The Healer's Touch (32 page)

The circus-like atmosphere grew louder. He needed order, calm, not folks milling around like this. Younger wouldn't announce his presence even if the townsfolk would choose to look the other way. The outlaw would disguise himself as an innocent bystander, merely
here for the show, but Ian would be able to pick out his tall frame in a crowd.

Relax.
Once the ruse was over and he informed the sheriff his memory was back, the authorities would have no recourse but to turn him loose, and then he would grab Jim and make the arrest. The bounty money would set him, Lyric, and Grandpa and Grandma up for life—if Lyric would have him. There'd been no time for proper courting, but he sensed that she shared his feelings. He'd seen it in her eyes. Felt it in her touch. He would forever be in her debt for the way she had shielded, nursed, and protected him, but gratitude alone had nothing to do with his feelings. She was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

He glanced up when the door opened a third time and the hangman stepped inside. The man's grave features left no guessing as to his intent.

The sheriff glanced up. “Time to go?”

The hangman nodded.

“Then let's get a move on.” The sheriff reached for the cell keys hanging behind the desk and then stepped to the heavy bars.

Ian stood up and handed his hat to the sheriff. He'd save him the trouble of stealing from a dead man.

“Thanks.” The jailer eyed the prize. “That's one of them true Stetson's, ain't it?”

“Bought it in St. Joe when I was up there this winter.”

The man admired the souvenir. “I'll wear this real proud like.”

Ian stepped past him and walked into the room. The hangman left, leaving the door open behind him. Ian waited until the sheriff put on the Stetson and admired the fit in the wavy glass hanging to the side. “Perfect fit.”

“What luck.”

The jailer tilted the brim just so before he straightened. “Well, can't keep the folks waitin' any longer. Guess I should tie your hands.”

“Don't bother. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Well—you're going
somewhere
. Guess it'll be betwixt you and the good Lord where that'll be.” He picked up a piece of rope and bound Ian's wrists tightly.

Bright sunlight met his eyes, and he flinched as they stepped out of the building. A large crowd had gathered, and now a hush fell over the onlookers as the two men appeared on the jail porch.

“Just walk slowly and take deep breaths,” the sheriff said in a low tone. “And remember I can shoot you dead if you try anything funny.”

“I'd sure hate to be shot on the way to my hanging.”

The men stepped into the street.

“Keep your eyes off the noose—that'll make it easier.”

Ian felt the barrel of the sheriff's shotgun in the small of his back.

His gaze focused on the crowd, searching the sea of sober faces.
Come on, Younger. Don't let me down now.
Skimming the crowd he searched the back row, but no one even remotely similar to Jim Younger appeared present.

Walking slowly toward the platform, Ian focused on the left side. A man standing three rows back was about the right height, but he was too stocky to be Younger. His gaze moved to the left side. Short, tall, lanky, heavyset, old, and young.

Younger wasn't there.

A vision of Lyric momentarily blinded him, and he breathed a silent prayer.
God, let this work.
He didn't want Lyric witnessing this, but if he could look into her eyes, feel her strength like he had so many times in the past…He whirled when he heard a racket.

Guineas—more than he could count swarmed the street, waddling frantically through the crowd, bald heads bobbing. Folks parted, stepping aside as the hens waddled through town, setting up a deafening racket. Feathers flew as men waded in and tried to capture the fleeing hens. The noise level turned raucous.

Ian watched the frenzy until he realized that all he had to do was disappear into the crowd. The sheriff and hangman had waded
knee-deep into the fray, joined by deputies. Focused on the unexpected eruption, his mind raced. Where was Younger?

A man bent to recover a hen and the wind caught the hem of his long leather duster. Ian felt a jolt, experiencing the miracle he'd been praying for when he caught sight of the custom-made lizard boots. Nobody but Jim Younger wore those boots…

“Ian?” A hand touched his arm.

Turning, he faced Lyric, her hair tousled, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Her dirty dress had mud on it and her face was smudged. Folks were so preoccupied they didn't seem to notice her.

She was responsible for this commotion. He should have known she wouldn't stand by and let him hang without giving it her all to stop it. His features softened. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away.”

“It's true?” Her brow furrowed. A guinea feather was lodged in her hair. “You are Ian Cawley?”

Sobering, he realized that Lark had told her his identity. And considering her grave expression, Lark also mentioned that his memory was back.

“Lyric—I told Lark not to tell you until this was over.”

“My sister didn't tell me. You told me. Just now, when you turned and responded to your name.”

“Lyric, honey…”

She lifted a hand of protest, as though the truth pierced her like a sword. Their gazes met and held. If he'd experienced a moment this bitter he couldn't recall.

“You didn't trust me enough to tell me,” she whispered.

“Trust had nothing to do with it. I'd trust you with my life, Lyric. I
have
trusted you with my life. And you've saved me up until now.”

“But you couldn't trust me to secrecy?”

“I didn't want to involve you or your sister in this whole game.”

“How long? How long have you known?”

“Only a short time—I promise you.”

“Did you know the times you kissed me?”

He shook his head. “No. I kissed you because you're a lovely young woman and that's what happens between men and women.”

Her eyes searched his, begging for a better answer.

“I'm in love with you, Lyric.” If both his hands hadn't been bound he would have drawn her to him, erase the look of betrayal in her eyes. “I love everything about you. Your hair, your eyes, the way you smell—the way you protected me and baked my favorite pies. I didn't tell you about my memory because I was trying to shield you. If this plan backfires the town will hang us all, they'll swear that you and Lark were in cahoots with me.”

Chaos surrounded them and he had to shout to make himself heard above the fray. “When this thing is settled I want us to get married, build a house close to my grandparents.”

She coldly slapped the wallet in his hand and turned away.

“Lyric. Don't go—not like this. Let me settle this and we'll talk…”

She walked on, clearly turning a deaf ear to his pleas, her small frame visibly shaken from the brief conversation.

A guinea shot through his legs and a man lunged after it, knocking Ian off balance. He struggled to regain his footing, his eyes searching for that long brown duster and lizard boots.

A gunshot cracked the air and the mad scramble ceased. The sheriff stood on the porch, wild-eyed. “Stop it! We got ourselves a hanging. Leave these birds be until we get the job done.”

The crowd gradually peeled away, allowing room for the outlaw and sheriff to proceed to the platform. Guineas clucked and squawked, fluffing indignant feathers.

The look of disloyalty that had reflected like a clear pond in Lyric's eyes haunted Ian. He should have told her. He should have included her in the plan…but she would have tried to talk him out of it, tried to find another way—and there wasn't one.

The platform approached, the thick rope noose swaying lightly in the early morning breeze. Delicate white alyssum lightly scented the air; red and white and purple tulips bloomed near the general store's front porch. When he was free, he was going to get some of those tulips for Lyric. All purple because he liked the color, all pretty and sweet-smelling like her.

18

L
yric led the horse out of the holler, tears blinding her. Joseph didn't trust her. He confessed to being in love with her, but he didn't trust her.

Did he think if she'd known that he was a U.S. marshal she would track him down and pursue him once he left? Did he think she'd make demands on him, reminding him that if it weren't for her he would be dead now?

Well, if he thought she would come after him, he couldn't be further from the truth. She wouldn't follow him. She'd never subject him to life with a Bolton—even though a Bolton had saved his skin.

Little did he know that she would have done the same for anyone—she did it for him, a complete stranger. She helped save his life. The good Lord did the healing. All she'd done was clean him up and force a few herbs and tea down his throat, but her efforts counted.

Tears blinded her and she reached up to brush them away. The horse plodded along beside her.

“He really doesn't like you any more than he likes me,” she reminded the animal.

The horse shook his mane.

“No, it's the truth. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but he doesn't care for you at all. Not one little bit.” She paused to blow her nose.

What was she thinking? Taking her hurt and rejection out on a poor animal. Sighing, she wadded the handkerchief in her hand. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my resentment out on you.” She tuned an ear toward the holler. How long did it take to hang a man? Silence met her efforts, so the deed wasn't over yet. There would be cheering and whooping when it happened.

What joy they'd take when the Bolton girls' outlaw had been hanged after all their efforts.

But Ian had the wallet and his identification. Chances were no one in town had ever heard of the marshal but they'd have to give him the benefit of doubt until they verified his claim, wouldn't they?

But then again, the hollers were full of outlaws and society misfits, men with prices on their heads.

Still no sounds of cheering. Had Joseph shown authorities the wallet, attempted to prove his identity?

I love you, Lyric. I love everything about you. Your hair, your eyes, the way you smell, the way you protected me and baked my favorite pies….

Had he really said that to her or had she only dreamed that he confessed his affection? Her confused state couldn't sort through the fast pace of events. She wanted to believe him, longed to place her trust in him, but common sense told her that no man would want her. Not a Bolton.

Unconsciously she turned the horse back toward the town. What if the crowd and sheriff had no choice but to believe him about being a U.S. marshal and was forced to set him free? He'd have no
way out of town. He'd be obliged to walk through that staring crowd with no horse and nobody who cared for him.

The animal plodded beside her.

The closer they drew to the town, the more Lyric mentally braced for the shout that would surely go up at any minute.