The Healer's Touch (4 page)

A
Younger
. Her pulse quickened.

Creeping closer, she centered the light on his still form and realized that this Younger was dead.

A dead Younger. In her barn.

She whirled, searching for his horse. Only Rosie stood in the dimly lit structure, however. Maybe he'd walked in here…but it looked for the world like something enormous had been ridden though the door.

Her eyes darted to his chest, where she detected a slight rise and fall. He was still breathing? She set the lantern aside and knelt beside the still form. In a daring moment, she laid her head briefly on the wide span of chest and listened. A slow, faint beat met her ears.

Straightening, she took a deep breath.
Almost dead
, she mentally corrected. If she'd step back and show respect for the dying the good Lord would finish His job. The town would be rid of one of the Younger brothers and maybe, for once, they would show a Bolton a little respect for delivering them of such a nuisance.

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she mulled the dilemma over in her mind. If she could do anything to sustain his life, she must. It was nothing less than her Christian duty. She hadn't learned the healing arts for nothing. And besides…if he died who would pay for the new barn door?

But he was such a worthless man, causing Bolton Holler and every nearby community nothing but trouble.

Yet she was not to judge others.

Though this outlaw needed a good judging.

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.

Bending close, she checked his breathing. The rise and fall of his chest was hardly detectable now. If she was going to act she'd have to do it quickly. Stripping off her apron, she hurriedly bound the deep slit oozing across his forehead. It took several moments to locate and staunch the flow of blood from multiple cuts and gashes. He must have been riding a horse when he burst into the barn. She clucked her tongue. He'd ridden a horse straight through a barn door and been thrown from his saddle. Wasn't that just like a Younger?

She sniffed for the stench of alcohol. Nothing met her attempt but a rather pleasant manly scent—not too strong like that of some men she passed in town.

The spring night had begun to cool and she shivered as the breeze blew straight into the barn. How was she going to get him to the house? Moving to the back of the barn, she rummaged around until she found the old Indian travois that had been there for as long as she could remember. The conveyance was in sad shape, its hide stretched thin with prior use.

In minutes she had hitched Rosie to the transporter and then stood staring at the unconscious man. How would she get him on the sled? He was twice—no, three times her size. “Well, Rosie? Any suggestions?”

The old milk cow chewed her cud.

Moving to the stranger's head, she grasped his shoulders and pulled. His lifeless bulk barely budged. After three attempts, she eased his upper torso onto the sled. Moving to his boots, she swung his legs onto the travois and then stood back, puffing.

She led Rosie out of the barn pulling the travois. Was Younger still breathing? She couldn't spare the time to check. She had to get him to the house and to her box of remedies…although it might already be too late. He was lying so still, as though waiting for death to snatch him away.

She paused long enough to prop a few boards against the barn opening, praying that the flimsy protection would guard her meager stock tonight. She relied on their few sitting hens for eggs, and couldn't afford to lose them to fox and coyote.

She glanced at the wounded man, resenting the intrusion. If she didn't need that barn door so badly she would gladly let him return to dust as quick as he could.

2

B
oots set her empty glass in the dishpan and glanced out the window. “Hey, Lark?”

“Mm hmm?”

“Why is Lyric hauling a man to the house on a travois?”

Lark absently lifted both shoulders in a shrug and then glanced up. “She's
what
?”

“She's got a man on a stretcher and Rosie is hauling it up the hill.”

Table legs scraped the floor as Lark sprang from her seat and moved to join Boots at the window. “For goodness' sake. Where did she get a man?” Whirling, she stepped to the back door and flung it open. “What's going on? Who's that?” she called.

“Just hush up and help me get him into the house.” Lyric removed her blood-splattered sweater and pitched it onto an empty milk can.

“Get him in the house
where
?”

“We'll put him in the parlor for the time being. He's in bad shape. He may even be dead by now.”

Boots scooted around the stretcher and the three women eased the patient upright. “He's big,” Boots said. “Big and strong. Who is he?”

“I'm not sure.” Lyric paused to catch her breath. “I think he might be one of those Youngers.”

Boots gasped and took a cautionary step backwards. “How do you know?”

“I don't know for certain, but someone was snooping around and somehow tore up the barn door. It's busted into a hundred pieces. This man was unconscious on the barn floor. Who else but a liquored-up Younger would do such a thing?”

Boots glanced up. “To a Bolton?” she said. “I mean…”

“I know.” Lyric sighed. “We're not the most revered family in the holler, but no one's ever destroyed our property. Not like this. They wouldn't dare. They're scared to death of us.”

“No one's afraid of you. It's your ma and her fits,” Boots corrected.

Nodding, Lyric murmured, “He must be a Younger, for sure. No one else in town would cross our property line.” She bent to take a closer look at the man's coal black hair and high cheekbones. He was darkly tanned, even this early in the year. Though the man's face was bloody and swollen, he was still a right fine-looking male. “I didn't know those Youngers were so handsome.”

She shook her head. Lyric couldn't imagine why he'd picked the Bolton place to wreak havoc, but one thing was certain. This man was vile and dangerous.

“Lark, you and Boots support his right side. I'll take his left. Move him slowly. He's lost a lot of blood.” Underneath the tan, his features were almost ashen.

Perspiration soaked Lyric's dress as they approached the parlor. The room was almost never used these days, and dust balls skittered across the wood floor as they entered. “We'll put him on the sofa.
Chances are he won't make it another hour. Lark, run and get something to cover the furniture while we support him. Boots, remove his boots once we lay him down. The least we can do is make his last moments comfortable—even if he is a Younger.”

Lark raced to get clean blankets and Boots removed the man's bloodstained riding boots. She looked at him skeptically. “Don't you think we should clean him up a bit?”

“I suppose we should, though he doesn't deserve it.” Somewhere this man undoubtedly had family who prayed for him—or a wife. For their sakes, she would do what little she could in his last moments.

“Get a cloth and a pan of warm water.” Lyric stepped over to light the oil lamp, dusty with neglect. Light flickered to life, revealing overstuffed chairs and heavy tables. It was a dark, depressing room—not the most comforting place to lay a man whose life was draining away. She wouldn't miss this room. She wouldn't miss any part of the house that held so many unhappy memories. Once Mother passed, Lyric would take Lark far away and they'd begin a new life, a normal one, someplace where folks didn't stare with accusing eyes and whisper hurtful lies.

Boots returned with an armful of blankets and pillows and the women set to work making the wounded man as comfortable as possible. Twice Lyric pressed her ear to his broad chest to assure that he hadn't passed on. His breaths were shallow and came with a struggle. She shook her head. She knew enough of medicine to know that he didn't have long.

She ushered the two young women out of the room. “It's late, Boots. Your grandfather will worry if you're not home shortly.”

“But I want to stay! I've never seen anyone croak before.”

Lyric shooed the curious girls to the doorway, her temples throbbing. “He should have an uneventful passing.” Even now his breathing was so shallow she could hardly detect it.

Boots persisted, whining now. “This might be my only chance to watch a Younger die.”

“I certainly hope it will be.” Lyric took the girl by the elbow and ushered her out of the parlor. “Lark, look in on Mother and make sure the ruckus didn't disturb her. I'll stay here until…until it's over.”

When the door closed behind the girls, she lowered the lantern wick and then took a seat across from the sofa to wait.

A rooster's crow roused her. Slowly opening her eyes, she noted the thin shaft of daylight streaming in through the heavy drapes. Sitting upright, she pushed herself up out of the chair and knelt by the sofa to meet a pair of clear green eyes. Her heart shot to her throat. There was too much life in those eyes. Way too much. He was still alive. Alive and wide awake on Mother's sofa.

“Good morning.”

His deep tenor startled her speechless. For a moment her throat worked, but words refused to come. Finally she whispered, “You're alive.”

A half-hearted chuckle escaped him. “Am I? I've been trying to decide.”

Backing slowly away, she murmured, “Don't try anything funny. I'm armed.” Or she could be soon enough. A Colt revolver sat as close as the desk drawer, and though he was awake he couldn't move swiftly enough to prevent her from shooting him. She took a second precautionary step backward. “You're a Younger, aren't you?”

“Am I?”

“And you, in a drunken stupor, tore my barn door apart. I hope you have the proper funds to replace it.”

He lightly touched a finger to the deep gash across his forehead and winced. Silence dominated the room. When he didn't readily answer, she asked. “Which one?”

He glanced up. “Which one…?”

“Which Younger are you? Bob? Cole? Jim?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I'm sorry, ma'am. My head's throbbing—what are you asking?”