The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

Lyric wasn’t sure how to answer. Close like mothers and daughters who shared secrets and smiles and hugs? No. Edwina had always been the strict authoritarian, not a nurturing mother. Lyric couldn’t remember a single time she had ever felt close to her. “Mother’s been ill for a long time…”

  “Oh, of course. How insensitive of me. She hasn’t been able to do much, has she?”

  “Not much.” Her manic fits had mostly passed, and now Edwina spent most of her days in bed. At the moment Lyric couldn’t think of a single thing that made her more of a daughter than a caregiver.

  Katherine leaned forward, lowering her voice. “About that strange light.”

  “The light won’t hurt you,” Lyric repeated. “But it is a bit unnerving.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Many times—but not as closely as you have.” Lyric had dreaded the question. The two women seemed to be off to a good start, but she might as well come clean about the rumors. “There are various speculations about its source. Katherine, you should know that—well, that people think my mother has something to do with it. They don’t understand her sickness, you see—and they’ve heard her say some crazy things. But I can assure you she has nothing to do with the light. If you want my opinion the light can be explained. I just don’t have that knowledge.”

  “Yes…you mentioned your…family earlier this morning. And truthfully Levi and I have heard the stories, and we thought long and hard about building so close, but the land was exactly what Levi wanted. I won’t say I wasn’t a bit hesitant to meet you but now you seem…well, normal.”

  Lyric cast an eye toward the porch and wondered if she’d feel the same if she knew who was sitting with them. Could she share her deep need for friendship with this kind lady? The two had only met this morning and yet she had taken an instant liking to Katherine Jennings.

  Katherine leaned in closer. “Do you think we’re nearing the end of the world? The New Testament mentions ‘signs and wonders’ that will precede Jesus when He comes again. Do you think that’s what this light represents?”

  “I’ve heard such speculation. Some say the light is something that comes from way beyond the sky. A traveling minister told the people the light was an evil spirit, not a ghost. The stories say this particular evil is trapped in this location for reasons unknown to mortals.” Endless legends of missing miners, headless soldiers, and swamp gas tried to explain away the light.

  “Oh, my.” The girl’s face now turned ashen.

  “There are many theories, but none proven. Most are simply silly.” Lyric shifted, glancing at the corner post. “I would offer you a glass of lemonade, but I used the last of my lemons and sugar. Would you like some spring water?”

  “No, I really should be going.” Katherine stood, shaking the wrinkles from her skirt. The dress was a pretty store-bought one, unlike the one Lyric was wearing. “I wanted to bring the pie and make my apologies for being so inhospitable this morning. We should have tea soon.”

  “I would love that.”

  Katherine picked up her wicker basket. “You mentioned your mother. Does she feel up to me peeking in on her? I’d love to meet her.”

  Lyric couldn’t think of a worse idea. “I’m afraid mother is very weak,” she said. “She has been bedridden the past few months and sleeps most of the time. She awakens only for light meals and then only for a few minutes.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you so much for asking. Her time is short. We’re…waiting.”

  “I understand. Please call on me if you need anything. And Levi has a strong back. If you need wood…”

  The unexpected and unusual offer brought swift tears to Lyric’s eyes. She quickly turned away so Katherine wouldn’t notice. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. My little sister and I are quite familiar with an ax.”

  “Well, if you should need anything, don’t hesitate to send for us. We want to be good neighbors.”

  “I won’t hesitate, and thank you for the pie. Lark and I will enjoy it immensely.” The treat would be most welcome.

  Moving to her visitor’s right side, Lyric walked down the steps with her. Katherine was headed north, so with any luck she’d never spot Younger on the side porch.

  “Oh, dear. I fear I should have put that roast in the oven before I walked over. It may not be done by supper, but Levi will eat most anything—perhaps we’ll have leftover stew. We had it for dinner, but with a pan of fresh biscuits Levi shouldn’t complain.” The women briefly embraced and then Katherine set off for her homestead, swinging the empty wicker basket. Lyric watched until she disappeared far enough down the road that her voice wouldn’t carry and then bellowed, “Lark!”

  She couldn’t wait to hear those two young ladies explain why they had set a dead man on the front porch.

  3

  The sound of feet clamoring down the stairway alerted Lyric to the two girls’ presence. When the screen door opened, Lark peered out. “Did you scream at me?” she asked.

  Keeping an even tone, Lyric asked, “Why is that man wrapped in a blanket sitting on the front porch?”

  Lark’s eyes traveled to the corner post. “Mr. Younger?”

  “Who else would be dead, sitting on our porch, wrapped in a blanket?”

  “Mr. Younger. We didn’t want him stinking up the house so Boots and I moved him out here.” She glanced at the sun. “It’s getting pretty late now to start digging a hole. Can we get it done before the light fades?”

  “Of course not, but it doesn’t matter. We aren’t going to bury him; we have to take him into town first thing in the morning. The sheriff will have someone there to identify the remains and they will assume responsibility for his disposal.”

  Boots’s eyes lit up. “You mean we might not have to bury him? Good. Carrying him out of the parlor was bad enough.”

  “Why should we? His family will need to deal with his remains. He isn’t our problem. I’m only interested in the bounty.”

  Lark glanced toward the corner post. “He’s not damaged or anything. He’s only been out here a little while and I’m getting tired of dragging him around. Can’t we leave him on the porch tonight? You don’t look much like you want to tackle getting him back into the house.”

  The young idealist was correct on that assumption. Tracing Boots’s gaze, Lyric studied the sky. “There’s no sign of rain. I suppose it won’t hurt anything to leave him where he is, but we’ll need to shelter him from animals. Get more blankets and make sure all blood is wiped cleaned. We don’t want to attract wild critters. I need to feed Mother supper now. Did you check on her often today?”

  “Three times. She was sleeping. She’s getting real tired now, Lyric.”

  Nodding, Lyric brushed past her sister and stepped into the house. She’d wasted a full night and day on the blanket-wrapped stranger sitting on her porch.

  She didn’t intend to waste another moment.

  Tree frogs sang as Lyric sank down on the back porch step a few hours later. A full moon lay on the horizon; the faint but distinct scent of earth trying to push its way to new life reassured her that life went on.

  Mother had eaten nothing tonight. The liquid had poured from the corners of her mouth instead of being swallowed. Edwina’s shallow breathing was barely a wisp of rise and fall. Lyric had taken the broth and fed it to the barn cats.

  Resting her head on a corner post, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the fact that a dead man was resting just around the other side of the house. She shook her head as she thought of all that poor man had endured. Dragging him from the barn to the parlor to the porch…but surely he’d only gotten what he deserved. Those Youngers were nothing but trouble, and if another one was gone, well, good riddance.

  She sniffed, thinking she could already smell the decomposing body. The whole situation was starting to alarm her. She wanted it over and done with.

  Something stepped from the shadows and she straightened, straining to make out the object. It w
as much larger than a fox but leaner and taller than Rosie. The shotgun sat inside the doorway; she should have thought to bring it with her.

  Bumping up the step on her backside, she made ready to leap when the object appeared in the clearing.

  It was a horse.

  A saddled animal dragging reins. The enormous buckskin nosed the dirt, snagging pieces of tender green shoots starting to poke through the ground. When he spotted her, he made a blowing sound.

  Easing slowly to her feet, she stepped down, her eyes fixed on the riderless animal. He lifted his head high and whinnied softly as she approached. “Easy there, big fellow. What are you doing out here this time of night?” She latched onto the bridle, her gaze skimming the heavy thicket that lay behind the cleared path. The animal caught the scent of water and quickly moved to the rain barrel. He drank thirstily.

  Lyric took advantage of the distraction to search for saddle bags or anything that might identify the horse’s owner. There were no bags, just a rolled-up bedroll. A saddle and bedroll and a Liberty Missouri Bank bag. It contained a few deposit slips with recent dates and seven dollars and twenty-three cents in change and currency. Puzzled, she stepped back and removed the bit from the horse’s mouth. Apparently he’d been roaming for a spell; small bloody cuts lined the inside of his mouth. “There, now. That should feel better.”

  Her eyes returned to the underbrush, her brow furrowed. The animal could belong to Levi and Katherine Jennings, though Levi didn’t seem like the careless sort. No one would leave a bridle and bit on a horse overnight. Suddenly her breath caught. Younger’s horse? The bank bag pointed to a recent robbery.

  Possible, a silent voice agreed. Something large had busted through that solid doorway. And the horse could have been roaming since the accident.

  The frogs turned noisy, saturating the spring night air with constant singing croaks. The horse was a splendid animal. He bore no signs of neglect other than temporary carelessness. On closer inspection she discovered a few tiny cuts and scratches but nothing serious.

  The frogs fell silent.

  For a moment the change was deafening. Stars shone overhead and the moon rose. The horse drank deep drafts from the barrel. Her eyes searched the heavy thicket for signs of the spooklight. Please don’t show yourself now.

  She didn’t fear it but neither did she welcome its presence. Not now. Not tonight, when the whole day had been a series of nerve-rattling mysteries. Goosebumps rose on her arms and a tight knot formed in her stomach. Something felt strange. Unusual.

  Something was close by.

  She shook her head. This wasn’t like her; she’d never feared the light or darkness. She preferred to believe the old Indian legend that the spooklight traveled the area where a band of Cherokee Indians, at the end of their rope from hunger, disease, and exhaustion, sold their women into slavery near the end of the long and torturous Trail of Tears. Legend said the spooklight glowed as an eternal reminder of the cruelty and inhumanity of the forced evacuation of the Indians from their homeland.

  Still, at this moment, she sensed a foreign presence—one more formidable than she’d ever felt when the light appeared.

  It’s nothing. Now take the horse to the barn, feed it, remove the saddle, curry it, and bed it down for the night. All this talk and nonsense about the spooklight had her on edge—that was all.

  Reaching for the horse’s mane, she turned and encountered a solid wall of flesh.

  Panicked, she caught her breath and looked straight into the dead man’s eyes.

  4

  Lyric 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 Bolt
on 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.”