The Healer's Touch (9 page)

4

L
yric set a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of the outlaw, willing herself to breathe normally. Her heart thumped in her chest and her cheeks burned when she thought of the way she'd fainted earlier. The injured man had been left to help her back to the house.

“You could have at least warned me you were there. I thought you were dead.”

Those were the first words she'd spoken since his unexpected appearance had thrown her into a tizzy. Now she sat him down at the kitchen table where he sat staring feebly at the meal, head faintly bobbing. “The last thing I recall is talking to you when I was on the sofa,” the man said. “I must have drifted off. When I woke up I was on the front porch, bound like a piece of meat. Who did that to me?”

“Lark and Boots. They thought you had…passed.”

Stepping to the service porch, Lyric got the pitcher of cream and
returned to the kitchen. She found it impossible to keep the peevishness out of her tone. “Who are you?”

He glanced up. “Ma'am?”

“Which Younger are you?”

He shook his head. “I can't rightly say. I've been trying to figure that out.”

“You don't know your own name?”

“Ma'am, it's not only my name. I can't recall anything. My name, where I am, and most of all who I am.” He brought both hands to his head. “I was hoping you could help.”

“You're in Bolton Holler, in the Missouri Ozarks, and I know nothing about you other than that you rode your horse through my barn door and I strongly suspect you are a Younger or one of their gang. The impact must have left you temporarily addled.”

“What makes you suspect I'm an outlaw?”

“I…because the Youngers are thick in this area, and who else would be drinking and tearing up folks' property? This is a small holler and we don't get strangers riding through often.”

Slowly lifting his head, he frowned. “I rode a horse through your barn door?”

“You did—and I don't mean to add to your troubles but you'll need to pay to replace that door. If you don't, I don't know where I'll find the money. The house needs paint, and I could use another milk cow. I don't have the extra funds to go replacing perfectly good barn doors, you know.”

“Of course…” His hand dropped to his pocket and started fumbling. She interrupted his search.

“No need to look for money or a wallet. You don't have either one. There was no identification on you.” Heat flooded her cheeks. “I wasn't being nosy. We needed to know who you were—to notify kin.”

“We?”

“My sister, Lark, and her friend, Boots.”

“Oh…those two.”

If anything could jog a memory, it would be Lark and Boots.

His gaze slowly roamed the kitchen and confusion lit his eyes. They were a clear green—very striking. She hadn't noticed the exceptional hue before. The warmth in her cheeks heightened when she realized what he must be thinking as he looked around her home. Barely decent shelter, an old woodstove, inadequate counter, scarred kitchen table, and three wooden chairs. She took pity on his puzzlement.

“I'm sorry about the way you found yourself when you woke.” Her cheeks burned now when she thought of how he'd been tied up and set on the front porch like trash. “Well, we thought—assumed—that you'd passed.”

His gaze switched back to her. “Well, I'm still here. Now what?”

“First thing tomorrow morning, I'm to have you at the jail for identification. There's a bounty on your head and I intend to collect it.” She took the chair opposite him, watching various emotions play across his features. Shock. Disbelief. Fear. Her compassionate side felt sorry for his state. It was a pitiful one indeed. Both eye sockets were yellowish black, swollen to slits, and he was covered with bruises and cuts. And now she'd had to tell him that he was a wanted man with a bounty on his head.

She hoped the reward was worth the misery and effort.

“What am I wanted for?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Can't say for certain, but if you are a Younger, as I suspect, the authorities have plenty of charges to choose from.”

“And if I'm not a Younger?”

She hadn't considered the prospect. It was possible, of course, but highly unlikely. The main road was miles away and strangers didn't come through the holler often. It was conceivable that he wasn't a wanted man, but the chances of anyone new riding through Bolton Holler were slim to none. Unless he was a new bandit who'd
come to join one of the gangs that made their home in these hills. The caves, running creeks, white and black oak with scattered shortleaf pines, and a ground cover rich in legumes and goldenrods were the ideal cover for the wanted.

She met his gaze directly. “If you're not, you better be able to prove it by tomorrow morning.”

“How can I prove something I'm not clear about?”

“You recall nothing?”

“No. Where am I?” he asked a second time.

“You're in Missouri—some miles from Joplin. You don't recall ramming through the barn door?” Seemed to her a man ought to recall something like that.

He shook his head. “Last thing I remember is talking to you, here, in some room with books.”

“The parlor.” She noted that he hadn't taken a single bite of the oatmeal so she nudged the bowl closer. “Maybe eating something will clear your head. A body can't think on an empty stomach.”

Shaking his head, he pushed the bowl aside. “I've lost my appetite.” He glanced out the window. “What time of day is it?”

“It's late. I was about to come into the house and go to bed when you—appeared.” She wasn't sure if she could ever wander out after dark again. Her heart was still beating like a war drum in her ears.

“And you're handing me over to the sheriff at first light?”

She nodded. “He'll have someone there to identify you. And should you awaken early, be careful to stay hidden. My younger sister is asleep, but she thinks you're dead. I'd like to spare her the shock you gave me.”

His eyes roamed his surroundings again. “You and your sister live here alone?”

“My sister and my mother…” She paused, checking her thoughts. He was crafty even in his impaired state. “And the big armed hired hand who sleeps in the barn. He checks on the house every hour or
so,” she lied. “Nothing goes on here that he doesn't see. He has a gun and he isn't afraid to use it.”

“Does he know I'm here?”

“He knows—and he's watching.”

“Well—” The stranger pushed back from the table. “Much obliged for patching me up for the gallows.”

“Gallows?”

“I don't remember who I am or where I'm from, but I seem to recall they hang outlaws in most parts.”

Hang.
She hadn't thought about that probability. She'd heard the hammers and saws a few times when the town built the gallows for a hanging. The event always left butterflies in her stomach, but she'd never
known
one of the men scheduled to hang. She tried not to think about the man who would face that platform soon. A smidgeon of doubt crept into her mind. What if this man wasn't an outlaw or the bounty on his head didn't amount to a hill of beans? When she'd gone to town she'd not seen one poster that even resembled the man sitting before her, though puffiness marred his features.

If he wasn't an outlaw there wouldn't be a bounty. And without a bounty Rosie would go without a door on the barn—and Lyric wouldn't have the funds to begin her new life when Mother passed.

The man shook his head in an apparent attempt to clear it. “If you don't mind, I'll sleep on the sofa.”

His voice brought her back to the present. “You won't try anything, will you? If you sleep there, I'll have to sit with you with my gun close by.”

“Do I look like I'm capable of trying anything?”

No. He looked like death warmed over, but she couldn't throw caution to the wind just because she felt sorry for him. He could be telling a bald-faced lie. He might know exactly who he was and be looking for the moment to escape.

“I'll get a fresh blanket.” They both rose and she steadied him as
they slowly eased to the parlor. He was wounded but strong; she felt the tight muscles and sheer power in his arm when he leaned into her slight weight. “I wish you would eat something,” she fretted. “You'll need your strength.”

“If I can't make the climb to the noose I'm sure the sheriff will assist me.”

The coming hours weren't a pleasant thought—even less agreeable if she was wrong about his identity. It would be awful to hang an innocent person. She knew all too well what it was like to be wrongfully judged.

She shook the unwanted thoughts away. Who else could he be but an outlaw? Didn't Boots mention that Jim Cummins had been run out of the mercantile the same day this man destroyed her property? He could even be Cummins, though his poster wasn't on the sheriff's wall. Just because this stranger was weak as a newborn calf was no reason for her to go all soft and compassionate now. She settled him on the couch and then went for the blanket. By the time she returned his eyes were closed and soft snores met her ears.

Tucking the warm blanket around him, she noted the pump knot on his forehead and winced. She supposed that after tomorrow morning he'd have more than a knot to worry him.

An hour before sunup, Lyric crept down the stairway in her bare feet. The old house was quiet; no one was awake this early. She'd lain in her bed for hours, her conscience nagging her. Was it possible she had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Odds were if the wounded man wasn't Cummins or one of the Youngers he was part of a gang, but her enforced solitude made her more aware of hypocritical and unjust beliefs. If the man on the sofa couldn't recall who he was, was it fair to tag him as a criminal without absolute certainty?

A life was at stake. In this case a mistake meant certain death
instead of turned backs and outright shunning. The town had had its fill of outlaws, and they wouldn't think twice about hanging this man without adequate proof of wrongdoing.

Her strong penchant for fact surfaced. Fact was, nobody in the household could be certain who this man was or where he belonged. And even if someone in town recognized him, nobody in these parts told the whole truth.

Lord, allow me more than my share of wisdom today. I can't let a man hang if he's innocent and only You know the truth at the moment. Help me to verify his true identity before I stand by and watch him be put to death.

Not that the town would believe a word
she
said. But the stranger would be safe here until she got this matter resolved. It was the least one human could do for another. Not a soul would venture near this place, even if a bounty was in plain sight. It wasn't likely the injured man was going anywhere soon, and she could afford half a morning to avoid a mistake she'd have to live with if she followed through with her original intent. She could slip into town, do a little investigating, and be back before she was due to meet the sheriff. Lark would milk Rosie, gather eggs, feed Mother, and—