The Healer's Touch (31 page)

“Boots!” Ian challenged in a loud whisper, but the girl was gone, swallowed up by darkness—the one last thing that stood in the way of life or death. Gripping the bars he wanted to shout.

Then cry.

God, I don't want to die. Not yet. If You could work it where I could be around a while longer, I'd be much obliged.

He dropped his head against the cold window bars as the first hint of dawn, a nearly imperceptible lifting of a thin, colorless veil, appeared on the eastern horizon.

Grandma's voice came to him, peaceful and soothing. “Life's a short walk, Ian my boy. Shorter for some, longer for others. It is well to love the earth and the things our Maker put here—He made them for our pleasure, but life is a fleeting passage to your eternal home. It is there that you'll lay down your sword. If God gives you ten years or ninety, be glad and with great joy anticipate the day when all things good and pure become everlasting.”

“I'm trying, Grandma,” he whispered, but his heart wasn't in the promise.

His attention focused on the soft, muted light getting ever stronger in the east.

Lyric paced the kitchen floor, whirling when Lark opened the back door and stepped inside. Precious little time remained before the hanging. “Is he free?”

“No. For a while he wouldn't take the rope and help but finally he did. But the horse lay down in the pond and that was that.” She shed her jacket and stepped to the cold cookstove. “Any biscuits left?”

Lyric shook her head. “You're worried about your stomach?”

“I'm hungry—we didn't have supper.” She fished around in the warming oven.

“There's nothing there. I haven't fixed anything yet. Tell me what happened.”

“Well…” Her tone turned evasive. “He said to tell you—actually all of us—to stay away from the town until he comes for us.”

“Comes for us?” Lyric frowned. “How will he come for us?”

Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, Lark repeated the message. “He said to stay away. That's all I know.”

“He doesn't want us to witness his death.”

“Probably not, and truth be told I don't want to see it. I've never seen anyone hanged, and I don't want to start with a friend.” Tears welled in Lark's eyes.

“I know.” Lyric reached to take her in her arms and hold her. Tears rolled from both sets of eyes now. “I wasn't going to permit you to view the atrocity.”

“He loves you.” Lark hiccupped.

“He does? How can you be so certain?”

“Well—he just looks like he does. He goes all soft and mushy when I mention your name.”

Lyric breathed out slowly. She closed her eyes and shook her head gently. “None of that matters now. He's such a fine man. Kind. Hardworking. Honest and totally trustworthy.” Lyric's voice broke with emotion when the back door opened and Boots came in.

“The birds are all loaded. Do you know how much noise seven sacks of live guineas make?”

Lyric shook her emotions aside. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to Lark. “Bake some biscuits and fry a slice of ham. Mother will be awake soon and she hasn't eaten a bite since yesterday morning.”

“But Joseph said we were to stay here, Lyric. And he meant it. He doesn't want us butting in on his business.”

“I don't give a fig what he wants. I will not stand by and let those imbecilic morons hang him. They're only doing this out of spite for the Boltons. And his being here makes them even more upset and determined to do away with him.”

“But he said—”

“Boots, grab an extra lantern.” Lyric dismissed her sister with a sharp look. “
You
bake biscuits.”

Lark reached for her arm. “He needs his wallet.”

Nodding, Lyric wiped her eyes on the hem of her soiled apron. “I'll see that he gets the wallet.” Her eyes met Lark's. “Doesn't mean that the wallet belongs to him, Lark.”

“But it does!”

“You don't know that.”

“I…I have to keep a promise, Lyric, but you have to take that wallet to him right now.”

“All right. I'm going, but I don't see how it can possibly change what's about to happen.” Lark's former statement sank in. “What promise? Do you know something that I don't?” She met her sister's eyes.

“Just
go
!”

The urgency in Lark's tone set her feet in action. Lark was right; they could discuss this later.

17

S
treaks of blue, pink, and orange gradually spread across the sky. Ian alternately watched the fingers of light splay the horizon and the back road leading to the jail. What was keeping Lark? She should be here by now. Pacing, he rubbed the back of his neck. This crazy plan was his and he'd own the outcome…but right now the scheme seemed doomed to fail.

The sounds of a gathering crowd outside drifted through the cell window. The scent of blood invariably attracted predators.

Ian sat back down on the bunk to await the time when the door would open again and they would come for him. Doubts assailed him. If Boots's and Lark's breakout plan had been successful, he would be ten miles away by now. He shook his head. It was a nice idea but it wouldn't accomplish his ultimate purpose. He wanted
Lyric set for life if this was the hour the good Lord wanted him to exit this world.

Had Jim Younger even gotten wind of the hanging? His strategy was flimsy at best, but if he was going down he was going down alone. The Boltons had enough trouble without him involving them. His gaze shifted back to the cell bars. What or who had detained Lark?

Aware of the time ticking away, he focused on his boots.

In less than an hour, another man could be wearing them.

“Oh, turtle feathers!” Boots wrung her hands when the second sack split apart and feathers flew. Guineas scattered, their shrieks echoing in the holler.

The sun's rays had started to spread; tearing sacks had delayed the women twice. Guineas dangled by bound feet from Norman's saddle horn and stirrups. The white-breasted fowl squawked every time they added another hen to his load. Boots struck off to gather the strewn birds, trapping them between her feet. Her red cowboy boots were covered in dirt.

“We have to work faster!” Lyric fumbled to find an empty spot to tie a hen, keeping an eye on the sunrise. “The sun will be full up before we make it to town.”

“I'm working as fast as I can!” Lark snatched a hen and tucked it under her arm. “I don't know why that horse had to go lie down in that pond. Who ever heard of an animal liking water that much?”

It seemed the whole world, not just the horse, was working against Joseph now. Lyric tied another bird to the saddle and bolted off in search of more.

The front door of the jail opened and the sheriff walked in, the smell of bacon and eggs lingering on his vest. “Howdy.”

Ian didn't bother with niceties. He reached for his hat but the sheriff stopped him. “No need to take that, and leave your boots in the cell.” He eyed the fine leather. “That's some good-looking leather—what's the size?”

“You couldn't fill those boots.”

The sheriff appeared to catch the putdown and a growing grin spread across his youthful features. “Well now, I shore am gonna try, Mister, 'cause you ain't gonna be needin' 'em.”

Ian got slowly to his feet.

“Might as well sit a spell longer. The mayor's still finishin' up his breakfast and the crowd's still gatherin'.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“I suppose I could offer a cup of coffee while we wait…”

The man's hospitable efforts were not only in vain, they were hypocritical. “No thanks.” He glanced toward the door. “Sounds like a good turnout.”

“Oh, it's a fine gatherin'. Standin' room only.” The sheriff tossed his hat on the desk and walked to the gun cabinet. “A hanging's always good for business. Gets the folks moving about, and while they're in town they do their shopping.”

The social chitchat rubbed Ian's nerves raw. The door opened a couple of times with men coming to check in. He tried to catch a glimpse of the crowd—see if he could spot Jim Younger—but his efforts were in vain. Crowd noises and the sound of someone tuning up a tuba met his attempts. Was Jim Younger out there waiting? Or was he fifty miles away, unaware he was about to win a bet?