The Healer's Touch Page 8

  “Pardon?”

  “A name. I can’t keep calling you ‘the stranger.’ ” By now he didn’t feel so “strange” to her. More like a distant relative she hadn’t seen in years and had never really known.

  “Don’t see how a name will make a difference at this point.” He knew she’d be taking him to town tomorrow morning; he wasn’t deaf. Lark spoke of the trip in whispers but he’d no doubt heard the plan.

  “Well,” she said, offering Rosie the unexpected treat, “I believe the storm will make it unlikely that I can either get you to the sheriff’s office or that the authorities can get to you.” She glanced over at him, smiling. Funny, the unexpected delay was as welcome as rain in July. “Sometimes these storms last for days and the effects long after.”

  He remained silent, gently brushing the horse’s ears back with his hands. She eased closer and offered the animal another fistful of hay. “Can I call you Joseph?”

  “Joseph? Why would you call me Joseph?”

  Shrugging, she smiled. “It’s…It’s manly and…if I were to ever have a baby boy that would be the name I’d give my son.” Not that she’d have children, but she’d thought about names. And faces.

  He glanced up, a slow grin forming. “You appear to have thought this through. Are you about to be married?”

  “Me? Goodness, no. I’ll most likely never be married, but I have thought about children’s names.” She dusted her hands off on her skirts when the horse finished the hay. “Joseph is a name from the Bible, you know. He was the favorite son of Jacob, sold into slavery in Egypt by his brothers.” She realized she was prattling. “I guess I’ve told you more than you need to know.” She noticed he hadn’t stopped her.

  “You can call me Joseph, if that suits you.”

  “You mean—like it wouldn’t suit you?”

  He shrugged. “I do recall the Bible. You seem to know it well.”

  “I memorize passages. Are you a believer?”

  His brows lifted with irony.

  “Oh,” Lyric said, glad the darkness hid the warmth in her cheeks. “I guess you wouldn’t know.”

  “At this point I don’t know anything other than I’m scheduled to hang in the morning.”

  “I’ve warned Boots and Lark to be more sensitive. I’m sorry they haven’t been.”

  “They haven’t bothered me; they’re just talkative, like any girls their age.”

  “They never pipe down.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? I’m going to hang in the morning without solid proof of my identity.”

  She sank to a hay bale. “The storm won’t allow us to get to town or the authorities to get to us—even if they tried.”

  “Why would they hesitate?”

  “Well—you see, my mother is…she has these fits…” She sighed heavily. “My mother is mad.”

  By his abrupt change of expression she gathered she should have broken the news more gently.

  “She’s mad.”

  Lyric nodded.

  “She’s been ill for a very long time. She’ll have these…episodes. Sometimes she’s full of energy, going days without sleep. She says things I don’t understand. It scares people. And sometimes she takes to her bed and won’t speak to us for days. She cries a lot.” Lyric shrugged. “But her sickness now is different. It’s a sickness of the body, not the mind. Lark and I…well, we don’t think it will be much longer.”

  She breathed heavily. She’d been studying the healer’s arts all her life. Sometimes she thought that if life had turned out differently, she would have liked to have been a nurse. She could set broken bones and stitch up wounds better than anyone. But nothing she did for her mother seemed to do any good.

  “Your father?” said the man.

  She lifted both shoulders. “I couldn’t say where or who he is.”

  A clap of thunder shook the barn and the horse started. The stranger reached out to soothe the animal.

  “The horse doesn’t like storms,” she noted.

  “Looks that way.”

  She settled back on the bale, studying him. “So you weren’t trying to escape? You really came to check on the animals?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered running, but since I don’t know where or who I am, I don’t know where I’d go. Without money or identity I figure I wouldn’t get very far before I was shot in the back.”

  A better fate than hanging. She shook the thought aside.

  “For the time being, you can relax. As long as you don’t give me any trouble you can stay here until the storm lets up.” He’d been considerate, polite, and respectful to Lark and Boots and presented no threat to her. She could hardly turn him out in the cold when he was barely beginning to regain his strength. She considered his state. “Some of those cuts are deep. Will you allow me to sew them up?”

  Now seemed an illogical time for compassion to finally surface. He’d been here for days but she’d thought—maybe even hoped—that he’d die, and she saw no use making an outlaw presentable. But right now she couldn’t stand to see those still-oozing gashes ignored.

  His forefinger absently traced the slash on his forehead. “Are you qualified?”

  “I do all the mending around here, and when Rosie gets hurt I care for her. And I’ve raised Lark. She’s had her fair share of cuts and bruises over the years.”

  “Have you got any strong whiskey?”

  “Are you a drinking man?”

  “At the thought of a needle going into my forehead, I suspect I could be.”

  “I don’t have alcohol in the house, but I can give you something for the pain.” She didn’t keep strong drink, but she had ways to make medical procedures less hurtful.

  “All right. I’d be much obliged.” He managed a faint grin. “I’m sure my ma would want me to look presentable for the hanging, and I haven’t slept on my pillow at nights for fear I’d soil the ticking.”

  “That is most thoughtful of you, Joseph. Thank you.” Bloodstains were impossible to wash out.

  He offered a cordial nod. “Just call me Joe.”

  Stepping to the back of the barn, she stretched on tiptoes and took a small box off the shelf. When she returned to the bale, she sat him down and faced him. “First we need to get the dried blood off. This won’t be pleasant.” To her credit, she had cleansed the worst cuts a couple of times, but the bleeding persisted. Now blood pooled in the wounds.

  “What about the medicine?”

  “We’re getting to that.” Removing a small vial from the case, she set it aside. “I believe this will work better if you lie down.”

  “Lie down? Here?”

  “There, on the hay. Can you bring the lantern?”

  He picked up the light and followed her to the back of the barn. She set the small box on the floor, next to the light. “Lie down, please.”

  “You know, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Joseph. Lie down.”

  Easing slowly to the floor, he stretched out, stiff as a poker.

  “You can relax now.”

  “How can I relax when I know what you’re about to do?”

  Removing the lid from the vial, she instructed him to open his mouth and doused a bit of liquid on the end of his tongue. Joseph’s eyes widened—that taste was anything but pleasant—and then drooped lethargically. His anguished gaze held a measure of trust. Trust she would not betray.

  With the sound of sleet pelting the tin roof, she threaded the needle, taking care to purify the thin cylindrical tool in the burning wick before setting to work. “Lord, permit me a steady hand,” she whispered before she cleaned the facial wounds from a half-empty water bucket near Rosie’s stall, and then carefully and meticulously began to sew.

  Dawn’s rays slowly spread across the frozen landscape. Sleet fell in sheets from a leaden sky. Nothing stirred outside the barn. The whole world was encased in ice. Lyric dozed, propped up on her elbow beside Joseph. Shortly before dawn she had started a fire in a metal barre
l kept for dried corn. The effort knocked out the chill but offered little heat. Lifting her head slightly, she rested her ear on Joseph’s chest, assuring herself that he was breathing properly. She’d had to give him a hefty dose of medication but his wounds were clean and neatly mended.

  Mother would be awake and wondering where she was. Lark wouldn’t know, and there was no way to send a message to the house.

  Joseph’s sleepy voice answered her silent question. “We’re in a fine mess, aren’t we?”

  “There are at least two or three inches of ice out there.” She sat up, elated that he was awake and seemingly none the worse for wear. “We aren’t going to be able to make it back to the house.”

  Joseph brought his arm to his forehead. “My head’s spinning. Give me a minute to think about it,” he managed to say.

  “There are plenty of fresh eggs here. We can have breakfast if I can find something to cook them in.” Her gaze centered on him and she breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when she noted his color was good. Rosy pink. “How are you?”

  “What did you give me?” He slowly sat up, holding his head with both hands.

  “It’s my own concoction. Just some herbs that grow in these parts. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “I thought you were going to give me a shot of whiskey.”

  “We don’t keep strong liquor on hand.”

  “Can’t see why there’d be a need, not with that stuff in your arsenal.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “But what are we going to do about our problem? The ice is so thick I don’t see how we’ll make it back to the house, and neither Mother nor Lark knows where we are.” They would surely think the worst: that the outlaw had taken Lyric captive and fled. But Lark would be unable to alert the sheriff until the worst of the weather had passed.

  Struggling to his feet, Joseph paused, holding his head. The newly stitched cuts and few days’ dark beard growth made him look a might hard. She questioned her gradual thawing—the slow but nagging sense that he wasn’t a wanted man. Could such a gentle person really be a criminal? Yet logic warned the softening might be exactly what he intended.

  “Why don’t you fix those eggs first, and I’ll think about the solution.”

  Shortly afterwards, a half dozen eggs cooked in a boiling pot of water. She’d found the rusty iron utensil discarded near one of the stalls. Giving it a good ice scrubbing, she’d cleaned it thoroughly and then laid a piece of fencing over the top of the barrel where a fire blazed. Rosie provided warm milk that they took turns sipping from a gourd. The simple fare tasted like a feast in the cold, crisp dawn.

  “You’re a fine cook even without salt or bacon grease,” he remarked.

  “Thank you. I’m much less worried about you now.”

  He cocked a brow. “You worry about outlaws?”

  “Other than you, I’ve never worried much about anyone but Lark and Mother. But your appetite is returning, and I’m glad to see that.”

  He flashed an amicable grin. “Looks that way.” He touched a finger to his forehead. “This hardly hurts. You sew as well as you cook.”

  “Thank you. I could have used a better light, but I think I did a decent job. There should be little scarring.” She allowed her smile to fade. “What are we going to do about returning to the house? We don’t have sufficient wood to stay here for very long.” There was nothing much here to burn except hay, and that couldn’t be spared.

  “It is a problem. The barn can’t be seen from the house.”

  “No—the grove of sycamores blocks the view even in the winter.”

  “Can anyone hear us if we yell? Sound carries a long way in these hollers.”

  “Perhaps—if Lark was outside—or our neighbor, Murphy, but my sister detests cold and Murphy has probably decided to stay in for the day, so it’s unlikely anyone would hear us.”

  “The horse couldn’t make it up the hill without breaking a leg.”

  “Nor could Rosie.”

  They stood in thoughtful silence. Finally, she noted, “I suppose I could crawl there.”

  He chuckled.

  “I’m serious. I don’t see that we have any choice. We’ll have to string some sort of a guide line from the barn to the house so Rosie can be milked and the horse fed and watered.”

  He slowly buttoned his fleece-lined coat. “I’ll get started. This will take a while.”

  She restrained his efforts. “You can’t go. I will.”

  “I’m not going to let a woman climb an icy hill.”

  “I’ve climbed that hill since I was able to walk—and in storms worse than this one. One year we got seven feet of snow and it near buried the barn. I was still able to move back and forth with the line, but the effort took time.” Her eyes roamed the barn interior. “Now where did I put that length of rope?” The sudden remembrance brought a heartfelt groan. “It’s on the back service porch.”

  “There’s nothing here we can use?”

  She shook her head. “Lark and I cleaned out the barn last summer and we moved a lot of stuff to the house.”

  Running a hand through his hair, he frowned. “I won’t allow you to crawl up that hill on your hands and knees.”

  “You would rather spend the next week in here, with no fire and only eggs and milk?”

  His gaze strayed to the horse. “We could eat that contrary thing.”

  She turned to look. “The horse? What’s he done?”

  “He doesn’t like me. He spits on me and steps on my foot every chance he gets, and he’s bitten me twice since he’s been here.”

  “Horses don’t spit.”

  “This horse takes water in his mouth, washes the hay out, and then lets it roll onto my boots. It’s as close to a full-blown spit as a horse is going to get.”

  “Really?” She studied the buckskin that stood quietly in his stall, big brown eyes peering out. The animal’s markings were beautiful. Full tawny belly and fetlocks of jet-black coat. “He looks like a perfectly gentle animal.”

  “Well, looks can fool you.”

  “Perhaps his nature is why his owner turned him loose—but one would think they would keep the stable gear.” She turned to smile. “I can’t afford to feed him, so when the weather breaks I’ll have to sell him.”

  “If I don’t end up bringing much in the way of bounty, that should pay for a new barn door.”

  Lyric smiled. “You know, Joseph, for an outlaw, you’re not that bad.”

  He reached out to tweak her nose. “And for a recluse, you’re not a bad cook. Those eggs were the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  Relief flooded her, a heady, breathless sensation that left her puzzled. Was she coming down with something? A cold, perhaps?

  “Joseph?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “You can call me Lyric.”

  He nodded. “That’s a right pretty name.”

  “Mother never did anything normal, including naming her daughters.”

  “Then she couldn’t be all bad,” he noted. “Shall we take a closer look at that hill?”

  “Sweet Moses, that looks like fifty miles of bad road.” Joseph’s troubled gaze traveled the huge hill, frozen slicker than a Minnesota pond in January.

  “I’ve seen it worse—but not much,” she admitted. She took a cautionary step ahead of him, slipped, and almost went down. He grabbed an arm and steadied her. “And you’re going to try to walk up that hill?”

  “Crawl,” she corrected. “Very slowly and methodically.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “You most certainly will not. I didn’t stich all those cuts closed only to have them torn loose. You stay put.” She pulled her coat tighter and set her jaw. “This may take a while.”

  “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

  She set off, slipping her way across the frozen ground. If she were lucky Lark might look out the window, but her hopes weren’t high. Once that girl buried her head in a book nothing distracted her. S
he would surely be wondering where Lyric was, and common sense would say that she was stranded at the barn, but then she never went to the barn before daylight.

  Her feet spread and she went down. Regaining her footing, her legs bowed and she froze in place. If she moved even the slightest inch she would be flat on her back. Slowly, she eased both legs together. Tossing a sheepish grin over her shoulder she started off again, and her feet flew out from under her.

  Heat burned her cheeks. Joseph was standing in the barn doorway, and though she couldn’t see him she could feel his amusement. She didn’t know what he found so funny. Just wait until he tried the climb—he’d suffer the same humiliation.

  Struggling back to her feet, she grabbed for her scarf when the wind snatched it and the sudden movement threw her off balance. Lying face-up, she stared at the stormy sky. So far she’d moved maybe fifty feet. Joseph’s calm voice came to her on a windy gust. “Are you sure you don’t want me to try?”

  “No.” She sat up, brushing icy pellets off her skirts. “I’m doing fine. I said it would be slow.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Thirty minutes later she had made it halfway up the hill—just to the point that she could see the house. Smoke curled from the chimney but there wasn’t a thing stirring. No Lark peeking out the window. “Lark!” she yelled, praying the wind would carry her voice.

  After a long silence, she tried again. “Lark!” By now her clothing was wet and she was chilled to the bone. She had to make it to the house shortly or she would catch her death.

  “Sit down and ease up the hill,” Joseph called, his voice echoing over the frozen countryside.

  Nodding, she sat down and began slowly easing up the hill on her backside. The movement met with success and she steadily inched her way toward the house.

  When she was twenty feet from the back door, frozen to the core, her hands red and stinging like fire, the door opened and Lark popped her head out. “There you are. Better bring in more wood; the fire’s getting low.”