The Healer's Touch (34 page)

Despair overcame her. Fatigue from worry and the night's work shook her to the core and she rested her head on the mattress. How she longed to throw herself in a mother's arms and cry out her anguish. She couldn't recall a single time when she'd ever done that. She'd always had to be the strong one, the one who took over when life was good or bad.

Resting her head on the soft quilt, she blinked back hot tears. She never cried, and now she'd cried twice in one day. What was there to weep about? Life was peachy-fine, wasn't it? Ian would be leaving and she would be left with only his memory, a made-up name, and empty dreams.

A more distressing thought surfaced. What if Ian did come back to say goodbye? What if he acknowledged that the attraction wasn't
one-sided, that they shared a mutual, strong desire? Love, even? How would she ever have the strength to turn him away? For turn him away she must. If Mother's illness had been passed along, Ian would be tying himself to a life with a mad woman. It wouldn't be fair to him.

She lifted her face, snuffing back sobs. She could never marry anyone. If Ian did return to say goodbye, she must let him go. A man like him deserved more than her.

She sat up suddenly. What if the Younger he'd been chasing had shot him and left him by the roadside to die? Both men had ridden out of town like their tails were ablaze. She hadn't thought to check the roads—she needed to check—

Stepping to the pane, Lyric tugged the lever and opened the window wide. Fresh air ruffled the curtain.

If only she had someone to ask for advice, a confidante. But Katherine was in Joplin and Lark certainly wasn't old enough to make mature decisions. If by some miracle Ian returned, should she confess her love? Tell him the truth in spite of the insanity that ran through the family?

She couldn't.

Absently patting her mother's pillow, she murmured, “Lark will bring your breakfast shortly.”

“Make sure my toast is soft this morning.”

“I will. You get some rest.”

Her mind churned as she returned to the kitchen. She had to get away from this house or she would burst. Lark turned from the stove. “Is Mother okay?”

“She's fine. Make certain her toast is soft this morning, and add a little jam. She loves that.”

Lyric continued to the door, absently checking her appearance. Guinea feathers stuck to her skirt and her hair hung in her eyes, but her mind was intent on two things: getting somewhere outside to be alone with her thoughts, and checking the main road to see if there were any bodies lying around.

Three doors down from the jail, Ian stepped out of the general store. In under an hour the doc had wrapped his ribs and he'd made a purchase. He paused to check his vest pocket for the wedding ring. Paid a whopping price, but he could afford it now and Earl didn't balk when he asked for credit. The store owner had witnessed the whole scene this morning and knew about the coming bounty.

Ian walked to the hitching rail and offered Norman a handful of oats. He'd earned the reward. “Have I mentioned that you're occasionally one fine animal?”

The animal lifted his head, showed his teeth, and gave a loud whinny.

“Don't get too sure of yourself. Most of the time you're a walking glue factory. Bear that in mind the next time you lie down in the middle of a creek with me on your back.”

Stepping off the boardwalk, he grabbed Norman's reins and mounted up, trying to muffle his groan of pain. He really was getting too old for this line of work. A bystander stopped him before he reined away from the post. “Mister!”

Turning, Ian searched for the source of the voice.

A man inclined his head. “That animal for sale?”

“Norman?” Ian's gaze dropped to the thick mane. There were times he would give him away. “No sir, he isn't.”

The stranger approached, his eyes centered on the sleek stallion. “Mighty fine piece of horseflesh.” He ran his hands over the front quarter and fetlocks. “Hear he runs like the wind.”

“He can run,” Ian allowed. “But he isn't for sale.”

“I'll give you top dollar.”

The man's features finally registered. Frank James. Known to be one of the finest horse purveyors around. And wanted for questioning in a case of suspicious trading. As a U.S. marshal Ian should seize
the moment, but he and the holler had had enough excitement for one day. Let James remain free for another young and industrious bounty hunter to capture. Ian had unfinished business with a lady. He clucked his tongue and turned Norman toward home.

“Sorry. The animal isn't for sale at any price.”

19

T
he Bolton place looked eerily deserted when Ian tied Norman's reins to a low-hanging branch. If allowed to roam, the horse would eat his fill of the tender new shoots sprouting from the ground.

Stepping onto the service porch, he tapped lightly. Before, he would have walked in without announcement, but today was different. Today he knew his place. It seemed only fitting to knock.

His eyes took in the empty kitchen and cold stove, and a grin appeared.

He could have wrung Lyric's neck when she'd waltzed into town and set that mess of guineas loose in the streets.

And then he could have kissed her until she begged him to stop. Without the commotion, he doubted he would have spotted
Younger lurking in the shadows. The uproar had routed the outlaw from the alley and into the fray—straight into Ian's plan.

Ian called out, “Lyric? Lark? Anyone home?”

Quiet met his efforts.

The girls must still be in town. Or else they were busy hauling all those hens back to wherever they'd gotten them.

He might check on Edwina. The past two days' excitement must have affected her.

He caught sight of Norman untying the knot in his reins with his teeth, and he stepped to the back door and called, “Norman!”

The horse dropped his head docilely.

Going down the steps, he crossed the yard to retie the animal. The ring sat in his pocket like a piece of hot lead. Would Lyric accept a worn-out battered man who wanted nothing more than to go back to Kansas City and build a little place next to his grandparents and care for them until they passed? She wanted a new life; would his suit her? He had a hunch it would. They'd take Lark with them, and life would be good.

Whistling, he retied the reins in a triple knot. Let Norman work on that for a while. “You are a real burr under my saddle, but you'll notice that I didn't sell you.”

Norman whuffed.

“I could have, and for a right nice price. Fool with me much more and you're gone. Understand? History. I'll buy a donkey if I have to.”

Norman shook his head and whinnied. Ian ruffled his mane and went back into the house. He climbed the stairs up to Edwina's room and knocked on her door. “Mrs. Bolton? I just wanted to check in on you…”

His voice faded as his eyes fell on Edwina. Her eyes were closed, but not in sleep.

Half an hour had passed and there was still no sign of Lyric. Ian sat on the back stoop holding the letter he'd found at Edwina's side. He'd taken the letter and then respectfully covered Lyric's mother with the blankets.

He dropped his face in his hands, wondering how the girls would take the shock.
Thank you, God, that I got here first.

The white slip of paper rested in his hands and he stared at the note. It had Lyric's name written on it, but maybe he should read it first, to spare her more heartache. Whatever it said could cause Lyric more pain or false guilt.

Then again, Edwina would have written his name if she'd meant the note for him.

Softly tapping the paper against his thigh, he considered what he was about to do. If the message was kind—the sort of message a loving mother ought to leave to her daughter—he'd give it to Lyric. If it held angry, cruel sentiments, he'd throw it in the fire. It would be a simple matter to spare the woman he loved from this last bitter memory.

He unfolded the note. It contained three sentences in an almost indistinguishable scrawl:

I am not your mother. A woman from town left you and Lark with me one day and promised to return. She didn't.

Lyric raced over the new grass and along the path, finally flinging herself down on the ground when she reached the creek where she and Joseph—no,
Ian
—had once fished. She sobbed with great, messy gulps until her tears were all spent.