Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder Read online

  Christy®Juvenile Fiction Series

  VOLUME ONE

  Christy® Juvenile Fiction Series

  VOLUME ONE

  Book #1 – The Bridge to Cutter Gap

  Book #2 – Silent Superstitions

  Book #3 – The Angry Intruder

  VOLUME TWO

  Book #4 – Midnight Rescue

  Book #5 – The Proposal

  Book #6 – Christy’s Choice

  VOLUME THREE

  Book #7 – The Princess Club

  Book #8 – Family Secrets

  Book #9 – Mountain Madness

  VOLUME FOUR

  Book #10 – Stage Fright

  Book #11 – Goodbye, Sweet Prince

  Book #12 – Brotherly Love

  Christy®Juvenile Fiction Series

  VOLUME ONE

  The Bridge to Cutter Gap

  Silent Superstitions

  The Angry Intruder

  Catherine Marshall

  adapted by C. Archer

  VOLUME ONE

  The Bridge to Cutter Gap

  Silent Superstitions

  The Angry Intruder

  in the Christy ® Juvenile Fiction Series

  Copyright © 1995

  by the Estate of Catherine Marshall LeSourd

  The Christy ® Juvenile Fiction Series is based on

  Christy ® by Catherine Marshall LeSourd © 1967

  by Catherine Marshall LeSourd © renewed

  1995 by Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

  The Christy ® name and logo are officially registered

  trademarks of Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

  All characters, themes, plots, and subplots portrayed in this

  book are the licensed property of Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be

  reproduced in any form without the written permission

  of the publisher, except for brief excerpts in reviews.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson ®,

  a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  ISBN 1-4003-0772-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 BANTA 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The Bridge

  to Cutter Gap

  Contents

  The Characters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  The Characters

  CHRISTY RUDD HUDDLESTON, a nineteen-

  year-old girl.

  Her father, mother, and brother George.

  CHRISTY’S STUDENTS:

  ROB ALLEN, age fourteen.

  CREED ALLEN, age nine.

  LITTLE BURL ALLEN, age six.

  BESSIE COBURN, age twelve.

  VELLA HOLT, age five.

  SAM HOUSTON HOLCOMBE, age nine.

  SMITH O’TEALE, age fifteen.

  RUBY MAE MORRISON, age thirteen.

  JOHN SPENCER, age fifteen.

  CLARA SPENCER, age twelve.

  ZADY SPENCER, age ten.

  LULU SPENCER, age six.

  LUNDY TAYLOR, age seventeen.

  SCALAWAG, Creed Allen’s pet raccoon.

  ALICE HENDERSON, a Quaker mission worker from Ardmore, Pennsylvania.

  DAVID GRANTLAND, the young minister.

  IDA GRANTLAND, David’s sister.

  DR. NEIL MACNEILL, the physician of the Cove.

  JEB SPENCER, a mountain man.

  FAIRLIGHT SPENCER, his wife.

  (Parents of Christy’s students John, Clara, Zady, and Lulu)

  Their toddler, LITTLE GUY.

  BOB ALLEN, keeper of the mill by Blackberry Creek.

  MARY ALLEN, his superstitious wife.

  (Parents of Christy’s students Rob, Creed, and Little Burl)

  AULT ALLEN, Bob’s older brother.

  MRS. TATUM, the boarding-house lady.

  BEN PENTLAND, the mailman.

  JAVIS MACDONALD, the train conductor.

  DR. FERRAND, a medical missionary in the Great Smoky Mountains.

  One

  It was her worst nightmare come true. She couldn’t cross. She couldn’t cross the bridge, not if her very life depended on it.

  Christy Huddleston managed a grim smile. Bridge! It was not a bridge at all, just two huge, uneven logs with a few thin boards nailed across them here and there. A deadly layer of ice coated the logs and boards. Far below, frigid water swirled past and around and over jagged chunks of ice and razor-sharp rocks.

  Christy took a step closer to the bridge. The whole contraption swayed in the biting wind. Her stomach swirled and bucked. She had never liked heights, but this . . . this was impossible.

  She looked across to her guide, Ben Pentland, on the other side of the swollen creek. The mail-man gazed at her doubtfully. He’d told her she wouldn’t be able to make this seven-mile journey through rough, snowy terrain. “Too hard a walk for a city-gal,” he’d said, and now she wondered if he’d been right.

  “Stomp your feet,” Mr. Pentland called. “Get ’em warm. Then come on—but first scrape your boots, then hike up your skirts.”

  Christy hesitated. She could no longer feel her toes inside her rubber boots. Her long skirts, wet almost to her knees, were half-frozen.

  Mr. Pentland shook his head. “Can’t get to where you’re goin’ without crossin’ this bridge.

  ” His words hung in the brittle air. Not for the first time that day, Christy wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake coming to this place. What was she doing here, deep in the Tennessee mountains in the middle of winter, heading off to a world she’d never seen before? Teaching school to poor mountain children had seemed like a fine idea in the cozy warmth of her home back in Asheville, North Carolina. But now . . .

  Christy fingered the locket her father had given her before she’d left Asheville. Inside was a little picture of her parents and one of Christy and her brother George. No one in her family had understood why she’d felt she had to come to this wild and lonely place to teach at a mission school.

  And now, she wasn’t so sure herself.

  “Guess you ain’t crossed a bridge like this before,” said Mr. Pentland.

  “No,” Christy agreed, forcing an unsteady smile.

  She took a deep breath, then put one foot on a log. It swayed a little. Her boot sent a piece of bark flying. She watched it as it twirled down, falling the dozen feet to the water. The water snatched at the bit of wood and sped it away.

  Another step, and she was on the bridge. The sound of the water became a roar in her ears. There was no turning back now. “You’re doin’ fine,” came Mr. Pentland’s soothing voice. “Keep a-comin’. Not far now.”

  Not far now? It seemed he was a hundred miles away, safe on the far side.

  The logs swayed and tilted. Christy stared at her feet as she struggled with her heavy wet dress. Another step, another. With great effort, she forced herself to look at Mr. Pentland.

  She was halfway there. She was going to make it.

  Another step, and another. The far side was—

  ]Her boot slid on a crosspiece! She clutched at empty air for support that was not there, slipped and landed hard on her knees. She clung as best she could to the icy log.

  Mr. Pentland was shouting something and coming out to her. She crawled another few inches toward him.

  Why am I here, risking my life to get
to a place I’ve never seen? some sensible part of herself kept asking. Why is teaching so important to me? Had it only been yesterday that she’d stepped aboard the train to Tennessee, so confident and full of hope? Christy’s mind raced as she slowly crawled toward Mr. Pentland.

  Then her right knee hit a slick spot on the log. Her weight shifted. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, she slid over the side of the bridge.

  “No!” she cried. She clawed for support, but her fingers lost their grip. She was falling, falling, toward the icy water below. The roar of the water and the sound of her own screams filled her ears, and as she fell she wondered why she had to die now, die here—when she was trying to do something so good.

  As the icy waters rushed over her, the events of the last two days flashed across Christy’s mind. Was this the way it would end?

  Two

  One day earlier.

  “Now, you watch your step going out to the car. With all that snow last night, the walk’s bound to be icy.” Mrs. Huddleston fussed with the bow of her crisp white apron. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  Christy took a deep breath to keep herself from crying, too. The look of love and longing in her mother’s eyes was hard to bear. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  Slowly, Christy took in the smells and sights around her, all the things she was leaving behind for who knew how long. The smell of starch in her mother’s apron, the hissing of the pine resin in the big iron stove in the kitchen, and the sleepy half-smile on her brother George’s face. He had stumbled out of bed just in time to see Christy off.

  “We have to go,” Mr. Huddleston repeated from the doorway. “The engine’s running. I had a time cranking the car in this cold.”

  Mrs. Huddleston took Christy’s hands in her own. “You’re sure about this?” she whispered.

  “Positive,” Christy said.

  “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

  “I promise. Really I do.”

  After a flurry of hugs and kisses, Christy settled at last into the front seat of the car. Her father drove silently, intent on navigating the icy roads. Asheville was a hilly town, and driving took all his concentration as he made his way in the pre-dawn gloom to the railroad station.

  In the gray light, the station had a ghostly look. Black smoke billowed from the engine smokestack. Mr. Huddleston parked the car and they climbed out. The slamming of the car doors seemed unnaturally loud and final. Christy began the walk to the train, keeping pace beside her father.

  She tensed, waiting for what she knew would come. She’d battled long and hard with her parents for the chance to leave home like this. They considered her far too young, at nineteen, to be going off alone on a wild adventure like teaching school in the Tennessee mountains.

  She’d told them that she was grown-up now. That this was, after all, 1912, and that women could take advantage of all kinds of exciting opportunities. Her life in Asheville was nothing but teas and receptions and ladies’ polite talk, dance-parties and picnics in the summer. A good enough life, certainly, but she knew in her heart that there had to be more than that waiting for her somewhere. All she had to do was find it.

  Her parents had argued with her, pleaded, bargained. But Christy was stubborn, like all the Huddlestons, and this time she was the one who’d gotten her way. She’d been thrilled at her victory, too—that is, until now, looking at her father’s worried, gentle face, and his too-gray hair.

  “My hand’s cold,” she said suddenly, sticking her hand into the pocket of his overcoat. It was a childish gesture, but her father understood. He paused, smiling at her sadly.

  “Girlie,” he said, using his favorite nickname for her, “do you really think you have enough money to get you through till payday?” His breath frosted in the crisp January air.

  “Plenty, Father.”

  “Twenty-five dollars a month isn’t going to go far.”

  “It’ll be good for me,” Christy said lightly. “For the first time in my life, I probably won’t have the chance to shop.”

  Reaching into his other pocket, Mr. Huddleston retrieved a small package. It was wrapped in blue paper and tied with a satin bow.

  “Father!” Christy exclaimed. “For me?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” he said, clearing his throat. “From your mother and me.”

  Christy fumbled with the wrapping. Inside was a black velvet-covered box. She opened it to discover a heart-shaped silver locket.

  “Great-grandmother’s necklace!” Christy cried.

  “Go ahead,” her father said. “Open it.”

  With trembling fingers, Christy opened the tiny engraved heart. Inside were two pictures. One was a carefully posed photograph of her parents: her mother with a gentle smile, her father gazing sternly at the camera, with just a hint of a smile in the creases of his eyes. On the other side was a picture of Christy and her brother, taken last summer at their church retreat.

  “That’s so you won’t forget us,” her father said with a wink.

  “Oh, Father,” Christy said, wiping away a tear, “as if I ever could!”

  Her father helped her put on the necklace, then led her to the steps of the train. She climbed aboard and gazed with interest at the brass spittoons, at the potbellied stove in the rear, at the faces of the other passengers. It was only a few hours to El Pano, the stop nearest to Christy’s new job, but it felt as if she were about to embark on a journey around the world. She had taken train trips before, of course, but never alone. This time everything seemed new, perhaps because she was going away without knowing when she would return.

  Christy sank down onto a scratchy red plush seat and smiled up at her father, who had followed her on board. He placed her suitcase on the floor beside her. The whistle blew shrilly.

  “Don’t forget now,” her father said. “Soon as you get there, write us.” He gave her an awkward hug, and then he was gone.

  Out on the platform, Christy saw her father talking to the old conductor. Mr. Huddleston pointed in her direction, and Christy sighed. She knew what he was saying—take good care of my girl. It was so embarrassing! After all, if she was old enough to go off on this adventure, she was old enough to take care of herself on the train. And the train was going to be the easy part of this trip.

  “All a-boarrd!” the conductor called. The engine wheezed. Chuff . . . chuff . . . chuff. The train jerked forward, and a moment later, the telephone poles outside were sliding past.

  Before long, the conductor was making his way down the aisle, gathering tickets. Please, Christy thought desperately, don’t humiliate me in front of the other passengers. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.

  “Ticket, please,” came the old man’s voice. “You’re Christy Huddleston, aren’t you?”

  Christy nodded, trying her best to seem like a dignified adult.

  “I’m Javis MacDonald. I’ve known your father a long time,” the conductor said as he punched her ticket. “So you’re bound for El Pano, young lady. I understand you’ll be teaching school there?”

  “No, actually I’ll be teaching in Cutter Gap,” Christy corrected. “It’s a few miles out of El Pano.”

  Mr. MacDonald rubbed his whiskers. His expression grew troubled. “That Cutter Gap is rough country,” he said. “Last week during a turkey shooting match, one man got tired of shooting turkeys. Shot another man in the back instead.”

  Christy felt a shiver skate down her spine, but she kept the same even smile on her face. Is Cutter Gap really such a dangerous place?

  The conductor gazed at Christy with the same worried look she’d seen on her parents’ faces this morning. “I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you that sort of thing. But you’ll be seeing it for yourself, soon enough. It’s a hard place, Cutter Gap.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Christy said.

  “If you were my daughter, I’d send you home on the first train back. That’s no place for a girl like you.”

  A girl like me, Chri
sty thought, her cheeks blazing. What did that mean, anyway? What kind of girl was she? Maybe that was why she’d started on this trip, to find out who she was and where her place was in the world.

  As the conductor moved on, she opened her locket. The sight of her parents brought tears to her eyes. George gazed back at her with his usual I’m-about-to-cause-trouble grin. But it was her own picture that caught her attention. The slender, almost girlish figure, the blue eyes beneath piled-up dark hair.

  What was it in her eyes? A question? A glimmer of understanding? Of hope? Of searching?

  That picture had been taken at the end of the church retreat last summer. By then, she’d decided that she had to go to Cutter Gap. The answers to her questions lay somewhere in the Great Smoky Mountains.

  It seemed strange that she’d found a clue about where her life might go from a perfect stranger, rather than from her own family or her church back in Asheville. But the little, elderly man who’d spoken to the retreat group with such passion had reached her in a way no one else ever had.

  Dr. Ferrand was a medical doctor doing mission work in the Great Smokies. He’d spoken of the need for volunteers to help teach and care for the mountain people, or highlanders, as he’d called them. He’d talked of desperate poverty and ignorance. He’d told the story of a boy, Rob Allen, who wanted book learning so much that he walked to school barefoot through six-foot snow.

  Listening to his moving words, Christy glanced down at her pointed, buttoned shoes with their black, patent-leather tops, the shoes she’d bought just the week before. Thinking of the barefoot boy, she felt a shudder of guilt. She’d known there was poverty in places like Africa and China, but was it possible that such awful conditions existed a train’s ride away from her home town?

  Dr. Ferrand went on to talk about someone who shared his passion to help the mountain people—Miss Alice Henderson, a Quaker from Ardmore, Pennsylvania, a new breed of woman who had braved hardship and danger to serve where she saw need.

  I would like to know that woman, Christy thought. I would like to live my life that way.