The Healer's Touch by Lori Copeland Page B

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

    L yric 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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œLark and Boots. They thought you had…passed.”
    Stepping to the service porch, Lyric got the pitcher of cream andreturned to the kitchen. She found it impossible to keep the peevishness out of her tone. “Who are you?”
    He glanced up. “Ma’am?”
    â€œWhich Younger are you?”
    He shook his head. “I can’t rightly say. I’ve been trying to figure that out.”
    â€œYou don’t know your own name?”
    â€œMa’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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWhat makes you suspect I’m an outlaw?”
    â€œI…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?”
    â€œYou