The Healer's Touch (17 page)

“I'll see you for dinner?”

Nodding, he continued his work.

8

L
yric'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 flipped 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?

An image flashed through his mind. Brief, but poignant—an older man holding a youthful arm, sawing a board. The ragged edge bit into the fresh lumber, moving back and forth, the implement held steady by a beefy, wind-chapped hand. And the man was speaking. Telling him about grace.

“Grace is a gift, son. All you have to do is accept it.”

Edwina Bolton rose slowly, holding to the arm of her chair. Her hair was a fright and her bones thin as reeds. Joseph felt certain that
a wispy breeze would blow her off her feet. He stepped up to assist her but she motioned him aside.