“Don’t worry. I’m not in any hurry to leave.”
First thing he was going to do was look up the doc and have him wrap the second—possibly third—rib he’d just broken.
His body was in a world of hurt.
By nine o’clock the women had dumped the last of the hens back in their pen. Boots slumped against a tree and announced, “I could eat a horse.”
Lyric’s stomach growled. They had worked all last night with only an occasional sip of water. “Come to the house with us and I’ll fix breakfast.”
When they entered the Bolton kitchen Lyric immediately headed upstairs. Mother was half awake and in an ill temper, her tone unnecessarily sharp. “I told you not to leave me.”
“You weren’t alone. Lark was here.” At least for the better part of the night. “Did you call out?”
“I wanted you here.”
Straightening the rumpled sheets, Lyric said softly, “I’m here now.” And here she would be for the remainder of her life, but she wouldn’t be the same naive child; boasting that she could live very well without love. Ian’s brief time with her had proven that she was capable of falling in love, capable of spending the rest of her life with him if he had asked.
Despair overcame her. Fatigue from worry and the night’s work shook her to the core and she rested her head on the mattress. How she longed to throw herself in a mother’s arms and cry out her anguish. She couldn’t recall a single time when she’d ever done that. She’d always had to be the strong one, the one who took over when life was good or bad.
Resting her head on the soft quilt, she blinked back hot tears. She never cried, and now she’d cried twice in one day. What was there to weep about? Life was peachy-fine, wasn’t it? Ian would be leaving and she would be left with only his memory, a made-up name, and empty dreams.
A more distressing thought surfaced. What if Ian did come back to say goodbye? What if he acknowledged that the attraction wasn’t one-sided, that they shared a mutual, strong desire? Love, even? How would she ever have the strength to turn him away? For turn him away she must. If Mother’s illness had been passed along, Ian would be tying himself to a life with a mad woman. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
She lifted her face, snuffing back sobs. She could never marry anyone. If Ian did return to say goodbye, she must let him go. A man like him deserved more than her.
She sat up suddenly. What if the Younger he’d been chasing had shot him and left him by the roadside to die? Both men had ridden out of town like their tails were ablaze. She hadn’t thought to check the roads—she needed to check—
Stepping to the pane, Lyric tugged the lever and opened the window wide. Fresh air ruffled the curtain.
If only she had someone to ask for advice, a confidante. But Katherine was in Joplin and Lark certainly wasn’t old enough to make mature decisions. If by some miracle Ian returned, should she confess her love? Tell him the truth in spite of the insanity that ran through the family?
She couldn’t.
Absently patting her mother’s pillow, she murmured, “Lark will bring your breakfast shortly.”
“Make sure my toast is soft this morning.”
“I will. You get some rest.”
Her mind churned as she returned to the kitchen. She had to get away from this house or she would burst. Lark turned from the stove. “Is Mother okay?”
“She’s fine. Make certain her toast is soft this morning, and add a little jam. She loves that.”
Lyric continued to the door, absently checking her appearance. Guinea feathers stuck to her skirt and her hair hung in her eyes, but her mind was intent on two things: getting somewhere outside to be alone with her thoughts, and checking the main road to see if there were any bodies lying around.
Three doors down from the jail, Ian stepped out of the general store. In under an hour the doc had wrapped his ribs and he’d made a purchase. He paused to check his vest pocket for the wedding ring. Paid a whopping price, but he could afford it now and Earl didn’t balk when he asked for credit. The store owner had witnessed the whole scene this morning and knew about the coming bounty.
Ian walked to the hitching rail and offered Norman a handful of oats. He’d earned the reward. “Have I mentioned that you’re occasionally one fine animal?”
The animal lifted his head, showed his teeth, and gave a loud whinny.
“Don’t get too sure of yourself. Most of the time you’re a walking glue factory. Bear that in mind the next time you lie down in the middle of a creek with me on your back.”
Stepping off the boardwalk, he grabbed Norman’s reins and mounted up, trying to muffle his groan of pain. He really was getting too old for this line of work. A bystander stopped him before he reined away from the post. “Mister!”
Turning, Ian searched for the source of the voice.
A man inclined his head. “That animal for sale?”
“Norman?” Ian’s gaze dropped to the thick mane. There were times he would give him away. “No sir, he isn’t.”
The stranger approached, his eyes centered on the sleek stallion. “Mighty fine piece of horseflesh.” He ran his hands over the front quarter and fetlocks. “Hear he runs like the wind.”
“He can run,” Ian allowed. “But he isn’t for sale.”
“I’ll give you top dollar.”
The man’s features finally registered. Frank James. Known to be one of the finest horse purveyors around. And wanted for questioning in a case of suspicious trading. As a U.S. marshal Ian should seize the moment, but he and the holler had had enough excitement for one day. Let James remain free for another young and industrious bounty hunter to capture. Ian had unfinished business with a lady. He clucked his tongue and turned Norman toward home.
“Sorry. The animal isn’t for sale at any price.”
19
The Bolton place looked eerily deserted when Ian tied Norman’s reins to a low-hanging branch. If allowed to roam, the horse would eat his fill of the tender new shoots sprouting from the ground.
Stepping onto the service porch, he tapped lightly. Before, he would have walked in without announcement, but today was different. Today he knew his place. It seemed only fitting to knock.
His eyes took in the empty kitchen and cold stove, and a grin appeared.
He could have wrung Lyric’s neck when she’d waltzed into town and set that mess of guineas loose in the streets.
And then he could have kissed her until she begged him to stop. Without the commotion, he doubted he would have spotted Younger lurking in the shadows. The uproar had routed the outlaw from the alley and into the fray—straight into Ian’s plan.
Ian called out, “Lyric? Lark? Anyone home?”
Quiet met his efforts.
The girls must still be in town. Or else they were busy hauling all those hens back to wherever they’d gotten them.
He might check on Edwina. The past two days’ excitement must have affected her.
He caught sight of Norman untying the knot in his reins with his teeth, and he stepped to the back door and called, “Norman!”
The horse dropped his head docilely.
Going down the steps, he crossed the yard to retie the animal. The ring sat in his pocket like a piece of hot lead. Would Lyric accept a worn-out battered man who wanted nothing more than to go back to Kansas City and build a little place next to his grandparents and care for them until they passed? She wanted a new life; would his suit her? He had a hunch it would. They’d take Lark with them, and life would be good.
Whistling, he retied the reins in a triple knot. Let Norman work on that for a while. “You are a real burr under my saddle, but you’ll notice that I didn’t sell you.”
Norman whuffed.
“I could have, and for a right nice price. Fool with me much more and you’re gone. Understand? History. I’ll buy a donkey if I have to.”
Norman shook his head and whinnied. Ian ruffled his mane and went back into the house. He climbed the sta
irs up to Edwina’s room and knocked on her door. “Mrs. Bolton? I just wanted to check in on you…”
His voice faded as his eyes fell on Edwina. Her eyes were closed, but not in sleep.
Half an hour had passed and there was still no sign of Lyric. Ian sat on the back stoop holding the letter he’d found at Edwina’s side. He’d taken the letter and then respectfully covered Lyric’s mother with the blankets.
He dropped his face in his hands, wondering how the girls would take the shock. Thank you, God, that I got here first.
The white slip of paper rested in his hands and he stared at the note. It had Lyric’s name written on it, but maybe he should read it first, to spare her more heartache. Whatever it said could cause Lyric more pain or false guilt.
Then again, Edwina would have written his name if she’d meant the note for him.
Softly tapping the paper against his thigh, he considered what he was about to do. If the message was kind—the sort of message a loving mother ought to leave to her daughter—he’d give it to Lyric. If it held angry, cruel sentiments, he’d throw it in the fire. It would be a simple matter to spare the woman he loved from this last bitter memory.
He unfolded the note. It contained three sentences in an almost indistinguishable scrawl:
I am not your mother. A woman from town left you and Lark with me one day and promised to return. She didn’t.
Lyric raced over the new grass and along the path, finally flinging herself down on the ground when she reached the creek where she and Joseph—no, Ian—had once fished. She sobbed with great, messy gulps until her tears were all spent.
“Father,” she prayed, “I think—no, I am—in love with Joseph. I think he may love me too, odd as that sounds, but I’m not certain. Keep him alive, Father. Keep him alive and safe.” She wiped away the tears that had fallen on her cheeks. “And Father God…if he’s alive, and if he doesn’t return to say goodbye, would I be an utter fool to go after him?”
She looked out over the creek expectantly, as though waiting for an answer.
None came.
And then it came. Not a sound, not a voice, just a sweet certainty: Go home.
20
What are you reading?”
Ian glanced up, startled by Lyric’s voice. She stood before him, weary and dirty as a street urchin. Getting to his feet, he cleared his throat. “A note.”
“A note?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.” It was nigh on to noon now.
“I’ve been…out.”
His gaze scanned her untidy appearance. “Looking like that?”
She focused on the paper in his hand. “What’s that?”
How did he tell her? Did he hand her the paper and let her read the grim message for herself? Or should he blurt out the news and tell her what had happened? Neither way seemed less hurtful. “I’m sorry, Lyric. Your…Edwina has passed.”
He put the note in her hand and watched as she read the three sentences. Jaw-dropping disbelief, and then puzzlement, clouded her eyes when she lifted her face. “I don’t understand.”
“I found her a little while ago, sweetheart.” He reached to take her into his arms. “She must have known her time was near, and she used her last few moments to write that note. She wanted you to know the truth.” Allowing time for the news to penetrate, he held her, brushing her damp hair free from her eyes. Seconds passed and she gave a tremulous sigh. Her shoulders heaved with silent sobs.
“Cry it out. I’m here for you,” he whispered.
“Why would she wait so long? Why not tell me years ago?”
“You know Edwina. She liked things her way.” He drew her closer to him. If she was going to fall apart he wanted her to do it now, when he could hold her. “Do you understand what this means? The woman you thought was your mother is no relation to you.”
She shook her head. “Edwina never spoke of any of this.”
“Maybe that’s good.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and rubbed a hand across her back, their bodies swaying with the gentle breeze as Lyric clung tightly to his neck. He liked the feel of her dependence, welcomed it. If God allowed him, from now on he’d protect her, and never allow her to spend another day like the ones she’d spent in Bolton Holler.
“Lark will be along any minute.” Lyric pulled away from his arms, wiping her nose on the handkerchief he’d put in her hand. “I’ll need to tell her.”
“I’ll help you break the news.”
Her eyes filled with gratitude. “I’m free now,” she said.
Smiling, he drank in her spirit. “You’re free.” The way she said the word had such a soulful sound, and his heart sank within him. She’d spent her whole life here, catering to Edwina. Was it fair to tie her down to a husband and family now that she was finally free?
“Where is Edwina?”
“She’s still in her room.”
“We’ll need to bury her.” She paused, taking another absent swipe at her nose. “I’ve never buried anyone.”
“I’ll do that for you.”
“There needs to be a wake.”
A wake. He hated those things. “Lyric, do you really think that’s necessary? The woman didn’t have a friend on earth.”
Shaking her head, Lyric said, “I’m going to do this properly, Ian. There will be a wake. Tonight.”
Later, Lyric set a damp cloth aside and studied the woman she’d called Mother all these years. Lark worked silently beside her. The girls had washed Edwina’s hair and brushed the gray locks until they shone. Adding a touch of color to the woman’s cheeks, she stood back and admired her efforts. “You are quite the deceiver,” she said. Never once had Edwina let her deception slip—not even during the worst of her mad spells. What a sly fox she’d proven to be.
Resentment bubbled up in her throat but she swallowed it back. What was done was done. But why had Edwina hidden the truth all these years? Out of fear? Did she think the girls would desert her if they knew she wasn’t their blood kin? Or was her motive one of pure self-interest? She had two girls who cared for her day and night, saw to her every whim. Cooked her meals and cleaned her house. Was that her reason for keeping the girls in the dark? Or had there been some part of Edwina that loved the girls?
Lark shuddered. “I don’t know how you can talk about her so nicely. What’s she’s done to us is unforgivable and you know what? I’m glad she isn’t our mother.”
“It’s not for us to judge,” she reminded her sister. “Edwina was a very sick woman.”
“A mad woman.”
“Be that as it may, she will stand before the Lord and account for her life. We’ve only to answer for our own wrongdoings.” Lyric set a small vase of wildflowers beside the crude coffin Ian had earlier built. “Is Boots attending the wake?”
“She said she’d come.”
“Good. That will be four in attendance.”
“Four friends she didn’t have. I can run to town and spread the word. I guess someone might take a notion to be kind and come. It’s kind of embarrassing to have someone die and nobody come to pay their respects. And I wouldn’t mind having one of those chocolate cakes I hear Mrs. Grannier takes to folks when one of their kin dies.”
“Lark, Mrs. Grannier is not going to send a cake. You should know that by now. You can go to town if you’d like, but don’t expect cakes or mourners. There won’t be any.”
Lark set the brush aside. “You’re free now. Are you going to leave with Ian and make me come with you?”
“Ian hasn’t asked me to go anywhere with him.”
“If he did, you’d go.”
“Maybe.”
Her lack of denial gave Lyric pause. What did she want—really want? Now that she was actually free of Bolton Holler, would she forfeit her plans for a new life with Lark to blindly follow a man she still knew so little about?
Love said she would, but love was fickle. For years she had loved Edwina in a strange, dedicated way, and now
she discovered that her loyalty was misplaced. If she went away with Ian, would she come to feel the same about him, that she’d given her love and loyalty to a man she barely knew?
Boots arrived close to seven. Ian sat in the parlor, hat on his knee. Drapes and shutters were drawn. Heavy black crepe was tied to the front door as though there would be a flurry of grievers to weep through the night.
Mirrors and picture frames were covered with the same material. All clocks in the house had been stopped; ticking clocks would bring bad luck. The kitchen counter sat empty of casseroles, cakes, pies, or neighborly expressions of sympathy. Lark had made a trip to the holler to announce Edwina’s passing, but as Lyric predicted the effort was in vain. Her sister returned in tears. “All Mrs. Grannier said was, “Good, the madwoman is dead.”
Boots scuffed into the parlor and took a seat in front of the casket, crossing her arms. Lyric and Lark sat down beside her. “Cross your legs,” Lyric whispered.
Grunting, Lark complied.
After a bit Lark leaned over and whispered, “How long do we have to sit like this?”
“All night.”
“All night!”
A moment later. “Is the coffin screwed down tightly?”
“Tight as a tick.”
The moon rose higher. Lyric heard Ian occasionally shift in his chair. The old house creaked and groaned with the wind.
Around what she deemed to be midnight, Lyric served coffee and cold ham and biscuits. The mourners ate quietly and returned to the wake.
Lark dozed on Lyric’s shoulder by early morning. Boots had slowly slid off her chair and now lay curled at the foot of her seat, snoozing. It would have been nice if one person from the town had come, if one pie or casserole had sat on the counter. After all, the town had been named after Edwina’s great-grandfather who had supposedly been an upstanding citizen in the holler. He’d built the big house on the hill. He and his wife had formed the community. She turned her head slightly to see Ian and he smiled, encouraging her with his eyes.
The Healer's Touch Page 20
