Christy shivered. Was she going to be homesick even before she reached her destination?
She returned to the coach. A long time passed before the train once again chugged slowly toward its destination. Outside, as the sun sank, the world glittered with ice, turning every bush and withered blade of grass to jewels—sapphires and turquoise, emeralds and rubies and diamonds.
Darkness came suddenly as, for what seemed like the thousandth time, Christy imagined her welcome at the train station. Someone would, of course, be sent to meet her—a welcoming committee of some kind.
“Miss Huddleston?” they would ask. “Are you the new teacher for the mission?” They would look her over, and their eyes would say, “We were expecting a young girl, but you’re a grown woman!”
At last the train began to slow and Mr. MacDonald announced they were coming into El Pano. As he lighted the railroad lanterns on the floor in front of the coach, the engine’s wheels ground to a stop. Christy reached for her muff and suitcase and started down the aisle. She was certain she could hear the nervous beating of her own heart.
“Let me help you with that suitcase,” the conductor said. “Easy on those steps. They may be slippery.”
Christy stepped down to the ground. Her eyes searched the dark. There wasn’t much to see—just the tiny station and four or five houses. Where was the welcoming committee she’d imagined?
A few men came out of the little station and began to unload boxes from a baggage cart. Now and then they paused to stare at Christy, muttering and laughing under their breath.
“You’re a mighty pert young woman, Miss Huddleston,” said the conductor. “But land sakes—watch yourself out there at Cutter Gap.”
“Thank you,” Christy said, trying to sound confident despite the fear rising in her. She spun around, searching again for some sign that she was not about to be left completely alone. But no one was coming. The snowy landscape lay deserted.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Mr. MacDonald said as he climbed the train steps.
Christy just gave him a smile and a wave. Slowly the train began to move. The smaller it grew, the greater the lump in Christy’s throat. And then, from a distance, the engine whistle blew. Her heart clutched at the sound.
Finally, there was nothing but emptiness. She was alone. All alone.
The men finished unloading the baggage cart. She could feel their eyes on her, hear their whispers. With a firm grip on her suitcase, Christy strode toward the little station. Whatever happened, from this moment on, this was her adventure.
She was not about to let anyone see how afraid she really was.
Inside the little station, a group of men stood near the stove. They fell silent as Christy headed toward the grilled window where the ticket agent stood.
“Sir?” Christy said to the old man. He did not look up. “Could you tell me if there’s somewhere in town where I could spend the night?”
There was no answer.
“Sir,” Christy repeated loudly. “Could you tell me—”
“Young woman, you’ll have to speak up.”
This time Christy practically shouted her question. The men near the stove laughed loudly.
“Well, now,” said the ticket agent. “Let’s see. Maybe Miz Tatum’s.”
“Where is that?”
“Oh, close. You just—” he paused and shook his head— “Guess it’s easier to show you.”
Christy followed the man back out into the stinging cold.
He pointed across the tracks. “Can’t quite make it out, but it’s that big house, second one down. You’ll find it.”
Christy nodded, peering into the velvety darkness.
“Just tell Miz Tatum that I sent you. You’ll get plenty to eat and a clean bed.” He chuckled. “Mind you, Miz Tatum can talk the hind legs off a donkey.”
Christy soon discovered that carrying a heavy suitcase wasn’t easy, not while holding up long skirts at the same time. Halfway to the boarding house, she slipped and fell. The snow churning up over her shoe tops was bad enough, but the laughter coming from the old ticket agent was even worse.
Mustering as much dignity as she could, Christy struggled to her feet and made her way toward the Victorian frame house the agent had pointed out. Yellow lamplight glowed from several windows, and smoke poured out of both chimneys. The cozy sight filled her with a sudden, desperate longing for her own home back in Asheville. Her parents and George would be sitting down to supper right about now. She could almost hear her father’s soft voice saying grace.
Christy set her suitcase on the porch, shook out her snowy skirts, and twirled the bell. Once more she glanced around her, hoping for a sight of the welcoming committee she’d imagined in such detail. But the street lay empty and perfectly silent. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath.
A tall, big-boned woman opened the door. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Tatum?” Christy asked.
The woman nodded, arms crossed over her chest.
“I’m Christy Huddleston from Asheville. The station man told me you take in roomers. Could I rent a room?”
“Sure could. Come on in out of the cold. Bad night, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Christy agreed, filled with relief. For tonight, at least, she would have a place to stay.
As Christy stepped inside, the woman looked her over carefully. “You come from Asheville way?” she said, taking Christy’s suitcase. “Not many women come through here on the train. Where you bound?”
“I—” Christy began.
“Oh, but listen to me!” Mrs. Tatum interrupted. “There’s time enough for questions. Let me show you to your room, child.” She pointed to a lamp. “Bring that lamp over there.”
The room upstairs was plain and clean. A shiny brass bed sat in the center. “Now, you make yourself at home,” Mrs. Tatum instructed, setting down Christy’s suitcase. Once again she gazed, eyes full of questions. “I’ll build up the fire downstairs, and you can eat by the stove.”
Before Christy could respond, Mrs. Tatum was bustling out the door. Christy changed clothes quickly, shivering in the unheated room. A nice, hot fire would be a welcome relief. Her toes were practically numb.
She picked up the lamp and groped her way down the dark stairs to the kitchen.
Mrs. Tatum had put on a large calico apron. “Here’s your supper,” she said as Christy sat at the kitchen table. “Spareribs and pickled beans. And there’s some sourwood honey and some apple butter to put on the biscuit bread. I saved the sourwood honey for something special.”
“Thank you,” Christy said, suddenly realizing how hungry she was.
“So tell me now,” Mrs. Tatum said, watching as Christy began to eat, “where exactly are you bound?”
Christy swallowed a piece of biscuit bread. “I’ve come to teach school at the mission. You know—out at Cutter Gap.”
Mrs. Tatum practically gasped. “Land sakes, child. You, teaching? At Cutter Gap? What does your mama think about that?”
“Oh, it’s all right with my parents,” Christy said, not wanting to discuss that whole thing. “After all, I am nineteen.”
Mrs. Tatum settled into a chair next to Christy. “Have they seen Cutter Gap?” she asked, eyes wide.
“No,” Christy admitted. Do all middle-aged people think this way? she wondered silently.
“Look,” Mrs. Tatum said sincerely. “I just don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m a pretty good judge of folks, and it’s easy to tell you come from a fancy home—your clothes, the way you talk.”
“My home isn’t that fancy,” Christy protested. “Besides, I’m not afraid of plain living.”
“Mercy sakes alive! You don’t know how plain. Did you ever have to sleep in a bed with the quilts held down by rocks just to keep the wind from blowing the covers off?”
Christy smiled. Surely Mrs. Tatum was exaggerating.
“The thing is I know those mountain people.�
� Mrs. Tatum lowered her voice. “They don’t take much stock in foreigners.”
“What do you mean, foreigners?” Christy protested. “I’m an American citizen, born in the Smoky Mountains.”
“Now, don’t get riled,” Mrs. Tatum soothed. “The folks in Cutter Gap think anyone who’s not from there is a foreigner. They’re mighty proud people. It’s going to be well-nigh impossible for you to help them.”
Christy pushed back her plate. As much as Mrs. Tatum’s words bothered her, she didn’t want to show it. “She could talk the hind legs off a donkey,” the station man had said. Was this just so much talk?
“That was excellent,” Christy said, hoping to change the subject. “Thank you, Mrs. Tatum. I was starving.”
Mrs. Tatum reached for Christy’s plate. Her brow furrowed. “Look, maybe you don’t like somebody like me that you never saw before tonight butting in. But my advice is that you get yourself on the next train and go straight back to your folks.”
How could I run away like that, before I’ve even seen Cutter Gap? Christy wondered as she pushed back her chair and stood.
“Mrs. Tatum,” she said gently, “I’ve given my word about teaching school. A promise is a promise.” She reached for the lamp. “How far is the Gap from here, anyway?”
“Seven miles, more or less.”
“How can I get out there tomorrow?”
Mrs. Tatum clucked her tongue. “My, you are eager, aren’t you?” She sighed. “Ben Pentland carries the mail out that way, but he ain’t been there since the snow fell.”
“How could I talk to Mr. Pentland?”
“At the general store most likely, come morning.”
“Thanks again for the supper, Mrs. Tatum. And please don’t worry about me.”
Christy glanced over her shoulder as she started up the stairs. Mrs. Tatum was staring at her, shaking her head in disapproval.
Back in her cold bedroom, Christy stared out the window at the little village beyond. The houses were roofed with silver, the railroad tracks a pair of shining ribbons. Where was Cutter Gap from here? Was it really such an awful place? What if her parents were right? Her parents and the conductor and Mrs. Tatum . . . What if they were all right? Didn’t anyone think she was doing the right thing, coming here?
They need a teacher, Christy told herself. Dr. Ferrand had said they were desperate for help. But then why hadn’t anyone been here to greet her? Had he forgotten to tell them she was coming? No, she had a letter from him. It couldn’t be that.
Cold air seeped through the window. Christy retreated to the dresser and began to pull hairpins from her hair. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Staring back was a face too thin, too angular. For the millionth time she wished she were beautiful, like her friend Eileen back in Asheville. She sighed. Her eyes were too big for the rest of her face. But this time she saw something new in them—something she’d never seen before.
She saw fear.
She opened her suitcase. Digging through the layers of clothing—she hadn’t been sure what to bring, so she’d brought a little of everything—she found what she was looking for. Clutching the leather-bound diary to her chest, she leapt under the covers, grateful for the warmth of Mrs. Tatum’s old quilt. She opened to the first, crisp page, yellow in the lamplight. Her fountain pen poised, she waited for the perfect words to come to her. This was, after all, the beginning of her adventure. She’d promised herself she would write it all down—good and bad, highs and lows.
January 7, 1912
My trip to El Pano was uneventful.
Christy wrote in her pretty, swirling handwriting. She stared at the words, then smiled at herself. Be honest, Christy, she told herself.
She tapped the fountain pen against her chin.
I have begun my great adventure this day, and although things have not gone exactly as I had hoped, I am still committed to my dream of teaching at the mission.
The day began with a heavy snowfall, which has made for difficult travel. Last night when it began to snow, Mother said, jokingly, that perhaps I should take it as an omen.
I don’t believe in such things, of course. Neither does Mother. (I suppose she was just hoping to convince me not to go, although she knew in her heart that was not to be.)
Still, upon my arrival in El Pano, no one was here to greet me, and I cannot help but wonder if that is not a bad sign. I want to be wanted, I suppose. To feel that my coming here is a good thing.
The truth is I have not been this afraid before or felt this alone and homesick. Leaving everyone I love was harder than I thought it would be. But I must be strong. I am at the start of a great adventure. And great adventures are sometimes scary.
Christy set her pen and diary on the night table. She lay back with a sigh and pulled the covers up to her neck.
It was a long, long time before she finally fell into a restless sleep.
She was having that dream again. She knew it was a dream, because she’d had it so many times.
She was standing on the railroad trestle, two hundred feet above the French Broad River. She and some friends had been on a picnic, and now they were heading home across the bridge. Her friends urged her on, but every time Christy looked down at the open spaces beneath her feet, her stomach began to somersault, and her head turned to the rushing noise like the river raging far below her.
She looked down, down through the hole to her certain death, and her knees became liquid. Someone screamed, and then she was falling, falling, falling . . .
Christy’s eyes flew open. A dream. It was just a dream, the same dream she’d had a million times before. She tried to swallow. Her throat was tight, her skin damp with sweat.
If it were just a dream, why did it feel so real this time?
She blinked. In the early morning light, she took in the surroundings of Mrs. Tatum’s guest room. It was so cold that Christy’s breath formed little clouds.
She glanced at her diary on the night table beside her bed. It was still open to the page where she’d begun writing. “I have not been this afraid before,” she read.
Well, no wonder her dreams were getting the better of her. Yesterday had been quite a day. She stared out the window at the snowy, mountainous landscape. Somewhere out there, Cutter Gap was waiting for her.
Today, she vowed, would go more smoothly.
When she pushed open the door to the general store, Christy was greeted by the smells of coal oil, strong cheese, leather, bacon fat, and tobacco. A group of men sat by the stove, whittling and rocking and talking among themselves. At the nearest counter, a woman arranged spools of thread in a cabinet under curving glass.
“Excuse me,” Christy said. “I was told I might find Mr. Pentland, the mailman, here.”
The woman’s eyes swept the men. “Ben,” she called loudly, “come here, will you?”
A man looked up from the high boots he was lacing. When he stood, he unfolded like a jackknife to a height of over six feet. He was wearing overalls covered by a frayed and unpressed suit coat. But it was his face that caught Christy’s attention—long and slim, creased by wind and weather, with bushy, arching eyebrows and deep-set eyes that sparkled.
“This here’s Ben Pentland,” said the woman. “Miss—”
Christy stuck out a mittened hand. “Christy Huddleston from Asheville.”
“Howdy.” He took her hand so firmly that she winced.
“You’re the postman, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
Obviously, Mr. Pentland was a man of few words. Christy glanced back at the circle of men watching her and Mr. Pentland with clear curiosity.
“Could I talk with you a minute?” Christy asked. “Back there, maybe?”
Mr. Pentland followed Christy toward the back of the store where the hardware and the harnesses and saddles were kept. “Mr. Pentland, I need help,” she said. “I’ve come to teach school in Cutter Gap. I thought someone would meet me at the station yesterday, but nobody did. So I’m try
ing to find a way to get there. Mrs. Tatum said you could help me since you carry the mail out that way.”
“Yep,” he said proudly. “Carry the letters regular. But ain’t nobody been in or out of Cutter Gap in a couple days. Snow’s too deep.”
“When are you going next?”
“Startin’ now. That’s why I was gettin’ my boots on. Letters are piled up somethin’ fearful.”
“Do you ride?”
The mailman looked astonished at her question. “No critter could make it in this snow!”
Christy felt her heart sink a little. Mrs. Tatum had said it was seven miles from here to Cutter Gap. Christy had never walked seven miles at one stretch in her entire life. But what did that matter? She couldn’t exactly sit here waiting for the snow to melt and spring to come.
“Could I walk out there with you today?” Christy asked.
“Nope. Too hard a walk for a city gal. These here mountains make for tough walking, and the deep snow makes it near impossible, even for mountain people. And besides, you’re just a runt of a girl. You’d never make it.”
He did not sound like he was going to change his mind. “Mr. Pentland,” Christy said forcefully, “you don’t understand. I’m strong, honestly I am, and the snow may last for weeks.”
“Sorry, miss. It just wouldn’t be right for a woman to go along with the U-nited States mail.” He took a step back and placed his hand over his heart, as if he was about to salute the flag. “ ‘Neither rain . . . nor snow . . . nor heat . . . nor gloom of night . . . will stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’ ”
Christy stared at him in amazement. She had never heard that slogan before. Was Mr. Pentland making fun of her?
“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Mr. Pentland asked. “The government in Washington wrote it up for us. Anyway, I figure if rain or snow can’t stop us from getting the mail where it needs to go, then I surely can’t have no city gal getting in the way.” He turned to rejoin his companions by the stove.
The Bridge to Cutter Gap Page 2