The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  Ten minutes later she let herself out the back door, shivering in the frosty morning air as she balanced two mugs of hot coffee. She had a hunch Joseph was the culprit; the man rose early and seemed restless now that he was starting to mend. The line still hung from the house to the barn but she couldn’t use it with her hands full. Melted dark patches made travel easier, and if she felt herself falling she’d drop the cups and grab for support. Better to lose the coffee than break an arm.

  Lord, we’re barely into March. One more good snowstorm might do the soil good. Make the crops more fertile this year.

  Making her way over the hill, she paused, her breath a white plume in the chilly air. By afternoon the temperatures would warm and make better headway melting the ice. Each new day brought Joseph’s imminent demise closer, and the thought had now started to nag her, like a blister between her toes. Could she actually stand by and watch the sheriff hang this man?

  Stepping into the barn she spotted the noise maker. Joseph had stripped the splintered door down to the frame and now planed the rough edges. “I thought it might be you,” she teased. “Who else wakes with the birds?”

  Without looking up, he smiled. “Did I disturb you?”

  She walked over and set the coffee beside him. “No. I had to get up and look out the window to see who was making that racket.”

  Grinning, he reached for the cup. “Thanks. This should warm me up.”

  “It might be stone cold by now.” She sat next to him, testing the brew. “Lukewarm.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  Her gaze rested on his work. “You’re fixing the door.” For one senseless improbable moment she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. If he were hanged, there would be plenty of funds for a new door but she knew in her heart she would never look at the barn entrance without seeing his face. Without wondering…

  “It isn’t too difficult. I looked around and asked that big hired hand with a gun you keep hidden down here, and together we found enough scrap wood to patch it. It won’t be like new, but Rosie should stay warmer.”

  She blushed at the thought of the flimsy lie she’d given. Big, hard farmhand—not afraid to use a gun. He must think her very silly.

  Her eyes moved to the horse. “What should we do about him?”

  “Don’t know. Do you need a horse?”

  She shook her head. “I can barely feed Rosie. Truthfully, I’ve begun to wonder if he might be yours.”

  His gaze shifted back to the big stallion. “No. I wouldn’t put up with a horse that cantankerous.”

  “Still, it makes sense. A saddled horse doesn’t come from nowhere.”

  “He isn’t my horse.” His gaze skimmed the innocent-looking creature. “There could be all kinds of reasons he was saddled. Someone shot his owner. He threw his rider. His owner got occupied and the animal wandered off.” He shook his head. “Do with him what you must; he’s not mine.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “I know, okay? A man would know his horse.”

  The animal shifted and stepped on Joseph’s left foot and he smacked the stallion’s rump. “Stay off my foot!”

  “Now, now. Is it necessary to speak so harshly to him?” She had noticed that the two butted heads often.

  “This animal doesn’t like me.”

  “Now, honestly. Listen to yourself. Why would the horse have anything personal against you?”

  “There are some animals that are cantankerous by nature, and this is one of them.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s why his owner turned him away. But you would think he would have kept the saddle.” She ran her hands over the rich leather and fine stitching and thought about the engraved initials toward the back that she’d noticed earlier. J.J. If it was his horse the initials were wrong. There should be a Y in place of the last J. He couldn’t possibly be Jesse James. Jesse James had been shot and killed six years earlier.

  “The owner probably couldn’t get rid of him quick enough. If he were mine, I’d have sold him the day I bought him.”

  “Oh.” She patted the horse’s mane lovingly. “Don’t listen to him. I’ll bet you’re a wonderful animal.”

  “I wouldn’t bet anything more than a hickory nut.”

  “You surely aren’t from these parts; we call them hicker nuts,” she bantered.

  “Then I must not be from around here.”

  The horse turned and nipped his hip and Joseph’s face flushed scarlet. If she hadn’t been standing there she could tell the animal would have gotten a blistering earful.

  “So.” She crossed her arms behind her back and circled the door frame. “You really think you can fix this?”

  “I’m going to try.” He paused, eyes focused on his work. “I like the feel of lumber, the smooth wood, the sweet scent of fresh shavings.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps in your former life you were a carpenter.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I built furniture when I wasn’t robbing, looting, or killing.”

  She sobered. “We don’t know that you’re an outlaw.” It was the first time she’d let the notion slip out, and she hoped he wouldn’t take advantage of her flagging suspicion. At this point she didn’t know anything for certain other than the ice was melting faster than she’d like.

  “You’re right.” He ran the plane over the weathered board. “We don’t.”

  “Is anything coming back to you? Anything at all?” The blow to his head would knock anyone senseless, but Lark mentioned she’d read books about people who’d lost their memories and after a short while they had returned.

  Other times they never regained their past.

  God, perhaps that would be for the best. This man doesn’t appear to be violent, and if he is hanged he will never recall his vile acts. On his behalf, I plead for mercy for his sins.

  “Nothing.”

  His flat tone told her he was weary of the subject. She took another direction. “Did you see Katherine yesterday?”

  “I saw her walking toward home. Why was she out in such weather?”

  “She’s lonely—and frightened. Seems the light paid them a visit too. Katherine’s nerves were jangled and she was tied all in knots.”

  He paused and looked up at her. “Does the light bother you?”

  “No. I’ve been around too long.”

  He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “Your mother. Is she…I mean…I wasn’t expecting to bump into her.”

  “That she came to investigate the gunshot in itself was remarkable. She hasn’t moved around for a while. You must have really startled her. I’m sorry if she frightened you. She has strange ways, and people mostly avoid us because of it.”

  “And that makes you a lonely woman,” he said.

  His keen perception surprised her. She tried to hide her longing to belong somewhere. Or to someone. Deep down she wanted to be loved and go to sleep every night knowing that in addition to God’s love there was another person on earth to whom she mattered.

  “Nothing wrong with being lonely,” he said softly. “Just doesn’t seem right that a girl like you should be cooped up here all alone.”

  She mustered a smile. “When Mother passes, Lark and I are leaving here—going as far as we can go. Maybe even to California.”

  “To start a new life?”

  She nodded. “Of course Lark’s at the age where she doesn’t want to leave. She and Boots are close as bread and butter, but there comes a time when everyone has to leave someone they love. She’ll make new friends.”

  “New friends.” He shook his head. “Something inside of me says friendships are hard to come by—good friendships, that is. But I could be wrong. My thinking is muddled.”

  Smiling, she ran her hand over the front of her coat and eyed the door frame. Nothing on this earth could stop her from leaving once she was free to go. “Do you plan to work on this all day?”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “I thought ma
ybe we could take a walk. It’s going to be a lovely day, and maybe we can find some dandelion greens poking their heads through the melting ice. Lark and Boots found a sizable mess shortly before the storm.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll work here for a while and then go back to the house.”

  “Are you sure?” She knew his argument—he needed to keep up his strength. How much strength would he need to attend his hanging? Yet he clearly wanted privacy.

  “I’ll see you for dinner?”

  Nodding, he continued his work.

  8

  Lyric’s not going to be happy about this.” Boots trudged behind Lark, her scuffed red boots leaving tracks in the melting slush.

  “My sister won’t know a thing about this if you don’t blab.” Lark paused to catch her breath. If her map served her right, the Youngers all lived out this way. They were a hardy bunch to be sure. If she and Boots could get close enough to recognize features she figured she could pretty well tell if Joseph was one of them. There would be similarities—bold noses, hair color and growth patterns, ruddy complexions, the set of a jaw or a wide mouth and big teeth or a small mouth and no teeth. The wounded stranger was downright fine-looking, clean, and had a good strong set of even white teeth.

  Lark considered herself to be above average in knowledge; she’d read her fair share of mysteries, and she could spot a crook in a crowd. There would be plenty today, and if those Youngers stepped a foot out of their houses she figured she could pretty well tell if Joseph was one of them. She shook the given name aside. Lyric had no call to give him a name; he had one. Her mission was to find it.

  There was no use letting a good man hang for crimes he hadn’t committed, and the more she was around Joseph the more convinced she was he wasn’t evil. Pure instinct told her as much. And if he wasn’t in a gang then Lyric could marry the fellow and they could stay here in Bolton Holler. A person would have to be in a walking coma to not recognize that Lyric had eyes for the stranger, and her sister was pretty enough, and thoughtful, and everything a man could want. They would be happy together and then Lyric would stop threatening to leave the holler. Always talking about leaving—it left her weary.

  “You are as slow as molasses in spring,” Lark called back to Boots. “Hurry up. It’s going to be dark by the time we get there and walk back. And we have to go by Murphy’s house on the way.”

  “Oh, good grief! You know you get on that boy’s nerves.”

  “I don’t know that. I keep him company.”

  “You keep him on the run,” Boots accused. “He thinks you’re a silly little girl.”

  “Maybe now he thinks it, but he won’t someday. Someday I’m going to marry that man and he’s going to wonder what hit him. I’ll be seventeen in three years, after all.”

  “Oh, posh.”

  Murphy’s place came into view. The unsuspecting farmer bent working on a plow. When Lark yelled, waving her hand in the air, he glanced up, dropped the rigging, and quickly strode toward the barn.

  “Shoot. He didn’t see me.”

  “He saw you.”

  “Did not.”

  Boots trailed behind, whining. “The sun might be out but it’s still cold. My feet are blocks of ice.”

  “You need new soles on your boots.”

  “Grandpa doesn’t have the money for new soles.”

  “Then wear thicker socks.”

  Something in the thicket caught Lark’s eye. At first she thought it might be a piece of melting slush, but she detected a hint of color. Stepping off the road, she waded through the briars, her feet slipping on tricky ground. When she fell the second time her hand grasped the object and she pulled it up close. Why, it was a man’s wallet!

  “What are you doing off the road?” Boots called. “If you expect me to follow you through that brush you’ve got another think coming.”

  “I saw something in the weeds. Look.” She held the item aloft.

  Boots veered closer to the edge of the road. “Does it have any money in it?”

  “I don’t know.” Lark pulled herself to her feet and waded back to the road. Unfolding the leather binding, she focused on the various pieces displayed. Mostly slips of papers with names written on them. Towns. Dates. A badge of some sort. She peered closer. A U.S. marshal badge. Her gaze scanned names but nothing registered.

  One slip read Ian Cawley and had a Kansas address.

  “Probably one of those Youngers stole it off a U.S. marshal and then shot him, took the money, and threw the wallet in the bushes,” Lark mused.

  “The lowdown no-goods,” Boots concurred. “Shame. We could have used a few hundred dollars.” She giggled.

  “Yes, you’d buy new soles.”

  “Soles my foot; I’d get new boots. I’d have Earl order the best he could find.”

  “I found the wallet. Why should you get any money if there were any?”

  “I came along with you. That should make the find half and half.”

  Lark stuck the wallet in her coat pocket and the girls moved on down the road, squabbling.

  “What are you going to do with the wallet?” Boots finally asked.

  “I don’t know. Keep it, I guess. Maybe I’ll write a letter to one of those names written on paper and see if they know an Ian Cawley and if they do I’ll return it if he sends the funds to do so.”

  “Sounds sensible.”

  “Have I ever said or done anything dumb?”

  “Too many to pinpoint.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too.” Lark drew an apple out of her pocket. “Want to share?”

  “Okay, but I’m not eating near the core this time. I get the part closest to the peel.”

  “Fine.” Lark bit into the apple and juice spurted. “I’ll just get it started for us.”

  Joseph opened the back door and stepped onto the service porch. Shrugging out of his coat, he stepped into the kitchen and warmed his hands at the cookstove. He’d lost track of time. How long had he been here? Days, he thought, maybe as long as a week or more. The pain was gradually subsiding to the point where he could sleep. Last night he’d awakened only twice but easily drifted back off.

  The house was unusually quiet. No sign of Lark, Boots, or Lyric. The women must be out looking for greens in the snow.

  After he poured himself a hot cup of coffee, he carried it to the parlor and closed the door. A fire blazed on the stone hearth and lent the room a pleasant feel. He stared at the cup in his hand and then at the polished table sitting next to the sofa. The furnishings were old but in good taste; best not to set the cup on the bare wood. Moving to the massive bookshelf, he chose a title and backed up until he felt the seat. Setting the book on the table, he then set his cup on top of it.

  Settling in a wingback chair, he momentarily closed his eyes and savored the warmth creeping through his bones. After a bit, he sat up and reached for his cup, his eyes widening when he noticed he had company. Edwina was sitting opposite him, staring.

  How long had she been there?

  The cup rattled when he carefully replaced it in the saucer and slowly got to his feet. “Ma’am?”

  “Remove that cup from my table.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He snatched up the china, clutching it to his chest. “I put a book under it.”

  The woman stared. The moments stretched. Joseph shifted. After a long moment of silence, he asked. “Is there something you need? I think your daughters are out looking for greens in the snow.”

  “Read to me.”

  “Read…?” He glanced at the bookshelves lined with heavy volumes.

  “Read.”

  “Okay, what do you want me to read?”

  She produced a worn, tattered Bible. “Isaiah 53.”

  “All right.” He opened the book and began flipping through the pages, scanning the notations that had been made beside certain verses in a bold but feminine hand. Someone had spent a lot of time in this book.

  He found the book of Isaiah and flippe
d to the fifty-third chapter. He cleared his throat and began to read. “Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him. He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.”

  He continued reading until he’d finished the entire chapter. When he looked up, he realized that the sick woman’s eyes had filled with tears as she gazed into the distance. She was quiet for a long moment, and finally she spoke.

  “Never used to understand how folks put so much store in that nonsense. Then that preacher came around one time. Tried to save my soul, and I laughed in his face. But he left that Bible and Lyric read it. Read the whole thing. She always said she liked that part. I’ve read it over and over and I just can’t puzzle it out.” She fixed on him. “Like that last bit. In plain words, what does ‘he bare the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors’ mean? Nobody’s ever borne anything for me. I wouldn’t let them. I’ve always taken care of myself. Haven’t once asked for help from anybody and never will.”

  “In plain words? To be honest, Mrs. Bolton, I don’t reckon I’m too good with meanings at the moment. But I can say what I think God is telling folks in this verse. I think He is reminding us that Jesus Christ took it upon Himself to die for man’s sins—every last black sheep, providing they’re willing to accept His offering.”

  Edwina’s upper lip curled. “Every last black sheep. Well, I suppose I fit that order.”

  “It’s called grace, Mrs. Bolton.” He didn’t know where the word came from; it was just there. The word had simply jumped into his mind. Did the woman sense that her days were few? Perhaps for the first time in her life her mind was dwelling on where she would spend eternity. Hadn’t he been experiencing the same uncertainties?