The Healer's Touch (21 page)

J
oseph jabbed a hoe into the soft earth and then dropped a potato seedling into the black fertile soil. He'd spotted the box of plants on the service porch and instinct told him the weather was warm enough to get the early crop into the ground. The garden spot sat half overturned, bearing silent witness to the recent upheaval in the Bolton household. He had a feeling that normally the soil would have been tilled by now. Grinning, he thought of the imaginary help she'd mentioned—“a big man with a gun who wasn't afraid to use it”—and decided that he had begun to fill the job.

Lyric sat on the back stoop visiting with the Jennings woman. The two seemed to have a warm friendship. He struck the ground and an image of a young boy planting seed potatoes, standing beside a woman wearing a blue and white bib apron, flashed through
his mind. But the picture disappeared almost as quickly as it had materialized.

Shaking his head, he poked another hole in the ground and dropped another seedling in a row running north to south. Today the effort to bend was less awkward; each new sunrise brought with it a bit more strength. For the first time since he'd come here he was starting to think that he might live long enough to be hanged.

And for the first time rebellion burned like hot coals in his belly.
God, if I am the man I'm thought to be, why didn't You let me die? Hanging is fair punishment, but now I'm left to watch the look on Lyric's face when I climb that platform. She's an innocent bystander. Why involve her in this?

And he knew she would be there. Wild horses wouldn't keep her away, but he didn't want her to witness the ugly sight. Maybe that was God's punishment—to make him witness his sins in the most anguished way, through a woman's eyes. A woman who appeared to put her trust in him.

God, how I pray her faith isn't in vain.

He slowly moved down the row, planting, praying. After a bit he noted Katherine embracing Lyric and the young neighbor striking off toward home. Lyric slowly walked down the hill. When she reached the garden, she smiled. “Planting potatoes, I see.”

“Hope you don't mind. I needed something to fill the time.”

“I don't mind—but how did you know it was time to plant potatoes?”

Pausing, he pulled the handkerchief knotted around his neck up and wiped away the perspiration from his forehead. “Couldn't say. Instinct, maybe?”

Nodding, she reached for a seedling and followed him down the row.

“Did you have a nice visit with your friend?”

“Not really. Katherine's moving.”

“Moving?” He dug another hole. “I thought you said they'd just settled here.”

“They have, but the light keeps tormenting them.”

He covered the hole with dirt. “That light again.”

“
The
light.”

Straightening, he met her eyes. “They've seen it too?”

She nodded. “Everyone's seen it.”

Blue, yellow, bouncing. The image ricocheted through his mind.

“I wondered if my mind was playing tricks. That thing leaves you with a heck of a question in your mind.”

“Well, it bothers Levi and Katherine to the extent that they're moving back to Joplin to live with his folks.” She sighed. “And she's just discovered that she's going to have a baby.”

“That's too bad—not about the baby, but allowing something that silly to scare them away.” He paused, leaning on the hoe. “You'll miss her.”

She sighed. “Very much.”

“You honestly don't fear the light?”

“Joseph, nothing much frightens me except willfully disobeying the Lord or losing Lark. I think if the light meant any harm it would have done something by now. We've seen it over and over and it's always been harmless.”

“Still, a light bouncing around like that—”

“Is disturbing. I can't fault Katherine for wanting to leave. I want to leave, but not because—” She caught back her words.

“Not because of the light,” he finished.

“Correct. You want to see where some of the stories about the light originated?”

“Are the places nearby?” He glanced at the long row. “There are still a lot of potatoes to plant.”

“I'll help later. Come with me.”

He set the hoe aside and followed her across the field, feeling the heaviness that had been his constant companion start to lift from his shoulders.

They walked in companionable silence for about twenty minutes. Finally she paused, pointing to the ruins of an old cabin where
only the rock chimney remained standing. “This is the old miner's cabin. There are all sorts of stories about miners carrying their lanterns across fields and disappearing, or this one particular miner whose home was raided by Indians while he was at work one night. His children were kidnapped and he never saw them again. It's said that it's his light that's seen, searching for his babies.”

“That wouldn't explain the crazy way it acts.”

“Nothing explains the light. People only tell stories. Stories help them stop being afraid.”

A while later they stood at the foot of a high bluff overlooking a river and a cooling breeze lifted his hair. He had to admit she was good company.

Staring out over the river, Lyric's expression grew thoughtful as she continued sharing stories of the region. “This particular place is where the lovely daughter of an Indian chief met her death, or so it is said. It seems her father was a selfish man and asked an exorbitant price for his daughter's hand. When the young brave couldn't pay it, the couple ran away and jumped to their deaths—kind of like Romeo and Juliet. The light is the ghosts of the young couple searching for each other.”

“No way to solve a dispute.” He shook his head, studying the high bluff. “That drop must be two hundred feet.”

“I've heard that love makes you do strange things sometimes.” Reaching for his hand, she continued the exploration.

It wasn't long later that Joseph and Lyric stood in a glade in a thick carpet of moss. Towering sycamores stood sentinel over what he thought might look like a tiny piece of heaven. Hyacinths bloomed; birds chattered overhead. The setting had to be one of the most peaceful places he could recall. “What happened here?”

Smiling, she turned to face him. “This is the most special place of all.”

“Yeah? Someone lop off their head when the light appeared?”

“No. This is where you kissed me a second time.”

Shaking his head, he gave a crooked grin. There was no way a man could spend the afternoon in her company and hold on to common sense. “You're awful sure of yourself, lady.”

“Not in the least, but there's no law against hoping.” A playful light was in her eyes. She was as sweet smelling and pretty as any rose that grew wild in the heavy thicket.

Joseph put his hands on Lyric's waist and drew her to him. His hold tightened as he brought her closer, their lips inches apart. “Do I have your permission to kiss you?”

“You didn't ask before.”

“I didn't need to—your eyes invited me to do what I wanted.”

“Kiss me, please.”

His mouth closed over hers, and for a long moment neither of them could say anything at all.

Late that afternoon, Lyric dropped the last potato seedling in the ground and dusted her hands off on her long apron. “I need to get back to the house. Mother might be awake by now.”

“Sure. Thanks for the excursion—and the planting help.”

He watched her walk back up the hill. Another day, another time, another life and he wouldn't hesitate to take that woman in his arms and kiss away the sadness he saw in her eyes. The kiss in the glade had been warning enough that he was starting to care about her far too much for both their good.

Still, he wouldn't regret kissing her. He couldn't.

Mist hung over the valleys when Joseph slipped out of the house the following morning. It wasn't yet sunrise and no one else in the
house had stirred. But he had an errand. A mission. If he was to be hanged he was going to make sure they had the right man.

He'd waited until everyone was fast asleep the evening before he gathered the necessary items. Lyric's oversized sunbonnet, a pair of her mother's work shoes, white gloves, a woman's purse, rouge, kohl, a pair of specs he found in the parlor, a pillow, and a piece of hemp.

He'd thought long and hard about what he was about to do. He was running a risk. If caught, he'd bring down judgment day quicker than he'd like, but if he played it right he could get a look at the sheriff's wanted posters and be out of there before anyone was the wiser. If he was a wanted man there would be a poster with his image on it. A fellow couldn't go anywhere in Missouri without seeing posters tacked to trees and buildings. If his picture was there and there was a bounty on his head he wanted the money to go to Lyric. If she followed through on the “new life” she talked about she would need money and lots of it. And if she didn't start that new life, well, she still needed a new barn door. Grandpa and Grandma had always made do on next to nothing. It wouldn't be long before they claimed their eternal reward, and they wouldn't want for anything where they were headed.

He paused. Grandpa and Grandma. It was suddenly clear he had them—but the image faded as quickly as it had appeared. Odd.

He walked to the barn and saddled the horse, smacking the animal smartly on the rump when he sidestepped each time Joseph tried to buckle the strap. If he owned this ornery son-of-a-gun…He flat-handed him again when the horse shifted to solidly plant a hoof on his left boot.

Minutes later he rode out of the barn, following the well-worn trail he'd seen Katherine walking.

Now all he had to do was pull this off without getting shot between the eyes.

Edgar Snood crossed his legs. “Well, I say we ride up there and get him. You know he's there and the Bolton girl is protecting him like she would a chickadee. Who knows what's going on at that house, with that crazy lady throwin' her fits.”

The jailhouse door opened and a woman—a rather stout woman—stood there holding a purse, her smudged kohl eyeliner and rouge standing out like a hen wearing a diamond ring. “Yes, ma'am?” the sheriff asked.