The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  The man shrugged. “Depends who he is.”

  “I’ll expect due pay when I bring him.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Once we sort out who he is.”

  When she shut the door his words still rang in her head. “Depends who he is.”

  All she had to do was figure that out.

  Lark turned red in the face. “I don’t want to leave here. Boots couldn’t go with us.”

  “No, Boots can’t go with us, but we’re not staying.” Lyric set a wicker basket on the table. While she’d been in town she picked up a few supplies. Sugar, flour, and cornmeal.

  “That’s not fair, Lyric. You’re the one who doesn’t like the holler. Just because we’re snubbed and feared doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice life here. Boots is the only friend I need. She’s the only friend I’ve ever had.”

  “You’ll make new friends wherever we go.” Granted, Lark was more reclusive than she; her sister could bury her face in a book and stay there for hours, while Lyric sometimes felt the loneliness would choke her. But if Lark set her heart to something, nothing would change it. She made up her mind quickly and rarely if ever changed a decision. She didn’t need adventures—not like Lyric.

  Many was the time Lyric had sat on the front step and listened to the music floating from the church house on Saturday evenings and longed to be a tiny part of the socials. Sometimes she would bake a cake and enjoy a piece on the porch while the festivities went on below, pretending that she was there. Lark preferred to stay in her room, window shut, engrossed in a story.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Bolton?”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Somebody. I would be honored.”

  And then a handsome man would swing her into his arms and her feet would fairly fly over the wood floor, her laughter blending with that of other young women her age. Oh, she knew her dreams were foolish, and a man would never hold her in his arms. When she began her new life she would be compelled to tell any suitor that her mother was a madwoman, and she had no doubts the news would dash cold water on any potential beau’s fancies. After all, what if Edwina’s craziness had been passed down to her daughters? A man had a right to know that sort of thing.

  Lark scooted back from the table. “I won’t go. I’m not leaving the holler. I’ve lived here all of my life and I plan to die here.”

  “You plan to eventually marry Murphy Hake, but that is only a senseless, youthful dream, Lark. He’s five years older than you and will most likely be married by the time you’re of age.”

  “He won’t marry. He’ll wait for me.”

  Lark turned. “Does he know you think that?”

  “If you’re askin’ if I’ve informed him, no. That would be silly. It would scare him away. I’ll be grown in three years. Everything will be different then. He may want me to be eighteen or nineteen but I’m in no hurry.” She smiled. “God made that man just for me.”

  “Lark, I have never thought of you as a foolish girl but you’re talking like a child. We don’t know God’s plans and it’s foolish to speculate that way.”

  “It isn’t foolish. And he won’t marry just any woman. He’ll wait for me.” She crossed her arms. “And I intend to be here when he starts looking.”

  “You’re hopeless. You will go with me when the time comes.” Lyric set a sack of flour and a tin of baking soda on the counter. There was plenty of yeast still in the pantry. Tonight the house would smell of fresh bread.

  “You can’t make me leave.”

  “I’ll hogtie and drag you if I have to.”

  “That’s so unfair! Wait…” Lark vacated her chair and went to Lyric’s side as she pulled a sack of sugar out of her bag. “We actually have sugar?”

  “I thought we’d celebrate. Once I take the stranger to town and collect the reward we’ll celebrate with a nice peach pie. I still have three jars of canned peaches from last summer.” She turned to peer over her shoulder. “Where’s the man?”

  “He was on the porch last I saw of him.”

  “He made it out there on his own?” Panic filled her. Had he seen his chance to escape? It wasn’t possible. If he tried to escape he wouldn’t get far.

  Lark nodded, slipping a pinch of sugar in her mouth. “He seems stronger today.”

  “That’s not possible. He’s lost too much blood.”

  “Still, I saw him try to go up and down the front steps. Twice. It took him a long time, but he made it. I don’t think he’s going to die. I think he’s too stubborn or too strong.”

  The man had to be weak as a kitten. He’d barely eaten a morsel since his injury and now he was attempting to climb steps?

  “He must have an iron constitution.” Lyric closed the pantry door, her eyes scanning the kitchen. “What time is it?”

  Lark glanced out the window. “I’d say shortly before noon.” Years ago they had learned to tell time by the sun’s position. The clocks in the house were rarely wound.

  “I’ll go look for him. You need to make Mother some fresh broth.”

  “She won’t eat it, Lyric. She barely rouses these days. I think she wants to let go and pass on, but she can’t.”

  “Perhaps the Lord is allowing her more time.” Lyric sighed heavily. The years had been long, but she would miss Edwina when she passed. Her mother was cold and indifferent at the best of times, but Lyric did care. She’d seen moments when Edwina softened. She had cried when her favorite cat died. They’d sat on the back step that night and Lyric had cradled her like a small child.

  “Do you think we’ll end up crazy like her?”

  “I don’t know. I pray not.”

  “If we do, there’s no escaping it…so why not stay here and be content?”

  “Because I can’t be happy here; I want more than accusing stares and cold backs turned on me.” She lifted the window for a bit of fresh air. “I want to go to a dance someday.”

  “You can go anytime you want. They have one twice a month at the church.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a sight? Me, Lyric Bolton, walking into the church. The room would empty.”

  Lark stepped closer. “Only if you stepped into Mrs. Grannier’s face and hissed.”

  The sisters broke out laughing. Mrs. Grannier was a fussy old fiddlehead who ran the town and spread gossip thick as molasses. The picture Lark painted made Lyric hold her sides in merriment. She could see birdlike Mrs. Grannier screaming like a banshee, latching onto her husband’s arm. Mr. Grannier couldn’t fight his way out of butcher paper, but he was a pleasant enough soul. At least he didn’t step to the opposite side of the street when one of the Boltons came to town.

  Lyric’s smile gradually faded. She could never go to a dance in this town; no use even considering it. “I’m going to search for the wounded man. Can you start the broth?”

  “Sure. Boots is coming by later and we’re going to pick greens this afternoon.”

  “Good, bring some dandelion—and the polk might be up by now. Pull a few wild onions while you’re at it.” Fresh vegetables were always a welcome sight on the table. The tender plants grew wild along the creek bank.

  Sighing, she longed to just take a peaceful wade in the creek instead of searching for that bothersome stranger. He couldn’t have gone far, not in his pitiful condition.

  When she stepped onto the porch she spotted him, way down by the fence row. Frowning, she realized that her outlaw had more fortitude than good sense.

  But at least he was still here.

  The mild weather was so pleasant that Lyric had decided to air the house. March in Missouri could be warm, windy, and pleasant, or else bring some of the deepest snow of the year. Tender tree buds and blooming daffodils were often buried in soft white mounds. The old saying was true: If you didn’t like the weather, stick around for an hour and it would change. And change it would, because winter wasn’t finished with them yet. The low bank of clouds in the north promised rough weather, but today held the firm potential of spring, with lilacs and wild asparagus sneaking a
round the corner.

  She stood on tiptoe and peered out the window, hoping to see the wounded stranger. She had spotted him all the way down at the barn shortly after dinner and marveled at his slow but determined steps. He was still a very sick man, but he appeared to be overcoming his injuries far sooner than most.

  A second knock sounded at the open back door and when she glanced up she saw Katherine Jennings in the doorway holding a small basket. “Katherine! Come in.”

  The young lady stepped into the room and took a deep breath. “What smells so heavenly?”

  “Peach pie. I’m baking one for dinner.” Now that the stranger would be sharing a few meals she wanted the fare to be satisfying.

  “If only I could smell cream and hot coffee to go with it.” The girls laughed and Katherine removed her light wrap. “I hope you don’t mind an uninvited guest, but Levi is working such long hours and I get lonely. Do you have time for a visit?”

  Did she have time? Time was her only commodity. “Please, sit down. I do have coffee.” It was the one thing Mother never refused, though she only sipped the hot brew.

  “Any sign of the light?” Lyric asked.

  “None, thank goodness. But then Levi and I haven’t ventured out at night. I don’t want to tempt it.”

  Sobering, Lyric pulled up the second chair and invited her to sit. “Katherine…you do know that you may see the light again. Over and over.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I believe it feels like it lives here. I’ve heard it’s been seen as far as Oklahoma and Indian Territory, but that’s not that far away. If you and Levi plan to spend your life here then you should be aware it most likely will be around.”

  “Oh, dear.” Katherine apparently had to give that matter serious thought. “But it doesn’t bother you?”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I can’t say that I enjoy the showings and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t unnerve me a bit, but I’m not afraid of it, whatever it might be.”

  “It must be something explainable.”

  “Surely it is, but so far nobody’s found an explanation.”

  “Do you believe in…in ghosts?”

  Lyric laughed. “Just the Holy Ghost.”

  Making light of the subject now, the women chatted, spending a few minutes catching up.

  A tap at the door interrupted them. The stranger came in with an armful of kindling.

  “Thought you might need some, since you’ve been baking,” he said quietly. Before Lyric could answer, he slipped back outside and headed toward the barn again.

  Katherine’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought you lived with only your mother and sister.”

  Lyric sighed. How could she explain the bruised and battered outlaw to her new friend? “He showed up here injured; I’m letting him stay for a bit.”

  That explanation seemed to suffice, although Lyric caught Katherine shooting an occasional curious glance out the window.

  When Lyric got up to take the pie out of the oven, Katherine looked awestruck. “It’s so beautifully brown.”

  Lyric recalled how Katherine had said pie making wasn’t her gift, but she suspected the young woman hadn’t made many. “Would you like me to show you how to bake a pie other than lemon?”

  Katherine’s eyes widened. “I’ve never had any luck with anything other than lemon, and truthfully, Levi gets tired of the same flavor.”

  “Then I’ll teach you.” She stepped to the pantry and got the flour and salt. A large tub of lard sat next to the cooking stove. Within a few minutes, Katherine had washed her hands and was preparing to do battle with the dough. The ingredients mixed easily and after a few more minutes Lyric stood beside the young woman and guided her hands on a rolling pin. The dough rolled out smoothly and evenly. One would have thought it was a holiday by the sounds of the young bride’s squeals as she carefully laid the dough in the pie pan and then turned to assemble the peach mixture.

  Katherine would never know what a gift she received; they almost never had sugar in the house and sharing a cup with a neighbor would mean one less pie for Lark, but having a friend was worth the price of a cup of sugar and one more precious jar of fruit.

  Cans of peaches were opened, sugar, flour, and butter added, and the ingredients poured into the shell. Katherine rolled out the top crust without Lyric’s help. After a moment the dough was set into place and Lyric showed her how to flute the crust and make tiny slits to vent the soon-to-be bubbling mixture. When the pie pan slid into the hot oven it was pretty as a picture.

  While the treat baked, time flew by. The girls’ laughter floated from the kitchen as they exchanged stories until soon Katherine removed a delectable looking pie from the oven and proudly stood back to survey the work. “Levi will not believe this.”

  “But he will most certainly enjoy it,” Lyric promised.

  As the afternoon lengthened, Lyric leaned on the back stoop and watched Katherine walk happily down the road, holding the wicker basket with the steaming hot peach pie tucked safely inside.

  Her gaze was drawn to the barn, where she saw the stranger currying the horse. She focused on his slow but methodical movements. His hand paused, and he took deep breaths. Even from here she could tell he was struggling to remain upright and her heart went out to him. Did he recognize the horse? He didn’t appear to have any particular feeling for the animal as he worked.

  Her gaze focused on the animal. And what was she supposed to feed him? Rosie needed the available grass and there was no extra hay in her loft. If that animal didn’t belong to the stranger she needed to sell it and its gear. The saddle alone would bring a nice price. The rich mahogany leather, the pommel, fender, and cantle all rubbed with saddle soap to a high sheen…it would bring a handsome price. Outlawing must pay very well.

  An awful feeling swelled inside of her when she watched the wounded man painfully bend to run the brush over the animal’s right fetlock. From this distance she saw that it took every ounce of strength he possessed to do the small chore. It would seem that the stranger was a man of great fortitude and determination.

  She mentally shook her head. All of this effort and grit to recover, only to be hanged by the neck until dead.

  Lord, it hardly seems fair.

  6

  Lyric stirred when a crack of thunder shook the house sometime during the night. Rolling to her side she sank deeper into her pillow. The cloud bank must have moved in.

  Drowsy, she realized it wasn’t light yet. She should check on Mother. Storms ordinarily didn’t bother Edwina, but if she awoke and couldn’t get out of bed…Fat raindrops lashed the window and she stirred again, aware that the drops were extremely large. The intermittent peppering on the windowpane grew more persistent and in her drowsy state the word came to her: thunder snow. It was a peculiar event most likely to happen in midwinter. Lightning illuminated the bedroom and a second thunderous clap rattled the house. She particularly dreaded this kind of snow because it usually meant severe icy conditions for a few days or weeks to come.

  Slipping from the bed, she lifted the curtain and looked at the landscape already white with icy pellets. A bobbing light appeared, and she pressed her nose closer to the pane. The stranger was carrying a lantern and slowly making his way to the barn, occasionally losing his footing on the icy surface.

  Pulling on her stockings and then her dress, she wound a wool scarf around her head and reached for a heavy coat.

  Downstairs she lit a lantern and quietly let herself out the back door, braced against the blowing sleet. The white ground lit the darkness as she started off, slipping twice before she gained solid footing.

  The stranger’s light bobbed in the distance, drawing closer to the barn. He planned to take the horse and ride off while he thought everyone was sleeping. She hated to thwart his plans, but he would have to be a little more discreet with the next escape he planned. The pelting storm would awaken the whole house.

  The light disappeared into the barn and she qu
ickened her steps, slipping again. Brushing ice off her dress, she steadied her gait and trudged on. Cold, wet snow stung her face and she drew harsh air into her lungs. The temperature must have dropped forty degrees from the afternoon’s unseasonable warmth.

  The light inside the barn suddenly went out.

  He must have chosen the lantern she had forgotten to fill before going to bed last night. The man’s timing seemed as poor as his judgment.

  As she approached the busted door, she paused when she heard him speaking to the animals. “It’s okay. Nothing going on but a thunderstorm.”

  Rosie and the horse shuffled restlessly in their stalls.

  He was speaking to the animals in the darkness. Calming them. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the doorway. “May I help you with something?”

  His voice returned through the black void. “A light would come in handy, if you have one. Mine went out.”

  “I know.” She stepped inside, trying to close the broken timbers. Ferocious wind battered the shelter. “I meant to fill the lamp earlier but I forgot.” Shaking sleet off her coat, she shivered. “What are you doing out here this time of night—or early morning?”

  “The storm woke me, and I had a feeling the animals would be nervous.”

  She glanced at Rosie. The cow usually didn’t mind storms too much, but the buckskin did seem a bit nervous. He stomped in the stall, shying away when the man approached. The stranger reached out and rubbed his ears and the animal settled.

  “That’s the reason you’re here? You’ve braved the storm to check on the animals?” When he could barely walk?

  Shrugging, he threw a blanket over the horse’s back and then added one to Rosie’s broad width. “You seem to think I’m wanted for something. Maybe I shoot people but love animals.”

  At the moment only the latter seemed probable. He didn’t appear to be dangerous or even mildly threatening, but then he wasn’t himself. Heavy sleet pelted the tin roof as Lyric moved to the hay bin and grabbed a couple of handfuls. “I think you should have a name. I can’t keep calling you…You. Or Hey there.”