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Authors: Lori Copeland
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more than a knot to worry him.
An hour before sunup, Lyric crept down the stairway in her bare feet. The old house was quiet; no one was awake this early. Sheâd lain in her bed for hours, her conscience nagging her. Was it possible she had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Odds were if the wounded man wasnât Cummins or one of the Youngers he was part of a gang, but her enforced solitude made her more aware of hypocritical and unjust beliefs. If the man on the sofa couldnât recall who he was, was it fair to tag him as a criminal without absolute certainty?
A life was at stake. In this case a mistake meant certain deathinstead of turned backs and outright shunning. The town had had its fill of outlaws, and they wouldnât think twice about hanging this man without adequate proof of wrongdoing.
Her strong penchant for fact surfaced. Fact was, nobody in the household could be certain who this man was or where he belonged. And even if someone in town recognized him, nobody in these parts told the whole truth.
Lord, allow me more than my share of wisdom today. I canât let a man hang if heâs innocent and only You know the truth at the moment. Help me to verify his true identity before I stand by and watch him be put to death.
Not that the town would believe a word she said. But the stranger would be safe here until she got this matter resolved. It was the least one human could do for another. Not a soul would venture near this place, even if a bounty was in plain sight. It wasnât likely the injured man was going anywhere soon, and she could afford half a morning to avoid a mistake sheâd have to live with if she followed through with her original intent. She could slip into town, do a little investigating, and be back before she was due to meet the sheriff. Lark would milk Rosie, gather eggs, feed Mother, andâ
An ear-piercing scream from the parlor shattered the peaceful silence.
And oh, yes. She needed to inform Lark the outlaw wasnât dead.
Murphy Hake rode his fence line searching for breaks. Cattle theft was rampant in the holler and most of his time was spent running down strays or rounding up stolen cattle. His herd wasnât the largest in the holler, but it put meat and bread on his table. He stayed to himself, went to bed early, got up before dawn, and worked hard. He had inherited the plot of ground when his folks died during a measles outbreak three years earlier. He was an onlychild, left to fend for himself, which he didnât mind. Folks left him aloneâother than that pesky Lark Bolton. Now that he was older he had his fair share of women admirers, and he took full advantage of their attention at the occasional Saturday night social.
He spotted a fresh cut and reined up. Warm sunshine covered his back and he slipped out of the denim jacket heâd donned before daylight. With wire cutters in hand, he approached the break, not the least bit surprised when he saw the youngest Bolton girl heading in his direction. Lark.
Shaking his head, he mentally prepared for the visit. For some reason, the girl was smitten with him. His closest neighbor had turned into a pest. She helped pass the time, but he didnât welcome her intrusions. It was uncanny how she seemed to know where and when heâd be working. Of course, town gossips claimed the Boltons were all crazy. They were unusual, but he supposed theyâd say the same about him. He kept to himself and unless someone happened his way he didnât look for company.
Lark walked up, her face split wide into a contagious grin. How old was she now? Twelve? He didnât look up when she approached; he didnât want to encourage the interruption.
âHi!â
Nodding, he lifted a piece of wire fencing and tacked it into place.
âNice day, huh?â
âReal nice.â
Larkâs eyes scanned the length of broken wire. âCattle rustlers, huh?â
âYep. Canât seem to
An hour before sunup, Lyric crept down the stairway in her bare feet. The old house was quiet; no one was awake this early. Sheâd lain in her bed for hours, her conscience nagging her. Was it possible she had jumped to the wrong conclusion? Odds were if the wounded man wasnât Cummins or one of the Youngers he was part of a gang, but her enforced solitude made her more aware of hypocritical and unjust beliefs. If the man on the sofa couldnât recall who he was, was it fair to tag him as a criminal without absolute certainty?
A life was at stake. In this case a mistake meant certain deathinstead of turned backs and outright shunning. The town had had its fill of outlaws, and they wouldnât think twice about hanging this man without adequate proof of wrongdoing.
Her strong penchant for fact surfaced. Fact was, nobody in the household could be certain who this man was or where he belonged. And even if someone in town recognized him, nobody in these parts told the whole truth.
Lord, allow me more than my share of wisdom today. I canât let a man hang if heâs innocent and only You know the truth at the moment. Help me to verify his true identity before I stand by and watch him be put to death.
Not that the town would believe a word she said. But the stranger would be safe here until she got this matter resolved. It was the least one human could do for another. Not a soul would venture near this place, even if a bounty was in plain sight. It wasnât likely the injured man was going anywhere soon, and she could afford half a morning to avoid a mistake sheâd have to live with if she followed through with her original intent. She could slip into town, do a little investigating, and be back before she was due to meet the sheriff. Lark would milk Rosie, gather eggs, feed Mother, andâ
An ear-piercing scream from the parlor shattered the peaceful silence.
And oh, yes. She needed to inform Lark the outlaw wasnât dead.
Murphy Hake rode his fence line searching for breaks. Cattle theft was rampant in the holler and most of his time was spent running down strays or rounding up stolen cattle. His herd wasnât the largest in the holler, but it put meat and bread on his table. He stayed to himself, went to bed early, got up before dawn, and worked hard. He had inherited the plot of ground when his folks died during a measles outbreak three years earlier. He was an onlychild, left to fend for himself, which he didnât mind. Folks left him aloneâother than that pesky Lark Bolton. Now that he was older he had his fair share of women admirers, and he took full advantage of their attention at the occasional Saturday night social.
He spotted a fresh cut and reined up. Warm sunshine covered his back and he slipped out of the denim jacket heâd donned before daylight. With wire cutters in hand, he approached the break, not the least bit surprised when he saw the youngest Bolton girl heading in his direction. Lark.
Shaking his head, he mentally prepared for the visit. For some reason, the girl was smitten with him. His closest neighbor had turned into a pest. She helped pass the time, but he didnât welcome her intrusions. It was uncanny how she seemed to know where and when heâd be working. Of course, town gossips claimed the Boltons were all crazy. They were unusual, but he supposed theyâd say the same about him. He kept to himself and unless someone happened his way he didnât look for company.
Lark walked up, her face split wide into a contagious grin. How old was she now? Twelve? He didnât look up when she approached; he didnât want to encourage the interruption.
âHi!â
Nodding, he lifted a piece of wire fencing and tacked it into place.
âNice day, huh?â
âReal nice.â
Larkâs eyes scanned the length of broken wire. âCattle rustlers, huh?â
âYep. Canât seem to
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