The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  He shrugged. “I’d heard about it, but I didn’t put any store in the folklore.” He turned to look at the shattered pane. “It shore owes me a new window. I was so upset I threw my gun at it and shattered the glass.” He gave Katherine a sheepish look. “I had to go outside and get the gun.”

  Lyric released a pent-up breath. Well, that explained the broken window.

  “When he returned I’d stoked the fire and gotten dressed.” Katherine wiped her eyes. “Neither one of us has had a moment of sleep.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lyric rose, patting the young woman’s arm. “Nobody knows what the light is or where it comes from, but I can assure you it means you no harm—leastways it’s been showing itself for a while now and other than being a little playful and scary, it appears to be harmless.”

  Levi pulled his bride closer. “It’ll be fine, honey. Probably one of those things that’ll never be explained, and except for our nerves being a bit on edge we’re none the worse for wear.”

  “You’re right.” Katherine managed a timid smile. “But if it continues to happen…”

  “If it continues to happen we’ll move away, but I’m guessing we’ll never see that thing again.”

  Lyric wasn’t as optimistic as Levi but she remained silent. The Jennings weren’t the only folks in the area skittish of the light, but she had her hands full with the wounded stranger.

  Katherine offered her husband a timid smile. “But we only just built the house, Levi. Our dream home. It’s so lovely and you and your father worked so hard to construct it.” She glanced at Lyric. “Levi and his father work in the mines.”

  Lyric nodded. Joplin was rich in ore, lead, and zinc, and most men in the area made their living there. The work was hard, dirty, and dark, but it paid well.

  Levi playfully ruffled Katherine’s hair. “Then we’ll hope it never happens again, or we’ll learn to deal with it.”

  She shuddered. “I think we should keep the option to move open.”

  He chuckled and set the gun aside. “Miss Bolton, if you’ll come with me I’ll get you that witch hazel from our stores.”

  “Thank you—and I’m sorry if I frightened you.” They seemed like such a nice couple. Wouldn’t it be good if Lyric could make a friend of young Katherine, if the young bride’s mind and opinions had not been tainted by others? She couldn’t imagine having anyone other than Lark to share her fears and dreams with, to help plan a future when Mother was gone. She’d read that having a close friend was like medicine—friendship cured many an ill.

  Levi shook his head. “No—a little thing like you don’t frighten me but…” He turned to glance over his shoulder at Katherine, who had disappeared into the bedroom. “But that light plain scared the molasses out of me.”

  A somber-faced Lark and Boots sat on the front porch when Lyric returned carrying the witch hazel. Judging by the girls’ expressions a new crisis awaited. Picking up her steps, Lyric hurried up the road as Lark rose and came down the steps to meet her.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Mother?”

  “No. It’s the man. He’s not breathing.”

  Lyric suddenly couldn’t think. He was dead? He’d looked weak but awfully alive when she left. “Are you sure?” In some ways she welcomed the news but a small part of her felt defeated. Disappointed. She should have offered help sooner. Used her medicines earlier. Only God had the authority to say if a man lived or died, but she might have helped save him. Perhaps even the slightest attempt would have failed, but she would now live with the knowledge that she’d done almost nothing to save a life—a life God had given. Regret trickled from her heart.

  “Positive,” Lark verified. “We watched him like you told us to. His breathing got real ragged and his lips turned blue and then he didn’t move anymore.”

  “Did you check his pulse?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t touch a dead man.”

  Boots’s eyes widened. “We watched him like a hawk, Lyric. Honest. He snores a little—not much but some. When we last checked him he wasn’t snoring; he looked like he was plain dead.”

  “If you didn’t check his breathing then you can’t possibly know if he’s dead or alive.” She shook her head and began climbing the porch steps.

  “Are you going to touch him?” Boots shuddered, but her eyes were bright with curiosity. The front screen closed and the girl’s remark went unanswered.

  The parlor door was open. Lyric moved to the sofa, almost dreading the task. She wasn’t overly fond of working with the deceased, though she had helped prepare bodies before. Her gaze fell on the deceased outlaw. He was bloody and bruised and she detected no sign of life. The girls were right: He was gone, passed from this earth and from a life of shame. She murmured a prayer for his soul, focusing on the firm chin and black-and-blue swollen features. His time had been short and violent and the Good Book told her there was a certain place for men like him. She shuddered at the thought and reached to pull the light blanket over his face.

  Rains had been plentiful this year so the burying wouldn’t be hard; the dirt was soft and pliable. Then it occurred to her that the Youngers and their gang reportedly lived a scant few miles from Bolton Holler. Decency said she should send word to the family to come bury their own. Because a man robbed and even killed didn’t mean he had no folks who loved him.

  And perhaps—no, surely—there was some kind of bounty on this man’s head. A bounty that would provide her with funds to build a new barn door…and the means to leave Bolton Holler and start a new life.

  The thin, freshly shaved man sitting behind the sheriff’s desk glanced up when Lyric entered late that morning. His chair scraped the floor and overturned when he recognized her.

  “Please.” She held up a calming hand. “I’m here to collect a reward.”

  Visibly uneasy, the younger man hitched up his gun belt, straightened his bony shoulders, and assumed a calm expression. “Who you got?”

  “I believe that I have a dead Younger in the parlor. I think it only decent that someone ride and inform his kin that they should come get him.”

  The man’s face turned blank. “A Younger? Which one? Not Cole, ’cause I jest heard he was over in Hot Springs checking on one of his racehorses.”

  “Cole Younger races horses?”

  “Sure enough—he’s a big sportsman. I hear tell that Cole is quite the horse lover.” He took another hitch in his pants. He didn’t have enough flesh on his lanky frame to keep his britches up. “Those Youngers take care of their animals.”

  She didn’t have the slightest interest in the Youngers’ pursuits, but being friendly appeared to set the jailer at ease. “I don’t know which Younger I have—you’re not the sheriff, are you?” She had seen the sheriff around town on occasional visits and this man wasn’t him.

  “No—sheriff’s away on personal business. Gonna be gone for a spell. He left the town’s security to me.” He straightened, proud-like. “I’m in control whilst he’s absent.”

  “Then you should be the one to ride out to the Younger place and inform them they have kin to bury.”

  “Ma’am.” Color crept up his neck. How old was he? Maybe in his very early twenties—certainly not experienced enough for this job. “If I was to ride into the Younger place for any reason, I’d have my head blowed off.”

  “Even if it’s on official business?”

  “Them Youngers shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Well, it hardly seems fair that I have to bury the man. He’s responsible for destroying my barn door and I have no funds to rebuild it.” She paused, her eyes scanning the rows of posters tacked to the wall. “I’m assuming there is a reward?”

  “If he’s any part of the Younger gang there’s likely a bounty on his head. Do you recognize his face on any of those posters?”

  Stepping closer to the long row on display, Lyric scanned the assortment of horrors. Every last man looked like he’d shoot his grandma for a stewing hen. Her eyes moved down th
e row. It was so hard to tell. Most of the men wore beards and had missing teeth. The man in her parlor was a clean-looking sort, except for his injuries, and the swelling made it hard to make out his true features. After a bit, she turned away. “None of them look like the man in my parlor, but I heard Jim Cummins was seen in the area yesterday. Perhaps the man isn’t a Younger but a Cummins.”

  “Could be, but I don’t know much about Cummins,” the man admitted. He stepped to the board and ran his gaze the length of the posters. “This here is Bud Pence. Does the man you got resemble him?”

  She stared at the faded image. “Not really—but I can’t say for certain. When he went through the barn door he got banged up pretty bad. I didn’t think he’d make it through the night, but he did. He passed earlier today.” Sighing, she turned away. “I don’t know who he is but maybe he has kin in the area. Is it possible for someone to come and identify the body? Surely someone knows the hoodlums that plague the area.”

  Gunshots often shattered the stillness, and she could hear the ruckus clear up on the hill. Those gangs sure liked to cause trouble. The men rode through town, whooping, hollering, tearing down clotheslines of clean wash, shooting out windows, and terrorizing anyone in their path. A stray bullet had caught Wilson Brown three years past, and the town clothier was still in a wheelchair.

  “There’s several who’d know if it’s Cummins, though you got one problem.”

  “Only one?” She laughed lightly. If only this were her one problem.

  “You’re not going to get a soul to come up to your house and identify him. You up to bringing him to the jail?”

  Put a dead body in her cart and drive it all the way into town? She shook her head. “Can’t you do this?” The very idea that a young, strong man like him couldn’t get past his superstitions was plain silly. If he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the Bolton threshold, how was he ever going to control the Holler’s outlaws?

  He removed his hat and laid it across his chest. “Ma’am. That spooklight—that there does something to me I can’t explain.”

  “Don’t folks see it down here?”

  “Not as often. I haven’t and I don’t intend to if I can keep from it.”

  “My family has nothing to do with that light,” she snapped. “You are surely a man of common sense.”

  He nodded. “Common sense tells me to stay far away, ma’am.”

  Shaking her head, she lifted the light scarf around her hair. “I don’t see how I can get a dead man to the jail, but I’ll try. Will you be here tomorrow morning?”

  The delay would mean that she and the girls would have to carry the body from the parlor to the wagon. Were the three up to moving his bulky weight again? Lark and Boots wouldn’t relish the task, but she couldn’t allow the deceased to turn back to dust on Mother’s sofa. And she wanted him out of the house—and out of her life.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be here in the morning, and I’ll have someone here who can tell you for certain who your man is.”

  “He isn’t my man—and once he’s identified I pray there’s a bounty.” The dead man on her mother’s sofa was not only not her man, he wasn’t her problem—but that seemed beside the point. The barn door was the real problem. Rosie wasn’t likely to wander off, but wild animals could easily get to the cow and the chickens without the door to stop them. And if anything got the cow or chickens there would be no fresh butter, milk, cream, or eggs in the Bolton household.

  The acting sheriff nodded. “If he’s any part of the Younger gang, there’ll be a reward. And a nice one.”

  “Then I will return early tomorrow morning to collect that prize.” With a nod she turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

  A balmy sun shifted to the west as Lyric reached the top of Bolton hill. Winded, she paused to catch her breath.

  The Bolton house did resemble a house of fear.

  Two stories, sagging shutters, warped paint. The all-weather spring-fed creek filled with limestone slabs gurgled alongside the path that led over the hill to the barn. Water poured from the spring, cascading over the bluff. When the wind blew, the old house creaked with noises even Lyric couldn’t identify. The woodstove was enough to heat the downstairs but the upstairs bedrooms were cold and drafty in the winter and hot and stuffy in the summer.

  The repugnant thought of moving the deceased rested heavily on her mind. It was hardly fair to involve Lark and Boots again, but she had no choice. He must be moved one final time in the morning, and then she could hand him off to the sheriff and be done with him.

  A more repugnant thought crossed her mind, one that made blood rush to her head. What if there was no bounty? What if the man the sheriff brought in to identify the body couldn’t make a positive match?

  Visions of the few coins she kept in a jar in the pantry danced before her eyes. There were barely enough there to see them through the winter and a new spring planting.

  Lifting her head, she let the slight breeze cool her thoughts and calm her fears. The Lord always provided.

  Her eyes caught sight of a young woman coming down the back path carrying a dish covered with a red and white checked cloth.

  Katherine Jennings.

  Waving, Lyric hailed the visitor. Surely she was on her way somewhere and a mere wave wouldn’t offend her.

  The woman smiled and turned in her direction. Dumbfounded, Lyric watched her slowly make her way toward the Bolton back door. Breaking into a run, she raced to meet her.

  “Afternoon,” she called when her neighbor was within hearing distance.

  “Good afternoon!” A breathless Katherine arrived with the most warming smile. For a moment Lyric couldn’t find her voice. Visitors were a rarity—especially female visitors—and she mentally prepared to wish her new acquaintance well and watch her walk on. But Katherine continued toward her with a purposeful stride.

  Extending the pie, the young woman said, “I came to apologize for my earlier behavior. I’m not usually the weepy, frightened sort.”

  Offering a welcoming smile, Lyric took the dish and sniffed the pleasant aroma. “Lemon?”

  “The only kind that turns out right for me.”

  “Thank you—but there’s no need to apologize. Your fright is completely understandable under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, Lyric—may I call you Lyric?”

  Lyric nodded, her smile widening.

  “When Levi and I married, I was so disturbed to think there wouldn’t be any women my age around, but when you showed up this morning I felt much better.”

  “Katherine, I am delighted to see you. Come—let’s sit a moment on the porch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The two women crossed the porch and Lyric stopped dead in her tracks. The pie in her hand wavered. Sitting on the left side of the porch, big as life, was the Younger.

  Peering closer she noticed he wasn’t sitting; he was slumped—with a rope coiled around him. Eyes closed in death.

  Turning on her heel, Lyric bumped into Katherine. “Let’s sit on the other side. It will be warmer there.”

  “What…? Okay. Well, as I was saying….”

  Words faded and Lyric’s mind raced with possibilities. Lark and Boots must have wanted the body out of the house pretty badly if they’d been willing to carry him themselves. That was fine—he could stay there until properly identified. Then the sheriff would have to deal with the remains until kin arrived to claim him.

  Taking a seat in the sunlight, Katherine said, “I can’t stay long. Levi is expecting a roast for supper and I haven’t put the meat in the oven yet.” She glanced down the road. “And I certainly don’t want to go anywhere alone after dark.”

  “I’m so glad you stopped by.” Lyric took the chair opposite her, not sure where to put her hands. She’d never had a real conversation with a peer and she wasn’t sure what to say. The spooklight certainly wasn’t fodder for friendly chatter. “So you’re newly married? How long?”

 
“Almost a month now.” Katherine extended her right hand, where a tiny gem sparkled on the third finger.

  “It’s very lovely.”

  “It was Levi’s grandmother’s.” Katherine drank in the jewel, pride shining in her eyes.

  “You say you hail from Joplin?”

  “Yes. We’ve been there since the boom started. Papa’s mined for just about everything there is in these parts. Raised his family digging for ore and zinc.”

  Smiling, Lyric tried to keep up with the conversation, but her mind was on the body sitting not twenty feet away on the opposite side of the porch. She prayed Katherine wouldn’t notice. Little did her friend know that the spooklight wasn’t her only problem.

  She managed to respond to the woman’s friendly chatter calmly. “I’ve never been to Joplin. I hear it’s very nice.” She’d never been farther than the small settlement that sat at the foot of Bolton Hill: a general store, blacksmith, livery, jail, and a man who worked on teeth when he was sober. Someday she planned to leave this all behind. Someday she would visit Joplin and places far beyond—maybe even Oklahoma. She shifted, her eyes traveling to the corner post. Katherine couldn’t see the Younger from where she was sitting, and there was no need to unduly alarm her. They’d chat for a while longer and the young woman would be on her way, none the wiser.

  “Joplin nice?” Katherine sat back and her expression turned thoughtful. “Not really. The folks are friendly enough, but it’s a typical boom town. Saturday nights are the worst. Drunken cowboys and miners crowd the saloons with dust from the mines still on their clothing. There’s a lot of brawling—mud—” She turned to trace Lyric’s gaze. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing.” Lyric smiled. “The town sounds interesting. Perhaps if I ever go there you’ll go with me and show me around.”

  “I’d love that! It’s pretty normal, I suspect, but I have family and good friends there. Levi assures me we’ll visit often.” She bent closer. “Are you and your mother close?”