Light to the Hills: A Novel (38)

A marvel, even Maude Harris, the granny woman who hiked out to meet her on her Friday route, still showed up to wait. Often by the time Amanda made it to the crossroads where they met, Maude would have built a fire and settled in to smoke a pipe on a stump, her cheeks rosy from the heat. It gave Amanda a chance to visit and warm herself a bit before continuing on her way. The school she visited had disbanded for the winter, which meant Amanda wouldn’t see Vessel until spring. She missed their regular socializing and the faces of the children who’d run out to meet her when they spied her mule from the schoolhouse windows.

With the school off her route temporarily, between her own work at home and looking after Miles, Amanda squeezed in extra time at the MacInteer place. She had quizzed Vessel for the best way to go about teaching letters and reading. She was officially a librarian, not a teacher, as she’d never made it to the college in Berea, but the cold winter days provided the perfect opportunity for Sass and her family to study and practice what they learned. Or at least the girls and Finn.

Junebug trotted eagerly up the path to the MacInteers’ place. He’d been there often enough that he knew to expect soft hands and a bit of hay to while away the time. Amanda led him around to the lean-to out back, where he would stand tied for as long as she stayed, and slid her saddlebags onto the crook of her arm. She stroked his long ears and left him with some hay before she followed the muddy path up to the porch, her breath clouds of white in the cold, still air. At the sound of her stomping boots, the door latch lifted from within, and Fern peeked out.

“Miz Rye,” she gasped. “We didn’t even hear you come up. Snow must’ve dampened your footsteps. Come in, come in.” Fern ushered her through the door, taking her load and shutting the door fast behind her as the wind howled lonely through the treetops.

Inside was a bit warmer since it was out of the wind, but it wasn’t close to toasty. Pages of newsprint tacked to the walls helped block the trickles of cold air that pried their way through every chink in the wood. Rai, Fern, and Sass wore layers of clothing, with fingerless gloves covering their hands. Hiccup was burrowed under the quilt on the bed, humming to herself in her private hidey-hole, and Finn sat at the table, a potato in one hand and a knife in the other. He rotated the potato as he peeled so that the brown peeling came loose in one long, unbroken curl.

Finn no longer lay abed, sweating and pale. Although he hadn’t gone back to the mines, he’d apparently picked up work where he could find it and appeared stronger, less aimless.

Amanda noticed a walking stick leaning against Finn’s chair. “That’s a fine stick. Did you make it, Finn?” she asked, studying the scenes carved into it.

Finn was quick to lay on the praise. “That’s all Cricket’s doing. He carved the length of it. It being hick’ry, I’ll never need worry ’bout it getting busted. It’s strong as a goat’s breath. Cricket here’s a ready carpenter. He don’t need my help in seeing what’s in the wood no more.”

“It’s a beauty,” said Amanda, running her hands along the patterns. “Why, here’s a fox, trees, mountains, and birds.”

Rai chimed in. “With that walking stick, Finn gets outside to sit on the porch or walks to the barn and rubs down the horses. He’s getting his strength back, walking in the woods for hours at a time, despite the weather. Makes all the difference in his spirits. He’s even wisecracking again, helps me snap beans or peel onions.” She glanced at Amanda with a warm smile and a furtive wink. “He also studies the leavings you bring.”

With Amanda there, the previously quiet room came to life. Rai stoked the stove to warm a bit of tea, and Sass and Fern drew their chairs up to the table and scattered to retrieve the books from where they’d been left in this corner or that. In no time, they sat ready for their lesson, the part of the week they looked forward to most.

Sass pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and slid it in front of Amanda as soon as she was seated. “Looky here, Miz Rye, I finished the entire alphabet, start to end.”

Amanda picked up the paper. Careful letters were written in lines over and over where Sass had practiced. Faint outlines of previous attempts were visible beneath them. Sass had traced, erased, and traced again until she’d gotten it just right. Amanda couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

“Why, Sass, you’ve been working so hard, I can tell. These have come a long way since the last time I was here. This B is perfect, and the W—that’s a hard one—looks just right.”

Sass fairly purred under Amanda’s praise, and Rai squeezed her daughter’s shoulder, adding her own encouragement. “Sass is a quick study, for certain. Anytime she has a spare moment, she’s a-poring over them books, writing letters with that pencil you give her.” Rai glanced at her older daughter. “Fern, too. ’Cept she’s got her hands full of rabbits.”

Amanda turned to the older girl. “Fern? You have more?”

Fern brought a lumpy pillowcase to the table and turned it upside down. Twenty or so stuffed rabbits tumbled out, all ears and legs. Amanda clapped her hands.

“Precious as can be,” she praised. “I love how they’re all different. This one has flowers on its face, and this one is flop-eared because of the way you stuffed it.” She laughed. “Oh, and this one”—she held up one half the size of the rest—“this little’un is the sweetest.”