He turned to look at her. “Did I say there was?”
“You asked me how many I thought were up there.”
“And you said you didn’t care to say.”
“There weren’t any up there that I could see.”
“Me either.” He flashed a grin. “Isn’t that odd? They must have been further back in the cave.”
“That’s mean,” she said crossly. “Allowing Lark and Boots to think that…” She paused when the little ploy sank in. “You are a sly one.”
“Think so?” He grinned. “I think it’s unlikely they run away again.” He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. Warmth spread through Lyric as he kissed it.
Ian kept a tight grip on Lyric’s hand as they kept walking toward home. The warmth inside her didn’t go away.
The aroma of strong coffee brewing filled the Bolton kitchen. Boots had gone home and everyone had changed into dry clothing. Lyric had checked on her mother and found her still in a laudanum-induced lethargy, so now she joined Ian in the kitchen for breakfast.
Pouring Joseph a steaming cup of coffee, she said, “Ham and eggs all right?”
“I could eat a whole hog,” he said.
Lark came down to join them, her features drawn from the night’s soggy adventure.
“Did Boots go home?” Lyric asked, laying thick slices of ham in the cold skillet.
“Yes. She knew her grandpa would be worried.”
Lyric dropped the subject. There would be time enough for punishment; at least the girls were safe and had suffered no harm from their escapade. When the meal was ready, the three ate together at the table, conversing in friendly tones. Lyric wondered if married life would be like this, a man and woman sitting in a warm kitchen having breakfast…
Moving his plate aside, Ian leaned back in his chair. “Lark, if you feel restless and want to do something, I have a job for you and Boots.”
The girl glanced up. “A job?”
“Yes, a job. Are you interested?”
Lark glanced at Lyric, who lifted her shoulders with curiosity.
“What would I have to do?”
“Rob a bank, shoot a couple of deputies, push a couple of old women around, and steal a few horses.”
Lark’s jaw dropped.
Grinning, Ian continued. “When the authorities come for me, all you need do is spread the word that a Younger is going to hang. Note the exact day and hour—that’s important.”
Lyric half-rose, censure in her eyes. “Joseph!”
“I’m serious, Lyric. When they come to get me I want Lark and Boots to tack up posters in town, making clear the time and place of the hanging. And they’re going to have to work fast. I want every citizen in the area to know about the hanging.”
“Joseph…” Lyric protested.
“We can do that,” Lark said. “But I don’t want to think about them hanging you. They can’t.”
“They can, honey, but we might be able to avoid it if you’ll do what I say and do it right.”
“I will.” She nodded gravely. “Boots and I will do everything exactly as you say.”
“It’s imperative that you do.” He turned his gaze on Lyric. “Relax. I don’t plan to swing by a noose unless there’s no other choice.”
Tears welled in Lyric’s eyes and she quickly wiped them. His features softened. “I know this is hard on you. I’m sorry.”
Shaking her head, she got up and began to clear the table.
Mid-morning found Lyric pinning the wash to the line. Sheets flapped in the rain-bathed breeze. Joseph’s words to Lark still rang in her ear. “You’ll have to do exactly what I say…”
He didn’t include Lyric in his plan, whatever that might be, and the thought stung. If she knew him like she thought she did, he had a recourse he was considering. Why hadn’t he trusted her enough to confide his strategy? She should know by now that he wasn’t the sort of man to stand idly by and be hanged because he didn’t know his name, but did he honestly think that she would just hand him over to the acting sheriff without a fight? Didn’t he know by now that she would protect him any way she could? Maybe love blinded her.
Her hands paused in midair. Love. Was that what she felt for this man with no identity? True, abiding love?
Shaking her head, she picked up a dress, shook out the wrinkles, and pinned the garment to the line. In the distance the faint sound of approaching riders came to her. She stepped around the heavy line and frowned when she saw four men approaching. Dropping a wet towel in the basket, she started running for the house. “Joseph!”
The riders drew closer and her screams grew more frantic. “Joseph!”
He stepped to the back porch and opened the screen. “Yo!”
“They’re coming for you!”
Hide. She must hide him. But where?
Under Mother’s bed. The authorities wouldn’t disturb a dying woman, especially Edwina Bolton.
She reached the porch and shoved past him. “Come with me. I know just the place to hide you. They can search the house and I’ll tell them that I don’t know what happened to you, that you were here and you must have run off…”
His arm blocked her. “You’re not going to lie for me. The time has come for us to get this over with, Lyric. Let the cards fall where they may.”
“We need to pray,” she said. “ ‘Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’ ”
“Lyric.” He focused grave eyes on her. “I’m not going to live my life hiding from the authorities.” Their gazes met and held, hers swimming with tears. “God is fully aware of what’s happening. Let’s allow Him to settle the matter.”
“But they’re going to hang you, Joseph. Don’t you realize what that means? You’re going to…to…oh, I can’t bear it.”
“You’re not giving the Lord much credit.”
“You know they will. They’ve been biding their time until the sheriff couldn’t delay any longer without looking like a fool.”
“Get Lark. Tell her and Boots to do what I said. Tack a poster to every tree, storefront, and post in Bolton Holler, announcing the hanging.”
Nodding, Lyric wiped her eyes on her apron. She couldn’t fall apart now—not now when he needed her most. “I intend to help.”
Smiling, he drew her close and held her. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Oh, Joseph. You can’t hang…”
He gently placed his hand over her mouth. “Trust me. I know you’ve never been given a reason to place your trust in anyone, but I’m asking for that faith right now. Just do as I say…and it won’t hurt to throw a lot of extra prayer in with your work.” Giving her a final squeeze, he released her. “Go do as I say, and be sure you get it done before morning.”
The riders rode up and reined in. The sheriff lifted his rifle. “All right, Younger. You’re coming with us.”
Lifting both arms in the air, Ian complied. “Can I bring my horse?”
“No, sir, you can’t bring your horse.” The sheriff sniffed at the suggestion. “You’re not going to need a horse where you’re headed. You’re hanging at dawn.”
Lyric stepped in front to shield him. “You have no proof of his identity. You can’t hang him.”
“Ma’am.” He shifted in the saddle. “I can and I will hang him at dawn tomorrow morning.”
“What about proof?”
“What about it? He can’t prove he isn’t a Younger.”
Ian gently eased Lyric aside. “Who do I ride with?”
A smaller man patted the empty saddle space behind. “Climb aboard.”
“No!” Lyric protested, clinging to his arm.
He took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her softly. Lips met again with more intensity. Moments later, he whispered, “Do as I say.”
Close to hysteria, she drew back, catching a sob. “Yes…yes. You can count on me.”
He gave her a wink, and then walked to the waiting horse and climbed aboard.
“Gone? Joseph’s gone?” Boots wrung her hands. “But he can’t be gone—they can’t hang him without solid proof that he’s a criminal! He isn’t bad. I just know that he isn’t bad!”
“Hush,” Lyric said, starting to gather pen and paper. “They can and they will. They’re going to hang him. Law doesn’t mean much in these parts. We have to make posters. Quickly. We must have them pinned up before dark.”
Chairs scooted on wooden floors and the women started to work.
YOUNGER HANGING, Lark wrote. “What time will they hang him?”
“Dawn,” she said. Hangings were always at dawn.
Lyric’s heart ached as she worked. Her mind refused to function. They couldn’t hang Joseph—if it cost her life she wouldn’t allow it. They’d run off. She would break him out of jail and then they would ride away and find a new life. He couldn’t be a criminal. It wasn’t possible. There was too much gentleness in him, and she knew—she just knew—that he was a good man.
You only want him to be a good man, her common sense nagged. What if he isn’t? What if he’s cruel and despicable and every bit the criminal you first took him to be? If she ran away with this man, thwarted the authorities in their evil pursuit, she could be opening herself—and Lark—up to a life with a wicked, cruel, merciless man. And they could hang her too if she was caught trying to assist him. Look how easily he had fooled Lark and Boots about the bats. Could Joseph be trusted?
Uncertainty ricocheted through her mind. Oh God, help me, she prayed. I’m reasoning with my heart and not using practical judgment.
Yet she scribbled furiously, one poster after another, matching Lark’s and Boots’s frantic efforts. Within the hour they had written enough posters to saturate Bolton Holler with the grim news:
YOUNGER TO BE HANGED AT DAWN.
Lark saddled the horse and brought it to the house, where the three women worked to secure the loaded basket of posters to the saddle. There was still sufficient time to nail up the posters and then turn to the matter of breaking Joseph out of jail.
“We could take Mother’s gun and shoot him out of jail,” Lark suggested.
“Two women against the town?” Lyric asked.
“Three,” Boots corrected. “I’m in on this.”
“A gun would be useless against the sheriff and his men. We’d run out of bullets and they would overcome us.” Lyric had enough sense to know it was going to take sheer trickery if they were going to accomplish their bold move. “We have to create a disturbance. Distract them.”
“It would have to be a big interruption.” Boots shook her head. “Maybe I could talk Grandpa into coming to town and distracting the sheriff while we slipped inside the jail and got Joseph.”
“We’re not going to involve your grandfather, Boots. What we’re contemplating could cost our lives—or at least land us in prison. Your grandfather doesn’t need to be mixed up in that. I will be the responsible one if we’re caught. I want you girls to stay back when the event begins to unfold.”
“What event?”
“That’s what we have to decide.” They led the horse down the road, falling silent. Finally Lyric said, “First we have to create a huge scene.”
“We already know that,” Lark reminded her.
“No, I mean a really big diversion.”
“Dynamite?” Boots asked.
“Do you have dynamite?” Lark asked.
“What would I be doing with dynamite?”
“Maybe your grandfather?”
“Grandpa and dynamite?” Boots laughed. “Have you seen the way he walks lately? He couldn’t run fast enough to get away if he lit a piece of dynamite. Besides, what would he need dynamite for on his farm?”
“Dynamite would be destructive,” Lyric admonished the girls. “We might kill someone. Even Joseph.”
“True. Or us,” Lark noted.
“Or us,” Lyric repeated. This ordeal was turning out to be a nightmare. But Joseph trusted her. She’d never experienced trust like that before—except from Lark. Mother didn’t trust her; the fact was evident in her eyes, though Lyric had never done anything to deserve the loss of her confidence.
The thought that a man like Joseph valued and placed faith in her, Lyric Bolton, the unlovable and unvalued, spread a warm glow throughout her body.
Whatever it took, she would defend and shield him till her last breath.
Within the hour the three women paused on the hillside, eyes fixed on Bolton Holler. “Won’t the folks think it strange that we’re nailing up posters about the hanging?” Lark asked.
“Stranger than they already think we are?” Lyric focused on the people of the holler going about their afternoon activities. The minute the Boltons walked into town the shoppers would scatter like chaff in the wind. Her eyes were drawn to the small brick jail and the one window with heavy bars. For a long moment no one said anything. Then Lyric spoke. “I have it.”
Boots turned to look at her. “Have what?”
“I have the distraction.”
“What?” both girls asked.
“Let’s get the posters up and then I’ll fill you in on the plan. It means we’ll have to work through the night.”
“I don’t care. I’m not tired.” Lark brightened. “You seriously have an idea you think might work?”
“I think so.” She reached for another poster, Joseph’s orders ringing in her ears. Get as many posters up as you can. “If it doesn’t work, you’ll need to add our names to these before morning,” she said grimly.
16
Ian paced the tiny cell, occasionally glancing out the window. Already the town was abuzz with word of the imminent hanging. He had to hope and pray the news had spread as far as the Younger place. His plan had more holes than a rusty bucket, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The acting sheriff got up from his desk and stretched. “It’s gonna be suppertime in half an hour. What do you want for your last meal?”
“Fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, hominy, three rolls and butter, and plenty of coffee.” Ian had no intention that this would be his last meal, but as long as he was cooped up in jail, why not dine in style?
“Any dessert?”
“Chocolate cake, if they have it. Otherwise, pie—any kind.”
“Geraldine makes a right good lemon pie.”
“Don’t care for lemon. Chocolate cake or any other kind of pie.”
“Suit yourself. You take cream in your coffee?”
“Black.”
“Alrighty then. I’ll be back d’reckly.”
“Take your time,” Ian said under his breath when the front door closed. He stepped back to the window and released a pent-up breath when he caught a glimpse of a pair of red cowboy boots in the distance. The figure was nailing something to a tree. “Atta girl,” he whispered. “Get those posters circulating.” His gaze shifted and he spotted Lyric busy at work across the street. No doubt Lark was covering the other half of town. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “God, I sure could use Your help right about now. If You’ll make certain Jim Younger gets the news, I’d be much obliged.”
Smile fading, he wished that Grandpa and Grandma knew about his predicament—not that he’d want to worry them, but somehow he felt that their prayers always carried a mite more weight than his.
Returning to his bunk, he sat down. Everything in town would be quiet shortly. The day’s excitement would die down and folks would turn in early in anticipation of the dawn hanging. That was exactly what he needed. Complete calm. Jim Younger wasn’t going to show his face unless he made sure he wasn’t noticed, but if the news reached him of a Younger hanging he’d show up to see if the sheriff had actually captured one of his kin. Jim would make an attempt to rescue the poor soul. He’d pull his long brimmed Stetson low and possibly dress like a city man, but Ian would recognize the quiet, well-mannered Jim Younger a mile away.
What Ian needed was pure and complete calm; nothing to disturb the hanging.
If everything went as planned, all Ian had to do was walk to the gallows, explain that his memory was back, and have the sheriff wire the marshal’s office in Kansas City to confirm his claim. He allowed they might hang him and ask questions later, but with enough witnesses that wouldn’t be likely. It was a long shot, though—and it seemed to get longer each time he meticulously went over the plan in his mind.
The bounty on Jim Younger’s head would be enough to set a man up for life, if he played it right. Plus, he’d win the wager.
If folks in this town weren’t scared of their shadows they would collect on a few of those hefty bounties waiting just down the road. They were spooked by an unexplained light and perfectly content to allow outlaws to live practically in their backyard. Neighbors, almost. He shook his head.
No wonder Lyric wanted to leave this holler. And he wanted to be the one to take her away.
Hold on, sweetheart. We’ll get through this and your life will be different.
He refused to consider the possibility that his plan might fail. His gaze scanned the empty cell. Swinging his legs to the mattress, he laid back to wait for his fried chicken and potatoes.
Maybe he should have ordered that lemon pie. Grandma’s lemon pies were always lumpy and tart—maybe Geraldine’s would be different.
If there was ever a night to take chances, this was it.
“Go on! Git!” The sheriff tried to deter Lyric from nailing the last poster to a tree near the jail, but she persisted. “You want to join your friend?” he asked when she kept nailing.
“I’m not hurting a thing.” She hammered harder.
“Why are you wasting time nailing up posters? Everybody around knows a man’s gonna swing come dawn.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want anyone to miss the fun, now, would we?” She picked up another poster and moved to the next tree. White papers fluttered from every storefront and hitching post in town. The saloon had enough information tacked to its swinging doors that even the severely inebriated couldn’t fail to take note.
The Healer's Touch Page 16
