That evening, Christy wrote in her diary before going to bed, hoping to rid herself of the heavy feeling in her heart. But she wondered if anything could really ease the pain.
Where are the answers when I need them? So much seems to be going wrong, and nothing I do helps. Doctor MacNeill says he’s thinking of leaving the Cove for good. Granny Allen refuses to acknowledge her courageous act of so long ago. And I can’t seem to get through to anyone.
Every day at school the hatred toward the Washingtons simmers. The accusations of stealing get more intense, but when I try to soothe my students, they ask me for an explanation. Why have things been disappearing from school? Why did it start right around the time John and Louise and Hannah arrived?
I know there must be an explanation. They’re such good children. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is.
Today, after we left the Allens’ cabin, Neil told me that some people will never change. That there will always be feuding and racism and hatred in people—especially the people of Cutter Gap.
Never have I seen him so cynical. So dark. Or so unhappy.
I told him that there is goodness in people. I told him how Fairlight had moved her chair at the Bible study. I told him how I’d seen Della May and Hannah playing together, despite all the risks.
I told him we just had to wait and work and pray.
And all he did was laugh.
Christy put her diary away. There was nothing more to say or do. Except, perhaps, to cry. And pray.
Late that night, Christy awoke suddenly, feeling anxious. She sat up, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Something was wrong. Was that smoke she smelled?
She ran to the open window. The smell of burning wood was in the air. Far up on Kildeer Mountain, red flames flickered against the night sky.
Christy’s heart leapt into her throat. That was where Doctor MacNeill lived! It could be his cabin burning, or the Allens’, or . . .
No.
Please, God, Christy silently prayed, don’t let it be the Washingtons’ cabin. Let it be a forest fire, a campfire out of control, a woodpile . . .
She threw on a dress and her shoes and raced down the stairs, just as David burst through the front door. Miss Ida was already up, dressed in her nightgown and robe.
“Looks like Kildeer,” David said breathlessly. “I’m taking Prince up.”
“I’m coming, too,” Christy said. “Let me ride with you.”
“Could it be a forest fire?” Miss Ida asked.
“Woods are pretty damp. No lightning,” David replied. “But I suppose it could be.”
“Do you think it’s the Washingtons’ place?” Miss Ida asked.
“I fear it is,” Christy replied, “but I’m praying it isn’t.”
David urged Prince on as fast as he dared, but in the dark, every tree root and hole in the mountain path was treacherous. The closer they got to the fire, the larger it seemed to grow.
Red-gold flames licked at the stars. The air grew acrid with the smell of burning wood. In the stillness of the night woods, the sound of the crackling fire grew ominous. Before long, they could hear the sound of desperate shouts.
Soon it was clear that the fire was located at the Washingtons’. “The flames are going higher,” David said grimly, “but they’re not spreading, the way they would with a forest fire. It must be their cabin.”
“We should have kept this from happening,” Christy muttered. “Surely there was something we could have done.”
David glanced over his shoulder. His face was barely visible in the moonlight. “We tried, Christy.”
“Not hard enough. And that makes me feel almost as guilty as the people who did this.”
For the rest of the ride, neither spoke. There was nothing more to say. It was too late for words.
Just let them be all right, Christy prayed. They can build another cabin. Just let the family be all right.