The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  “Where’s my wagon?” His eyes strayed to Norman. The horse was pulling up tender green shoots. He caught back a laugh at the thought of the animal subserviently pulling a peddler’s wagon. That horse didn’t do anything that wasn’t to his liking.

  “Perhaps something happened—you took a fall or someone knocked you on the head and your riding through my barn door was purely accidental, and now you can’t remember up from down. What if you’re a decent man trying to make a living selling vanilla and smelling salts and I turn you over to the sheriff and they hang you?”

  He shook his head. “That’s a lot of supposing.”

  “And you have a wife—and four—maybe five children waiting for you to come home?”

  “What if I’m a black-hearted outlaw who would just as soon shoot you as look you in the eye? What if I haven’t lost my memory at all, but I’m just biding my time until I take all the booty I can find and ride off?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t think you’re that kind of man.”

  “You can’t say for sure.” He could easily tell her he wasn’t, but still he held back. He’d grown pretty fond of her—fonder than he cared to admit. Not only was she a pretty little thing, but she was as helpless in this holler as Norman would be on a pair of ice skates.

  A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “I don’t fear that at all, certainly not from a man wearing a woman’s dress.”

  “Well, I much appreciate your trust,” he mocked.

  “You’ve earned it.” She stuck a bit of nut in his mouth. “Now, tell me what you would do with the money if it was yours.”

  “Me?” He thoughtfully chewed. “I’d give it to my Grandpa and Grandma—or at least a good amount of it.”

  “Are they in need?”

  “Grandpa is a carpenter by trade. He’s getting older but he still manages to bring in a little income and Grandma has her egg money, but they need a lot of things. A good plow horse, a new roof, and the old henhouse needs a match thrown on it.” He sat up straighter. “And I’d buy Grandma one of those new sewing machines, the fancy kind that does a lot of different stitches. She’d be so happy the neighbors would complain her singing was disturbing their afternoon naps.”

  “Ahh, that’s so thoughtful of you.” She glanced up, curiosity mirrored in her eyes. “Wait—wait! How do you know all that?”

  “How?” He scratched his uneven beard, searching for a plausible excuse and mentally berating himself for the slip. “I…I guess my memory’s trying to come back. I can see Grandpa and Grandma in my mind, but I don’t know where they are.”

  Her face lit, and Ian felt his heartbeat quicken. She was so lovely. He’d never seen such a smile. “That’s wonderful!” she cried. “Then you remember who you are?”

  “Don’t get excited. I recall Grandpa and Grandma. Maybe that’s a good sign.”

  “It’s a wonderful sign! It means your mind is starting to clear.”

  Reaching into her pan, he selected a nut and popped it in her mouth. She grinned, chewing.

  “Good?”

  She nodded. “I love walnuts,” she managed to say around the mouthful.

  He scooped a handful and put them in her mouth and she broke out laughing, catching the specks of nuts spilling out.

  “Taste good?” he teased.

  Waving her hand wildly, she shook him away and tried to chew. He enjoyed her antics, grinning. “Want some fudge with those nuts?”

  Holding her hand to her chest she managed to munch and swallow the mouthful, still giggling. The sound of her laughter had the effect of a soothing balm. When he looked away momentarily her hand darted to his mouth, and she shoved a handful of walnuts inside.

  They broke into laughter and playfully scuffled, upsetting the pan of nuts. When they bent to try to clean up the mess, their eyes met and the laughter died. For a long moment they gazed deep into each other’s eyes.

  What did she see reflected there? A scruffy, good-for-nothing outlaw, or a solid man—one she longed to know better? He knew what he saw: a lovely young woman who would turn any man’s head. Trim figure, tiny waist, wide, trusting eyes rich as brown sugar beneath a crown of honey-colored hair. A woman he could easily take home and proudly introduce to Grandpa and Grandma.

  “You look real kissable,” he admitted softly.

  “Then why don’t you kiss me?”

  “Because I’m not going to kiss you dressed like this.”

  “What if I just close my eyes?”

  He bent closer, whispering, their lips a breath apart. “When this is over,” he said, “I plan to kiss you once in the morning”—he touched her lips—“twice at dinner time”—he kissed her again—“and three more times in the evening.”

  “I’m thinking I’d need a few of those kisses you’re doling out during the day to tide me over till suppertime.”

  “Yes, ma’am. As many and as often as you need.” Her fingers slipped up to lightly thread through his hair, a silent but unmistakable invitation to draw her into his arms and hold her, to bury his face in that mound of sweet smelling honey-colored hair. He closed his eyes, willing strength. This mess was so close to being settled, so very close, but it wasn’t. Not yet. And until he was free to claim her, he needed to keep his mind on business.

  “Joseph?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you please go into the house and change your clothing? I feel really strange kissing you like this.”

  “Oh. Sure.” He broke the gaze, tossed the handful of nuts in the pot, and stood to go inside. He didn’t feel good about keeping her in the dark about his memory returning, but it wouldn’t be for long and it was to her benefit.

  He’d have to remind himself of that often in the coming days.

  12

  Late that afternoon, Ian followed Boots and Lark through the thick undergrowth, swiping brush away from his face. The girls had insisted that he come with them, though he knew the trip was pointless. He knew his identity but he sure wasn’t going to tell them. Not until the time was right.

  He trailed Boots, who shoved the undergrowth aside and then released bare branches that smacked him in the face. He ducked when she did it a third time.

  “Hey. Try to remember I’m behind you.”

  “Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

  Thwack.

  Shaking his head, he shoved the briar aside. Walking through the woods with these girls was about as discreet as a rhino stalking a squirrel. They could be heard for miles around.

  “Keep it down a little,” he said. “They can hear us coming.”

  “Sorry.”

  Thwack.

  He blinked, trying to work a piece of bark from his eye. “Are you sure the Youngers live out this way?”

  “Positive,” Lark whispered. “We’ve been here before.”

  “When?”

  “Last week. We wanted to see if anyone looked like you.”

  “Young lady, do you know how dangerous it is for two young women to be messing around alone in these woods? Lyric would tan your hide if she knew.”

  “We were doing a good thing,” Boots argued.

  “A real good thing,” Lark echoed. “If we don’t investigate, how will we ever know who you are?”

  His conscience nagged him. These good-hearted girls were trying their best to help him…and all the while he knew exactly who he was. He wasn’t going to keep misleading them—not if it meant putting them in harm’s way. He couldn’t.

  “It’s not worth the time and effort. Let’s turn back.”

  “No way! It’s not much further,” Boots argued.

  He stepped over a fallen cedar branch. “We can get ourselves in big trouble if anyone spots us. I’m turning around.”

  “Look—we’re here.” The girls paused behind a tall cedar. Ian had no choice but to follow.

  “Did you recognize anyone last time?”

  “Several from the wanted posters in the sheriff’s office, but none that have your
features.”

  They wouldn’t. “Okay, we’ve been here. Let’s go back.”

  “Not yet. We just got here.” Lark eased a branch aside and peered through the cedar.

  He spotted a structure a hundred feet ahead sitting in a thick sycamore grove. “Is that where they hang out?”

  “That’s it,” Lark verified. “Don’t look like much is going on right now.” She lifted her hand to shade her eyes as she looked up. “The outlaws should be ridin’ in for supper any time now.”

  The words still hung in the air when two men sitting tall in the saddle approached. One was a Younger, but Ian didn’t recognize the second man. The riders dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail.

  “Cole Younger is the bald one with reddish whiskers,” Lark whispered. “I’ve seen so many posters of these men I know them by name.”

  Boots wrinkled her nose. “He’s fat.”

  “Boots,” Lark cautioned. “That isn’t nice. He’s…stout.”

  She shrugged. “They all look old and fat to me.”

  “Most of these men have a short life span.” Ian couldn’t think of many that survived their chosen lifestyles. They either died in prison on met their Maker in a public gunfight.

  The two men walked into the house as others rode in. Lark softly called a few by name: “George Shepperd, Charlie Fletcher—he’s the one missing an arm—Dick Liddil, Allen Parmer.”

  Boots stepped closer to Ian. “Are they really bad men?”

  “Really bad, sweetheart,” he said. “You girls are to stay far away from men like these.”

  The outlaws filed in over the next half hour. Ian had given up hope of seeing the man he wanted, but then a lone rider appeared. Jim Younger rode up and dismounted. He would know those lizard-skin boots anywhere. Ian had lost count of how many times Cole Younger’s baby brother had eluded the law.

  “Who’s this one?” Boots asked.

  Lark studied the man and then said, “Jim Younger. Wanted for just about anything you can think up.”

  “He’s a mean one.”

  Lark turned to stare at Ian. “Do you know this man?”

  “I…” He caught the near slip and retracted. “The name faintly rings a bell. I think anyone in these parts must have heard of Jim.”

  Drawing a deep sigh, Boots said, “I don’t know why outlaws are so dumb. Don’t they know they’ll eventually get caught and either spend the rest of their life in jail or be hanged?”

  “Bad men aren’t dumb; they’re wicked.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Ten to thirty years, most times.”

  So Jim was here, and his for the taking. The outlaw was hard to keep track of these days. Now all Ian had to do was draw him carefully into his snare without involving the Boltons. If the plan failed, which it likely could, folks couldn’t blame Lyric and Lark for the daring escapade, but if the ploy were to succeed it would mean he wouldn’t hang and both he and the sisters would pocket some hefty monies.

  All he had to do was successfully make the plan work.

  Ian parted ways with the girls on the walk home. That left Lark and Boots to make the journey back. At least an hour of light remained and the thought set easy on Lark’s mind. Lyric wouldn’t be too upset if she came in before supper.

  Ambling along, Boots broached the subject they spoke about in whispers. “Lark, if Joseph is hanged—and it sure looks for the world like he’s gonna be—then what?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to accept it, though it’ll sure hurt.”

  “I mean what about our plans?”

  “To run away?”

  Boots nodded. “I was thinking, Lyric’s going to be upset when Joseph…is gone. If we left now, she could get all the upset of losing him and you over at the same time.”

  Lark thought about it. Seemed reasonable, but cold. “That would be like heaping double trouble on her.”

  “Well, trouble is never good but I’m thinking if she’s going to hurt she might as well lump all her troubles into one big grieving episode.” They walked down the road, occasionally stepping to the fence line to yank up a dandelion green.

  “I can’t do that to her.” Lark carried the handful of weeds. “It’s going to be hard enough when Joseph goes.”

  “You changed your mind about going?” Boots stopped in the middle of the road to stare at her. “But we’ve always said—”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. It just doesn’t seem right to leave now. Seems to me Lyric’s got enough trouble on her mind—and who would help take care of Mother?”

  “She don’t need a lot of tending—just food and bathing.”

  Lark shook her head. “It’s not the proper time, Boots.”

  “Okay.” The admission came out on the heels of defeat. The girls walked on.

  “And what about your grandpa? He’s going to be upset when you leave.”

  “I know, but he’s independent as a skunk, Lark. Sometimes I think I step on his nerves. He likes his quiet. And besides, he’ll still have Caroline.”

  “He loves you; he’d fret if you weren’t around to keep him company. Caroline’s always mooning after some boy. She’s not good company at all.”

  “I suppose you’re right, and I sure don’t want to hurt him. Grandpa’s been good to me.”

  “And if the worst happens and Lyric forces me to leave, to start a new life somewhere else, we’ll see each other again. I’ll be grown before long, and I’ll come back here. Maybe in two years—even less.”

  “Lyric won’t sell the Bolton place?”

  “Who would buy it?”

  Nodding, Boots agreed. “Yes, who in their right mind would buy it?”

  They walked on in silence.

  “If I’m forced to leave, you promise me you’ll make friends with Ida Summers,” Lark said.

  “Who?”

  “Ida Summers. I see her occasionally when it’s my turn to go to town. She’s always in the store with her mother; she’s real pretty and always friendly. One day she and her mother bought stick candy, and Ida offered me a piece. Of course I didn’t take it because I’m not sure Ida knows who I am, but at least she offered.”

  “That was generous of her.”

  “So you promise you’ll seek out Ida, and you and she can be best friends.”

  “Okay.”

  Lark stopped in the middle of the road. “Okay?”

  Boots frowned. “Okay…I’ll find Ida.”

  “Our friendship means so little to you that you would seek out another friend that quickly? Just like that? I’m replaced?”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said, but I expected you to protest—to at least try and reason with me.”

  “Then stay. I don’t want you to go, not ever. It wouldn’t be the same around here if you left. I love you, Lark. You’re like my sister.”

  Lark turned and walked on. “Sorry. I have to think of blood kin first.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  “Do I have a choice? Lyric makes all the decisions around here and if she says we leave I have to go.”

  “All right.”

  Her steps halted. “All right?”

  “All right. You have to go.”

  She faced her defiantly. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

  “What good would it do? You just said you had to go.”

  “I love you. That’s why it hurts that you’d let me go so easily.” She sniffed. “I guess maybe there’d be no real harm if we left and Lyric had to grieve for everyone at the same time,” Lark admitted. “But it will be a good grief—not a sad grief like she’ll feel for Joseph.”

  “Do you suppose she’s fallen in love with him?” asked Boots.

  Lark nodded gravely. “That’s another reason she’ll have to leave. If they don’t hang him she can’t have him.”

  “Why not?”

  Lark gave her a pointed look. “Now, why do you think? Lyric worries that Mother’s illness m
ight be passed down in families. She thinks she might go—well, what if she goes crazy someday?”

  “So she’ll never marry?” asked Boots.

  “She says she won’t. I will, though. I know I’m not mad. Murphy will wait for me—and I will come back. When I do, I’ll paint our old house, fix the shutters, open the windows and let in fresh air, and plant pretty flowers. Everyone will forget the stories about the crazy old woman who used to live there.”

  “Have you talked to Murphy about this?”

  “Heavens, no. He runs the other direction when he sees me coming.”

  “Then how can you be so certain that you’re going to marry him someday?” Boots asked, her hand planted firmly on her hip.

  Lark shrugged. “He’s playing hard to get. He knows I have some growing to do—he’s a patient man.”

  Boots paused again. “Then we are going to run away—make a new life free of the Holler?”

  Lark nodded the affirmative. “And I think we should do it now—not wait until they take Joseph away. It will be too sad.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Tonight, shortly after dinner.”

  “That quick? Shouldn’t we stay around until this thing with Joseph is settled?”

  “I see no reason to put ourselves through the agony. We’ve done all we can to learn Joseph’s true name and we’ve discovered squat. They’re going to hang him, Boots, and we can’t do a thing to stop it.” Her jaw firmed. “We leave tonight—exactly two hours after supper.”

  “Okay,” Boots agreed. “We’ll go tonight.”

  13

  Fresh spring air floated through the bedroom lace curtain. Shortly after supper Ian had dragged the washtub from the porch to the kitchen and warned the females to stay clear. He was taking a tub bath. Clean-shaven now, he realized he had been starting to smell like a billy goat.

  The women disappeared, but he heard giggles long after he’d heated water and sunk into the hot tub.

  Now he lay in his bed, rinsed clean, his mind going over the slow-forming plan. He was figuring how to pull it off in tiny segments. If one thing went wrong he was a goner; he could figure on that.