My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge, page 11
The song came to a glorious close, but Miss Simms didn’t release her hold on him. “There’ll be another song up next, and you need to practice, Mr. Taylor.”
“Actually, Miss Simms, I was hoping I could get Mr. Taylor’s help.” Sam McAdams appeared like a plaid shirt–wearing knight, his grin all but announcing his intended rescue.
“Whatever for?” Miss Simms squeaked.
“Avery’s been asked to take a turn with his woman and we’re in need of a fiddler.” His gaze landed on Jonathan. “I heard tell the new teacher’s got a hand for it.”
Jonathan’s temporary relief dissipated. Miss Simms seemed to share the shock.
“Mr. Taylor does not play the fiddle.”
Mr. McAdams shifted his attention to Jonathan, brow raised. “If I recollect correctly, you sure did cut a fine tune or two at my house last week.”
Just over Sam’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Laurel. She stood, hand on hip, her saucy grin challenging him with the question Do you want to be rescued or not? He almost returned her smile. She’d put her daddy up to it…and Sam was enjoying the sport.
“I certainly wouldn’t wish for Mr. Combs to miss dancing with his wife, but I can’t promise I’ll rise to the occasion, Mr. McAdams.”
“Sam.” Sam slammed a palm on Jonathan’s shoulder. “Call me Sam, boy.”
“Sam.” Jonathan coughed from the impact of Sam’s hand, embracing the sense of belonging Sam’s rescue and familiarity inspired. Jonathan turned to Miss Simms. “Excuse me, Miss Simms. Thank you for the dance.”
She gave a practiced attempt at looking offended, but it disappeared as soon as Todd Hawes, the blacksmith’s son, stepped up to take her for a turn.
“Thank you, Sam.”
He laughed, deep and resonant. “Don’t thank me yet. You ain’t played with Darrell, Coon, and Lacey before.” He tipped his head toward the trio on the porch of the church. “They might be a whole lot scarier than Miss Simms.”
Jonathan drew in a deep breath and stepped forward. “I’ll take my chances.”
Law mercy, Jonathan Taylor could fiddle.
Laurel grinned as she walked with her mama up the trail back home. Daddy and the other young’uns had left the church hours ago, but Mama and Laurel had stayed behind with some of the other womenfolk to straighten up for the next school day.
The look on those familiar faces around her when Jonathan got comfortable and began to light into the music, well, it was a sight to behold. They were surprised. Impressed. He’d broken through that initial barrier her people placed between outsiders and themselves.
She’d heard him play a few tunes up at her house, but watching him let loose on “Cripple Creek,” once he heard Darrell play it through a few times, or “Sally Ann”? Have mercy, he’d made those strings sing!
And from the way he closed his eyes and tapped his toe, she knew he liked it too.
He was such a puzzle. Learned and gentlemanly, yet willing to step into a world so different from what he’d known. A gentleness and compassion shone through him and built a bridge between their different worlds. He proved as much a student as teacher.
“Kindness is as universal as music,” her granny used to say.
And Laurel had seen the truth of it.
The idea that thoughtful, kind men like Jonathan Taylor fought alongside her brother gave a heap of comfort. If he shot a rifle as clean as he played the fiddle, then woowee, not a highlander alive could argue his skill. Even Ozaiah Greer might crack a smile or two.
Mama hummed a little tune as they walked up the trail, the smoke from their cabin coming into view above the pines at the top of the hill. Apples tanged the autumn air with a hint to their ripeness. The trees lined their path in rows of gold, red, orange, and green. Everything glowed with life and home.
No matter how wonderful college proved, she’d always come back home. The thought reminded her of her trade with Jonathan, and she sent a look to Mama from her periphery. “It’s a fine afternoon for a walk, ain’t…isn’t it?”
Her mama’s humming stopped, and she smiled up to the sky. “Sure is. Just enough coolness to make the fire welcome.”
Laurel chewed the inside of her cheek, working up the confession. “Your stack cake was mighty good today, Mama. Not a crumb left behind.” Mama tipped her brow and looked over at Laurel, her gaze urging the truth right out of Laurel’s mouth. “Teacher knows about college.”
Mama’s other brow rose to meet the first one, but she didn’t say a word.
“I got all-fired up about Ozaiah Greer and his thick-headed ways that the words just slipped right out before I could catch ’em.”
Her mother’s grin encouraged further confession.
“So, we made a pact.”
“Did you now? About your schoolin’?”
“He says he’ll help me with my writing for college.” Laurel hurried on, hoping her mama understood the importance. “He’ll even give me ideas for papers to write and help correct my words so that I’ll be more prepared.”
Her mother stopped and turned, basket poised in hand. “That’s mighty nice of him.”
Laurel nodded. “And since he’s moving to the mission house tomorrow and doesn’t have a wife, I reckoned his first needs would be stomach needs. ’Cause you’ve always said, a man with a satisfied stomach has a clear head.”
A look of pure confusion wrinkled up her mama’s brow as they resumed their walk. “You plan to cook for him?”
Laurel laughed. “I ain’t his wife. I aim to teach him how to cook for hisself, but I thought that was a good trade. And I know I can help him with mountain learning, because he’s doesn’t have no idea about most everything around here. You can be sure, he hasn’t ever made butter or even gathered eggs.” Laurel came to another stop in the path. “Mama, you reckon we could give him a chicken or two as a welcome gift? That’s a good place to start, don’t you think? Chickens aren’t so hard to tend to, and then he can save up for a cow.”
Mama chuckled. “Heaven sakes, girl, you’re gonna keep him busy, that’s for sure.”
Laurel quieted, another thought filtering in through the others. She studied her mama and then took a deep breath. “Do you think I talk the bark off a tree, Mama?”
Mama’s eyes widened, and her lips quirked to one side. “Not to my thinkin’.”
“What about the hind legs off a mule?”
Mama’s chuckle turned into a full-fledged laugh, not near as frequent a sound as it ought to be. “Law girl, where did you take such a notion?”
“A book.” Laurel frowned, studying her mama’s glowing face, eyes sparkling like sunlight on water. “I talk a whole lot more than you or Maggie, at any rate. Suppose I’ll grow quieter as I get older?”
“I hope you don’t.” Her mama started walking again, the sound of logs splitting breaking through the woodland noises. Daddy was preparing.
Laurel’s stomach tightened. He’d chopped logs for two days straight, missing work on Friday.
“Why’s that?”
Mama paused right before the path opened to their cabin’s clearing. “Laurel, you see these leaves?” She gestured overhead at the collaged display of color. “Which tree you think is better?”
“I can’t pick a favorite. They’re all pretty.”
“And that view.” Mama pointed just over the tree line to a hint of blue mountains, fading into late afternoon. “Which do you think God likes better? The sun arisin’ or the sun settin’?”
“What sort of question is that?” She shrugged. “Seems He likes ’em both the same.”
“They’re both beautiful in their own ways, ain’t they?”
Laurel caught the lesson. “So, God made me to talk the hind legs off a mule and He made you to keep the mule’s legs on, did He?”
Her mama’s gaze softened. “He’s called you to a path only you can go, just the same as He’s called Maggie, or Isom, or Suzie, or the twins. The only one who can take the trail for your life is you, and make no mistake, He’s already been workin’ in you the strength and wisdom you’ll need. Seems Teacher is a part of your path for now, and you’re a part of his.”
Laurel’s grin grew so wide it pinched into her cheeks. “And I’m nearly saved up enough to take that path, Mama.”
“I thought I heard you womenfolk gabbin’ over here.” Daddy pushed through the rhododendron bushes and filled up the gap between them with his sturdy frame. “Ain’t no bird alive that makes the sounds of such a ruckus.”
“Our sounds are so much sweeter, right, Daddy?” Laurel hoped the signs were wrong this time. Just this once.
“I do have a particular fondness for the sounds of these gabbin’ womenfolk of mine.” His grin laced with good humor, and he placed his arm around Laurel’s shoulder.
“Did you come out to greet us like courtiers from the old country, Daddy?”
He chuckled. “I thought you was Isom at first. I sent him on an errand for me, but I reckon it’s still too soon for him to be back.”
“And what sort of errand did you send him off to?” Mama asked, her tone giving nothing away.
Daddy ran his thumbs down the straps of his overalls, up and down, nervous like. Laurel’s skull prickled with a warning chill that traveled plumb down her back. “Nothin’ much. I sent him down to Hezekiah Cane’s for a favor.”
Mama’s eyes drifted closed for a brief moment and then opened again, resolution and resignation tightening her features.
Hezekiah Cane was the best moonshiner in Maple Springs.
Winter was on the way.
One home visit with Dr. Hensley secured Jonathan’s growing concern about the knowledge and welfare of the mountain people. He’d accompanied the doctor to Mercy Lindsay’s house, a widow with two children. Dr. Hensley, as kind and respected as he was throughout the mountains, had known younger times. Nearing eighty, his eyes failed to give him a clear understanding of symptoms as they probably once did, or at least Jonathan hoped.
Dr. Hensley diagnosed her chest pain as stress related, giving her some sort of homemade tonic that had the strong scent of liquor, but, based on a few simple questions he’d gleaned from his studies, Jonathan wondered if Mrs. Combs suffered more from anemia than stress.
In the next visit, a man had a particularly nasty-looking infection on his arm. After applying an ill-smelling poultice, the doctor again administered liquor and said he’d return to check on the wound in a few days. The conditions of the homes reeked with uncleanliness, and yet the doctor used cloths from the home without sterilizing them. Why? This was not the front lines of war, where there was no time to disinfect the operation area. Dr. Hensley had the time but didn’t take it.
Had he lost hope? Grown indifferent?
God, they need someone who can help them.
Uncle Edward later explained that Dr. Hensley, a native of nearby Boone, had only completed a few courses in medicine before practicing, and since he knew more than most folks in the area, they called him a doctor. So, not even a proper education in medicine? Good intentions carried a limited amount of weight.
“He’s a fount of knowledge on mountain remedies and sewing up gunshot wounds, but as far as a great medical understanding”—his uncle had frowned, shaking his head—“there isn’t much more available to these people.”
And the glimmer in his uncle’s eyes asked an unspoken question, one which bled clearer and clearer as the week progressed.
The vision Laurel inspired by her desire to bring education back into these mountains caught fire inside of him—her purpose, contagious. He’d wandered into this world, half as a runaway and half as a man searching for a purpose, and in over two weeks, he’d seen more passion in a mountain girl with barely anything worldly than he’d seen in anyone.
The knowledge clicked inside of him the way a tune wound its melody beneath his skin, bringing his fingers to life on the strings of his violin. Was this what his uncle felt as his vision for Maple Springs swelled to reality? One tiny mountain church became two, then three. One school was planted, then two? One mountain-trained doctor, then a college-trained one?
His uncle had started all of that. Had God called Jonathan to a similar mission? Surely not. He wasn’t as charismatic as his uncle. He didn’t know the people or culture like Laurel. How could God use him with his quiet demeanor and gnawing limp?
The mountains, cold blue and vast in their expanse, seemed to bolster his heart with possibilities as endless as their reach. Could this world truly offer him something he’d never known…a place to belong?
After school, Jonathan made his way to Mrs. Cappy’s store, in desperate need of some “sweet milk,” as the mountain folk called it, and anything else besides eggs. He’d had eggs for nearly every meal since moving to the mission house. Thankfully, apples were in season, but even those had lost a little of their appeal. He’d even resorted to some long-lost skills he’d learned as a child on his grandfather’s farm, by killing, field dressing, and subsequently burning rabbit on one occasion. But…even burnt rabbit tasted better than another meal of eggs.
The jingle of bells announced his entrance into the eclectic store. Over two weeks ago, Jonathan had looked humorously at the simple offerings on the shop shelves, but today, Mrs. Cappy’s mountain store seemed a treasure trove of options. Beef and deer jerky waited on the shelves for purchase, along with some homemade-looking pastries and cakes of various styles. There were even a few candies in jars waiting for his taste buds.
A potbelly stove stood in the middle of the room with a long L-shaped white shelf to the left and two rows of various items to the right. Barrels lined the way to the counter, each filled with a different article for purchase—one full of potatoes, another of boxed crackers. Jars and cans of foods lined the shelves on the wall, and Jonathan stepped directly toward a few canned fruits and vegetables.
The door’s bells jingled again and in walked a tall man, built like a mountain himself. He had to bend slightly to fit through the door, his rolled-up shirtsleeves pinching against glistening dark skin on his massive arms. He made an imposing figure in the little store. An impressive specimen of humanity, and one of the only negros Jonathan had seen since arriving in North Carolina, they’d crossed paths at the train depot when Jonathan needed directions to find his way to Maple Springs. What had his name been? Harris?
The man’s dark eyes widened, and then his white smile split his face with welcome. “Well now, I see they ain’t run you off yet.”
The jovial welcome eased Jonathan into conversation. He stepped forward and offered his hand, bridging the short distance. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Harris. What brings you up the mountainside?”
“Mrs. Cappy knows I come once a week for some of the sweets she fixes for sale.” He nodded toward the showcase at the end of the L-shaped shelf. “Right now, she’s got some apple fritters that my men can’t get enough of.”
Jonathan flipped his gaze from the glass case back to Mr. Harris. “Fritters?”
The man’s smile creased at the corners of his eyes. “They ain’t no need to talk when you can taste, Teacher. Come on.”
Laurel emerged from a back room, her thick blond hair pinned back into a bun, and a white apron making her look like a server from a French pastry shop. She patted her hands together and grinned. “You men look awful hungry. What can I get for you?”
Mr. Harris sidled forward and leaned his elbows on the shelf. “Mr. Taylor ain’t never had no apple fritter before, Miss Laurel. You reckon we ought to remedy that?”
She raised a brow and studied Jonathan from head to toe. “If that ain’t about criminal, I don’t know what is.” She dusted her hands against her apron and stepped to the showcase, keeping her attention on his face. “But Elias is right as rain. You can’t go another day without one of Mrs. Cappy’s fritters.”
Laurel placed one of the crescent-shaped pastries onto a piece of brown paper and set it on the counter, the customary glint in her eyes in full sparkle.
“I’m trusting you, Miss McAdams.”
“Shows you’re a smart man.”
Mr. Harris’s deep laugh rumbled through the room as Laurel handed him one of the fritters too. “I trust you to cause a little mischief every once in a while.”
Her grin broadened, capturing Jonathan’s attention again. “Well now, Elias, that shows you’re a smart man too,” she replied, turning her attention, with all its pixie-glint, back to Jonathan.
“Go on, Teacher. Give that fritter a taste. It might not be change-your-life good like Mama’s strawberry stack cake, but it’s close enough to leave a memory.”
Jonathan bit into the pastry and closed his eyes. A wonderful combination of sugar, butter, maybe cinnamon, and some other type of sweetness poured over his tongue, reviving his appreciation for apples. And the apples! They held a tangy flavor to complement the sweet in a most tantalizing way, with the entire bite wrapped in soft bread.
Bread! He’d missed bread.
“Looks to me like Teacher doesn’t mind that fritter one bit.” Laurel’s voice broke into his appreciation.
He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth with the corner of the paper. “Did you make these?”
“I know how to make them, but not as fine as Mrs. Cappy.” Laurel closed the showcase and proceeded to wipe down the countertop she stood behind.
“Miss Laurel’s cobbler is the best in these parts,” Mr. Harris said. “Ain’t tasted better this side of Asheville anywhere.”
Her face bloomed from the compliment, enhancing the natural beauty she wore so well. Jonathan’s gaze caught for a second before he turned back to Mr. Harris. “I look forward to trying cobbler then too.”
“You won’t regret it.” Mr. Harris waved his fritter toward Jonathan as he spoke. “You been here, what, nearly three weeks now, Mr. Taylor?”
Jonathan nodded, savoring another bite.
“How’s school teachin’ been going?”
