The Healer's Touch

by Lori Copeland

  Ian stood up and handed his hat to the sheriff. He’d save him the trouble of stealing from a dead man.

  “Thanks.” The jailer eyed the prize. “That’s one of them true Stetson’s, ain’t it?”

  “Bought it in St. Joe when I was up there this winter.”

  The man admired the souvenir. “I’ll wear this real proud like.”

  Ian stepped past him and walked into the room. The hangman left, leaving the door open behind him. Ian waited until the sheriff put on the Stetson and admired the fit in the wavy glass hanging to the side. “Perfect fit.”

  “What luck.”

  The jailer tilted the brim just so before he straightened. “Well, can’t keep the folks waitin’ any longer. Guess I should tie your hands.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Well—you’re going somewhere. Guess it’ll be betwixt you and the good Lord where that’ll be.” He picked up a piece of rope and bound Ian’s wrists tightly.

  Bright sunlight met his eyes, and he flinched as they stepped out of the building. A large crowd had gathered, and now a hush fell over the onlookers as the two men appeared on the jail porch.

  “Just walk slowly and take deep breaths,” the sheriff said in a low tone. “And remember I can shoot you dead if you try anything funny.”

  “I’d sure hate to be shot on the way to my hanging.”

  The men stepped into the street.

  “Keep your eyes off the noose—that’ll make it easier.”

  Ian felt the barrel of the sheriff’s shotgun in the small of his back.

  His gaze focused on the crowd, searching the sea of sober faces. Come on, Younger. Don’t let me down now. Skimming the crowd he searched the back row, but no one even remotely similar to Jim Younger appeared present.

  Walking slowly toward the platform, Ian focused on the left side. A man standing three rows back was about the right height, but he was too stocky to be Younger. His gaze moved to the left side. Short, tall, lanky, heavyset, old, and young.

  Younger wasn’t there.

  A vision of Lyric momentarily blinded him, and he breathed a silent prayer. God, let this work. He didn’t want Lyric witnessing this, but if he could look into her eyes, feel her strength like he had so many times in the past…He whirled when he heard a racket.

  Guineas—more than he could count swarmed the street, waddling frantically through the crowd, bald heads bobbing. Folks parted, stepping aside as the hens waddled through town, setting up a deafening racket. Feathers flew as men waded in and tried to capture the fleeing hens. The noise level turned raucous.

  Ian watched the frenzy until he realized that all he had to do was disappear into the crowd. The sheriff and hangman had waded knee-deep into the fray, joined by deputies. Focused on the unexpected eruption, his mind raced. Where was Younger?

  A man bent to recover a hen and the wind caught the hem of his long leather duster. Ian felt a jolt, experiencing the miracle he’d been praying for when he caught sight of the custom-made lizard boots. Nobody but Jim Younger wore those boots…

  “Ian?” A hand touched his arm.

  Turning, he faced Lyric, her hair tousled, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Her dirty dress had mud on it and her face was smudged. Folks were so preoccupied they didn’t seem to notice her.

  She was responsible for this commotion. He should have known she wouldn’t stand by and let him hang without giving it her all to stop it. His features softened. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away.”

  “It’s true?” Her brow furrowed. A guinea feather was lodged in her hair. “You are Ian Cawley?”

  Sobering, he realized that Lark had told her his identity. And considering her grave expression, Lark also mentioned that his memory was back.

  “Lyric—I told Lark not to tell you until this was over.”

  “My sister didn’t tell me. You told me. Just now, when you turned and responded to your name.”

  “Lyric, honey…”

  She lifted a hand of protest, as though the truth pierced her like a sword. Their gazes met and held. If he’d experienced a moment this bitter he couldn’t recall.

  “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me,” she whispered.

  “Trust had nothing to do with it. I’d trust you with my life, Lyric. I have trusted you with my life. And you’ve saved me up until now.”

  “But you couldn’t trust me to secrecy?”

  “I didn’t want to involve you or your sister in this whole game.”

  “How long? How long have you known?”

  “Only a short time—I promise you.”

  “Did you know the times you kissed me?”

  He shook his head. “No. I kissed you because you’re a lovely young woman and that’s what happens between men and women.”

  Her eyes searched his, begging for a better answer.

  “I’m in love with you, Lyric.” If both his hands hadn’t been bound he would have drawn her to him, erase the look of betrayal in her eyes. “I love everything about you. Your hair, your eyes, the way you smell—the way you protected me and baked my favorite pies. I didn’t tell you about my memory because I was trying to shield you. If this plan backfires the town will hang us all, they’ll swear that you and Lark were in cahoots with me.”

  Chaos surrounded them and he had to shout to make himself heard above the fray. “When this thing is settled I want us to get married, build a house close to my grandparents.”

  She coldly slapped the wallet in his hand and turned away.

  “Lyric. Don’t go—not like this. Let me settle this and we’ll talk…”

  She walked on, clearly turning a deaf ear to his pleas, her small frame visibly shaken from the brief conversation.

  A guinea shot through his legs and a man lunged after it, knocking Ian off balance. He struggled to regain his footing, his eyes searching for that long brown duster and lizard boots.

  A gunshot cracked the air and the mad scramble ceased. The sheriff stood on the porch, wild-eyed. “Stop it! We got ourselves a hanging. Leave these birds be until we get the job done.”

  The crowd gradually peeled away, allowing room for the outlaw and sheriff to proceed to the platform. Guineas clucked and squawked, fluffing indignant feathers.

  The look of disloyalty that had reflected like a clear pond in Lyric’s eyes haunted Ian. He should have told her. He should have included her in the plan…but she would have tried to talk him out of it, tried to find another way—and there wasn’t one.

  The platform approached, the thick rope noose swaying lightly in the early morning breeze. Delicate white alyssum lightly scented the air; red and white and purple tulips bloomed near the general store’s front porch. When he was free, he was going to get some of those tulips for Lyric. All purple because he liked the color, all pretty and sweet-smelling like her.

  18

  Lyric led the horse out of the holler, tears blinding her. Joseph didn’t trust her. He confessed to being in love with her, but he didn’t trust her.

  Did he think if she’d known that he was a U.S. marshal she would track him down and pursue him once he left? Did he think she’d make demands on him, reminding him that if it weren’t for her he would be dead now?

  Well, if he thought she would come after him, he couldn’t be further from the truth. She wouldn’t follow him. She’d never subject him to life with a Bolton—even though a Bolton had saved his skin.

  Little did he know that she would have done the same for anyone—she did it for him, a complete stranger. She helped save his life. The good Lord did the healing. All she’d done was clean him up and force a few herbs and tea down his throat, but her efforts counted.

  Tears blinded her and she reached up to brush them away. The horse plodded along beside her.

  “He really doesn’t like you any more than he likes me,” she reminded the animal.

  The horse shook his mane.

  “No, it’s the truth. I don’t mea
n to hurt your feelings, but he doesn’t care for you at all. Not one little bit.” She paused to blow her nose.

  What was she thinking? Taking her hurt and rejection out on a poor animal. Sighing, she wadded the handkerchief in her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my resentment out on you.” She tuned an ear toward the holler. How long did it take to hang a man? Silence met her efforts, so the deed wasn’t over yet. There would be cheering and whooping when it happened.

  What joy they’d take when the Bolton girls’ outlaw had been hanged after all their efforts.

  But Ian had the wallet and his identification. Chances were no one in town had ever heard of the marshal but they’d have to give him the benefit of doubt until they verified his claim, wouldn’t they?

  But then again, the hollers were full of outlaws and society misfits, men with prices on their heads.

  Still no sounds of cheering. Had Joseph shown authorities the wallet, attempted to prove his identity?

  I love you, Lyric. I love everything about you. Your hair, your eyes, the way you smell, the way you protected me and baked my favorite pies….

  Had he really said that to her or had she only dreamed that he confessed his affection? Her confused state couldn’t sort through the fast pace of events. She wanted to believe him, longed to place her trust in him, but common sense told her that no man would want her. Not a Bolton.

  Unconsciously she turned the horse back toward the town. What if the crowd and sheriff had no choice but to believe him about being a U.S. marshal and was forced to set him free? He’d have no way out of town. He’d be obliged to walk through that staring crowd with no horse and nobody who cared for him.

  The animal plodded beside her.

  The closer they drew to the town, the more Lyric mentally braced for the shout that would surely go up at any minute.

  Ian paused before the platform steps and calmly faced the sheriff. “I hope you haven’t gotten real attached to my Stetson.”

  The sheriff grinned. “Why’s that?”

  Ian presented the wallet with his bound hands. “When you open it you’ll find my name, Ian Cawley, United States Marshal. My badge is there and I’ll give you information about where and whom to wire for further confirmation of my identity.”

  Frowning, the sheriff slowly opened the wallet and leafed through the contents.

  Ian spotted Jim Younger easing back now, eyes skimming for escape. Snatching his hat off the sheriff’s head, Ian lunged, parting the crowd. Leaping around the startled townsfolk, he chased the outlaw who was now hightailing it out of town on foot.

  Younger drew and fired, the bullet shattering a water barrel. Water flew and the barrel started to drain. Ian paused long enough to settle his hat and shout to a startled bystander, “Cut these ropes off my wrist!”

  The man fumbled in his pocket and took out a small knife. In seconds the binds were slit.

  Running again, Ian raced behind the escaping outlaw. It had been a while since he’d run like this, and his lungs were starting to remind him. Younger lunged for his horse tied outside the general store and mounted up, kicking the stallion into a full gallop.

  Reaching the edge of town, Ian broke into a wide grin when he spotted Lyric leading Norman. When he reached her, he grabbed her by the shoulders, gave her a thorough kiss, and swung aboard the waiting animal. “You,” he said, pointing to her. “I want to talk to you when I get back.”

  Jaw agape, she nodded.

  Kicking his heels against Norman’s flanks, he set off in hot pursuit. Younger had a good half-mile lead now.

  Ian hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Norman’s easy stride. The horse’s ways were the source of an inner battle. The horse could be the most ornery, uncooperative animal in creation, but every now and then, when he most needed the horse’s strength, Norman gave it. Sometimes, like now, the horse could be noble. Proud. Free. Long, sleek muscles, easy, powerful stride, coat glistening with sweat as black fetlocks ate up the ground. Men had offered Ian a fortune for this animal, but there wasn’t enough money in the world to buy him. Together, horse and man became one when the marshal was aboard.

  He continued to hold the animal back, allowing time before he gave him his head. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was the same road he’d lost Cummins on. The narrow road and towering oaks gave little opportunity for capture. He wanted Younger in the clear before he took him. No trees, no way of escape. He sat back and made sure Norman was comfortable with the pace.

  Wind whipped the riders’ eyes as the horses stretched now, flying hooves throwing dirt clods. Younger’s stallion was a good match for Norman. The horse was powerfully built, auburn coat slicked with sweat, ears pinned back. Leg muscles strained and grew taut. Ian wouldn’t be surprised if Jim had raced this animal for profit.

  Trees and fence posts flashed by. He was eating Younger’s dust now. Victory was not yet complete but he allowed himself one brief hope that the scheme had worked before he refocused on the arrest. But the words, “Thank you, God!” rang out.

  The distance between the two riders widened and Ian said softly, “Now, Norman.”

  Responding to the command, Norman stretched out his hooves and gave Ian the speed he needed. A blur of prairie grass whipped by; Ian could feel the animal’s powerful sides heaving as dirt pounded beneath his hooves. The distance between him and Younger faded and Ian prepared for the jump from Norman to the stallion.

  He was going to break another rib, but sometimes life called for a little pain. With a lurch, he flew off Norman and soared through the air.

  Head bent, Lyric walked up the hill toward the Bolton house. Angry, disillusioned shouts followed her. The town had been deprived of a hanging and their restless calls polluted the air.

  Joseph was Ian Cawley. United States Marshal Ian Cawley. Overwhelming relief swept her. If he were telling the truth, he wasn’t an outlaw. He owed no debt to society.

  He was chasing someone—who?

  Apparently he was a free man now. Free to come and go as he pleased. The sheriff wasn’t on his tail.

  Her throat tightened and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. What if he didn’t come back?

  “You. I want to talk to you,” he’d said after that abrupt kiss.

  She hadn’t imagined those words.

  No, he hadn’t trusted her enough to share the truth, but he didn’t owe her anything but gratitude. Yes, she had saved his life and he was beholden to her, but she shouldn’t expect any misplaced sense of loyalty on his part. The shared kisses, the hours of enjoyable company…all of it had been perfectly proper. He had made no promises, and she had no right to pin all her hopes and dreams on him.

  Removing a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped her streaming eyes. Get your mind on your work, Lyric. There are more important issues to consider now. Would the man Ian was chasing best the U.S. marshal? Ian’s injuries were still tender and his strength couldn’t be normal.

  The thought ricocheted in her brain, and she blinked back blinding tears. The two were noticeably bent on violence—that hadn’t been hard to detect. It was as though the men were out to settle a personal vendetta.

  Wiping her nose, she tried to gather enough gumption to collect the hens and be through with the whole matter. If Ian wanted to fight it out with some man it was none of her business.

  “Lyric!”

  Turning, she spotted Lark and Boots headed in her direction, both girls lugging sacks of screeching fowl.

  Sighing, she wiped her nose again, squared her shoulders, and went to deal with the hens—the only thing she felt qualified to control.

  The sun wasn’t yet high in the sky when Ian rode into town leading Jim Younger’s horse with a bound Jim draped over the saddle.

  Pausing in front of the jail, he waited for the acting sheriff to appear. When he did he scowled. “Why have you got that Younger strapped to his saddle? Ain’t you caused enough trouble for one day? If you knew who you were why did you put us through all this trouble?�
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  “Because,” Ian threw a leg off his saddle, wincing, and stepped down. “You’re going to arrest this man and I’m going to collect the bounty money.”

  The sheriff backed up. “Now hold on. We don’t mess with them Youngers…”

  “Now, now. That was in the past. You’re going to grow a backbone. You’re going to arrest this Younger.” He gave the stunned man a gentle pat as he walked by. “Think of it like this: You’re coming up in the world.”

  The acting sheriff made fretting noises as Ian untied Younger and helped him to his feet. He led the outlaw into the jail, removed the wristbands, closed the cell door, and locked it. Stepping to the poster board, he grasped Jim’s image and handed it to the sheriff. “I believe I’m due some money.”

  “I’ll get you for this, Cawley,” Younger called from the bunk.

  “You’re a sore loser, Jim.”

  The outlaw’s sneer was as ugly as his soul. “You best watch your back.”

  “The one thing I refuse to worry about is the future.” Ian grinned. Right now his future looked fairly bright. He’d find Lyric, they’d talk this thing through, and he’d make her understand the reason for his silence. He turned to the sheriff. “You are to leave this man in jail until I send someone to pick him up. Am I clear? If you release him, you’re the one who’s going to be staring through those bars.”

  “I ain’t gonna release him.” He dropped into his chair, staring at the reward poster. “It’ll take me a day or two to get your money. And the wire just came. You’re cleared; free to go.”

  “I’ll be around.” Ian glanced at Jim. “Take good care of my friend.”

  Younger’s bitter tone followed him to the door. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I think I’m mighty blessed. This whole thing could have backfired real easy on me.” So easy he didn’t want to think about the narrow escape from the noose.

  “Hey!” the sheriff called. “Where do I get ahold of you when I have the bounty?”