The Healer's Touch (5 page)

The outlaw was playing games with her. Was he lying there gathering enough strength to attack her and rob her? Goosebumps swelled on her arms. “I think you'd better leave now.”

He obediently rose but then wilted back to the sofa. Fresh blood oozed from his various cuts. “I'm afraid I'm a bit weak to oblige. Could I beg a glass of cool water?”

For the briefest of moments compassion overrode her fear. He looked so pale—and pathetic and fragile. She was supposed to be a healer, wasn't she? She should be helping him. But maybe he was stronger than he was letting on. Maybe he was testing her. A Younger would do that.

“I'm afraid I'll have to tie your hands and feet first.”

He glanced up.

She kept her tone firm and in control. Giving a wounded man—even an outlaw—a glass of water wasn't unreasonable. “Is that agreeable?”

“It that's what it takes to get a glass of water.”

She eased around the sofa, keeping a close eye on his movements as she rummaged in the desk drawer and drew out a ball of twine. If he had normal strength the binding would be useless, but he appeared weak as a newborn kitten. And it wouldn't take long to draw a simple glass of water from the pump in the kitchen sink.

“Please cross your hands at the wrists,” she instructed.

He slowly lifted both hands to comply. “A simple glass of water and I'll be on my way.”

“Nothing's simple with a man like you.” She wound the twine tightly at the base of his arms, taking care to make the bond secure but not so constricted that it would cut off his blood supply. The good Lord knew he needed what little still trickled through his veins.

Her words appeared to penetrate his fog. “A man like me? Do you know me?”

“Oh, I know
of
you.” She turned slightly so he wouldn't notice the scissors she carried. She snipped the twine and tied a double knot. “Everyone in ten counties knows of you.”

“Really?”

“You're not a celebrity, if that's what you're thinking.”

“No, ma'am. Truth be told I'm not thinking anything other than I'm thirsty. At the moment, I don't know who I am or how I got here.”

“I'm sure both will come to you shortly.” He had taken quite a lick to the head. No doubt he'd have a splitting headache if the loss of blood didn't get him first. “I'll get that water. Don't try to go anywhere.” She tucked the scissors into her pocket and strode to the kitchen. Taking a clean glass from the cupboard, she filled it from the pump. Her eyes fell on a pot of thick oatmeal bubbling on the stove. Lark had started breakfast, then. Dipping a small bowl into the pot, she added cream from the pitcher, butter, and two heaping spoonfuls of dark brown sugar. She knew of no rule that said a wicked man had to die on an empty stomach.

When she returned to the parlor he was lying on his back, eyes closed. Pausing in the doorway, she studied his chest for signs of life. A slow rise and fall assured her that he was still breathing.

“I thought you might be able to get a bite of oatmeal down.”

His eyes slowly opened and he stared at her. “Do you have the water?”

She crossed the room and set the tray on a nearby table. “Better drink slowly.” She steadied his head while he drank thirstily, draining the glass before he slumped back to the pillow.

“Would you like to try a bite of oatmeal?”

He shook his head. “Later,” he said hoarsely.

Understandable. Most likely there wouldn't be a later, but the eating was his choice. She set the empty glass on the tray and then turned to inspect him. Dried blood caked his swollen face. His injuries were so grave that his features were barely discernible this
morning. Angry dark purple bruises dotted his arms and forehead. “I would send for the doctor but he wouldn't come—leastways not for a Bolton, and I have to think a Younger wouldn't fare any better in his esteem. He wouldn't come unless somebody made him…and nobody would.”

Actually it took an arm and leg to get the man up here when Mother was at her worst. He'd be here and gone before she knew it, hightailing it back down the hill, scared out of his mind by Mother's fits.

Not many people had seen Mother when she was having one of her episodes, but the few who had made sure everyone else heard the stories. Lyric and Lark still lived with the stares and outright fear that shown in the townfolks' eyes when they ventured to town. Anything odd—anything that couldn't be easily explained—was blamed on Edwina.

Lyric didn't appreciate the notoriety. She couldn't attend church because of the stares and whispers, but she had a Bible and she studied it. Seemed to her that the only One who got to judge a person was the Lord Jesus Christ—and He wouldn't judge her on rumors.

The man's scraped fingers fumbled weakly in his pocket.

“Money won't help; the doctor won't come.” Sighing, she sat down to wait another hour to see if she would be forced to apply her talents. She knew about herbs and salves and poultices. If he made it another hour, she would do the right thing and make a sincere effort to help.

His hand dropped away. “There's nothing in my pocket.”

“You don't carry identification?” With his lifestyle the choice was probably a wise one.

“There's nothing on me—not that I can find.”

She stood up, intending to brew herself a cup of strong hot tea. It had been a long, tiring night. She had dozed off and on and then dropped into a fitful sleep near dawn.

The plain truth was the last thing Bolton Holler needed was
another live Younger, though for the life of her she couldn't imagine why she would spare this town a drop of empathy.

Yet she knew she wouldn't let the man die without lifting a hand.

Lyric paused in front of the freshly planed door and breathed deeply of the spicy scent of new wood. The new neighbors had arrived last week but she hadn't gone to welcome them. She'd sat on her back porch and listened to the music and festivities coming from the rowdy housewarming celebration in honor of the young couple's recent marriage, wondering what it would be like to be included in such fun and merriment. She'd never been to a party or a housewarming, but someday she would go and she would dance and laugh the night away without fear of reproach.

Last time she'd shown up on a new arrival's doorstep the Bolton name had preceded her, and she had been ushered off the property with a shotgun. From then on she had stayed home instead of paying social calls, but today she was forced into extraordinary measures. Younger had more grit than a sandbar.

She lifted her hand to knock and then paused. She hesitated to alarm the newlyweds. Surely they'd heard rumors regarding the Bolton place, but they must be the brave sort if they'd chosen to build their new home half a mile away.

The sun was only now peeking above the horizon, and the few roosters milling about the yard sounded a bit sleepy as they crowed in the new day. Finding a Bolton on your doorstep at the crack of dawn would not be a good start to the day for Levi and Katherine Jennings, but the stranger was still breathing and she was fresh out of witch hazel. She rapped softly and then drew back when the door flew open to reveal Levi, hair mussed, wide-eyed, shotgun in hand. “What?”

“I…good morning. I….” He reached out, drew her inside the
house, and slammed the door behind her, throwing the bolt shut. Her gaze traced the room and rested on Katherine, who was sitting on the bed sobbing.

“I…” By the look of fright on Levi's face her reputation preceded her, but why would he be eager to draw her into the house? “Please—don't be frightened. I'm here to ask if you could spare a bit of witch hazel. I have a wounded man—”

“Did you see it?” Levi cut her off, stepping to the window to peer out.

“I…could you spare any witch hazel? A few sprigs will do…” Her eyes focused on the shattered windowpane above the sink. The newlyweds must be feuding something awful.

Katherine rose from the bed and threw herself in Lyric's arms. “It was
awful
! My heart is still beating so hard I can barely breathe.”

Turning slightly, Lyric eyed the new groom. Had she walked in on a marital spat? Her eyes skimmed the length of the tall man, sturdy to be sure. She'd need a sizable club to quell him. She turned back to meet the bride's flushed face. Such a lovely woman—long shiny hair that fell to her waist and a soft, pale complexion. Her gaze ran the length of the new house. Two large rooms, one an actual bedroom—everything a new bride could hope for. Lyric's eyes returned to the husband, who was still watching out the window. Surely he wouldn't mistreat this lovely creature. “I'm sorry. Did I see what?”

“That
thing
!” A shudder escaped the new bride. “Didn't you see it?”

“I saw roosters,” Lyric offered. Maybe Katherine was one of those citified Joplin women—one who wasn't accustomed to living in the woods and hollers. If so, she was in for a real surprise. In these parts there were bobcats, mountain lions, and snakes galore.

Stepping away from the window, Levi shook his head in apology. “I'm sorry, ma'am. My wife and I have had quite a night. Won't you sit down?” He pulled a chair away from the table and motioned
for her to sit down. Lyric noticed he kept the rifle close at hand. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“Yes, I'm your closet neighbor, Lyric, and—”

The new husband's face drained of color. “Lyric? Lyric Bolton?”

She nodded.

“Eekkkk!” Katherine flew into her husband's arms as he fumbled for the rifle and brought it to one shoulder. “You just stay where you are, missy. You move a muscle and I'll shoot!”

“Wait!” Lyric squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the explosion. “The rumors you hear are wrong. There's nothing wrong with me. My mother isn't well, but I'm…I'm not crazy.”

“You jest stay right where you are, woman.” Levi leveled the barrel squarely at her chest.

“I'm here to beg a few sprigs of witch hazel. They may help a wounded man. Please.” Lyric slowly opened her eyes and saw a flicker of hesitancy in his glare. “Please. Lower the barrel. I'm not here to do harm. I have a gravely injured man at my house and I need witch hazel to help with the swelling. He's going to die if I don't tend him.”

“Who's injured?”

“I'm not certain—a man. I found him half alive in my barn last night.”

The man's suspicion fixed coldly on her. “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“You don't. You'll have to trust me.” She indicated the gun. “You may keep it pointed at me, but please remove your finger from the trigger.”

The groom eyed his bride and she slowly nodded. “She doesn't look like she means any harm,” Katherine said.

Levi slowly lowered the barrel. “Now, what's this about a wounded man?”

“I found him last night in my barn. Apparently he's one of the Youngers. He ran his horse straight through my barn door.”

“Younger, you say.”

“Yes sir—although I don't know that for a fact. He could be any other of the hoodlums that hang around here.”

“If he's no good, why save him?”

“I wasn't going to, but when he was alive this morning—well, are you a God-fearing couple?”

Both nodded.

“So am I—though everyone thinks I'm not. I have a Bible and I read it and I choose to believe what it says and it says I'm to help my neighbor.”

“Amen,” Levi nodded. “But you're mighty good-hearted to go this far. Can't say I'd do the same.” He took a seat and his wife came to sit on his lap, resting her head on his shoulder.

“If you had a few sprigs of witch hazel I could repay it in a few months once my herb garden gets going again.”

Levi shook his head. “You can have your witch hazel. We got far worse problems.” He glanced at Katherine. “Do you want to tell her, honey?”

“This strange light—”

Lyric nodded. “The spooklight.”