The Healer's Touch (15 page)

“I can assure you he is not moving in with us.” Lyric tossed a
couple of pillows on the bed and turned. “There. It's cooler up here but he will be more comfortable. And you and I will be warmer sharing your bed until he goes.”

“You mean more crowded.” Lark tucked the other side of the sheet in the mattress and sighed. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I'm relieved the storm came. I don't want him to be hanged, even if he has done bad things.”

“Lark, you don't know the man. Right now his memory is gone, but when it returns he might very well be a wicked man.” But she couldn't fault her sister. Secretly, Lyric was starting to have the same impossible wish.

“He doesn't look wicked. It's not fair to judge a person by what others think.”

Lyric changed the subject. “Have you put the pot of beans on to boil?”

“I'm going to. I had to help you make the bed first.”

“Go put the pot of beans on.” It was like pulling hen's teeth to motivate that girl.

Late that morning, Lyric took a firm hold of Joseph's elbow and helped him up the first step. “Are you sure you can make it? There are twelve stairs.”

“I can make it. Just take it slow and easy.” The couple climbed with measured steps. Every hour Joseph appeared to improve, both a good and bad sign. She'd rather him feel poorly when he was hung. That way he might welcome death at least a little bit.

“You shouldn't have gone to the bother of making up your room for me,” he said. “In a few days the ice will melt, and I'll be out of your hair.”

“Mother's rather fussy about her furniture.” If Edwina knew who
had been sleeping on her sofa she would have revived long enough to bodily remove the occupant. That would not have been a pleasant sight.

“Well, I'm grateful,” he said, breathing heavily.

They reached the second landing and Lyric steered him through the first open door. The high-ceilinged room faced the back of the house with northern exposure, cold in the winter but not stifling in the summer, with a lovely view of the wooded hillside below. The ice-covered trees made quite a pretty picture had her guest been in the mood for scenery. His pinched features allowed that he wasn't.

Settling him on the bed, Lyric drew a heavy blanket up close to his neck. “Move quietly. Mother sleeps deeply but she might be able to hear you.”

“I'll be quiet.”

“Just don't walk around in your boots.”

“Can you remove my hat?”

She lifted the Stetson and set it on a nearby dresser and then took off his boots. “Either Lark or I will be up to check on you several times before nightfall.”

“Much obliged.” His tone was tinged with pain; it had been a long, cold day, and the climb up the hill had sapped what strength he had regained.

Lyric quietly closed the door, leaving a crack open so some heat would filter through.

She had a hunch he would sleep for hours.

When Joseph next opened his eyes it was to the sound of a bare branch scraping the window. He blew a small puff of air and realized the room was so cold he could see his breath. Sleet mixed with rain ran in rivulets down the windowpane. Someone had been in the room and lit a glim—a relic used to light early mining camps.
Lyric. A name he could recall—her and Lark—and the girl with the red boots.

Lying still, he watched streams form and then branch into symmetrical tributaries on the window. Something smelled good, like cornbread baking in an oven.

Who was he?

He didn't feel like a criminal. But if he'd done the things Lark and Boots said he'd done he deserved to be hanged. And the idea that he'd ridden a horse through the Boltons' barn door seemed laughable, but why else would he be in this shape? Every bone in his body testified to some horrific impact…but why would he ride a horse through a barn door? He must have been drunk—drunk and lost his identification somewhere.

He must have been mule-skinner drunk.

A light appeared in the window and he glanced up. The yellowish ball appeared to be holding invisible hands to its temples and peering inside his room. He froze in place. The medicine Lyric had given him earlier must still be affecting his mind.

Something about that light was oddly familiar. Digging his heels into the mattress, he sat up straighter, trying to ease back in the bed. The thing was actually staring in the window.

Then it was gone.

Sliding back flat, he took a deep breath. He was sicker than anyone thought.

The window lit and he slowly turned eyes on the bouncing object. Now it played, skimming across the pane, leaping up and down.

Oh, you have my attention
. His gaze traveled to the table where his hat was perched. He recalled Lyric removing his boots earlier. Where was his gun? A man would carry a gun. He spotted the revolver on the dresser.

The light slowly withdrew into a tiny bright speck hovering in a treetop fifty yards from the house, and then zoomed in like a hawk
in pursuit of prey, skidding up the glass and then pausing, breaking into four pieces, two zipping one way, two the opposite.

Joseph's stocking foot touched the icy floor. A man would have to be dead to sit still for this—this
thing
. Someone was trying to scare the Boltons off their place.

He crept out of bed, aware of the brightly lit landscape outside the window. Nothing—man or beast—could maneuver over that ice. That left the supernatural, something he didn't cotton to.

Picking up the revolver, he turned slowly and took careful aim, but the thing took off.

Lowering the pistol, he waited until it returned. He took aim again and fired off a round. Glass shattered and a rush of cold air hit him.

Carrying the pistol back to bed, he crawled between the sheets and then sat straight up when the bedroom door flew open and a woman stood glaring at him. Her wild hair fell all the way down her back, and her eyes seemed to shoot daggers at him. She held a flickering candle and a long white nightgown encased her skeletal frame.

“Ma'am,” he acknowledged when he found his voice. Lyric's words about his room being near her mother's belatedly rattled around in his head.

“Did you shoot my window out?”

“Yes, ma'am. There was this light—” He felt like a tongue-tied schoolboy facing a ruthless teacher. This had to be Lyric's ailing mother. She would think he was insane.

“You'll replace it first light.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Lark appeared, carrying an oil lamp. “I heard a shot—Mother! What are you doing here?”

The words snapped out. “What is this man doing in my house? Who is he?”

Lyric glanced at Joseph. “I've been meaning to tell you—he
came here injured and I've allowed him to stay until he's strong enough to move on.”

“And who gave you that right?”

“Common courtesy, Mother. I couldn't turn him away to die.”

“See that he leaves immediately.” The sick woman turned and slowly made her way back down the long stairway, holding the candle aloft in front of her.

Lyric entered the room and set the light on the table. Rubbing warmth into her shoulders, she shivered. “Now see what you've done. Mother knows you're here and she'll fret—and just look at this mess.”

“A crazy light was staring at me through the window, so I shot it.”

Moving to the broken glass, Lyric
tsked
. “The light likes to visit from time to time. In the future please refrain from shooting through windows.”

“Likes to visit? Are you serious?”

“I am perfectly serious. The light comes around from time to time. Nobody knows why or where it comes from, but it won't harm you.” She studied the gaping hole. “I'll have to tack a blanket over this until morning. We have extra glass on the service porch. If you want, you can sleep on the sofa again tonight.”

He sure didn't intend to sleep in this spook hole. Straightening his shoulders, he edged toward his boots. “I shot it. It won't bother you again.”

“No, you didn't.” She perused the shattered glass littering the floor, fingers resting on her chin. “I think after I tack the blanket up I'll leave this until morning.”

“I did shoot it—that's what roused your mother.”

“I heard the shot but if you'll notice…” Her eyes motioned to the side yard where the light sat on the woodpile, puffed up and proud like a toad.

Stepping to the window, he whistled under his breath. “I hit the thing squarely on target.”

“Yes, well, come along. If you feel up to eating after your rest, supper's almost ready. Beans and cornbread. Lark made the trip to the barn to milk and check on the animals. The rain barrel was frozen over again so she broke the ice. Everything should be fine until morning.”

“I shot that thing, Lyric.”

“I'm not arguing with you. Come along. It's freezing in here.”

He trailed behind her, carrying his boots. Her mother scared away any appetite he'd gathered, appearing out of nowhere like that. “I thought your mother was too ill to move around.”

“It's the first time I've seen her out of bed in weeks. You've caused quite a stir.”

Lyric took the steps in front of him, muttering something under her breath about idiots who didn't know any better than to shoot through glass, but he refrained from answering. He'd shot that light.

It looked as though—no, not possible.

That thing was
grinning
at him.

Black clouds lifted and the sun popped out, leaving white, high-top clouds that blew across the holler. Within a couple of days the thick ice started to melt but refroze at night, making travel by horse or wagon impossible. Joseph repaired the broken window and then spent hours in the parlor playing checkers with Lark and Boots. Their infectious laughter floated through the house as Lyric baked and cooked, and she caught herself wishing the weather would worsen again. Joseph didn't appear to dread the approaching hanging; he kept his emotions on a tight leash. The more she was around the man, the harder it was to picture him being a hardened criminal. Losing one's memory surely didn't change an inherent mean streak, and Joseph didn't appear to have a cruel bone in his body.