Light to the Hills: A Novel (4)

The book woman shook her head as she drew the reins over Junebug’s long ears. “I’m neither. Got a job takin’ books to folks in the hills. If you’ve a mind, I’ve brought the makings of a pie I can share, and you and your children can look through what I have.”

Rai drew herself up tall and brushed the front of her dress with her hand. “You can just turn right around back the way you came. We don’t take charity. Lotta folks a lot worse off.” Her dark eyes fixed Amanda with a hard stare. Sass didn’t envy the woman this attention. They could go without dinner for a week, and her mama would still give a few extra eggs to a neighbor who was going on eight days of hungry. Some days, Sass admitted, she would rather have a bite of pone than an empty stomach full of pride. She held her breath. She’d already been tasting that apple pie in her head, imagining the sweet dissolving on her tongue.

The book woman shook her head. “No,” she said, then laughed, likely knowing the absurdity of even offering such a thing. “Of course. This is a new idea from FDR, for folks who live too far out to get to schools. He means to bring books to them. A delivery service for news and such, no charge or barter.”

Sass had sidled up the front steps with Hiccup. Fern and Cricket made faces from beyond the doorframe, but Sass ignored them. She would answer their questions later. Hiccup’s shriek interrupted the conversation. She’d stuck her hand in Sass’s pocket and felt something poky.

“Mama,” Sass remembered, “during the storm, I found an oak tree and got a mess of akerns.” She dug into her pocket and scooped out the handful, sprinkling a few into Hiccup’s palms. She moved to the front windowsill and placed the acorns on it in a neat row.

Rai nodded her approval. “That’s lucky. Next storm, we won’t worry about lightning strikes, then. That’s one less thing.” She seemed to remember something and turned back to the woman and her mule. “You say you got the innards of a pie with you?”

“I do.” The woman nodded. “Apple, with some extra sugar.”

Sass caught Fern and Cricket exchanging a glance. With times as lean as they’d been, a surprise like an apple pie—with sugar—was an unexpected delight.

“Cricket, take Miz Amanda’s mule to the back and tether him by the barn. Fern, you and Sass wash up and give me a hand. Your daddy and Finn’ll be home ’fore too long and will be needing some supper.”

Amanda nodded her thanks to the boy and gave a reassuring squeeze to the mule’s nose. She removed the saddlebags before Cricket took Junebug around back. She draped them over her arm and followed Rai into the house. Rai tossed the sapling back to Sass before she left the porch. “Strip the root and leaves like I showed you,” she said. “I’ll put some water on for the tea. Take Hiccup with you to tend the hens ’fore you come in.”

Sass breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the promise of apple pie had saved her from a tongue-lashing for bringing a stranger right to their doorstep. Her daddy was partial to apples. Finn would sure enjoy a slice, too, she thought, her heart dancing at the prospect of bringing a bit of happy into his dark days.

As Amanda passed by Sass, she winked and patted her side, where Sass knew the holstered pistol hung under her loose shawl. She gave Sass the barest shake of her head. One less worry again, thought Sass. The book woman wouldn’t tell about the snake, and Mama wouldn’t have to know Sass had been careless. Miz Amanda, the book woman, had been there less than twenty minutes, and already the load was lifting.

Sass headed for the chicken pen, with Hiccup jabbering away in her ear. Across the path, she spotted Cricket, hands in his pockets, walking back from where he’d tied the mule. Hiccup clamored for Sass to hoist her onto her back, but Sass was tired from her walk through the woods.

“You’re too big to tote around. You can walk on your own two feet,” Sass said. They scattered a few handfuls of corn for the small flock, and the hens cocked their combed heads and pecked up the grains as Hiccup counted them and stomped her feet.

“Tick! Ticky!” she called, still using her baby word for them, as the hens ignored her. “Tickens!”

Only six eggs. The days were getting shorter. Sass wondered why the sun going down early meant fewer eggs in her pocket when the darkness coming sooner didn’t shorten her workday any. She gave a half-hearted kick at the hens as she closed the gate to the pen. They scattered with indignant squawks and flying feathers, intent on their corn.

As she turned to make sure her little sister followed her back to the house, the strap of the ginseng bag shifted on Sass’s shoulder. She’d forgotten all about the sang, the reason she’d been out in Gingko Holler in the first place. This birthday was shaping up fine. Now she had the promise of a piece of penny candy, maybe a book to look through, and a taste of apple pie, all in the space of a day. If her luck held, maybe the book woman might have brought the story about an old clock and a girl named Nancy.





Chapter 2


Rai’s husband wasn’t a hard man. Years of toil and lean living marked him on the outside, weathered his face into deep lines and stole the tip of the little finger on his right hand from a worn-out saw at a lumberyard, but the knocks and know-hows of the world hadn’t burrowed down inside him like they had in some others. His blue eyes still crinkled at the corners when he played the mandolin, and while he didn’t abide shirking chores, he’d still reach out a big paw and jerk Sass’s braid every now and then with a wink, or cuff Finn or Cricket on the shoulder for a good day’s labor.