The sheriff crossed his arms. “Am I gonna have to physically remove you, young lady?”
She turned and fixed a cold stare on him. “Am I breaking any laws?” She didn’t like to use the town’s misbeliefs, but if ever she could benefit from people’s fears of her mother’s illness, now was the time.
Turning on his heel, the sheriff stalked off, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, muttering.
Picking up her stack of posters, Lyric moved on.
Darkness overtook the women as they began the return journey to the Bolton house. They had walked as fast as the fading light allowed. In her haste to hang the notices Lyric had forgotten to bring a light, and clouds obscured the rising moon. “Walk faster,” Lyric said. “We still have the biggest part ahead of us.”
“Well, what is it? You can surely share your plan with us now.” Lark picked up her pace.
“Boots, you know those guinea fowl your grandpa has?”
“Those squawkers?”
“They make lots of noise, don’t they?”
“Deafening. Grandpa likes to eat the eggs, and he keeps them for watchdogs around the goats. They’ll run off anything that comes around.”
“Good. How many would you say he has?”
“I don’t know—maybe a couple of dozen.” She paused in the middle of the road. “Are you thinking of using those nuisances in your plan?”
Lyric nodded. “We are going to catch every last one of them, haul them into town, and turn them loose the moment they open the door to lead Joseph out of jail.”
“You mean we’re going to let those noisy things loose?” Lark asked.
“Right smack dab in the middle of town. They’ll cause such a ruckus that folks will be chasing them down, trying to drive them away. That will give us just enough time to slip in the jail and free Joseph. If everything goes as planned we’ll have him out and gone before they miss him.”
“Where are we going to put that many fowl?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. We’ll have to put them in tow sacks.”
“They’ll suffocate.”
“Not if we punch holes in the bags. We don’t have any other way to transport them.”
Boots frowned. “Do you have that many tow sacks?”
“Of course. I have dozens.”
Shaking her head, Boots sighed. “Grandpa’s not going to like this.”
Lyric dove, capturing another guinea by the hind leg. “Got ya!” she cried. The squawking and high-pitched squeals coming from the barn’s direction were loud enough to wake the dead.
Boots arrived holding an upside-down fowl in each hand. “How many does this make?”
“Twelve.”
Gritting her teeth, Boots whooshed. “How many more do we need?”
“As many as we can catch. Looks to me like your grandpa has several dozen here.”
Lark approached, muddy and disheveled. “I chased this one clear down to the creek.” She spit a feather out of her mouth. “They don’t like to be handled.”
“You’re doing a good job, girls. I’m proud of you.”
Lark grunted. “Let’s hope it will be enough to save Joseph.”
“He could use your prayers.”
“I’ve been praying.”
“Me too. A whole lot. If only he had some identification on him—something to prove who he was. Why wouldn’t a man carry a wallet or something for security purposes?”
“Maybe he didn’t want folks to know who he was,” Lark said. “Or maybe…” She paused as though a light had gone off in her head. “Maybe…”
Her tone made Lyric pause. “Yes. Most men carry wallets.”
Lark glanced at Boots. Her friend’s jaw dropped. “Wallet. Do you think…?
“That would be too coincidental, Boots. A man with no memory, missing wallet, we find a wallet…” She shook her head. “It can’t be his.”
Lyric dropped another bird into the sack. “What are you two babbling about?”
“We found a wallet one day when we were hunting greens. It didn’t have anything in it, no money or anything, but it had a name on a piece of paper. It had a U.S. marshal badge—Joseph isn’t a U.S. marshal.”
“We don’t know who Joseph is. He could be anyone, Lark! Why didn’t you mention the wallet earlier?”
She lifted both shoulders. “I forgot about it. It’s in my top drawer if you want to see it.”
Lyric’s heart raced. Don’t get too excited. It’s a wallet with no identification. It could be any man’s wallet, and it was far too coincidental to take seriously. Joseph’s identity had not been sitting in Lark’s top drawer all this time. That was improbable.
“I’ll take a look at it before we leave for town,” she murmured, determined not to get her hopes up. Or to have her worst fears realized. What if he was a Younger? Would she still adore him? Be totally and hopelessly smitten by his smile and the way little crinkles formed around his eyes when he laughed? The answer came swiftly. She would, and that would leave her worse off than now. There was a chance in a million that the wallet belonged to him. “Right now we’ve got to catch every single one of these guinea hens.”
“Every single one?” Lark moaned.
“Every last one.” Her mouth firmed. Whoever that was sitting in that jail cell, she planned to fight for him with every last ounce of breath left in her.
The moon slanted, slipping lower in the sky. Tow sacks of screeching guineas littered the field. Holding her aching back, Lyric dropped the last bird into the bag and heaved a sigh. “This should be enough.”
“There are still two down by the creek. Want me to go after them?” Boots tied a knot in one of the sacks.
“Go ahead. I’m going to check on Mother before I hitch up the horse and bring the wagon here.”
The girls struck off toward the creek and Lyric walked the scant half mile back to the house. Funny the Spooklight hadn’t been around lately—or she hadn’t seen it. Where was it when it could do some good? A showing at the jail right about now wouldn’t hurt. There were times when the peculiar phenomenon almost soothed her, made her feel like her life was normal.
She had a deep ache for Katherine and missed her friendly chats. When Lyric left Bolton Holler, she would stop off in Joplin and visit her new friend, maybe stay as long as a week catching up on news. They would have a good laugh—or cry—about what Lyric was about to do in her attempt to save Joseph. The mood would depend solely on tomorrow’s outcome.
When she reached the lane to the Bolton farm, she turned, surprised to see her mother’s bedroom light burning. Quickening her steps, she realized that she had been gone a long time. Who had lit the lamp? Mother seldom left the bed these days.
Bursting into the house, she hurried up the stairway. “Mother? Are you awake?”
Only silence met her ears.
When she entered the bedroom she saw the thin figure slumped beside the bed. Was she gone? Compassion swept her and she knelt to feel her mother’s pulse.
A thready rhythm fluttered beneath her fingertip. She was alive.
“Oh, Mother.” Guilt overcame her as she managed to gently lift the frail body and slip her back into the bed. How long had she been lying here? Minutes? Hours?
Edwina stirred, eyes fluttering open. “Where have you been? I called and called.”
“I’m so sorry, Mother. I’ve been away from the house longer than intended.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“She’s with me.” Lyric tucked the blanket closer. “I’ll warm some broth. And run to the spring and get some cold milk.”
Edwina brushed the offer aside. “Go away. I just want to get warm and sleep.”
“But you haven’t eaten—”
“Go away,” she snapped.
Straightening, Lyric drew a tolerant breath. “Do you need your medicine?”
“Yes. And don’t wander off again, you hear?”
“I hear.” She opened the vial, inserted the dispenser, and placed it in her mothe
r’s mouth.
“Ungrateful girls,” Edwina muttered, smacking the last of the laudanum off her lips.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful,” Lyric admitted. Her mind had been entirely on Joseph and saving his life.
Picking up the light, she turned and walked quietly to the door, her head spinning. Should she choose duty or love? If she couldn’t leave Mother then she couldn’t save Joseph at dawn…and she had given her word that she wouldn’t leave. Lark could stay here and Lyric and Boots could attempt to divert attention, but the plan demanded more than two people to be successfully completed.
Hot tears coursed down her cheeks as she carried the candle down the stairway.
She had roughly four hours to make the biggest decision of her life.
“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting and waiting for you.” Lark faced Lyric, her young face flushed with exertion. “Those guineas are going to suffocate soon.”
“I know, Lark.” Lyric wanted to wring her hands and scream. For the past hour she’d paced the kitchen floor, torn by duty but overcome by love. She couldn’t let Joseph hang while Edwina slept peacefully in her warm bed; something about the situation seemed perverse. Yet she couldn’t abandon her mother and save a man she knew practically nothing about.
Her sister stepped to the water bucket. “Boots can’t take care of all those hens by herself. We either have to let them loose or take them to town. You decide.”
Lyric’s mind refused to function. Her heart said go, but loyalty said stay. If only she knew Joseph’s true identity…Her jaw dropped. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of the wallet earlier? The questionable evidence was a longshot, but the found item might help. “Lark. Go get that wallet.”
When her sister paused to drink from the water dipper Lyric swatted her hand. “Now.”
Lark muttered as she stalked through the kitchen and up the stairway. Lyric could hear her grumbling as she entered her bedroom. Momentarily she returned and handed the wallet over. “Now can I get a drink of water?”
“Help yourself.” A current shot through Lyric as she held the rich leather—as though she had brushed Joseph’s hand. Please, God, let this be the answer to my prayer.
Unfolding the pigskin, she shuffled through the few papers, coming across the slip that read Ian Cawley, followed by an address in Kansas City, Missouri. A shiny tin U.S. marshal badge winked up at her.
Ian. She tested the name on her tongue. Ian Cawley. Are you the man sitting in jail about to meet an unjust death? The man without whom I’ll never be the same?
Softly slapping the wallet against the palm of her hand, she said, “Lark, there’s been a slight change of plans.”
Lark gulped water, lifting her brows with anticipation.
“Boots and I are going to have to do this job alone.”
Lark lowered the dipper. “Why?”
“Someone has to stay with Mother. It was careless of us to leave her unattended. I promised her she wouldn’t be left on her own again.”
“If you promised why do I have to stay?”
Turning to face her, Lyric said softly, “You know how much saving Joseph means to me.”
Her sister’s features softened. “Means to both of us. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Lyric nodded. “Nothing will ever come of it, but yes, I love him no matter who or what he is, and I want to try my best to save him from hanging. And then—who knows?—maybe we’ll be able to leave Bolton Holler together.”
“If you ever make me leave Boots, I’ll be sad forever.”
“We both love Boots, and we’ll save that talk for another time. For now, Boots and I will have to get those hens to the jail by ourselves.”
“Would you let me and Boots try one thing before we drag all those birds to the Holler?”
“We have so little time—”
“It won’t take long to see if this works.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Boots and I will take the horse to the jail and spring Joseph. Then he can ride away and hide and they’ll never find him.”
“How do you propose to do it?”
“We’ll tie a chain to the cell bars and have the horse rip them out.”
“Oh, Lark. That won’t work.”
“It’ll work. The hero in my ten-cent Western novel did the same thing. A horse is a mighty power.”
“I don’t know—wouldn’t ripping steel off brick make a lot of noise?”
“Everybody’s sleeping at this hour. The sheriff goes home at night and the jail window is in the back of the building. We can try it, and if it doesn’t work we’ll still have time to come back and use the guineas.”
Lyric’s head pounded. If Lark’s crazy plan worked Joseph could be well gone by dawn. If the scheme backfired, the younger girls could run much faster than she could. “All right—but you have exactly an hour and a half to get it done. If you’re discovered, you come back as quickly as possible.”
“What about the hens?”
“You’ll have to have Boots’s help. Hitch the horse and bring the sacks back to the house with you. I’ll water the birds and be sure they have enough air. Now go. There isn’t a second to waste.”
Lark shot out the door, slamming it behind her. When Lyric stepped to the window she saw her sister racing across the field to Boots’s grandfather’s home.
Dear God, if this works it would be tantamount to You parting the Red Sea all over again.
Impossible? Of course it was. But her Bible taught her that with God all things were possible.
Awakened from a fretful sleep, Ian stirred as something struck the cell bars. What he assumed would be the shortest night of his life had turned into the longest. His supper sat untouched on the cell floor, a thick slice of uneaten lemon pie mocking him.
Rolling to his side, he wadded the thin ticking beneath his head and tried to get comfortable. The pillow was little more than a cloth napkin.
A stone hit the bar. He half rose on his elbow, wondering if it was hailing. But no—pleasant night air filtered through the iron rods. Rolling off the cot, he stood, stretching his strained back muscles.
When a third noise came, he stepped to the window. Moonlight lit the landscape. Boots’s radiant face suddenly popped up, and he stumbled backward, his heart thumping. “Boots!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re breaking you out.” She motioned with her eyes to Lark, who stood thirty feet away holding the horse’s reins.
“Go home,” he snapped. “Now—before someone sees you!” He glanced over his shoulder. If the girls woke the sheriff his whole plan would be jeopardized. This hanging had to go off without a hitch until he reached the gallows and spotted Younger.
“Stand back. We’ll have you out of here in a second. We packed your saddlebags with enough water and food supplies to see you through a week.”
Before he could protest, her head disappeared. Helplessly he watched her approach Lark. The two girls conversed in hushed tones. Norman wouldn’t pull those bars off the building; that horse didn’t do anything that wasn’t his idea. And he’d yet to find much that did appeal to that contrary animal.
Gripping the bars, he whispered in a strained tone, “Go home!”
The girls silently worked, attaching what looked to be a heavy rope around the saddle horn. His gaze fixed on the breakout effort and blood surged to his face.
Leading the horse to the window, Lark called, “Help us tie the rope!”
“Go away, Lark! Go home. Someone is going to hear or see you.”
“Don’t worry. We’re prepared to run. You’ll have to tie the rope around the bars real tight. We don’t have enough strength to make it hold.”
Stepping away from the window, he sat down on the bunk. If he ignored them they would go away. Lord, let it be before they wake the whole town.
A rope appeared on the windowsill. The hemp lay there and then slowly slithered to the ground.
Ian sat on the cot, his gut twisting into a tight knot.
The third throw landed a piece of the rope inside the bar. Ian reached and shoved it back to the ground.
Seconds later an angry Boots showed her face between the bars. “Pick up that rope and tie it!”
He shook his head. “Go home and don’t make a scene.”
“You’re going to hang in less than three hours!”
“Go home, Boots. I’ll take care of this.”
A second later the rope landed on the windowsill.
He pushed it off.
After the next attempt, silence reigned. He bided his time until he dared to lift his gaze to the window. Lark peered in, both hands cupping her eyes. Easing back in the shadows, he remained quiet.
“I know you’re in there,” she said.
He cracked his first smile. The girl was tenacious, like her sister.
“Answer me, Ian.”
“Go home, Lark. You’re going to make the situation worse…” He paused. “What did you call me?”
“Ian.”
He swallowed back a mental groan. How did she know his name? “Where did you come up with that name?”
“I found a wallet when Boots and I were gathering greens. It has the name Ian Cawley written in it and U.S. marshal—”
“How long have you had the wallet?” he growled.
She picked herself off the ground and dusted the seat of her britches. “A while—when I found it I didn’t think much about it considering the outlaws in the community. I figured someone had robbed a U.S. marshal and probably shot him and disposed of his personal belongings.”
Ian shook his head. “Does Lyric know?”
“She does now. I gave her the wallet earlier—honest, I’d forgotten all about.” She leaned closer and whispered. “Are you really a U.S. marshal?”
His heart sank. Lyric knew his identity.
“Listen.” He pressed closer to the bars. “You have to promise me you will not speak a word of this to Lyric. I’m serious, Lark. If you do—I’ll—I’ll find that young farmer you’re so smitten with and introduce him to the prettiest young woman I can find.” That was the direst threat he had in his arsenal.
The Healer's Touch Page 17