The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  I’m going to sell that miserable horse if it’s the last thing I do.

  A boom shattered the kitchen’s peaceful silence, and Lyric started and jerked her hands out of the pan of sudsy dishwater. She glanced over her shoulder at her sister. Lark was sitting at the table, reading. “Was that thunder?”

  Lark had her head buried in a Charles Dickens novel, apparently oblivious to the clap that had shaken the timeworn two-story house. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Lyric’s sweet but slightly inattentive sister wouldn’t hear a tree felled beside the house if she was reading. Lifting the window over the sink to allow a hint of fresh night air into the kitchen, Lyric conceded that March was extremely warm in the holler this year, which usually meant a stifling summer ahead. The garden vegetables, newly planted, would be burned to a crisp by fall, no doubt. Tomatoes would blister on the vines and second-planting string beans would wither. Pausing, she listened for another clap, but all was silent. She shrugged and returned to the dishes.

  The back door burst open and Lyric’s hand flew to her heart until she saw Samantha—known to friends and family as “Boots”—standing in the doorway. “It is customary to knock,” she gently reminded the fourteen-year-old.

  “Sorry. Did you hear that blast?”

  “I heard something. Is a storm brewing?”

  “Not a cloud in the sky.” Boots took a deep breath and continued. “Can’t imagine what it was. Scared the waddin’ out of me. Lark, you have got to hear this! You know how Caroline is sweet on Henry and they’ve been sort of, you know, courting? Well, tonight Henry came over early because he’s not allowed to stay out much past dark and Caroline’s mother said that she could go for a short ride in his father’s new buggy…and of course you know where Henry took her. Right straight down that creepy road, and lo and behold the light is acting up again. Why, they saw two poor men, each riding in opposite directions like the old devil himself was on their tail, trying to outrun the thing. But it was pestering them something awful.” She paused to draw another deep breath. “Henry said the light hadn’t shown itself in a while and he wanted to impress Caroline with his bravery, so he brought the buggy up here…”

  Lyric glanced out the window. Darkness encroached and a light fog hung in the air.

  “Anyway, he got Caroline all settled with a nice thick lap robe—which she didn’t need because it’s so mild outside, but you know Henry. He’s a real gentleman. Anyway, they settled down to watch for the light. Caroline said he put his arm around her. Don’t you think that’s a little forward, putting your arm around someone on your first—well, maybe second—outing? But he did, and they settled back to watch for the Spooklight.”

  “Boots, I wish you wouldn’t refer to that…that thing as the Spooklight.” They had enough to worry about without concerning themselves with frightening legends. Life was difficult enough living in this holler, isolated from everyone by the strange spells her mother’s illness caused. She now lay in her bedroom, frail and weak, awaiting death.

  Lyric had spent her life protecting Lark from folks’ cruel barbs and innuendos about how they were different than others, not worthy to be a part of the community. The entire town isolated themselves from Edwina Bolton, the strange woman with two young girls.

  Boots’s excited voice droned on. “…and then just before dark, Henry suggested that they spread the lap robe on the ground and watch for the light from there. Moony-eyed Caroline agreed that was a grand idea, so they climbed out of the buggy and made themselves real comfortable.”

  A simply grand idea, Lyric silently mocked, aware of how easily a young woman like Caroline could be led astray. She just bet Henry was all for getting all comfortable. Caroline and Boots needed better adult supervision than their grandfather provided. Given no choice, Neville had assumed the care of Caroline and Boots when their mother passed a few years back. The father was never found…or known, if the scarce bit of information Lyric heard during her brief trips to town for supplies held true.

  Those hurried excursions gave her goose bumps. Folks turned away as though she was scarlet fever on legs. That silly light that appeared in the holler often did so closest to the Bolton property line. Folks put two and two together and made four: surely the light had something to do with Edwina Bolton and her strange fits.

  That was nonsense and Lyric knew it. That “spooklight” was just a trick of nature. But try convincing the townspeople of that! But it wouldn’t be much longer before her mother passed on, and then Lyric would take her sister and leave this place. Together they would build a new life hundreds of miles from this isolated holler hidden deep in the Missouri hills—somewhere far away, where no one knew about them. She remembered being a young girl and peering at the globe that sat in the parlor. The tiny spots on the paper had turned into exciting new adventures Lyric would experience someday.

  “And then,” Boots continued, breathless, “Henry started sweet-talking her. Seems the horse spotted the light first. He reared and took off like someone lit a fire under his rear.”

  “Boots,” Lyric cautioned. The girl’s language often tended to be highly improper, a trait she’d acquired from her salty-talking grandfather.

  “Backside,” she emphasized. “The horse dragged Henry’s father’s new buggy that he’d just bought today. Caroline said the light came right up to them, bold as brass, and just hovered there like it was looking them over. She said she got goose bumps the size of cotton wads. Then it was gone…but so was the horse and buggy, and they had no way to get home. Caroline said Henry knew his pa would be mad as hops when he discovered he’d let the horse and buggy get loose. After a bit they started walking. I bumped into them when I finished up milking. They were none too happy, either. Caroline was wearing her best patent leather slippers and they were all dusty and scuffed from the briars and dust.”

  Boots pulled a chair closer to the table. “And you know what else?”

  “What?” Lark’s eyes fixed on the book page, her voice bordering on monotone. Different as they were, the two girls were as tight as a cheap pair of shoes, even though Lyric was certain that Boots’s grandfather didn’t overly approve of the friendship.

  “That wretched Jim Cummins was spotted earlier today. Walked right into the general store and was about to purchase chewing tobacco when this feller walked in—a stranger, Earl said. Nobody knew the outsider but he must have changed Cummins’ mind about the tobacco. Earl said he took off out of there like a scalded cat and last he saw of him he was hightailing it out of town and the stranger was right behind him.”

  “Outlaws.” Lyric shook her head. The hollers were full of them. Lowlifes who kept their families hidden from the law. Lyric listened to the girl’s chatter as she dried a skillet and put it away. Boots’s occasional bits and pieces of area information were all the news they had, and Lyric welcomed the diversion. No one in Bolton Holler ever ventured up to the house unless forced to. Stories abounded about the “evils” that lay within the walls of the old house, and even the strong of heart avoided the place.

  A slow smile formed on her lips. She used to feel sorry for the townsfolk, even pitied them for their misbeliefs that a black cloud hung over the Bolton home—a sinister one, it was said. Most of the folks in town had decided the strange light that shown regularly in this holler was a direct product of Edwina Bolton. Lyric knew that to be nonsense, but the people in town were far more willing to trust in superstition than logic.

  She lifted the curtain over the kitchen counter window and peered out. Funny, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She could see every single star. If not thunder, what had she heard earlier?

  She wiped off her hands on her apron. “Boots, don’t stay long,” she said. “It’s well past dark and your grandfather will be alarmed if you’re not home soon.”

  “I won’t. Anyway, back to Henry. He is in so much trouble! I doubt that his father will let him take the buggy and horse again for some time and Caroline so looks forward to their
rides home on Sunday night.”

  Slipping into a light sweater, Lyric stepped onto the back service porch. Milk cans and churning pots littered the small enclosure. Outside, she glanced up to see a beautifully rounded moon rising. The sight was so pretty she paused to enjoy the night.

  Talk of beaus and courting often caused a stirring in her soul. She would never marry. There wasn’t a man around who would dare to come courting for fear Edwina would have one of her mad fits. Maybe I’ll have to settle for one of the Younger brothers, she thought with a grin. Although the Youngers were nothing to smile about. She’d seen the hoodlums around, shooting up the town and causing trouble. She had prayed the rowdy gang would disband but they hadn’t; they’d grown even more worrisome. The whole lot was at their best when they banded together. The Younger brothers—Cole, Bob, Jim, and John—were a thorn in every decent side. Talk drifted to her when she visited the general store. Occasionally a Younger shot up the town and bullied folks something awful and the men in town didn’t lift a hand. They were terrified of the hoodlums and gave them plenty of space.

  Drawing the sweater closer around her shoulders, she set off toward the barn. That noise had to have come from somewhere. She had closed the door earlier and everything had been peaceful. Maybe ol’ Rosie had spooked and kicked her stall down…but even that wouldn’t have made such a thunderous sound. As she approached the dwelling, moonlight emphasized a gaping hole where the barn door had once been. Gasping, she picked up speed, her eyes searching for the source of such destruction. Her barn door! What in the world…?

  Now, where was she going to scrape up enough extra money to replace that door?

  Drawing closer, she stared at the pile of ankle-deep rubble. The Youngers. How dare those thugs destroy her property! The town might have difficulty confronting those men, but she didn’t. She’d march down there where they lived and give someone a good piece of her mind!

  Leaning around the corner, she fumbled for one of the matches she kept in a box on the wall. A flame ignited and she lit the lantern wick. Light illuminated lumber strewn this way and that. The milk cow, Rosie, stood in her stall, eyes wide open. Lyric stepped deeper into the shadows and squinted, giving a quick intake of breath when she spotted a man’s body spread haphazardly across the dirt floor.

  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

  Boots 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 o
ur 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.