Light to the Hills: A Novel (27)

Junebug stepped into a rut on the trail and the saddlebag bumped against Amanda’s calf. One of the families she visited had given her a few apples, and she planned to take them to the MacInteers’ place. Finn sure had enjoyed that apple pie on her first visit, and she hoped another taste might lift his spirits. What a nice family, Amanda thought. Rai so kind and Sass with such spunk. If she could ease their current hardship, well of course, she should. She thought of Finn’s quick grin and gentle way with his brother and sisters, and her heart warmed like she hadn’t felt in a long while.

As it often did, the dark cloud of Frank Rye dimmed her sunny thoughts. What had she known about Frank back then? She’d been barely seventeen, fresh as a daisy and eager to stretch her wings. She’d stretched all right, flew clear into the blinding light like a moth to a flame.

Frank Rye and Gripp Jessup had swooped down into their small fellowship like wild and wily screech owls. They’d been heading into town to look for work when they’d passed by the Wick house one afternoon while Amanda and her mama hoed their kitchen garden. Mama liked to keep her cucumbers tidy. Frank had been whistling Dixie and could warble and trill just like a mockingbird.

“Hidy, ladies. Can you tell us if we’re headed in the right direction for town?” Frank spoke first. He had a strong, deep voice, and he shielded his eyes with one hand as he leaned on the garden fence. The other man stood a head shorter than Frank and was built like a fence post. His face held a permanent squint, like either he was nearsighted or constantly wincing against the sun. Amanda thought he glanced around the place like he was taking inventory.

“Another few miles and you’ll hit Flat Creek. Acrost that you’ll come up on a trail that runs along a fence right into town. You hunting the mine?”

He’d nodded, a shock of his sandy hair falling forward. “Mine, lumberyard, whatever’s up for grabs.” His companion snickered, and Frank had thrown him a look. He leaned over the fence and extended a hand. “Name’s Frank Rye. This here’s Gripp Jessup.” The second man withdrew a dirty paw from his pocket and held it over the fence to them. It wouldn’t have been neighborly to not shake, so Amanda and Mama stepped forward and obliged. Mama didn’t give their names.

“My husband’s the preacher here at the church,” she’d said. Jack had taken his smith wagon into town to handle some business, but as far as the strangers knew, he could walk out the door of the whitewashed church building any minute. Frank nodded and stood back from the fence. Gripp remained where he was, making himself comfortable.

“That so?” Frank said. “My mama’s family back east attends reg’lar. Thank you for the directions. You ladies enjoy your gard’ning now.”

He nudged Gripp, who made a show of spitting in the dirt, like he would move on when he was good and ready and not before. Gripp had studied the church building, eyeing it like he meant to make an offer. “Since we’re here, could I trouble you for a bit o’ light for a pipe?” He dug in his pocket and held out a carved wooden pipe, its mouthpiece worn and bearing the marks of his teeth. This sort of request was common, matches a luxury seldom known. Neighbors often borrowed shovels of coals from a hearth or took advantage of a ready light when they happened upon one on the road. Amanda took the pipe and disappeared into the cabin to drop a coal into its bowl. When she returned and handed the smoldering pipe back to Gripp, he nodded his appreciation and pulled on the stem, puffs of smoke slipping from his thin lips and settling in clouds around his head. His eyes squinted even farther against it until they were all but closed, a bullfrog blinking in the sun, waiting for the buzz of a passing black fly.

“Now Frank and me, we been on the road so long we don’t get much chance to go to meeting. You got room for extra come Sunday?”

Amanda noticed Mama stand straighter. “We are meeting this Sunday since it’s the first of the month. Can’t say we’re much more reg’lar than that up in these parts. You fellers are certainly welcome to join.” Her voice rang brighter. “We start at ten and have lunch after. My husband, Jack, would be pleased to have you.”

That Sunday, Frank Rye and Gripp Jessup had returned. A tickle of pleasure ran through Amanda when she’d watched Frank cast his eyes from pew to pew, stopping when they landed on her. His smooth skin reminded her, for some reason, of a square of sweet caramel candy. Frank’s singing voice carried in the small building, and Amanda could pick out the new deep sound like a radio tuned just for her.

At the dinner on the grounds after services, they’d sat under the shade of a grand sycamore, its branches hanging low and lazy, while Mama looked on from a short distance. Frank talked of rivers and cities Amanda had never seen. He’d been to a bit of school, too. Not as far as she had, but once he’d saved up enough, he said, he wanted to head west to make a go of things. Frank had even thought about enlisting, given the talk of trouble brewing in Germany. He was a good shot with a rifle, he said, and knew how to live by his wits.

After dinner, the pluck and twang of strings stirred the already-jovial mood of the group. Perhaps her heart had fluttered to a rhythm all its own, but Amanda could still recall every note of the music they made that day.

“Now I know what I’m gonna have to start calling you,” Frank had teased. “With a voice like yours and the way you make those strings hum.”