The Bridge to Cutter Gap Page 5

  They walked in silence. It was just as well, since Christy was far too tired for conversation. Questions swirled around in her head like the snowflakes blown loose from the tall trees swaying overhead.

  She didn’t believe in omens. She wasn’t the least bit superstitious (although she had been known to avoid walking under ladders). But she couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Allen’s accident was some sort of signpost, telling her she had made a mistake, pointing her back to the world where she belonged.

  “Not much farther now,” Mr. Pentland called back to her. “We’ve just got the bridge to cross, and then the mission is right over the next ridge.”

  “Bridge?” Christy asked. Her throat tightened as she remembered waking up from her terrible dream that morning at Mrs. Tatum’s. Had it just been this morning?

  She quickened her pace. “This bridge . . . Is it a big one?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  Mr. Pentland considered. “Not too big. Big enough, I s’pose. Gets real slippery-like when it ices up.” He glanced at Christy’s face. “Don’t worry none, though.”

  They trudged along the snowy trail for two hundred more yards until the sound of rushing water met Christy’s ears. Around a bend, the swirling waters of a half-frozen stream came into view. A creek, Mr. Pentland had called it, but it moved, even choked with ice, with the speed of a raging river.

  Her gaze moved upward. Then she saw it.

  “Th—that’s the bridge?”

  “Yep.”

  But it was not a bridge at all, just two huge, uneven logs with a few thin boards nailed across here and there. A deadly layer of ice coated all of it.

  Christy joined Mr. Pentland near the edge of the bridge. The whole contraption swayed in the biting wind.

  “I’ll go first to see if it’s too slippery,” Mr. Pentland said. He shifted the mail pouch to the middle of his back and regripped Christy’s suitcase, then paused, scraping his feet on the edge of the bridge.

  Christy kept her eyes on his feet as he stepped onto the wood. Halfway across he stopped. Below him, the water sprayed over the boulders in the middle of the creek. “Ain’t so bad,” he called back. “Wait until I get across, though, so you won’t get no sway.”

  Carefully he finished crossing. “Stomp your feet now,” he called from the other side. “Get ’em warm. Then come on—but first scrape your boots, then hike up your skirts.”

  As frozen and unmoving as the landscape around her, Christy stood staring at the bridge. The sound of the water became a roar in her ears. There was no turning back now. Slowly, very slowly, she began to make her way across the log bridge.

  Then it was her worst nightmare, come true. She was slipping . . . screaming . . . falling toward the icy water below.

  Back to the present.

  Cold. The water was so cold. Instantly thoughts of the last two days swept away behind her, and Christy was left struggling to breathe. She opened her mouth, but there was only icy water where air should be. She felt it rush inside her, into her throat, into her lungs. She grabbed for the surface with all her being, but something kept pulling her down.

  She was choking. She was dying, and all she wanted was air—one sweet, clean breath of air. The water in her lungs should have been cold, but it burned like she’d breathed in fire. She stroked with all her might against the current, frantically trying to propel herself toward the surface. Her hand broke through to air, and she groped for it as if she could breathe with her fingers, as if her fingers could suck in the precious oxygen she wanted so badly.

  God, don’t let me die here, she prayed desperately. Not yet . . . there’s still so much I want to do, Lord.

  She thought of her family, of their horror upon learning that their daughter had died this way, in a mountain creek far from home, far from love. She thought of the school where she’d wanted to change lives. She was doing something that would really make a difference. She had to make it.

  The current sucked her down again, but this time she groped at the frigid water with renewed fury. Her hand broke through once more, and again she felt the air. But this time someone grabbed her hand.

  As if in slow, slow motion, she was pulled from the icy grip of the current. At last, she could breathe.

  Someone wrapped a blanket around her. She tried to talk, but she was coughing too hard. Violent shivers shook her whole body, as if someone were shaking her and wouldn’t let go.

  Strong arms lifted her into the air. Someone was carrying her. Christy blinked, tried to focus. It wasn’t Mr. Pentland. Who was this man?

  “Feel like anything’s broken?” the man asked.

  Christy shook her head.

  “She’s a feisty one, that gal,” came Mr. Pentland’s familiar voice. “Reckon she’ll be fine.”

  They began to walk, and Christy realized that this man, whoever he was, was going to carry her the rest of the way to the mission. “Good thing she’s not any heavier,” he said to Mr. Pentland.

  She heard the humor in his voice and started to answer, but all that came out was a raw, hacking cough.

  “I’m David Grantland, by the way.”

  “Chr—” Christy paused to cough. “Christy Hud—”

  “Huddleston. Yes, I know. We’ve been expecting you. You really know how to make an entrance, I must say.”

  Christy gazed up at his handsome face. Mr. Grantland had black hair, fine white teeth, and friendly brown eyes set wide apart. And there was something about his nose—it looked a little different, as if it might have had a run-in with a baseball or a fist somewhere along the way.

  “I’m sorry,” Christy managed to say. “I guess I slipped—”

  “You were lucky,” Mr. Grantland said. “You could’ve hit one of those rocks.”

  “Lucky you came along when you did,” Mr. Pentland said. “By the time I’d have gotten down to the bank, no telling where she mighta been.”

  “I was on my way to the bunkhouse just up the hill when I saw you two coming,” Mr. Grantland explained.

  “We stopped over to the Spencers’ on the way,” Mr. Pentland said. “Wait’ll ya hear what happened to ol’ Bob Allen.”

  While Mr. Pentland recounted the story of Mr. Allen’s surgery, Christy rested her cheek against Mr. Grantland’s shoulder. She felt a little embarrassed, being carried this way like a helpless child, but she was too wet and exhausted and cold and battered to much care. The steady rock of Mr. Grantland’s steps and the lull of his deep voice pulled her closer and closer to sleep.

  She had just shut her eyes when Mr. Pentland said, “Here we go. Told ya it weren’t too far.”

  Christy lifted her head. Ahead of them stood the mission house—a large square framed building set in a big yard with a mountain rising behind it.

  “There it is,” Mr. Grantland said. “Home sweet home.”

  The front door of the mission house opened to reveal an older woman. She was tall, almost gaunt, with angular features. “What in the world has the cat dragged in?” she demanded.

  “Miss Huddleston fell into the creek,” Mr. Grantland said. He stepped inside the house. The warmth on her icy face brought tears to Christy’s eyes.

  “Think you can stand?” he asked.

  Christy nodded.

  “Good thing,” he said. “Nothing personal, but my arms are about to give out.”

  He set her down gently. Instantly the room began to sway, and he held out an arm to steady her. He pointed to the older woman.

  “This is my sister, Ida. Her bark, you’ll soon find, is worse than her bite.”

  “You may call me Miss Ida.” The woman clucked her tongue at the puddle forming on the floor. “Look at this mess! She brought half the creek in with her.”

  “Now, Ida,” Mr. Grantland chided. “Miss Huddleston has had a rough day.”

  “That she has,” Mr. Pentland agreed. “Walked all the way here, she did. Then helped the doc with his surgery, and plumb fell off a bridge to boot.”

  Miss Ida se
emed to soften a little. “Let’s get you upstairs and into some dry clothes,” she said, leading Christy toward the stairway.

  Christy turned. She gave a weak smile to Mr. Pentland and Mr. Grantland. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for everything.”

  Mr. Pentland gave a courtly nod. Mr. Grantland grinned. “Not at all,” he said. “It isn’t every day I get to save a damsel in distress.”

  His sister rolled her eyes. “Damsel in distress, indeed!”

  She took Christy’s suitcase and helped her up the wooden stairs, all the while grimacing at the trail of muddy water Christy was leaving in her wake. At the top of the stairs, Miss Ida gestured to a simple room. It was not luxurious, to say the least—a washstand with a white china pitcher and bowl, an old dresser with a cracked mirror above it, two straight chairs, the plainest kind of white curtains, and two cotton rag rugs on the bare floor.

  “First things first,” Miss Ida said. “We need to get you into some dry clothes.” She handed Christy some towels.

  “I have some things . . .” Christy paused “. . . in my suitcase.” She was tired, so tired. Had she ever been this exhausted? The very insides of her bones ached. Never had a bed looked so inviting.

  Miss Ida unlatched the suitcase. She pulled out Christy’s diary and set it aside. Carefully she removed a nightgown. “Here, now,” she said. “You get yourself good and dry, then put on this nightgown. Whatever you do, don’t sit on that bed in those soaking clothes.”

  Too tired to respond, Christy did as she was told. By the time Miss Ida returned, Christy had managed to put on her nightgown and run a comb through her tangled, wet hair. Miss Ida frowned at the pile of wet clothes in the corner.

  “I’ll take care of those tomorrow,” Christy promised, feeling guilty at the awful impression she must be making. She glanced longingly at the bed—the soft, warm, and very dry bed.

  With a grimace, Miss Ida picked up the wet clothes. “I’ll take care of them,” she said in a long-suffering tone.

  “Thank you, Miss Ida. I’m so sorry to be such trouble. I guess I’m not making a very good impression . . .” Christy’s voice faded off.

  “Oh, you seemed to have made quite an impression on my brother,” Miss Ida said flatly.

  Christy attempted a smile, but Miss Ida did not return it. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat?” Miss Ida asked.

  “The truth is I’m too tired to eat.”

  “Well, then. You can get yourself settled in tomorrow. Miss Alice will be wanting to meet you.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. And I can’t wait to see the school.”

  For a moment, Miss Ida’s expression warmed. “The building’s almost complete. David did most of it himself. It’s a sight to behold.”

  “I hope I do it justice,” Christy said.

  “I do too,” Miss Ida replied. The tone in her voice told Christy that she had her doubts.

  At last the door closed and Christy was alone in her little room. Her whole body ached. She could tell she was going to have a nasty bruise on her hip from her fall.

  She retrieved her diary and pen. She wanted to keep track of her adventure as it unfolded, and so much had happened today. As exhausted as she was, she had to get it all down while it was still fresh in her mind.

  She climbed into bed. The clean sheets felt wonderful as she propped herself up against her pillow with the diary on her knees.

  “Where should I begin?” she wrote.

  A few words, that’s all. Just a few words . . .

  Slowly her eyelids began to droop. Tired. She was so very tired . . . She set down her pen and lay her head against the pillow, her eyes already closing. As she pulled the sheets up to her chin, her hand grazed her neck. It was only then she realized her locket was gone. It had come off, no doubt, during her tumble into the creek.

  I’ll go back, she told herself. Maybe, by some miracle, I’ll find it.

  But as she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, in her heart she knew the truth: that the locket had been lost in the raging mountain creek. But she also knew that she must not dwell on the loss of her precious family keepsake. Instead, she must put her old life behind her and concentrate on beginning a new life in this strange place.

  Christy slept late the next morning. When she awoke, her body was stiff and sore. Just as she’d expected, there was a large, ugly bruise on her hip.

  The events of the previous day seemed like a dream. But if they were all a dream, what was she doing in this strange little room? The long and exhausting walk, the Spencers’ cabin, Mr. Allen’s surgery, her terrifying fall off the bridge . . . Had it all happened in the space of one short day?

  Christy reached for the place at her throat where her locket should have been. She couldn’t believe she’d lost it. What would she tell her father?

  She hobbled stiffly over to one of the windows. Nothing had prepared her for what met her eyes. Mountain ranges were folded one behind the other. Some were snow covered. Others showed patches of emerald or deep green. And then the blues began. On the smoky blue of the far summits, fluffy white clouds rested like wisps of cotton.

  She counted the mountain ranges. Eleven of them, rising up and up toward the vault of the sky.

  Only yesterday at the Spencer cabin, watching a man undergo surgery because of her, Christy had wondered if accepting this teaching job had been a dreadful mistake. Now, staring at this peaceful view, she was not quite so sure what to think. Had Mr. Allen survived the night? She still did not know. But meanwhile, in the face of tragedy, these mountains were whispering a different message to her. A message that seemed to say, Stay. This is your view. This will be your source of peace and strength.

  Someone knocked on her door. It was Miss Ida. For the first time, Christy got a good look at her. She was a plain woman with thin, graying hair. It was drawn into a tight bun, so meager that her scalp showed through in several places. Her nose was too large for her narrow face. Already Christy could tell she was a nervous person. When she smiled, it seemed to be an afterthought, as if her brain had ordered, “Now, smile,” but her feelings hadn’t joined in.

  “You slept well, I hope?” Miss Ida asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “I’ve cleaned up your clothes. They’re downstairs, drying.”

  “Thank you so much,” Christy said gratefully. “Oh, Miss Ida, tell me—I’ve got to know. Mr. Allen, how is he? Is he . . .” She couldn’t quite say it.

  “Alive? Oh, yes. Dr. MacNeill spent the night there. Miss Alice Henderson too. She went right to the Spencers’ soon as she heard about the operation. She’s catching a wink of sleep now.”

  “Then Mr. Allen’s out of danger?”

  “Not yet, I take it, or the doctor wouldn’t still be there. Now about breakfast—everybody else has eaten. When you get changed, come on down to the dining room. I’ll see you get something.”

  Christy wondered who “everybody” was. How many lived in this house?

  “Miss Alice would like to see you today,” Miss Ida said. She crossed the room to the window and pointed. “See that smoke? That’s her cabin. Just there, beyond the trees.”

  After Miss Ida left, Christy dressed quickly and rushed downstairs. She felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days. The dining room turned out to be a simple square room at the back of the house. A round, golden-oak table sat in the center.

  Miss Ida provided a wonderful breakfast: hot oatmeal followed by buckwheat cakes and maple syrup. “David’s at the Low Gap School near here,” Miss Ida said as she watched Christy eat. “He said to tell you he was sorry not to be here when you woke up.”

  “I’m sorry I overslept. Does Mr. Grantland teach at that school?”

  “Oh, no, that school is closed. There were some old school desks there. They said we could use them. Supplies, you’ll soon see, are always a problem here.” She pointed out the window to an unfinished building about a thousand yards away. It was rectangular, with a half-finished bell tow
er. “David can build anything he sets his hand to,” she said proudly. “He’s working on the steeple now.”

  “Then will that be the church as well as the school?”

  “That’s right,” Miss Ida said, with a tone in her voice that made Christy uncomfortable. “We haven’t the lumber and funds here to put up two buildings when one would do. This will be used for school on weekdays and church on Sundays.”

  “They’ve never had a school here before?”

  Miss Ida watched, curling her lip just slightly, as Christy helped herself to a second round of buckwheat cakes. “You’ve quite an appetite, haven’t you?” she asked. “But you asked about the school. No, this will be the first term.”

  “Does Mr. Grantland live here, in the mission house?”

  Miss Ida shook her head. “He has a bunkhouse down by the creek. That’s why it’s lucky you fell in there. He and Miss Alice take their meals here in the house, though.” She smiled proudly. “David begged me to come and keep house for him. He says maybe we can find a mountain woman to train as a housekeeper. But I have doubts myself that anybody else can cook to suit him.”

  Just then the side door banged, and suddenly Mr. Grantland stood in the kitchen doorway. A young girl with snarled red hair peered curiously from behind him. “Miss Huddleston,” he said with a smile, “I must say you’re looking much better—not to mention drier—this morning.”

  “I’m not sure I thanked you properly yesterday,” Christy said.

  “For . . . ?”

  “For everything. For carrying me here, for . . .” She hesitated as the words sank in. “For saving my life.”

  Mr. Grantland laughed. His big, booming voice filled the room. “All in a day’s work. Oh—” He turned and beckoned to the red-haired girl. “Allow me to introduce Ruby Mae Morrison. She’s staying here at the mission house with us for a while.”

  The girl stepped forward. “Howdy,” she said eagerly. Her eyes took in every inch of Christy. She was a teenager, maybe thirteen or so, Christy guessed, with abundant red hair that looked as if it had not been combed in a long while. Her plain, thin cotton dress was torn at the hem. She was barefoot, just as the Spencer children had been.