The Healer's Touch (24 page)

“Most of these men have a short life span.” Ian couldn't think of many that survived their chosen lifestyles. They either died in prison on met their Maker in a public gunfight.

The two men walked into the house as others rode in. Lark softly called a few by name: “George Shepperd, Charlie Fletcher—he's the one missing an arm—Dick Liddil, Allen Parmer.”

Boots stepped closer to Ian. “Are they really bad men?”

“Really bad, sweetheart,” he said. “You girls are to stay far away from men like these.”

The outlaws filed in over the next half hour. Ian had given up hope of seeing the man he wanted, but then a lone rider appeared. Jim Younger rode up and dismounted. He would know those lizard-skin boots anywhere. Ian had lost count of how many times Cole Younger's baby brother had eluded the law.

“Who's this one?” Boots asked.

Lark studied the man and then said, “Jim Younger. Wanted for just about anything you can think up.”

“He's a mean one.”

Lark turned to stare at Ian. “Do you know this man?”

“I…” He caught the near slip and retracted. “The name faintly rings a bell. I think anyone in these parts must have heard of Jim.”

Drawing a deep sigh, Boots said, “I don't know why outlaws are so dumb. Don't they know they'll eventually get caught and either spend the rest of their life in jail or be hanged?”

“Bad men aren't dumb; they're wicked.”

“What's the difference?”

“Ten to thirty years, most times.”

So Jim was here, and his for the taking. The outlaw was hard to keep track of these days. Now all Ian had to do was draw him carefully into his snare without involving the Boltons. If the plan failed, which it likely could, folks couldn't blame Lyric and Lark for the daring escapade, but if the ploy were to succeed it would mean he wouldn't hang and both he and the sisters would pocket some hefty monies.

All he had to do was successfully make the plan work.

Ian parted ways with the girls on the walk home. That left Lark and Boots to make the journey back. At least an hour of light remained and the thought set easy on Lark's mind. Lyric wouldn't be too upset if she came in before supper.

Ambling along, Boots broached the subject they spoke about in whispers. “Lark, if Joseph is hanged—and it sure looks for the world like he's gonna be—then what?”

“I suppose we'll have to accept it, though it'll sure hurt.”

“I mean what about our plans?”

“To run away?”

Boots nodded. “I was thinking, Lyric's going to be upset when Joseph…is gone. If we left now, she could get all the upset of losing him and you over at the same time.”

Lark thought about it. Seemed reasonable, but cold. “That would be like heaping double trouble on her.”

“Well, trouble is never good but I'm thinking if she's going to hurt she might as well lump all her troubles into one big grieving episode.” They walked down the road, occasionally stepping to the fence line to yank up a dandelion green.

“I can't do that to her.” Lark carried the handful of weeds. “It's going to be hard enough when Joseph goes.”

“You changed your mind about going?” Boots stopped in the middle of the road to stare at her. “But we've always said—”

“I haven't changed my mind. It just doesn't seem right to leave now. Seems to me Lyric's got enough trouble on her mind—and who would help take care of Mother?”

“She don't need a lot of tending—just food and bathing.”

Lark shook her head. “It's not the proper time, Boots.”

“Okay.” The admission came out on the heels of defeat. The girls walked on.

“And what about your grandpa? He's going to be upset when you leave.”

“I know, but he's independent as a skunk, Lark. Sometimes I think I step on his nerves. He likes his quiet. And besides, he'll still have Caroline.”

“He loves you; he'd fret if you weren't around to keep him company. Caroline's always mooning after some boy. She's not good company at all.”

“I suppose you're right, and I sure don't want to hurt him. Grandpa's been good to me.”

“And if the worst happens and Lyric forces me to leave, to start a new life somewhere else, we'll see each other again. I'll be grown before long, and I'll come back here. Maybe in two years—even less.”

“Lyric won't sell the Bolton place?”

“Who would buy it?”

Nodding, Boots agreed. “Yes, who in their right mind would buy it?”

They walked on in silence.

“If I'm forced to leave, you promise me you'll make friends with Ida Summers,” Lark said.

“Who?”

“Ida Summers. I see her occasionally when it's my turn to go to town. She's always in the store with her mother; she's real pretty and always friendly. One day she and her mother bought stick candy, and Ida offered me a piece. Of course I didn't take it because I'm not sure Ida knows who I am, but at least she offered.”

“That was generous of her.”

“So you promise you'll seek out Ida, and you and she can be best friends.”

“Okay.”

Lark stopped in the middle of the road. “Okay?”

Boots frowned. “Okay…I'll find Ida.”

“Our
friendship
means so little to you that you would
seek out
another friend that quickly? Just like that? I'm replaced?”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, but I expected you to protest—to at least try and reason with me.”

“Then stay. I don't want you to go, not ever. It wouldn't be the same around here if you left. I love you, Lark. You're like my sister.”

Lark turned and walked on. “Sorry. I have to think of blood kin first.”

“So you're staying?”

“Do I have a choice? Lyric makes all the decisions around here and if she says we leave I have to go.”

“All right.”

Her steps halted. “All right?”

“All right. You have to go.”

She faced her defiantly. “You're not going to argue with me?”

“What good would it do? You just said you had to go.”

“I love you. That's why it hurts that you'd let me go so easily.” She sniffed. “I guess maybe there'd be no real harm if we left and Lyric had to grieve for everyone at the same time,” Lark admitted. “But it will be a good grief—not a sad grief like she'll feel for Joseph.”

“Do you suppose she's fallen in love with him?” asked Boots.

Lark nodded gravely. “That's another reason she'll have to leave. If they don't hang him she can't have him.”

“Why not?”

Lark gave her a pointed look. “Now, why do you think? Lyric worries that Mother's illness might be passed down in families. She thinks she might go—well, what if she goes crazy someday?”

“So she'll never marry?” asked Boots.

“She says she won't. I will, though. I know I'm not mad. Murphy will wait for me—and I will come back. When I do, I'll paint our old house, fix the shutters, open the windows and let in fresh air, and plant pretty flowers. Everyone will forget the stories about the crazy old woman who used to live there.”

“Have you talked to Murphy about this?”

“Heavens, no. He runs the other direction when he sees me coming.”

“Then how can you be so certain that you're going to marry him someday?” Boots asked, her hand planted firmly on her hip.

Lark shrugged. “He's playing hard to get. He knows I have some growing to do—he's a patient man.”

Boots paused again. “Then we
are
going to run away—make a new life free of the Holler?”

Lark nodded the affirmative. “And I think we should do it now—not wait until they take Joseph away. It will be too sad.”

“Okay. When?”

“Tonight, shortly after dinner.”

“That quick? Shouldn't we stay around until this thing with Joseph is settled?”

“I see no reason to put ourselves through the agony. We've done all we can to learn Joseph's true name and we've discovered squat. They're going to hang him, Boots, and we can't do a thing to stop it.” Her jaw firmed. “We leave tonight—exactly two hours after supper.”

“Okay,” Boots agreed. “We'll go tonight.”

13

F
resh spring air floated through the bedroom lace curtain. Shortly after supper Ian had dragged the washtub from the porch to the kitchen and warned the females to stay clear. He was taking a tub bath. Clean-shaven now, he realized he had been starting to smell like a billy goat.

The women disappeared, but he heard giggles long after he'd heated water and sunk into the hot tub.

Now he lay in his bed, rinsed clean, his mind going over the slow-forming plan. He was figuring how to pull it off in tiny segments. If one thing went wrong he was a goner; he could figure on that.

Some parts came harder than others. Jim Younger would be an easy snare if the outlaw knew that Ian Cawley was going to hang
with the sheriff thinking Ian was a Younger. Jim would be sure to attend, flashing a smile seconds before the trapdoor fell out from Ian's feet, smug in the knowledge that the holler had just hung a marshal. The occasion would provide full closure on the tit-for-tat relationship the two men had—
enjoyed
wouldn't be the word. Endured. That was the proper wording.

Stomached.

Younger wouldn't shed any tears when that noose closed around Ian's neck, and the same went for him…but how to draw Jim to the hanging without Ian confessing his real name? That was the problem.

The outlaw wouldn't waste time on a hanging—wouldn't risk showing his face—unless the victim was family.

Pulling the blankets closer around him, Ian stared up at the peeling ceiling plaster. The room was chilly tonight. Still hadn't replaced that window. He'd be sure to take care of it first thing in the morning. He recalled the black walnuts Lyric had been working on this morning and wondered if she'd ever baked that cake. He hadn't made it back from the garden in time for supper, but she'd left a note on the counter saying that his meal was in the warming oven. He hadn't noticed a cake anywhere.