The Healer's Touch (33 page)

Ian paused before the platform steps and calmly faced the sheriff. “I hope you haven't gotten real attached to my Stetson.”

The sheriff grinned. “Why's that?”

Ian presented the wallet with his bound hands. “When you open it you'll find my name, Ian Cawley, United States Marshal. My badge is there and I'll give you information about where and whom to wire for further confirmation of my identity.”

Frowning, the sheriff slowly opened the wallet and leafed through the contents.

Ian spotted Jim Younger easing back now, eyes skimming for escape. Snatching his hat off the sheriff's head, Ian lunged, parting the crowd. Leaping around the startled townsfolk, he chased the outlaw who was now hightailing it out of town on foot.

Younger drew and fired, the bullet shattering a water barrel. Water flew and the barrel started to drain. Ian paused long enough to settle his hat and shout to a startled bystander, “Cut these ropes off my wrist!”

The man fumbled in his pocket and took out a small knife. In seconds the binds were slit.

Running again, Ian raced behind the escaping outlaw. It had been a while since he'd run like this, and his lungs were starting to remind him. Younger lunged for his horse tied outside the general store and mounted up, kicking the stallion into a full gallop.

Reaching the edge of town, Ian broke into a wide grin when he spotted Lyric leading Norman. When he reached her, he grabbed
her by the shoulders, gave her a thorough kiss, and swung aboard the waiting animal. “You,” he said, pointing to her. “I want to talk to you when I get back.”

Jaw agape, she nodded.

Kicking his heels against Norman's flanks, he set off in hot pursuit. Younger had a good half-mile lead now.

Ian hadn't realized how much he'd missed Norman's easy stride. The horse's ways were the source of an inner battle. The horse could be the most ornery, uncooperative animal in creation, but every now and then, when he most needed the horse's strength, Norman gave it. Sometimes, like now, the horse could be noble. Proud. Free. Long, sleek muscles, easy, powerful stride, coat glistening with sweat as black fetlocks ate up the ground. Men had offered Ian a fortune for this animal, but there wasn't enough money in the world to buy him. Together, horse and man became one when the marshal was aboard.

He continued to hold the animal back, allowing time before he gave him his head. If he wasn't mistaken, this was the same road he'd lost Cummins on. The narrow road and towering oaks gave little opportunity for capture. He wanted Younger in the clear before he took him. No trees, no way of escape. He sat back and made sure Norman was comfortable with the pace.

Wind whipped the riders' eyes as the horses stretched now, flying hooves throwing dirt clods. Younger's stallion was a good match for Norman. The horse was powerfully built, auburn coat slicked with sweat, ears pinned back. Leg muscles strained and grew taut. Ian wouldn't be surprised if Jim had raced this animal for profit.

Trees and fence posts flashed by. He was eating Younger's dust now. Victory was not yet complete but he allowed himself one brief hope that the scheme had worked before he refocused on the arrest. But the words, “Thank you, God!” rang out.

The distance between the two riders widened and Ian said softly, “Now, Norman.”

Responding to the command, Norman stretched out his hooves and gave Ian the speed he needed. A blur of prairie grass whipped by; Ian could feel the animal's powerful sides heaving as dirt pounded beneath his hooves. The distance between him and Younger faded and Ian prepared for the jump from Norman to the stallion.

He was going to break another rib, but sometimes life called for a little pain. With a lurch, he flew off Norman and soared through the air.

Head bent, Lyric walked up the hill toward the Bolton house. Angry, disillusioned shouts followed her. The town had been deprived of a hanging and their restless calls polluted the air.

Joseph was Ian Cawley. United States Marshal Ian Cawley. Overwhelming relief swept her. If he were telling the truth, he wasn't an outlaw. He owed no debt to society.

He was chasing someone—who?

Apparently he was a free man now. Free to come and go as he pleased. The sheriff wasn't on his tail.

Her throat tightened and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. What if he didn't come back?

“You. I want to talk to you
,” he'd said after that abrupt kiss.

She hadn't imagined those words.

No, he hadn't trusted her enough to share the truth, but he didn't owe her anything but gratitude. Yes, she had saved his life and he was beholden to her, but she shouldn't expect any misplaced sense of loyalty on his part. The shared kisses, the hours of enjoyable company…all of it had been perfectly proper. He had made no promises, and she had no right to pin all her hopes and dreams on him.

Removing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her streaming eyes.
Get your mind on your work, Lyric. There are more important issues to consider now.
Would the man Ian was chasing
best the U.S. marshal? Ian's injuries were still tender and his strength couldn't be normal.

The thought ricocheted in her brain, and she blinked back blinding tears. The two were noticeably bent on violence—that hadn't been hard to detect. It was as though the men were out to settle a personal vendetta.

Wiping her nose, she tried to gather enough gumption to collect the hens and be through with the whole matter. If Ian wanted to fight it out with some man it was none of her business.

“Lyric!”

Turning, she spotted Lark and Boots headed in her direction, both girls lugging sacks of screeching fowl.

Sighing, she wiped her nose again, squared her shoulders, and went to deal with the hens—the only thing she felt qualified to control.

The sun wasn't yet high in the sky when Ian rode into town leading Jim Younger's horse with a bound Jim draped over the saddle.

Pausing in front of the jail, he waited for the acting sheriff to appear. When he did he scowled. “Why have you got that Younger strapped to his saddle? Ain't you caused enough trouble for one day? If you knew who you were why did you put us through all this trouble?”

“Because,” Ian threw a leg off his saddle, wincing, and stepped down. “You're going to arrest this man and I'm going to collect the bounty money.”

The sheriff backed up. “Now hold on. We don't mess with them Youngers…”

“Now, now. That was in the past. You're going to grow a backbone. You're going to arrest
this
Younger.” He gave the stunned man
a gentle pat as he walked by. “Think of it like this: You're coming up in the world.”

The acting sheriff made fretting noises as Ian untied Younger and helped him to his feet. He led the outlaw into the jail, removed the wristbands, closed the cell door, and locked it. Stepping to the poster board, he grasped Jim's image and handed it to the sheriff. “I believe I'm due some money.”

“I'll get you for this, Cawley,” Younger called from the bunk.

“You're a sore loser, Jim.”

The outlaw's sneer was as ugly as his soul. “You best watch your back.”

“The one thing I refuse to worry about is the future.” Ian grinned. Right now his future looked fairly bright. He'd find Lyric, they'd talk this thing through, and he'd make her understand the reason for his silence. He turned to the sheriff. “You are to leave this man in jail until I send someone to pick him up. Am I clear? If you release him, you're the one who's going to be staring through those bars.”

“I ain't gonna release him.” He dropped into his chair, staring at the reward poster. “It'll take me a day or two to get your money. And the wire just came. You're cleared; free to go.”

“I'll be around.” Ian glanced at Jim. “Take good care of my friend.”

Younger's bitter tone followed him to the door. “Think you're smart, don't you?”

“Actually, I think I'm mighty blessed. This whole thing could have backfired real easy on me.” So easy he didn't want to think about the narrow escape from the noose.

“Hey!” the sheriff called. “Where do I get ahold of you when I have the bounty?”

“Don't worry. I'm not in any hurry to leave.”

First thing he was going to do was look up the doc and have him wrap the second—possibly third—rib he'd just broken.

His body was in a world of hurt.

By nine o'clock the women had dumped the last of the hens back in their pen. Boots slumped against a tree and announced, “I could eat a horse.”

Lyric's stomach growled. They had worked all last night with only an occasional sip of water. “Come to the house with us and I'll fix breakfast.”

When they entered the Bolton kitchen Lyric immediately headed upstairs. Mother was half awake and in an ill temper, her tone unnecessarily sharp. “I told you not to leave me.”

“You weren't alone. Lark was here.” At least for the better part of the night. “Did you call out?”

“I wanted
you
here.”

Straightening the rumpled sheets, Lyric said softly, “I'm here now.” And here she would be for the remainder of her life, but she wouldn't be the same naive child; boasting that she could live very well without love. Ian's brief time with her had proven that she was capable of falling in love, capable of spending the rest of her life with him if he had asked.