Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (6 page)

“I'm sure I can handle them,” Christy said. Even to her own ears, she didn't sound entirely convincing.

“I'm sure you can.” Fairlight paused, staring up at the mountain peak bathed in shadow. “Still and all, if you ever . . .” She shook her head gently.

“What?”

“Nothin'. It was a crazy thought.”

“Tell me,” Christy urged. “Believe me, I've had my share of those.”

Fairlight shrugged. “I was just goin' to say that if you ever need an extra pair of hands over to the school, I'd be mighty proud to help. That's a heap of young'uns for one gal. Maybe I could clean up the school after class?”

The words were spoken with a gentle dignity, as if a gift were being bestowed on Christy. Here was a mountain woman with a husband and five children to care for, living in such poverty that if she had any shoes, she was saving them to be worn somewhere special. Yet she was offering to help Christy, a girl she'd just met.

Even as Christy started to answer, she realized something else. This woman was not just volunteering to do some cleaning for her—she was also holding out the gift of her friendship. For the first time since leaving home, Christy sensed the possibility of connecting with people here, of not feeling quite so completely alone.

“Fairlight, that's a very kind offer,” Christy said. “And I'll accept it, on one condition. I'm a long way from home, you know, and it would be nice to feel like I had a new friend here in the mountains. And maybe there'll be something I can do for you, too.”

The pioneer face was suddenly all smiles. “That you could, Miz Christy!” she exclaimed. Suddenly she went shy again, her voice sinking almost to a whisper. “I can't read nor write. Would . . . would you learn me how? I'd like that!”

Her voice was filled with such eagerness that at that moment Christy wanted to teach this woman to read more than anything she'd ever wanted to do before.

“I'd love to do that, Fairlight. As soon as I get settled in at the mission. It's a promise.”

“For sure and certain, that's wonderful to hear,” Fairlight cried, her face full of hope. And immediately Christy felt encouraged about her decision to come to Cutter Gap.

A few minutes later, a voice spoke from the shadows. “You must be real tired,” Mr. Pentland said kindly. “Why don't I take you on out to the mission? It's not far now—”

“But what about Mr. Allen? How is he? Is he—”

“Still livin' and breathin',” Mr. Pentland said. “Doc says he found the blood clots all right and Bob has a fightin' chance now. If the bleedin' in his head don't start up again.”

“Oh, I'm glad, so glad,” Christy said with relief.

Mr. Pentland reached for her suitcase. “Before you go, Doc said he wanted to see you.”

“Me?” Christy asked.

She stepped back into the dark cabin. The doctor was sitting by Bob Allen's side, studying him seriously. He didn't even notice Christy until she said, “Doctor? You wanted to see me?”

He looked up wearily, rubbed his eyes, then gave a smile. “There she is. The Cove's answer to Florence Nightingale. I wanted to thank you for your help.”

“I didn't do much,” Christy said, gazing at the motionless patient. “And to tell you the truth, my knees nearly gave out there at the end. I couldn't wait to get outside.”

He gave a laugh, a deep, warm sound that filled the small cabin. “You should have seen me, my first surgery. Couldn't eat for two days afterward. And in any case, I knew you'd be fine.”

“You did? How could you?
I
didn't even know.”

He shrugged, then ran a hand through his messy curls. “The kind of girl who walks to the Cove in the middle of a January snowstorm has more courage than many.” He looked her up and down. “You'll be needing it, too.”

Christy frowned. “Why does everyone keep warning me like that?”

“You'll see, soon enough,” the doctor said. He grinned. “For starters, you'll have some characters there at the mission to deal with.”

“Characters? You mean some of the children I'll be teaching?”

“Actually, I was referring to the adults there.” The doctor chuckled. “There's David Grantland, the new minister. His sister, Ida, is as crotchety as they come. And then there's Miss Alice, of course.” He shook his head. “Now that's one interesting woman. Tough as can be.”

“You didn't say anything about Mr. Grantland,” Christy pointed out.

“Didn't I?” the doctor said, a glimmer in his eye. “David's a good man. Just new to these parts and still learning. He's more than a little stubborn. In any case, I have a hunch you'll manage just fine.”

“I hope you're right.” Christy touched Bob Allen's fingers with her own. “He'll be all right?”

“He's not out of the woods yet. The next few hours will tell the tale.”

“I feel . . . so responsible. It's my fault he's here.”

“Nonsense,” the doctor said. “Don't you go worrying about things like that. You'll have plenty to keep you busy without taking responsibility for falling trees.”

Christy turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Will I see you again?” She saw his smile and quickly changed her words.

“I mean, how will I know if Mr. Allen is all right?”

“Oh, you'll hear soon enough,” said Dr. MacNeill. “Word travels fast.”

Christy was halfway out the door when he added, “And yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, we'll see each other again. I've no doubt of that.” He gave a fleeting smile, then turned all his attention back to his patient.

Christy found Mr. Pentland waiting outside. She said goodbye to the Spencers, then fell into step behind the mailman. She'd had all the walking she wanted for one day—for one month, come to think of it—but she had no choice but to follow him and hope that when he said “not far” he really meant it.

As they headed from the cabin, she could hear Mr. Spencer begin to sing again. It was such a sad melody, the kind of song that seemed to belong here in this lonely and forbidding place.

They walked in silence. It was just as well, since Christy was far too tired for conversation. Questions swirled around in her head like the snowflakes blown loose from the tall trees swaying overhead.

She didn't believe in omens. She wasn't the least bit superstitious (although she had been known to avoid walking under ladders). But she couldn't help wondering if Mr. Allen's accident was some sort of signpost, trying to tell her she had made a mistake, pointing her back to the world where she belonged.

“Not much farther now,” Mr. Pentland called back to her.

“We've just got the bridge to cross, and then the mission is right over the next ridge.”

“Bridge?” Christy asked. Her throat tightened as she remembered waking up from her terrible dream that morning at Mrs. Tatum's— had it just been this morning?

Christy quickened her pace. “This bridge . . . is it a big one?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Mr. Pentland considered. “Not too big. Big enough, I s'pose. Gets real slippery-like, when it ices up.” He glanced at Christy's face. “Don't worry none, though.”

They trudged along the snowy trail for two hundred more yards. The sound of rushing water met Christy's ears. Around a bend, the swirling waters of a half-frozen creek came into view. A creek, Mr. Pentland had called it, but it moved, even choked with ice, with the speed of a raging river.

Christy's gaze moved upward. Then she saw it. “
That
. . .
that's
the bridge?”

“Yep.”

But it was not a bridge at all, just two huge, uneven logs with a few thin boards nailed across here and there. A deadly layer of ice coated the logs and boards.

Christy joined Mr. Pentland near the edge of the bridge. The whole contraption swayed in the biting wind.

“I'll go first to see if it's too slippery,” Mr. Pentland said. He shifted the mail pouch to the middle of his back and regripped Christy's suitcase. He paused, scraping his feet on the edge of the bridge.

Christy kept her eyes on his feet. Halfway across he stopped. Below him, the water sprayed over the boulders in the middle of the creek. “Ain't so bad,” he called back. “Wait until I get across, though, so you won't get no sway.”

Carefully he finished crossing. “Stomp your feet now,” Mr. Pentland called from the other side. “Get 'em warm. Then come on—but first scrape your boots, then hike up your skirts.”

As frozen and unmoving as the landscape around her, Christy stood staring at the bridge.

The sound of the water became a roar in her ears. There was no turning back now. Slowly, very slowly, she began to make her way across the log bridge.

Then it was her worst nightmare, come true. She was slipping . . . screaming . . . falling toward the icy water below.

Seven

B
ack to the present.

Cold. The water was so cold. Instantly thoughts of the last two days were behind her, and Christy was struggling to breathe. She opened her mouth, but there was only icy water where air should be. She felt it rush inside her, into her throat, into her lungs. She grabbed for the surface with all her being, but something was pulling her down.

She was choking, she was dying, and all she wanted was air, one sweet, clean breath of air. The water in her lungs should have been cold, but it burned like she'd breathed in fire. She stroked with all her might against the current, frantically trying to propel herself toward the surface. Her hand broke through to air, and she groped for it as if she could breathe with her fingers, as if her fingers could suck in the precious oxygen she wanted so badly.

God, don't let me die here
, she prayed desperately.
Not yet . . . there's still so much I want to do, Lord.

She thought of her family, of their horror upon learning that their daughter had died this way, in a mountain creek far from home, far from love.

She thought of the school where she'd wanted to change lives. She was doing something that would really make a difference. She
had
to make it.

The current sucked her down again, but this time she groped at the frigid water with renewed fury. Her hand broke through once more, and again she felt the air. But this time someone grabbed her hand.

As if in slow, slow motion, she was pulled from the icy grip of the current. At last, she could breathe.

Someone was wrapping a blanket around her. She tried to talk, but she was coughing too hard. Violent shivers shook her whole body, as if someone were shaking her and wouldn't let go.

Strong arms lifted her into the air. Someone was carrying her. Christy blinked, tried to focus. It wasn't Mr. Pentland. Who was this man?

“Feel like anything's broken?” the man asked.

Christy shook her head.

“She's a feisty one, that gal,” came Mr. Pentland's familiar voice. “Reckon she'll be fine.”

They began to walk, and Christy realized that this man, whoever he was, was going to carry her the rest of the way to the mission.

“Good thing she's not any heavier,” he said to Mr. Pentland with a wink.

She started to answer, but all that came out was a raw, hacking cough.

“I'm David Grantland, by the way.”

“Chr—” Christy paused to cough. “Christy Hud—”

“Huddleston. Yes, I know. We've been expecting you. You really know how to make an entrance, I must say.”

Christy gazed up at his handsome face. Mr. Grantland had black hair, fine white teeth, and friendly brown eyes set wide apart. And there was something about his nose—it looked a little different, as if it might have had a run-in with a baseball or a fist somewhere along the way.

“I'm sorry,” Christy managed to say. “I guess I slipped—”

“You were lucky,” Mr. Grantland said. “You could've hit one of those rocks.”

“Lucky you came along when you did,” Mr. Pentland said. “By the time I'd have gotten down to the bank, no telling where she mighta been.”

“I was on my way to the bunkhouse just up the hill when I saw you two coming,” Mr. Grantland explained.

“We stopped over to the Spencers' on the way,” Mr. Pentland said. “Wait'll ya hear what happened to ol' Bob Allen.”

While Mr. Pentland recounted the story of Mr. Allen's surgery, Christy rested her cheek against Mr. Grantland's shoulder. She felt a little embarrassed, being carried this way like a helpless child, but she was too wet and exhausted and cold and battered to much care. The steady rock of Mr. Grantland's steps and the lull of his deep voice pulled her closer and closer to sleep.

She had just shut her eyes when Mr. Pentland said, “Here we go. Told ya it weren't too far.”

Christy lifted her head. Ahead of them was the mission house—a large square frame building set in a big yard with a mountain rising behind it.

“There it is,” Mr. Grantland said. “Home sweet home.”

The front door of the mission house opened to reveal an older woman. She was tall, almost gaunt, with angular features. “What in the world has the cat dragged in?” she demanded.

“Miss Huddleston fell into the creek,” Mr. Grantland said. He stepped inside the house. The warmth on her icy face brought tears to Christy's eyes.

“Think you can stand?” he asked.

Christy nodded.

“Good thing,” he said. “Nothing personal, but my arms are about to give out.”

He set her down gently. Instantly the room began to sway, and Mr. Grantland held out an arm to steady her. He pointed to the older woman.

“This is my sister, Ida. Her bark, you'll soon find, is worse than her bite.”

“You may call me Miss Ida.” The woman clucked her tongue at the puddle forming on the floor. “Look at this mess! She brought half the creek in with her.”