My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge Read online

  © 2019 by Pepper Basham

  ISBN 978-1-68322-779-3

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-781-6

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-780-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Series Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Model Photo: Terry Bidgood / Trevillion Images

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Dedication

  To my real-life family of storytellers who have all inspired my writing in one way or another.

  Acknowledgments

  This story is close to my heart because so many of the stories, people, and descriptions were inspired by tales my Granny Spencer told me of our ancestry in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Though my Granny Spencer isn’t on earth with me anymore, her spirit still lives on through these stories and through the faith she showed to her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren…and to everyone who knew her. I couldn’t have written this novel without her inspiration, and someday, I’ll tell you the rest of the story—Sam McAdams story and Kizzie’s story. They need to be told, because, not only are they unbelievably true, but also because they point to an unbelievably amazing Savior.

  Most stories involve people on a journey, and the creation of this novel also includes many wonderful people who’ve helped bring this story to life.

  Thank you, Katie Donovan, for using your excellent reading eyes to be an early reader for this story! You made it better!

  Carrie, Rachel, Beth—I am daily humbled and grateful to have you as part of my life and writing journey. Your encouragement and faith in me bring such joy to my life. I can’t tell you how much your love means to me. And Rachel, THANK YOU for loving boxes much more than I do.

  Author extraordinaire, Heather Gilbert, thank you for letting me pick your brain about our heritage to make sure I “do our culture proud.”

  Thank you so much to Becky Germany and the Barbour team for seeing the potential in this story.

  To my Alleycats, who pray for and encourage me, my writing, and even my imaginary friends. Thank you!

  I was blessed to grow up surrounded by a loud and wonderful Appalachian family, who tried to keep me straight, show me Jesus, and just love me big! To my amazing Spencer family, where so much of the culture in this book and love of family originated—thank you!

  To my crazy crew of hubs and kids. You all make my life beautiful and daily inspire me with stories. God couldn’t have blessed me with anything, apart from salvation, as amazing as YOU!

  And to the redeeming Savior, who can turn the darkest moments to dawn, thank You for the opportunity to show Your bigger story through the fingerprints You place on the lives of Your kids—even the fictional ones. Thank You that Your dreams for Your children are always bigger and more beautiful than we can ever plan. I’m so thankful You called me to be a storyteller.

  September 1918

  He’s bringing nothin’ but trouble, Caroline McAdams. Make no bones about it.”

  Imogene Carter’s voice clapped like thunder into Laurel’s solitude and sent her scuttling deeper into the recesses of the barn’s loft. She tucked her precious novel within the folds of her skirt and peered around the mound of straw blocking her from the unwelcome visitors below. Her deep sigh fanned the loose straw nearby.

  All Laurel wanted was a few minutes of peace and quiet from a day full of chores to disappear into the pages of a good book. What was the use of being a grown woman if she couldn’t even hide long enough to read one chapter?

  She held her breath. Maybe the women would go away and kindly leave her be.

  No such luck.

  The barn door groaned with their entrance, almost as though it hated hearing Imogene’s complaints as much as Laurel and half of the mountain did. One quick peek around the straw mound showed three heads: long-and-lean Imogene, round-and-rosy Pearl Jacobs, and Mama, sweet as honeysuckle and strong as pine.

  “You know I don’t want to gossip ’bout nobody, Caroline.”

  Laurel rolled her eyes to the ceiling and prayed God wouldn’t strike Imogene down on the spot. That woman could stretch the truth from here to the horizon and back again. Laurel gave up hope for peace and quiet.

  “I gotta bad feeling about this missionary teacher.” Imogene’s voice bounced off the rafters. “Something’s wrong with him. He’s come all the way across the ocean, London or some city like that, and you know what kind of folks comes from them places? Rascals, Caroline. Rotten to the core.”

  Him? The new teacher was a him? Laurel scooted closer to the edge of the loft. Why on earth was a foreign teacher coming to Maple Springs? And a man besides? Sure ’nough they’d gotten used to the ways of Reverend Anderson from England, but it had taken two years at least, and he was doing heaven’s work, so he was supposed to stretch God’s net to the ends of the earth.

  And for an Englishman, Maple Springs probably looked a whole lot like it teetered on the very edge.

  “Now, Gene, we can’t go jumpin’ to conclusions about Mr. Taylor.” Mama responded with her usual calm. Laurel couldn’t help but smile. “I heard tell he has connections with Reverend Anderson, and you know what good work he’s done for folks in these parts. Besides, it don’t make sense, a young man comin’ all the way here just to lead our young’uns astray.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, Caroline.” Imogene’s voice edged a pitch higher, like an off note on the fiddle. “Why would such a man spend his idle time in Maple Springs instead of fightin’ the war like every other man within fightin’ age? No siree, I got a bad feelin’ about this, and make no mistake. Wouldn’t be surprised none if he was runnin’ from the law.”

  Laurel shook her head at the notion, but Imogene’s mention of the war shot a chill over Laurel’s skin. Jeb was over there. Somewhere. She’d heard horrible accounts from her great-granddaddy about the war betwixt the states, but what did war look like in a whole different country? Worse, she’d wager.

  “Let’s not go makin’ our minds up about the boy before we even lay eyes on him. I reckon he’s gonna get a shock movin’ from a city nohow, so we ought to try and make things easy on him.” Mama’s reasonable request smoothed like sugar in butter.

  “There ain’t nothin’ good come from the city. Nothin’.” Imogene bellowed on, her voice as harsh
as Mama’s was easygoing. “He even looks like trouble. Pearl saw him last evenin’, didn’t ya, Pearl? Comin’ up the stretch from the train depot.”

  “Came right down into Mrs. Cappy’s store,” Pearl replied. “Fanciest getup I ever did see, and a face as smooth as his voice.” She sniffed. “Smelled like the city.”

  “You mean he smelled like sin.” Imogene preached louder, causing the cow to scuttle. “Drawing you in and sickening your soul. That’s what he’s gonna do, Caroline. You just wait and see. What we need is to—”

  “Thank God for answered prayer?” Mama’s words stopped the conversation dead. “I couldn’t agree more, Gene. We’ve been prayin’ for a new schoolteacher all summer long. School’s already starting two weeks late for lack of one.”

  At least one woman in that gaggle talked sense.

  “And I reckon being from the city he’s gonna dress different than the likes of us. We need to learn ’bout the world outside of here. How many of our boys right now are plumb across the ocean fightin’ in this war and—”

  “Anything we can’t get or make back on our mountain, the good Lord ain’t meant for us to have.”

  Laurel balled up a fistful of skirt and almost threw her book from the loft, just to see if it would knock a clear thought into Imogene’s mule-head. But there was no use in wasting a good throw, or a good book. Of all the narrow-minded things to conjure up! Imogene Carter ruled the mountain, and if somebody didn’t take a mind to help that new teacher, Imogene would have the whole hill and hollow convinced he was a no-account peddler of sin.

  “Gene, Pearl, I heard my rooster crowing last night, and would you just look at that sky.” Her mama tsked. “Sure enough. That old rooster musta been right. Looks like rain.”

  Laurel glanced through the loft window at the afternoon sky. A few clouds passed over the sun, but nothing serious. Sure as shootin’ her mama had a plan. Honey-coated clever.

  “Y’all might want to get on home afore the rain starts. Ain’t you wearing your new store-bought sweater, Gene?”

  Laurel caught her snicker in her palm. Someday, she’d like to be as genius as her mama.

  “Well now. If that rooster of yourn crowed, no need to chance it.” Imogene hesitated, and Laurel could almost see the woman tugging at the ends of her sweater. Sounds of shuffling feet moved toward the barn door. “We’ll see ya at church then?”

  “If Sam don’t have other plans for me, I’ll be there.”

  “That husband of yourn needs to git into church, Caroline. Him and his work ain’t gonna save his soul.”

  Laurel nearly stood to her mama’s defense. As if the whole house hadn’t been praying for her daddy for years, Mama the fiercest of them all!

  “But I reckon that’s a talk for another day,” Imogene’s voice conceded, and Laurel relaxed back into the straw. “Have a good night, ya hear?”

  The women’s muffled goodbyes disappeared behind the closed barn door, and welcome silence returned. Laurel sighed and opened the novel, searching for her spot in Little Women. Jo had just met Laurie. No doubt romance would follow betwixt the two of them, and then…well, most likely, Jo would change.

  Dreams would change.

  She grimaced down at the page, her thoughts flitting to her sister Kizzie and a whole host of other girls she’d once known. Romance sure had a way of messing up dreams.

  Laurel’s attention darted to the far corner of the barn where her precious stash of savings hid at the base of the post. Six more months working for Mrs. Cappy was all it would take for Laurel to have enough room and board cash for college—a dream she’d never considered before her teacher last year planted the seed. Miss Brayton talked of possibilities. Of sending out mountain folks to bring learning back to the hollows, and there wasn’t no romance on the planet gonna stop her. She’d turned down two marriage proposals in the last year to hang on to this new dream—a hope swelling bigger in her chest than the whole eastern side of her mountain.

  Her attention flipped back to the closed barn door. Wonder what the city teacher knew about college. Maybe he even got a two-year degree. She hugged her book and fell back into the scratchy straw, eyes closing to daydream. A two-year degree in a real college. Imagine the books!

  “Come on down, girl.”

  Laurel shot up to a sitting position and snapped her book closed.

  She stifled a groan, scooted to the edge of the loft, and peered over. “How’d you know I was up here?”

  “I’m your mama. I’ve known you better than anybody else for nineteen years now.” Mama placed her hands on her hips, but the hint of a smile played on her pressed lips. “I gotta job for you to do.”

  Laurel tucked her book beneath her arm and shimmied down the loft ladder. What other job could Mama possibly have for her? She’d finished all her morning chores well before breakfast and helped clean up after lunch hours ago.

  “You need to get down to the mission house and invite the new teacher for supper.”

  Laurel almost missed the last ladder rung, she turned so fast. “What?”

  Mama clicked her tongue. “Ain’t no tellin’ what welcome he’ll get with ladies like them on the lookout. Besides, if we show a little kindness from the start, other folks’ll follow.”

  Laurel didn’t argue but cast another look up the ladder and then back at her book.

  Mama’s hand warmed her shoulder. “I know you work real hard, and if Jeb was here, I’d send him.”

  At the thought of her brother fighting in some faraway place with machine guns and cannons and heaven knew what else, Laurel pushed her disappointment away. “I don’t mind none, Mama.”

  “Preacher Anderson’s plumb over the mountain in Yella Hill on a call, so I reckon he missed pickin’ up the teacher at the train depot.”

  “You mean the new teacher walked from the station to Maple Springs on his own? That’s five miles, if it’s one.”

  “Which says a lot about his strength of character. Determined.”

  Or crazy. But city folk were a sight bit different than country folk.

  “And I reckon he slept in the mission house last night.”

  Laurel’s mouth slipped open. “Surely not, Mama. It ain’t fit for a family of coons.”

  “Which is why you’re gonna invite him to stay here while the menfolk make the mission house fit for a schoolteacher.”

  Laurel stopped dusting straw off her skirt and stared at her mama. “Stay here?” Heat drained from her face and left a trail of cold down her neck. The back room of the barn had been home to many a stranger, but not this late in the year. “It’s been ’bout six months, Mama. High time for Daddy to—”

  “Your daddy’s fine for a while yet. It’s the dark days that cause his dark mood.” Her mama looked out the barn window, a sliver of sunlight haloing her sky-blue eyes. “We’ll see the signs beforehand.” She turned back to Laurel and shooed her toward the door. “Go on now, it’s gonna be evenin’ afore long.”

  Laurel hesitated only a second longer before she headed out the door and down the steep mountain path toward the church schoolhouse. The trees were only beginning to shift into autumn colors, with hickory and beech displaying their golden glints first. She breathed in the earth’s fragrance, still fresh from morning rain. The scent mingled with the faintest hint of wild rose and moss, faithful companions through the dense woods. Sunlight created a patchwork against the leafy trail as it slit through the mature forest and led the way down the mountain. Small glimpses of horizon showed between the trees and offered an endless view to uncharted lands of colleges and city streets and millions of other things she’d only seen through the pages of books.

  What had Mama called the new schoolteacher? Mr. Taylor? Well, if he was anything like Mr. Brickner from five years ago, bald with a voice as perpetually vacant as his expression, Laurel might have to pinch herself during supper to keep awake. Besides, with eight different teachers in as many years, only two stood out from among the others—two who didn’t ente
r Maple Springs on a rescue mission to save the backwoods heathen mountaineers from their ungodly and sinful ways.

  They came to truly teach…and learn.

  Miss Skoondyke from three years ago stirred the spark of Laurel’s curiosity about college with her personal stories of massive libraries and engaging lectures, but Miss Brayton, two years later, fanned the flicker to flame. The young, raven-headed woman saw potential in all her students but recognized Maple Spring’s need for a consistent teacher, particularly a native with the courage to get a college degree and bring learning back to her people.

  And Laurel planned on becoming that teacher.

  Perhaps Jonathan Taylor had made a terrible mistake leaving England for a chance at redemption.

  He attempted to shove the dying flames back to life in the hearth of the dilapidated mission house, but the last firewood he’d scrounged up before nightfall barely smoldered at dawn. He reached for the accoutrements the local store owner, Mrs. Caparila—or Mrs. Cappy, as the locals called her—had given him the evening before…after she’d greeted him with the end of a shotgun. Jonathan’s skin chilled at the tangible memory.

  He’d take better care to arrive before dusk to keep from having his life flash before his eyes at the vision of a double barrel. Thankfully, once he’d identified himself as the new schoolteacher and not some thief who’d been stealing from Mrs. Cappy’s store, she greeted him with a reluctant acceptance, gave him bread and supplies for breakfast, and ushered him toward his new home.

  The mission house.

  Part of his uncle’s mission, when he came to Maple Springs, was to first build a church then a school—and then the mission house, a structure for the resident schoolteacher. Jonathan looked about the stone cottage in the faint light of morning, weariness seeping to his core, especially in his weak leg. A single room made up the sitting room and bedroom, from what he could tell. A small kitchen attached to the back, with the roof partially collapsed, and a broken ladder led to what he assumed was a loft area. If he hadn’t been so cold, he’d have chosen to explore the possibility of sleeping on the broken floor, what with unknown amounts of things creeping from the holes in the split wood. As it was, he’d placed his cot by the fire, grateful for the three months of soldiers’ training he experienced before they’d rejected him as unfit for combat.