The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  Other Books by Lori Copeland

  Sisters of Mercy Flats

  When Love Comes My Way

  http://bit.ly/WhenLoveComesMyWay

  The One Who Waits for Me

  http://bit.ly/OneWhoWaitsforMe

  THE SEATTLE BRIDES SERIES

  A Bride for Noah

  http://bit.ly/BrideforNoah

  Rainy Day Dreams

  THE AMISH OF APPLE GROVE SERIES

  The Heart’s Frontier

  http://bit.ly/TheHeartsFrontier

  A Plain and Simple Heart

  http://bit.ly/PlainSimpleHeart

  A Cowboy at Heart

  http://bit.ly/CowboyatHeart

  THE DAKOTA DIARIES

  Love Blooms in Winter

  http://bit.ly/LoveBloomsinWinter

  Under the Summer Sky

  http://bit.ly/UndertheSummerSky

  THE WESTERN SKY SERIES

  Outlaw’s Bride

  http://bit.ly/OutlawsBride

  A Kiss for Cade

  http://bit.ly/KissforCade

  Walker’s Wedding

  http://bit.ly/WalkersWedding

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Scottsanders / Bigstock

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE HEALER’S TOUCH

  Copyright © 2014 by Lori Copeland, Inc.

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  The healer’s touch / Lori Copeland.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5653-6 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5654-3 (eBook)

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.O6336H43 2014

  813'.54—dc23

  2013043581

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Contents

  Other Books by Lori Copeland

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Reader’s Guide

  (free sample) Rainy Day Dreams

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

  ISAIAH 53:5

  Introduction

  Missouri. Fertile rolling hills, craggy caves, and early morning mist slowly lifting in deep hollows. That’s the beautiful setting where I grew up.

  The Ozark Mountain scenery is hauntingly exquisite in the spring. One of the reasons I’m thankful God made me a Missourian is because of the state’s four distinctive seasons—all with their own drawbacks, but lovely indeed. Today, as I’m writing this, winter is showing off its finery in melting snow-packed trails and in sparkling icicles hanging from ice-covered bluffs.

  When spring finally comes, those same riverbanks and steep cliffs come alive with redbuds, dogwoods, reddish pink tall thistle, the proud and purple Beggar’s Lice, showy white blackberry bush, and wild Sweet William.

  Long summer nights are lit by fireflies, sweet scented yellow honeysuckle, and window-rattling thunderstorms.

  Fall shimmers with the yellow and orange of Tickseed Sunflower and Sheep Sorrel. The vast array of trees produces radiant reds supplied by sugar maples and showy oaks.

  Among the Ozark’s beauty lie deep secrets, old wives’ tales, and superstitions. Some tales are sworn to be factual, but others are rather dubious. Some are out-and-out unbelievable. But the story you’re about to read—the story of the “Spooklight”—is true.

  Or so it is said.

  I have seen this mysterious light. I have witnessed it roaming the small stretch of gravel road near Joplin, Missouri, where it still lurks today. It’s a country road tucked away from sight. Cars have been noted to sit bumper to bumper there, waiting to see the “Spooklight.”

  This isn’t a small light. It’s sometimes as large as a house. To this day, when it appears cars scatter and gravel flies. The faint of heart don’t dare to linger. But those who live in the area say the light is getting dimmer now and appears with less regularity. Others say it’s getting old and cranky.

  In the 1980s a graying, stooped man by the name of Garland Middleton established a Spooklight museum. Folks stopped by the tiny building located alongside the gravel road within easy viewing distance of where the spectacle was likely to appear. The short intersecting road wasn’t much to look at, but all eyes were trained on the spot where the light was likely to emerge when darkness gathered. Garland (later dubbed “Spooky”) was always delighted to talk to you about the light. He’d tell eye-widening stories and legends about its source. Old Garland would sell you a cold bottle of soda pop—and maybe some potato munchies and a candy bar. A bare ceiling bulb held by a frayed cord illuminated the frayed magazine and newspaper clippings tacked to the wall.

  What most fascinates me—a born romantic—about this spectacle: The light appears to respond best to love. And children. It is thought to feel love and if possible tries to return it.

  Over the past hundred years, area residents have hired their share of “supernatural” folks to tell them what this strange phenomenon is and why it’s there. The first recorded sighting is said to have taken place in 1886, but some say it was noted long before that.

  The elusive light keeps a respectful distance these days. And if the circus-like atmosphere gets too loud, it chooses not to show itself at all.

  Numerous legends exist about its origin. A few are written about in Ozark Spooklight, by Foster Young. I’ve loosely utilized these tales in the following storyline. Certified investigations have resulted in numerous explanations for the light, but none that satisfy. One man said it was coming from car lights on busy Route 66. This could be true, but the first sighting was in the late nineteenth century when there were no cars, or highway, or Route 66.

  The light’s brightness varies. Sometimes it’s dim, like a small, blinking flashlight. Other times the light is bright enough to
reflect off cars. Sometimes the light is a solitary radiance that frequently divides itself into as many as a dozen floating colored lights, moving and dancing. On rare occasions it has been captured by time-lapse cameras.

  The phenomenon drew NBC’s attention in the 1980s. They sent a crew to see if the light would appear, and it did. Later the segment aired and the moderator, John Barbour, confessed he thought the light was real.

  To suggest that the light exists only in the imagination of some is to say that it exists in the camera’s eye.

  When I witnessed the light, it wasn’t bouncing or coming up to the car window. It was in the distance, moving, almost shy. Hesitant.

  During the writing of this book, I invited a few old friends from our teenage years over to talk about the Spooklight. Everyone had their recollections of the first time they saw it. One lady said she was on the floorboard covering her head with her arms, begging her boyfriend to drive away from it. Others said they got out of their cars and walked the lane, getting as close as they could. When I saw it I can’t recall much more than thinking, Huh. There really is a light.

  My husband and I drove back to the area last week. He remembered the Spooklight route; I didn’t. The museum is gone, fallen to ruins in thick winter undergrowth. The gravel road is still there. I counted two mobile homes and a house along the isolated four-mile gravel strip that is mostly farm and cattle land, tall oaks, and red clay. I so wanted to knock on doors and ask questions, but my husband restrained me.

  By now you’re either interested in the light or you’re dubiously shaking your head. I have done both during my lifetime. If you’re ever near Joplin, Missouri, take time to drive to the gravel “Spooklight Road.” There aren’t any public signs—none that I could find, anyway—but ask most anyone in the area and they’ll point the way.

  What is the light’s source? Is it burning out after all these years? Has it lost heart? I have no idea. I am certain the source is explainable, but to date nobody knows why it’s there or what it wants. I have used many of the numerous legends and “for real” stories told about the light in this book, so you decide.

  1

  Four miles south of Joplin, Missouri, 1887

  Give it up, Cummins! Don’t make me shoot you!”

  U.S. Marshal Ian Cawley let his horse have his head. Towering sycamores flashed by in the deepening Missouri twilight. Darkness threatened to overtake him, but that was no excuse for giving up the chase. He had this scruffy little thief this time. The back of the outlaw’s dirty bowler drew closer. Ian could smell the stench of unwashed body and filthy shirt. Hunching lower in the saddle, he urged the horse. “Come on, Norman. Let’s get this over with and head home.”

  Home being Kansas City, one hundred fifty miles to the west.

  The whimpering outlaw wasn’t getting away from him this time. Twice Jim Cummins had slipped Ian’s net, and the fact rubbed the marshal raw. There wouldn’t be much of a bounty—when the outlaw robbed banks the take was always small—but the man was a huge thorn in his side. He was tired of this game. Jim was his this time. He gripped the reins, urging his horse to a painful stretch. A few feet more and he would make the leap from his horse to Cummins’.

  The scummy little criminal had the reputation of being meek, but Cummins was acting anything but docile right now. He wasn’t highly thought of as criminals went. His own gang viewed him as a sniveler and crybaby, but he was adept when avoiding the law.

  Ian’s buckskin pulled closer.

  Hunching lower in the saddle, the outlaw whipped his animal to a frenzy.

  Sighing, Ian prepared for the pain. The little runt wasn’t going down without a fight. No one ever did. Half a mile out of town he’d tackled Jim off the horse. The two men had scuffled on the roadway, and Cummins had thrown a hard right that left Ian reeling. The lapse allowed the outlaw time to mount up and take off, but in the process he’d dropped a Liberty Bank bag which was now in Ian’s possession. Somewhere during the brawl Ian had lost his wallet with his badge and papers, but he’d have to go back for them later. He couldn’t let Cummins gain any more distance.

  This time Ian had him.

  Preparing for the jump, he braced for the jolt. Last time he’d done this he’d broken two ribs and shattered his pelvis, but he’d brought in Hobbs Kerry alive. Ten thousand wasn’t bad for a day’s work, overlooking the soreness. The money had bought Grandpa a new plow and Grandma one of those fancy Home Comfort cookstoves. She’d baked cinnamon rolls and fruit pies for everyone in the county there for a while.

  But Ian was getting too old for this line of work. He ought to hang it up and settle down. Live a normal life.

  A brilliant light suddenly appeared in front of the racing horses. Momentarily distracted, the marshal focused on the strange object. What in the blazes? It hadn’t been there a second ago. Involuntarily slowing, he threw up a forearm to shield his eyes.

  Cummins reacted to the strange sight, swiftly hauling back on the reins. Both horses spooked, going crazy. Ian spoke in a low, even tone to Norman. “Don’t bolt on me.” Ian wouldn’t put it past the animal to pitch his rider over his head. If the ill-tempered, contrary beast hadn’t been such a fine piece of horse flesh Ian would have sold him five years earlier. Cummins’ mare danced over the rutted road as the outlaw shrieked, shielding his eyes with a lifted shoulder from the light’s dazzling brilliance.

  Bouncing closer, the light hovered between the two men.

  Norman blew and stepped backward, but Ian’s eyes were glued to the strange light. What was it? He’d never seen anything like it. He’d read newspaper accounts of folks making claims that they had seen strange glowing objects in the sky, but he’d not heard of a bouncing light.

  The object shifted, jauntily moving to perch on Cummins’ saddle horn.

  Screaming, the outlaw spurred his mare and the animal took off in a gallop, Cummins batting at the bizarre object that hovered around his head.

  Ian sat frozen in place, eyes trained on the spectacle. He’d help, but he’d never fought a…a light. The outlaw’s screams filled the impinging darkness as the bobbing light ballooned and then deflated but never moved from Cummins’ saddle horn. The astounding sight suddenly zipped off and disappeared over a rise and Ian sat, transfixed.

  Back over the rise the light came, heading in his direction.

  Stuffing the bank bag in his saddle roll, he urged Norman forward and took off like a hen with singed feathers, as Grannie would say. Galloping back the way he’d come, he risked a couple of glances over his shoulder and saw that the light was gone. Automatically slowing, he turned and then started when he saw the light was perched on his horse’s rump, round as a water barrel now.

  Stumbling out of the saddle, he stepped a distance away to see what the thing would do. It split into five bouncing balls, frolicking about like a spring colt.

  “What do you want?” Ian shouted. Not only had he let Cummins get away, he was trying to initiate a conversation with a light.

  The light skipped about, rolling to a nearby plowed pasture and tumbling like a child at play. When Ian stepped to his horse the light returned, forming a halo above his head.

  He fixed in place. He had a hunch that if he ran the thing would stay right beside—or ahead—of him.

  Calmer now, he said, “What do you want?”

  The light hovered. Ian could have sworn it tilted slightly as if to say, “What?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” More to the point, where was Cummins now? Three miles down the road and still screaming, probably. He had escaped him again. Norman snorted, staring at the sight.

  The light steadied, grew dimmer, then radiant. Minutes stretched as he watched the strange ball cycle. It appeared it wasn’t going to move until Ian did. By now he had worked up a heavy sweat in the mild spring night. Perspiration trickled down his neck and he wiped moisture from his eyes. Wasn’t this a fine mess? Nobody would believe this story. His gaze wandered down the desolate road. A man could go
a long time in these hills and hollers and never see a soul. Tree frogs croaked in nearby ponds.

  Suddenly the light shot away at breathtaking speed. It reached the top of the rise before Ian realized it was gone. Springing into action, he swung aboard Norman and spurred him into a full gallop. The horse obliged, racing down the uneven road at a perilous clip.

  Peering over his shoulder, Ian suddenly drew up. The light was clinging to his shoulder now. He shoved it away but his hand only moved through air. Squealing, Norman swerved back and forth on the road as Ian struggled to battle the light and hang on. The object tired of the battle, divided again, and became five pinging balls, skipping, dancing in front of the horse’s path.

  Wild now, Norman plunged through heavy thicket and galloped headlong into open pasture.

  “Whoa! Steady, boy!” Ian grabbed for the reins that had escaped him when the horse veered off the road. For the first time in his life the marshal felt completely helpless. A thin moon slid out, illuminating his predicament.

  Galloping at full speed now, the stallion headed straight for a barn in the distance. The light bounced in front of the animal, teasing, goading. “Thank You, God,” Ian muttered. Norman would stop when he reached the barn.

  The light hopped on top of Norman’s head and a watery moon shone on the rutted pasture as Ian hung on. By now he heard hysterical screams and realized they were coming from him.

  The barn door had been shut for the night. Norman’s stride lengthened, his heavy muscles slick with sweat. The ball bounced up and down, back and forth, and from side to side. If the thing had hands, Ian sensed it would be clapping with glee over the merry flight.

  And then he looked up, and understanding coursed through him like a bolt of lightning. Norman wasn’t going to stop. Ian instantly recognized the horse was going through whatever stood in its path. “Whoa, boy! Whoaahhhhh!”

  The sound of shattering lumber echoed throughout the holler as Norman, Ian, and the bouncing light entered the barn without benefit of an open passage.

  As his body flew toward the barn floor and the sharp, broken shreds of lumber, Ian caught one last glimpse of Norman’s rump as the horse pivoted and galloped away. Ian had one last coherent thought.