycamore grove. “Is that where they hang out?”

“That's it,” Lark verified. “Don't look like much is going on right
now.” She lifted her hand to shade her eyes as she looked up. “The outlaws should be ridin' in for supper any time now.”

The words still hung in the air when two men sitting tall in the saddle approached. One was a Younger, but Ian didn't recognize the second man. The riders dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail.

“Cole Younger is the bald one with reddish whiskers,” Lark whispered. “I've seen so many posters of these men I know them by name.”

Boots wrinkled her nose. “He's fat.”

“Boots,” Lark cautioned. “That isn't nice. He's…stout.”

She shrugged. “They all look old and fat to me.”