The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek Read online

  The mule’s shoulder quivered under my hands. It’d taken a good hour to calm her, and another to ease my nausea and try to rid my mind of Vester Frazier. The freedom and joy I’d felt this morning had been robbed. That he could steal it so easily left me both furious and scared. I looked at my timepiece, dusted off my skirts, and mounted.

  We rode on and stopped at three more cabins. By the time we reached the Lovett place, my neck was crooked from watching my backside, my skin lit from the nerves.

  Lovett’s Ridge was a spectacle, and soon I relaxed a little and soaked it up. Layers of dark-blue mountains stacked in the distance, at every turn their cuts rolling, deepening, then lightening to shades of blue-greens from the day’s passing clouds. The air blew fresh and breezy. Scents of apple blossoms lifted from a nearby tree, and honeysuckle clung to a crumbling split-rail fence as swallowtails and fat-legged bees flitted above the old timbers and dipped for nectar.

  It was alive. You could feel the heartbeat of this mountain, unlike my home tucked in the dark, decaying hollow of old bark and moss, a place where it stayed dark during the day and grew darker at night. Lovett Mountain felt religious, churched, like it belonged.

  “Ghee, girl,” I said, still wary and circling Junia wide around my new library patron.

  Tanned a golden brown like expensive old parchment, yet youthful in bone, Jackson Lovett knelt in the side yard, humming a gravelly ballad, his busy hands working the masonry around a busted well wall.

  “Drop it on the porch,” he said, barely glancing at me.

  I pointed Junia to the steps and dismounted but held on to her reins. Inside my saddlebags I found a worn copy of A Plea for Old Cap Collier. I tried to get books I thought different patrons might like and always liked to fill their requests. But with such a shortage of reading material, and because I only got to the Center once a month, it was impossible to select a book for each patron. I lifted it from my leather pouch, and two other books tumbled out onto the grass beside Junia.

  The mule toe-hopped and I tried to still her. “Easy, Junia. Easy.” I bent down to gather the books beside her hooves, gripping the reins and tapping her knees to push her back.

  Mr. Lovett came over to help. He reached for Junia’s bridle. Before I could warn him of the mule’s cantankerous ways, she pinned back her ears and bit him.

  He snatched his hand away, shaking his wrist, cursing under his breath, and cradling the injury.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Sorry! She’s had a frightful day on the trail,” I excused and promptly smacked Junia on the rump, lightly scolding her. “Real sorry. She doesn’t like…uh…people much.” I dug inside my bags, pulled out an old bandage roll, and offered it to Mr. Lovett.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, waving away my offer. He stepped onto his porch and grabbed a jar from the rail, opened it, and poured the clear liquid over his bite. “This alcohol will heal it faster.”

  I reached into my pocket for Angeline’s seeds. “Mrs. Moffit asked that you pass these seeds to the doc for medical payment. Her husband needs tending to.”

  “It’ll be a while before I get to town.” He grimaced at his wound and then wrapped the hand in a strip of cloth while pinching glimpses of me.

  “He’s in a very bad way.”

  Our eyes latched, and I couldn’t turn away. His were fine and spirited, yet there weren’t nothing playful in them. There was something deeper, a touch of chance and danger, a conquering, but no harming in his gaze either, no fear I could rightly claim from it or could summon, or feel the need to tamp, to turn from. His eyes held a muddle of curiosity, loss, and other distant things I couldn’t call up that had somehow taken root and fixed themselves to him in a strange way.

  He broke our hold and examined his hand again.

  “He’s been shot, sir.” Mindful of my boldness, I tucked my head to my chin, feeling my ears scalding blue, my face warming full of color to match my hands. “Hurt badly,” I added, locking my hands behind me, wishing I’d worn the deerskin gloves Pa had made me.

  “For stealing chickens,” he said simply, inspecting his dressing some more.

  I tucked the seeds back into my coat, worried my fingers over the tiny package. It was a lot to ask for a thief, and Mr. Lovett seemed far too busy to take hours off, what it would take to go to town and back. It didn’t make sense. I would be in town in a few weeks and find Doc then.

  Satisfied with his nursing, Mr. Lovett pulled a knife from his pocket.

  I stepped back, tugged on Junia’s reins, pulling her to me, fearful he’d hurt her.

  “Junia, huh?” He stood in front of the mule and wagged his knife at her, studying her. “Is that your name, ol’ girl?”

  Junia flattened her ears, then struck out a front leg and kicked forward. Mr. Lovett sidestepped, missing her temper by a mere inch.

  I yanked on her bit, scolding.

  “Is that any way to treat a new friend?” Mr. Lovett said and grabbed an apple off the porch. He sliced off a piece of the fruit and held it out to her.

  Junia turned her head, side-eyeing him and the fruit. Just when I thought she was going to ignore him, she knocked her head forward and snatched the whole apple from him.

  “Junia!” I cried, now afraid he would surely beat her—or worse.

  Instead, he laughed easily and slipped the knife back into his pocket. “Now, Junia, you’ve got yourself a fine mule skinner there. And I can see she takes real good care of you. You just keep bringing the book mistress back, and I promise to get you more.”

  Junia flopped her ears and chewed, studying him. The mule would never warm to him or any man after all the horrible things Charlie Frazier and his kin had done to her.

  Mr. Lovett plucked his copy of A Plea for Old Cap Collier off the ground. “Have anything else? I like Cobb just fine, but I already read this when I was out west.”

  The old Kentucky author, Irvin S. Cobb, was popular reading for menfolk—a great humorist, and Pa used to enjoy reading his Old Judge Priest stories.

  “No, sir, not today. These others are spoken for. And they’re mostly what the courier dropped off at my outpost. I’ll try and bring more next Monday. Anything particular?”

  “I’ve been wanting to read John Steinbeck’s latest.”

  “I go to the Library Center the second Tuesday of each month. I’ll be sure and check for you.” It was a treat to be able to pick out reading material for my patrons instead of just having what the courier left at my pickup station.

  “Thanks. Do you read much?”

  “Yessir, I started reading when I could hold a book, and I haven’t stopped. Mama taught me with the family Bibles and old newsprints. We had pamphlets, an old church hymnal, some discarded oil cans and trash containers with advertising that she’d have Pa bring home to use for teaching.”

  “Mine did the very same.” He looked out to the mountains like he was recalling gentle memories of it.

  I wondered if his mama had been book-read. My mama didn’t have the higher learning, but she’d read plenty enough to almost be. She got most of her smarts from her French grandfather and had herself the start of a small library with eight fine books Pa’d scraped and saved to buy for her. Mama’d insisted on me having the reading and writing same as her. And Pa’d agreed and built her a corner cubby to display the books even though he didn’t particularly have the fondness anymore, just occasionally scanning an article in the newsprint or magazines, always saying, “A sneaky time thief is in them books. There’s more important ways to spend a fellar’s time.”

  I was pleased this patron liked books so much, surprised he could read or cared about reading. Most men around these parts wanted the mechanic magazines or catalogs.

  A lot of hillfolk refused to read, while others had been forced to learn when their Kentucky sons went off to war, and letters arrived back home. But then I reckoned anyone smart enough
to build a dam out west had to be clever.

  “I have sorely missed the books,” he said. “It’ll be great to have new ones. I’d like several if you can spare them.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  He called out to Junia, “That sure went quick. You don’t like people much, huh? You liking me any better after that tasty apple, ol’ girl?” Then he cocked his head toward me. “What about you?”

  “Sir?” I asked, picking up the other fallen books.

  “You… I know you like books. Do you like people?”

  “I—I best get going. My other patrons are waiting for their Monday drops.” I still had the school, Mr. Prine, the Smiths, and Loretta Adams ahead of me, and there was time to make up.

  “Call me Jackson.” He took a step toward me. “And you must be—”

  Junia lit a ghostly shriek, bared her teeth, and pushed herself between us, blocking, gnawing at the air for another nip of him.

  Again, I was grateful for the mule’s orneriness.

  Hiding behind Junia, I peeked over the saddle at him and murmured, “Cussy Mary, but some call me Bluet.” I hurried and put the books back into the bag, then slipped my foot into Junia’s stirrups and mounted.

  “Bluet.” He chewed the name, chanced a glance to my hands and face. “And a right pretty damselfly at that. As pretty as those blue-eyed Marys.” He nudged his chin toward an old tree bloused with a full skirt of the wildflowers, the colony of plants blooming in soft blues and whites.

  “Ghee,” I murmured to Junia, not knowing what to reply to this man’s words, my face bursting with the color louder than any that could be scraped off my tongue. Then a bit firmer, and before my color could frighten him into taking it back, “Ghee.”

  He gave the mule a pat on the rump. “Ride safe, Junia.”

  Junia swished her tail, pricked her ears.

  I nudged her with my heels. She wouldn’t budge. Mr. Lovett studied me. I dropped my weight into the saddle and dug my heels in again, but Junia weren’t having none of it, determined to be mulish and ruin our graceful exit.

  “Goodbye, Cussy Mary.” He smiled, and this time his eyes did too.

  I lifted my legs out wide and brought them down hard on Junia’s side, making a crude flapping sound from the stirrup leathers, feeling a flush shoot up from my feet to my face. “Ghee up!”

  Junia snorted and trotted away.

  “Jackson Lovett,” I whispered and stopped the mule on the trail minutes later and out of earshot from his cabin, turning his words. “What do you reckon he’s about?”

  Junia raised her upper lip and nibbled the breeze with tall, talking teeth.

  Seven

  We left our last patron, Loretta Adams, as shadow-draped mountains folded into a coal-dust sky. Eager for the safety of our cove, Junia led us there with nary a falter in her fast stride.

  I pulled off her bridle and saddle, then the bags, and hung it all inside the tiny shed Pa’d reluctantly built for her.

  Junia rolled on the grassy patch outside, enjoying her freedom. After a few minutes, I cleaned her hooves, then led her into the stall. Inspecting her coat, I found a few scratches and nursed the scrapes with salve. After latching her wooden half door, I tossed hay over her gate. The mule pushed her nose inside the small bin by the doorway and crooked her mouth, showing teeth.

  “Long day, ol’ girl,” I said, tired. “Let me tend to me now.” I tickled her floppy ears. Solemn, she eyed me and nudged my hand.

  I fetched a bucket of water for the cabin and my book bag and then hurried to the porch.

  Pausing, I leaned my forehead to the door, dreading the long night without Pa, the loneliness that came after he left for the mine. I never felt it so much out there carrying my books, but as soon as I stepped onto my porch, an emptiness loomed and struck when I thought about the fat, dark hours coming.

  Creek waters rippled over stone, the murmurs swirling around the cove, as damp breaths of fog pressed down. Inhaling, I took a long pull of the night air to forget my troubles, to forget that Frazier was out there hunting. Sometimes on a clear night I would carry out a chair, sit in the yard with Junia, and watch the stars until my breathing slowed and I could muster enough courage to go back inside the cabin.

  Pa must’ve heard I was home. Coughing, he called out for me.

  “Evening, Pa,” I said, stepping inside and trying to dip some cheer into my greeting. I set down the bucket and dropped my book bag.

  Pa had just awakened. He yawned, scratched the stubble on his face, then pulled on his overalls over his long johns.

  “You’re late, Daughter.”

  “Sorry, Pa. It was a bothersome day,” I admitted.

  “Did you meet trouble out there?” Concern crawled across his coal-stained brows.

  “I… No, sir,” I fibbed and hid it behind a feeble smile. “It was a long ride my first day back. I caught folks up on their reading, and they wanted me to sit a spell.”

  I wouldn’t tell him about Vester Frazier. It was one thing to find the intruder sneaking onto your land, a Kentucky law that protected all colors from the violation. But we Blues dared not mete out punishment if the harm was off our land.

  Over the years, more than one mistreated Blue who’d tried to right a wrong, defend a kin’s honor, or stand up to their persecutor had received a whipping or gone missing in these hills. Pa’s uncle Colton, a hard-working miner, was one of them, dumped into an abandoned coal-mine shaft after he’d punched a man who’d accosted his wife. They didn’t find Colton’s bones for five years.

  There’d been other talk—whispers from my folks when they thought I was asleep, or out of earshot—the tales of other Blues being hanged for something as simple as back-talking white folk.

  “I got a new patron today,” I said. “Mr. Lovett.”

  “Cause you any trouble?”

  “No, sir. He’s—” What was he? “He’s a nice enough fellar. Went out west and built a dam for the president. He’s bought the old Gentry homestead. Mr. Lovett hankered for the books, and I loaned him one of Irvin Cobb’s.”

  Pa didn’t say anything, just sat down on the bed and wrestled on his boots, then thrust his chin to the stove. “Went ahead and helped myself to the beans you made this morning.”

  Relieved he weren’t in the mood to fuss about my job, I crossed to the stove, the old sloping floorboards protesting under my feet. I grabbed two slices of bread from a loaf I’d baked the day before, then scooped out some of the beans from the pot, straining the juices off. I mashed the beans, spread them onto the bread, packing the meaty sandwich into his lunch bucket, adding an apple and a stringy carrot from the cellar to top it off.

  “Pa, let me fix you some tea,” I said.

  “No time. I’m running late myself.”

  “Another union meeting?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mama said they were too dangerous.”

  “It’s not a female’s affair.”

  “But I’m afraid for you. Pa, if there’s another strike, there’ll surely be more deaths. Three miners died in the last one, and a few others were left beaten and crippled, spent for life. The Company’s guards will take up arms again and shoot anyone who tries to strike. I’m frightened—”

  “Daughter, take a look at the fright out there. They’re murderers, gun thugs, them Company men are. Something must be done. Folks are worse off than before they arrived.” Pa coughed. “We’re working seventeen-hour days down on a rocky floor with bloody kneecaps in a black hole for scratch, and all the while fearing the next cave-in, the next blast that sends us to our fiery grave. Hell, we’re worth less than that ornery beast of yours. Same as Daniel.”

  I was too young to remember, but when Pa’s older brother, Daniel, worked the coal, the men tricked him into being a miner’s sacrifice, saying they’d already sent the mule in because
they’d just lost a Company beast two weeks before. Daniel went in first with a lantern, and there’d been an explosion. He cried out for help, but the Company couldn’t dig him out without causing another collapse. For two days and nights, Pa stayed at the site, talking to his brother through a hairline crack in the debris and rock while Daniel lay in the cold, dark belly of the mine, tortured from blistering burns, begging for mercy. The third morning, when Daniel went silent, the Company sealed the entrance and called their chaplain to say a few words.

  Pa’s eyes filled with a sadness as he spoke. “Yesterday they suspended Jonah White after a pillar collapsed and came down on his working mule and broke the creature’s back. Jonah had his arm crushed clean to the bone.”

  I rubbed my own arm Frazier had broken, horrified by the suffering of the miner and his mule.

  Pa’s voice cracked. “Boss Man told ol’ Jonah he just bought himself a dead ass and then put a rock on the poor fellar’s pay. A man best not let one of them Company mules get killed or harmed down there unless it’s for checking leaks. They’ll fire or suspend you like that.” Pa snapped his fingers. “But let a miner lose his limb or die in that black hellhole and they don’t blink, just replace him. They’re stealing the very breath of the Kentucky man, the land.” He knocked back a cough. “It’s all disappearing, Daughter. The tracks of muck in and out of this town, up our brown-dying mountains. Up”—Pa’s anger throbbed in his hardening jaw, and he hacked again—“up our dying ass! The devil Company won’t release its tether on us until they are good an’ sure they’ve fattened themselves on our black gold, spent us, and not a fast Kentucky second sooner.”

  “Let someone else go. Why do they always pick you? You haven’t had a day off in over a month—”

  “That’s exactly why I have to, Daughter.” He hooked the overall straps up over his shoulders, then shrugged on his coat. I handed him his lunch bucket and set his old carbide lamp helmet atop his head.