The Healer's Touch (16 page)

She'd put a pork roast in the oven earlier and as the tempting
scent filled the old house she mixed a batch of biscuits. When she stepped to the sink to wash her hands she caught sight of a lone figure struggling through the deep rutted path.

Katherine Jennings.

Thrilled for company, Lyric stepped to the back door and motioned her friend inside the warm kitchen. The young woman slipped and slid her way to the back door.

“Katherine! For heaven's sake, why are you out on a day like this?”

Breathless and red-cheeked, Katherine stepped inside and unwound her heavy scarf, moving closer to the fire. “I know—isn't this storm dreadful? But I had cabin fever so bad, I thought I'd risk the walk over.”

Reaching for the coffeepot, Lyric poured a steaming cup and stepped to the service porch for cream. “How was the trip over?”

“Very slippery. I'm afraid this ice won't melt for another week or so, even if the sun stays out.” Her gaze strayed to the sound of giggles coming from the library. “Is the stranger still here? I guess he couldn't travel in this weather.”

“He's still here.” Lyric pulled up a chair and sat down. “And no matter how happy I am to see you I hardly think you'd risk a broken bone for an afternoon chat.”

Katherine cupped her hands around her cup and admitted. “The light came back again.”

“Last night?”

She nodded. “We didn't go quite as crazy as we did the first time, but it keeps us on edge.”

“I know—it was here a couple of nights ago. Joseph shot out the upstairs bedroom window trying to run it off.”

“Joseph?”

“I've given the stranger a name. He's lost his memory, you see.” Clearing her throat, she busied her hands rearranging a spoon. “It seemed fitting.”

If Katherine thought choosing a name for the man was a bit bizarre, she kept silent. She shook her head. “That doesn't work. Levi tried shooting it too.”

Sobering, Lyric reached out to touch her hand. “What is it, Katherine? Does the light upset you that greatly?”

She nodded. “Ever so much. I've never encountered anything like it, and no matter how much I tell myself it won't hurt me I know it could.”

“That's understandable; the unknown frightens most of us.”

Leaning closer, Katherine whispered. “It's not the same between me and Levi anymore—we're always looking out the window or scouring the room with our eyes to see if it's there, and we don't laugh or joke with each other nearly as much as we did before that awful thing came into our lives.” Lifting her cup, Katherine sipped her drink. “I honestly don't know what to think about any of it. At times I wish we hadn't built out here…” She glanced up. “Except for you. I am so thankful to have found you.”

“And I you.” Lyric shook her head. “I'm sure there's a simple explanation for the unusual light, though I can't imagine what.”

Five days after the storm the ice had partially melted on the hillside near the barn, but the roads remained treacherous. If Bolton Holler craved a good hanging, Mother Nature was making them wait a while longer. Joseph was either living right or mighty lucky, Lyric decided as she rolled over in bed and opened her eyes to the sound of a hammer striking wood. Squinting, she noted the ray of thin light barely creeping through the room and wondered about the time.

Throwing back the blankets, she wiggled her toes into her heavy slippers and stood, stretching. The hammering came from
a distance—in the direction of the barn. She stepped to the window and peered out at the slushy winter countryside. Who could be making such a racket at this hour?

Ten minutes later she let herself out the back door, shivering in the frosty morning air as she balanced two mugs of hot coffee. She had a hunch Joseph was the culprit; the man rose early and seemed restless now that he was starting to mend. The line still hung from the house to the barn but she couldn't use it with her hands full. Melted dark patches made travel easier, and if she felt herself falling she'd drop the cups and grab for support. Better to lose the coffee than break an arm.

Lord, we're barely into March. One more good snowstorm might do the soil good. Make the crops more fertile this year.

Making her way over the hill, she paused, her breath a white plume in the chilly air. By afternoon the temperatures would warm and make better headway melting the ice. Each new day brought Joseph's imminent demise closer, and the thought had now started to nag her, like a blister between her toes. Could she actually stand by and watch the sheriff hang this man?

Stepping into the barn she spotted the noise maker. Joseph had stripped the splintered door down to the frame and now planed the rough edges. “I thought it might be you,” she teased. “Who else wakes with the birds?”

Without looking up, he smiled. “Did I disturb you?”

She walked over and set the coffee beside him. “No. I had to get up and look out the window to see who was making that racket.”

Grinning, he reached for the cup. “Thanks. This should warm me up.”

“It might be stone cold by now.” She sat next to him, testing the brew. “Lukewarm.”

“Better than nothing.”

Her gaze rested on his work. “You're fixing the door.” For one senseless improbable moment she wanted to throw her arms around
his neck and hug him. If he were hanged, there would be plenty of funds for a new door but she knew in her heart she would never look at the barn entrance without seeing his face. Without wondering…

“It isn't too difficult. I looked around and asked that big hired hand with a gun you keep hidden down here, and together we found enough scrap wood to patch it. It won't be like new, but Rosie should stay warmer.”

She blushed at the thought of the flimsy lie she'd given. Big, hard farmhand—not afraid to use a gun. He must think her very silly.

Her eyes moved to the horse. “What should we do about him?”

“Don't know. Do you need a horse?”

She shook her head. “I can barely feed Rosie. Truthfully, I've begun to wonder if he might be yours.”

His gaze shifted back to the big stallion. “No. I wouldn't put up with a horse that cantankerous.”

“Still, it makes sense. A saddled horse doesn't come from nowhere.”

“He isn't my horse.” His gaze skimmed the innocent-looking creature. “There could be all kinds of reasons he was saddled. Someone shot his owner. He threw his rider. His owner got occupied and the animal wandered off.” He shook his head. “Do with him what you must; he's not mine.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I know, okay? A man would know his horse.”

The animal shifted and stepped on Joseph's left foot and he smacked the stallion's rump. “Stay off my foot!”

“Now, now. Is it necessary to speak so harshly to him?” She had noticed that the two butted heads often.

“This animal doesn't like me.”

“Now, honestly. Listen to yourself. Why would the horse have anything personal against you?”

“There are some animals that are cantankerous by nature, and this is one of them.”

“Well, perhaps that's why his owner turned him away. But you
would think he would have kept the saddle.” She ran her hands over the rich leather and fine stitching and thought about the engraved initials toward the back that she'd noticed earlier.
J.J.
If it was his horse the initials were wrong. There should be a Y in place of the last J. He couldn't possibly be Jesse James. Jesse James had been shot and killed six years earlier.

“The owner probably couldn't get rid of him quick enough. If he were mine, I'd have sold him the day I bought him.”

“Oh.” She patted the horse's mane lovingly. “Don't listen to him. I'll bet you're a wonderful animal.”

“I wouldn't bet anything more than a hickory nut.”

“You surely aren't from these parts; we call them hicker nuts,” she bantered.

“Then I must not be from around here.”

The horse turned and nipped his hip and Joseph's face flushed scarlet. If she hadn't been standing there she could tell the animal would have gotten a blistering earful.

“So.” She crossed her arms behind her back and circled the door frame. “You really think you can fix this?”

“I'm going to try.” He paused, eyes focused on his work. “I like the feel of lumber, the smooth wood, the sweet scent of fresh shavings.”

“Mmm. Perhaps in your former life you were a carpenter.”

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “I built furniture when I wasn't robbing, looting, or killing.”

She sobered. “We don't know that you're an outlaw.” It was the first time she'd let the notion slip out, and she hoped he wouldn't take advantage of her flagging suspicion. At this point she didn't know anything for certain other than the ice was melting faster than she'd like.

“You're right.” He ran the plane over the weathered board. “We don't.”

“Is anything coming back to you? Anything at all?” The blow to his head would knock anyone senseless, but Lark mentioned she'd
read books about people who'd lost their memories and after a short while they had returned.

Other times they never regained their past.

God, perhaps that would be for the best. This man doesn't appear to be violent, and if he is hanged he will never recall his vile acts. On his behalf, I plead for mercy for his sins.

“Nothing.”

His flat tone told her he was weary of the subject. She took another direction. “Did you see Katherine yesterday?”

“I saw her walking toward home. Why was she out in such weather?”

“She's lonely—and frightened. Seems the light paid them a visit too. Katherine's nerves were jangled and she was tied all in knots.”

He paused and looked up at her. “Does the light bother you?”

“No. I've been around too long.”

He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “Your mother. Is she…I mean…I wasn't expecting to bump into her.”

“That she came to investigate the gunshot in itself was remarkable. She hasn't moved around for a while. You must have really startled her. I'm sorry if she frightened you. She has strange ways, and people mostly avoid us because of it.”

“And that makes you a lonely woman,” he said.

His keen perception surprised her. She tried to hide her longing to belong somewhere. Or to someone. Deep down she wanted to be loved and go to sleep every night knowing that in addition to God's love there was another person on earth to whom she mattered.

“Nothing wrong with being lonely,” he said softly. “Just doesn't seem right that a girl like you should be cooped up here all alone.”

She mustered a smile. “When Mother passes, Lark and I are leaving here—going as far as we can go. Maybe even to California.”

“To start a new life?”

She nodded. “Of course Lark's at the age where she doesn't want to leave. She and Boots are close as bread and butter, but there
comes a time when everyone has to leave someone they love. She'll make new friends.”

“New friends.” He shook his head. “Something inside of me says friendships are hard to come by—good friendships, that is. But I could be wrong. My thinking is muddled.”

Smiling, she ran her hand over the front of her coat and eyed the door frame. Nothing on this earth could stop her from leaving once she was free to go. “Do you plan to work on this all day?”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I thought maybe we could take a walk. It's going to be a lovely day, and maybe we can find some dandelion greens poking their heads through the melting ice. Lark and Boots found a sizable mess shortly before the storm.”

“Thanks, but I'll work here for a while and then go back to the house.”

“Are you sure?” She knew his argument—he needed to keep up his strength. How much strength would he need to attend his hanging? Yet he clearly wanted privacy.