An image flashed through his mind. Brief, but poignant—an older man holding a youthful arm, sawing a board. The ragged edge bit into the fresh lumber, moving back and forth, the implement held steady by a beefy, wind-chapped hand. And the man was speaking. Telling him about grace.
“Grace is a gift, son. All you have to do is accept it.”
Edwina Bolton rose slowly, holding to the arm of her chair. Her hair was a fright and her bones thin as reeds. Joseph felt certain that a wispy breeze would blow her off her feet. He stepped up to assist her but she motioned him aside.
“I’m tired. I’ll go back to my room now.” She fixed her gaze on him. “Thank you for reading, young man. I’ll think about these words.”
She left the parlor. Returning to his chair, Joseph picked up the cup of cold coffee and sipped, musing over what had just taken place. Edwina was a lost soul, and he prayed that words stronger, more capable than his would reach her before she passed.
“Closer.”
“We can’t get any closer or they’ll see us!”
Lark peered over Boots’s shoulder. The girls were hidden behind a fat cedar, watching the Younger house. Already the sun was slowly edging closer to the west and they would be walking home in the dark. They’d been waiting behind the tree for over an hour and not a single soul had come out of the place known to belong to the Youngers. Their now almost daily vigil had produced nothing. They were no nearer to knowing Joseph’s identity than they’d been a week ago.
The front door opened and Boots drew in a sharp breath as a man stepped onto the porch, rolling tobacco in a thin white piece of paper. He stood gazing up at the sky as he worked, and then brought the cylinder up to his mouth and sealed the smoke with a lick. A match flared.
“Can you tell who he is?” Boots whispered. The girls had done their homework. They’d studied the posters tacked to the jailor’s wall until he’d run them off yesterday, but not before he’d asked about the wounded stranger.
“Is he still alive?”
“He’s alive but real sick.”
“You tell your sister that he’s got a few more days and then I’ll be coming for him.”
Lark’s watchful gaze had shifted to the posters once more. “Lyric doesn’t want me around him,” she’d said. “Besides, he could be gone by now, dead as a doornail. He looked mighty puny this morning. Who knows if he’s still alive?”
Which wasn’t a complete fib. He’d been smearing molasses on a biscuit when she left the house this morning, but who knew? He could have died of any number of horrible accidents since then.
The sheriff turned a skeptical eye on her. “You’d better not be lying to me, Lark Bolton. I’m planning to ride up that way when the weather breaks, and you people had better not be harboring a Younger.”
She fixed him with a pout. “Didn’t your mother teach you about Jesus and how we’re supposed to love one another?”
“This has nothing to do with Jesus, missy. And anyhow, the Good Book says ‘an eye for an eye.’ ”
“Then take Joseph’s eye.”
The man squinted. “Who’s Joseph?”
“That’s our man’s name.”
“The man you got at your place?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought you said he was a Younger.”
“Don’t know that for certain—that’s for you to prove.”
“You’re not making a lick of sense. Now you and Boots get on out of here. I got work to do. My word stands. I’ll be up to get the prisoner as soon as I get a spare moment.”
Like he had so much to do. He was scared to confront Joseph. Lark stiffened her spine, turned, and slammed out.
Nobody could ever convince her that their man was an outlaw. Lyric didn’t really believe it either. Lark could see it in her sister’s troubled countenance.
She hadn’t mentioned the sheriff’s threat to Lyric because it would only heighten that uneasy look she’d had in her eyes lately. How long could a body stand at the window and look out and then pace the floor?
Her mind returned to the man standing on the porch smoking. He stood over six feet, was well proportioned, and had a fancy red kerchief tied around his neck. Brawny arms, thick neck. His features were well defined. Well cut lips, expressive mouth, prominent, rounded chin, sandy mustache—
Boots elbowed her sharply.
“What?”
“Stop ogling.”
“I’m not ogling; I’m being observant.”
“Do you recognize him from one of the posters?”
“Umm…he could Bob Younger…or maybe his younger brother, James.”
Boots shook her head. “Is it Bob or James?”
“It’s hard to say. The poster images aren’t that clear.”
The cabin door opened again and a second man joined the first. Both Lark and Boots wrinkled their noses. He wasn’t nearly as pleasant to behold. Deep set eyes, a long, wide jaw, and heavy eyebrows. His eyes had a big long wrinkle over them, and the deep scars on both sides of his mouth made him downright scary.
“Recognize him?” Boots prompted.
“No—the hair is about same shade as Joseph’s—or close—no. Our stranger doesn’t look a thing like this man.”
Boots checked the sun’s location. “Okay. We have time to wait a while longer.”
Activity started to pick up as the supper hour approached. Riders rode in and dismounted. Lark studied their appearances. One was tall and slender with a light complexion, and when he laughed she noted he had a couple of front teeth missing. Another had average height, stooped shoulders, a light complexion, and a heavy build. It looked like the last thing he needed was another pan of cornbread.
The two girls shared dubious looks and shook their heads.
Hoofbeats approached. This rider looked to be short, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows. His thin upper lip showed the effort of a sprouting mustache but the hair was thin and sparse. His long fleshy nose didn’t fit Joseph’s shapely one.
Boots perked up when a couple of men rode up and dismounted. Her eyes fixed on the taller one. “What about this fella?”
Lark studied the specimen. He was nearly as handsome as Joseph. He stood well over six feet and had an oval elongated face, high cheekbones, arched brows, deep set eyes, and dark reddish hair inclined to curl at the neck. He removed his hat and her face fell when he called to a friend in a thick Irish brogue, “A good evenin’ to you!”
Boots groused, “Bejiggers! I thought we were close.” Her animated voice echoed throughout the holler.
Heads snapped up. Hands moved to guns strapped on hips.
Lark grabbed Boots’s hand and hissed. “Run!”
Lyric turned, spoon in hand, as Lark tramped into the kitchen. “Where have you been? I was worried sick. It’s well past dark.”
“I know—I’m sorry. Time got away from us.” She handed her sister a limp clump of weeds.
“What’s this?”
Cringing, Lark smiled uncertainly. “Dandelion greens.”
“This is nothing more than wild grass.”
“Really?” Lark shook her head and continued through the kitchen. “Well, we were picking after dark.”
When she entered her room she kicked off her wet shoes and moved to the dresser, where she carefully tucked the wallet she’d found earlier in the top drawer.
Somewhere a man must be wondering where he’d lost or misplaced it.
9
Joseph was high on the rooftop fixing a hole when the day of reckoning arrived. The melting snow had caused so many leaks that Lyric couldn’t keep track of them. The old Bolton place needed a man around. The fence was down, and the house needed so many repairs she’d stop counting.
Stirring gravy, Lyric hummed, casting a brief glance out the kitchen window. The spoon froze in place and she closed her eyes in sick despair. Three riders were approaching.
Sliding the skillet to the back of the stove she stepped to the back door and yelled up. “Joseph!”
“Yo!”
“Three riders are coming up the hill.”
The long silence that followed allowed time for her panic to mount. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Crouch behind the fireplace flue. Lie flat.”
“You don’t want me to come down?”
“No! Whatever you do, don’t come down.” The old roof was steeply pitched with alcoves and angles—if the shadow was right a man could hide in the depths without detection. She might live to regret her rash decision, but so be it. She was willing to take the chance. Bolton Holler would witness no hanging today.
Boots and Lark. Where were they? Gone—they’d left earlier to do something. Pester Murphy, probably.
Moving swiftly to the front door, she opened it and nodded a greeting as the riders approached. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Ma’am.” The riders touched their fingers to the brims of their hats.
“What can I do for you this fine morning?”
The sheriff spoke. “We come for the Younger.”
She frowned. “The Younger?”
“The wounded man. He isn’t dead, is he?” Was that a hopeful tone she detected?
She shook her head. “I haven’t buried anyone that I recollect.”
The knot in the acting sheriff’s throat worked. “Then hand him over.”
“Why, surely, but he isn’t in the house.”
“Where is he?’
“Who?”
“The Younger.”
Her hand came to her chest. “Do I have a Younger?”
“Ma’am. Cut the act. Now hand the man over and we’ll be on our way.”
“Well, sir, if you think I have a Younger in my house you’re more than welcome to come inside and get him.”
The men eyed one another. One shook his head, conveying a silent warning. Ain’t goin’ in that place.
“You just bring him out here,” the sheriff said.
“Who?”
“The Younger.”
“Do I have a Younger?”
Climbing off his horse, the sheriff approached her. “Step aside.”
“Yes, sir.” She obediently complied.
Trailing the sheriff through the house, she chatted. “That was some storm. One of the biggest I can remember.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cautiously opened a closed door, peeked inside, and shut it. Moving from room to room, he checked cubbyholes and drawn curtains.
“You’d know if he’d died, wouldn’t you?”
“I think I’d have noticed.” When they reached her mother’s room she quickly stepped in front of him. “My mother’s in here. She’s been feeling poorly, and I’d prefer that you didn’t disturb her.”
His face drained of color. He gulped and gave a short nod. “I’ll…uh…I’ll just check the other bedrooms.”
“Go right ahead,” said Lyric. Joseph’s room was neat and there would be no evidence of his presence. She made certain of that every morning.
While he made a quick pilgrimage she drew the window curtain aside and noted the two other men had gotten off their horses and were walking around the property, scouring the few small outbuildings. She heard her heartbeat in her ear when she noted they had started to circle the house, peering up at the roof lines. If Joseph pressed flat enough he might be overlooked since skiffs of ice still clung to the shingles. But if a man looked close enough—
She heard a door close softly and the sounds of boots thumping down the stairway. “Was he up there?”
“For the life of me I can’t figure out why you’d be hiding him, but I have a gut feeling that you are.”
The sheriff stalked toward the front door and slammed it closed behind him.
Hurrying back to the window she watched the three men retrace their earlier steps, peeking in holes and culverts.
God, please, please don’t let them find him. She wasn’t convinced the Almighty would grant her selfish request, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
That evening Lyric set a plate of stew and cornbread in front of Joseph. They were alone for supper tonight; Lark and Boots were extremely busy these days and she’d been meaning to ask her sister what preoccupied their time. Lark hadn’t read a whole book in at least a week. “Did they walk around your side of the roof?”
Joseph nodded and reached for the butter. “They didn’t spot me.” He paused and then with head bowed said softly. “I’m much obliged. I would be hanged in the morning if You hadn’t intervened.”
She sighed. “I can’t say if I made the right or wrong decision.”
“I was speaking to the Lord, but I’m grateful to you as well.” He poured cream in his coffee. “They’ll be back. Then what?”
“I’ll have to study on it.” She had no idea where this would go or for how long. What was she to do with a man with no memory? Just pray that in time it would return and her instincts had been correct? If they were wrong then she hoped he would simply walk away and never be seen in these parts again. Yet that thought didn’t set well with her either.
She dished up her plate and poured a glass of milk. He shook his head. “What you’re doing is chancy. You have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of doing, and you have your mother and sister to think about.”
“And yet if I was wrong about this—if I helped an innocent man to hang—I’d never forgive myself.”
They ate in companionable silence. When he reached for a second helping she smiled. He was getting much better, his color greatly improved, his wounds healing nicely. His eyes met hers. “I’ve been meaning to mention that your mother paid me another visit.”
Lyric almost dropped her fork. “When?”
“A few days ago. I was in the parlor and looked up and she was sitting across from me. She comes and goes like a mouse.”
“Did she say anything?”
“She wanted me to read to her.”
“Read to her? Read what?”
“The Bible. She asked that I read Isaiah 53. She said it was one of your favorite chapters.”
“That’s right. Isaiah is one of my favorite books in the Bible.” They ate for a moment longer before Lyric spoke again. “That was very thoughtful of you. Reading, I mean. It’s important for Mother to hear the Word before she passes.”
“I didn’t mind. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. I know I’ve read that passage before, but when I couldn’t say.”
“Perhaps your memory is returning?”
He shook his head. “No, but the words meant something to me.”
“How could anyone read that Scripture and not reap meaning?”
He glanced up and smiled. Such a normal act, but the smile cut right through her heart. She fairly burst when she looked at him. Was he taken? Did a woman with his children wait for him, peering out the window, praying for his return? The thought was almost as troubling as wondering if he were a wanted outlaw. If he was a Younger and her instinct proved faulty, she had only briefly saved him from a premature death. Outlaws didn’t live long around here. She picked up the butter dish. “More?”
“Sure.” He cut another slab. “Have I mentioned that you’re a good cook?”
“I don’t believe you have.” A prickle started at the bottom of her stomach and worked its way up.
His crooked grin touched her heart even more. He looked like a small boy, a boy she wanted to hug.
“You know what I’m thinking?”
She knew what she was thinking, and she shouldn’t. “No. What?”
“I’m thinking it’s a perfect night for fishing. Creek’s up a little from all the melted ice.”
“Fishing?”
“Creek runs right beside the house. The other morning I took a walk downstream and there’s a fairly decent catfish hole down there. Want to come with me?”
“You mean—now?” She had never been asked to accompany a man anywhere and she wasn’t sure how to answer. Nothing prevented her from accepting.
“I’ll help wit
h the dishes and then we’ll get started. You have fishing poles, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I can seine a few crawfish and we’ll see if we can catch a mess of sun perch. I’ll even fry them up for you tomorrow. You got plenty of cornmeal?”
She nodded. He was asking her to accompany him. Where didn’t matter.
“Sure, I’d love to go fishing.”
She couldn’t get another morsel of food past her lips after the invitation. She sat, pretending to eat while he polished off another plate of stew. Lark came in and took her supper to her room with a book.
After a bit, Joseph pushed back from the table and Lyric quickly gathered plates and stacked them in the dishpan. “We can do these later,” she said.
Right now, she was dying to go fishing.
Moonlight lit the path as the two made their way down the creek bank. The stream was heavy from melting snow and ice, but it hadn’t yet breached its banks. Lyric carried a bucket to put the bait in.
She held the light when they stopped and Joseph unwound the heavy piece of netting. Flying bugs darted to the light as she bent and watched him cast out the net into a shallow pool. He glanced over his shoulder. “Ever seined for bait?”
She nodded. “Sometimes, but I use worms. Mother doesn’t like fish so I don’t fix it often.”
He tugged, slowly drawing the net toward him.
“I’m reminded of the apostles when I see you do this. Most of them fished for a living.”
“That a fact?”
She nodded. “Oh, look!” The net drew closer and she spotted a handful of crayfish in the mesh. “You have some!”
He drew the seine closer, removed the crawling pincers, and handed them to her. Squealing, she let go and the bait fell back into the water.
“What happened?”
“One pinched me!”
“Sissy.”
“Well, you handle the next ones.”
“Well, I will.” He flashed another winsome grin that rocked her stomach. “We’ll be here all night if I haul them in and you release them.”
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