The Healer's Touch (3 page)

Peering over his shoulder, Ian suddenly drew up. The light was clinging to his shoulder now. He shoved it away but his hand only
moved through air. Squealing, Norman swerved back and forth on the road as Ian struggled to battle the light and hang on. The object tired of the battle, divided again, and became five pinging balls, skipping, dancing in front of the horse's path.

Wild now, Norman plunged through heavy thicket and galloped headlong into open pasture.

“Whoa! Steady, boy!” Ian grabbed for the reins that had escaped him when the horse veered off the road. For the first time in his life the marshal felt completely helpless. A thin moon slid out, illuminating his predicament.

Galloping at full speed now, the stallion headed straight for a barn in the distance. The light bounced in front of the animal, teasing, goading. “Thank You, God,” Ian muttered. Norman would stop when he reached the barn.

The light hopped on top of Norman's head and a watery moon shone on the rutted pasture as Ian hung on. By now he heard hysterical screams and realized they were coming from him.

The barn door had been shut for the night. Norman's stride lengthened, his heavy muscles slick with sweat. The ball bounced up and down, back and forth, and from side to side. If the thing had hands, Ian sensed it would be clapping with glee over the merry flight.

And then he looked up, and understanding coursed through him like a bolt of lightning. Norman wasn't going to stop. Ian instantly recognized the horse was going through whatever stood in its path. “Whoa, boy! Whoaahhhhh!”

The sound of shattering lumber echoed throughout the holler as Norman, Ian, and the bouncing light entered the barn without benefit of an open passage.

As his body flew toward the barn floor and the sharp, broken shreds of lumber, Ian caught one last glimpse of Norman's rump as the horse pivoted and galloped away. Ian had one last coherent thought.

I'm going to sell that miserable horse if it's the last thing I do.

A boom shattered the kitchen's peaceful silence, and Lyric started and jerked her hands out of the pan of sudsy dishwater. She glanced over her shoulder at her sister. Lark was sitting at the table, reading. “Was that thunder?”

Lark had her head buried in a Charles Dickens novel, apparently oblivious to the clap that had shaken the timeworn two-story house. “I didn't hear anything.”

Lyric's sweet but slightly inattentive sister wouldn't hear a tree felled beside the house if she was reading. Lifting the window over the sink to allow a hint of fresh night air into the kitchen, Lyric conceded that March was extremely warm in the holler this year, which usually meant a stifling summer ahead. The garden vegetables, newly planted, would be burned to a crisp by fall, no doubt. Tomatoes would blister on the vines and second-planting string beans would wither. Pausing, she listened for another clap, but all was silent. She shrugged and returned to the dishes.

The back door burst open and Lyric's hand flew to her heart until she saw Samantha—known to friends and family as “Boots”—standing in the doorway. “It is customary to knock,” she gently reminded the fourteen-year-old.

“Sorry. Did you hear that blast?”

“I heard something. Is a storm brewing?”

“Not a cloud in the sky.” Boots took a deep breath and continued. “Can't imagine what it was. Scared the waddin' out of me. Lark, you have got to hear this! You know how Caroline is sweet on Henry and they've been sort of, you know, courting? Well, tonight Henry came over early because he's not allowed to stay out much past dark and Caroline's mother said that she could go for a short ride in his father's new buggy…and of course you know where
Henry took her. Right straight down that creepy road, and lo and behold the light is acting up again. Why, they saw two poor men, each riding in opposite directions like the old devil himself was on their tail, trying to outrun the thing. But it was pestering them something awful.” She paused to draw another deep breath. “Henry said the light hadn't shown itself in a while and he wanted to impress Caroline with his bravery, so he brought the buggy up here…”

Lyric glanced out the window. Darkness encroached and a light fog hung in the air.

“Anyway, he got Caroline all settled with a nice thick lap robe—which she didn't need because it's so mild outside, but you know Henry. He's a real gentleman. Anyway, they settled down to watch for the light. Caroline said he put his arm around her. Don't you think that's a little forward, putting your arm around someone on your first—well, maybe second—outing? But he did, and they settled back to watch for the Spooklight.”

“Boots, I wish you wouldn't refer to that…that thing as the
Spooklight
.” They had enough to worry about without concerning themselves with frightening legends. Life was difficult enough living in this holler, isolated from everyone by the strange spells her mother's illness caused. She now lay in her bedroom, frail and weak, awaiting death.

Lyric had spent her life protecting Lark from folks' cruel barbs and innuendos about how they were different than others, not worthy to be a part of the community. The entire town isolated themselves from Edwina Bolton, the strange woman with two young girls.

Boots's excited voice droned on. “…and then just before dark, Henry suggested that they spread the lap robe on the ground and watch for the light from there. Moony-eyed Caroline agreed that was a grand idea, so they climbed out of the buggy and made themselves real comfortable.”

A simply grand idea
, Lyric silently mocked, aware of how easily a
young woman like Caroline could be led astray. She just bet Henry was all for getting all comfortable. Caroline and Boots needed better adult supervision than their grandfather provided. Given no choice, Neville had assumed the care of Caroline and Boots when their mother passed a few years back. The father was never found…or known, if the scarce bit of information Lyric heard during her brief trips to town for supplies held true.

Those hurried excursions gave her goose bumps. Folks turned away as though she was scarlet fever on legs. That silly light that appeared in the holler often did so closest to the Bolton property line. Folks put two and two together and made four: surely the light had something to do with Edwina Bolton and her strange fits.

That was nonsense and Lyric knew it. That “spooklight” was just a trick of nature. But try convincing the townspeople of that! But it wouldn't be much longer before her mother passed on, and then Lyric would take her sister and leave this place. Together they would build a new life hundreds of miles from this isolated holler hidden deep in the Missouri hills—somewhere far away, where no one knew about them. She remembered being a young girl and peering at the globe that sat in the parlor. The tiny spots on the paper had turned into exciting new adventures Lyric would experience someday.

“And then,” Boots continued, breathless, “Henry started sweet-talking her. Seems the horse spotted the light first. He reared and took off like someone lit a fire under his rear.”

“Boots,” Lyric cautioned. The girl's language often tended to be highly improper, a trait she'd acquired from her salty-talking grandfather.

“Backside,” she emphasized. “The horse
dragged
Henry's father's new buggy that he'd just bought today. Caroline said the light came right up to them, bold as brass, and just hovered there like it was looking them over. She said she got goose bumps the size of cotton wads. Then it was gone…but so was the horse and buggy, and they had no way to get home. Caroline said Henry knew his pa would
be mad as hops when he discovered he'd let the horse and buggy get loose. After a bit they started walking. I bumped into them when I finished up milking. They were none too happy, either. Caroline was wearing her best patent leather slippers and they were all dusty and scuffed from the briars and dust.”

Boots pulled a chair closer to the table. “And you know what else?”

“What?” Lark's eyes fixed on the book page, her voice bordering on monotone. Different as they were, the two girls were as tight as a cheap pair of shoes, even though Lyric was certain that Boots's grandfather didn't overly approve of the friendship.

“That wretched Jim Cummins was spotted earlier today. Walked right into the general store and was about to purchase chewing tobacco when this feller walked in—a stranger, Earl said. Nobody knew the outsider but he must have changed Cummins' mind about the tobacco. Earl said he took off out of there like a scalded cat and last he saw of him he was hightailing it out of town and the stranger was right behind him.”

“Outlaws.” Lyric shook her head. The hollers were full of them. Lowlifes who kept their families hidden from the law. Lyric listened to the girl's chatter as she dried a skillet and put it away. Boots's occasional bits and pieces of area information were all the news they had, and Lyric welcomed the diversion. No one in Bolton Holler ever ventured up to the house unless forced to. Stories abounded about the “evils” that lay within the walls of the old house, and even the strong of heart avoided the place.

A slow smile formed on her lips. She used to feel sorry for the townsfolk, even pitied them for their misbeliefs that a black cloud hung over the Bolton home—a sinister one, it was said. Most of the folks in town had decided the strange light that shown regularly in this holler was a direct product of Edwina Bolton. Lyric knew that to be nonsense, but the people in town were far more willing to trust in superstition than logic.

She lifted the curtain over the kitchen counter window and peered out. Funny, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. She could see every single star. If not thunder, what had she heard earlier?

She wiped off her hands on her apron. “Boots, don't stay long,” she said. “It's well past dark and your grandfather will be alarmed if you're not home soon.”

“I won't. Anyway, back to Henry. He is in so much trouble! I doubt that his father will let him take the buggy and horse again for some time and Caroline so looks forward to their rides home on Sunday night.”

Slipping into a light sweater, Lyric stepped onto the back service porch. Milk cans and churning pots littered the small enclosure. Outside, she glanced up to see a beautifully rounded moon rising. The sight was so pretty she paused to enjoy the night.

Talk of beaus and courting often caused a stirring in her soul. She would never marry. There wasn't a man around who would dare to come courting for fear Edwina would have one of her mad fits.
Maybe I'll have to settle for one of the Younger brothers
, she thought with a grin. Although the Youngers were nothing to smile about. She'd seen the hoodlums around, shooting up the town and causing trouble. She had prayed the rowdy gang would disband but they hadn't; they'd grown even more worrisome. The whole lot was at their best when they banded together. The Younger brothers—Cole, Bob, Jim, and John—were a thorn in every decent side. Talk drifted to her when she visited the general store. Occasionally a Younger shot up the town and bullied folks something awful and the men in town didn't lift a hand. They were terrified of the hoodlums and gave them plenty of space.

Drawing the sweater closer around her shoulders, she set off toward the barn. That noise had to have come from somewhere. She had closed the door earlier and everything had been peaceful. Maybe ol' Rosie had spooked and kicked her stall down…but even that wouldn't have made such a thunderous sound. As she approached the dwelling, moonlight emphasized a gaping hole
where the barn door had once been. Gasping, she picked up speed, her eyes searching for the source of such destruction. Her barn door! What in the world…?

Now, where was she going to scrape up enough extra money to replace that door?

Drawing closer, she stared at the pile of ankle-deep rubble. The Youngers. How
dare
those thugs destroy her property! The town might have difficulty confronting those men, but she didn't. She'd march down there where they lived and give someone a good piece of her mind!

Leaning around the corner, she fumbled for one of the matches she kept in a box on the wall. A flame ignited and she lit the lantern wick. Light illuminated lumber strewn this way and that. The milk cow, Rosie, stood in her stall, eyes wide open. Lyric stepped deeper into the shadows and squinted, giving a quick intake of breath when she spotted a man's body spread haphazardly across the dirt floor.