One home visit with Dr. Hensley secured Jonathan’s growing concern about the knowledge and welfare of the mountain people. He’d accompanied the doctor to Mercy Lindsay’s house, a widow with two children. Dr. Hensley, as kind and respected as he was throughout the mountains, had known younger times. Nearing eighty, his eyes failed to give him a clear understanding of symptoms as they probably once did, or at least Jonathan hoped.

Dr. Hensley diagnosed her chest pain as stress related, giving her some sort of homemade tonic that had the strong scent of liquor, but, based on a few simple questions he’d gleaned from his studies, Jonathan wondered if Mrs. Combs suffered more from anemia than stress.

In the next visit, a man had a particularly nasty-looking infection on his arm. After applying an ill-smelling poultice, the doctor again administered liquor and said he’d return to check on the wound in a few days. The conditions of the homes reeked with uncleanliness, and yet the doctor used cloths from the home without sterilizing them. Why? This was not the front lines of war, where there was no time to disinfect the operation area. Dr. Hensley had the time but didn’t take it.

Had he lost hope? Grown indifferent?

God, they need someone who can help them.

Uncle Edward later explained that Dr. Hensley, a native of nearby Boone, had only completed a few courses in medicine before practicing, and since he knew more than most folks in the area, they called him a doctor. So, not even a proper education in medicine? Good intentions carried a limited amount of weight.

“He’s a fount of knowledge on mountain remedies and sewing up gunshot wounds, but as far as a great medical understanding”—his uncle had frowned, shaking his head—“there isn’t much more available to these people.”

And the glimmer in his uncle’s eyes asked an unspoken question, one which bled clearer and clearer as the week progressed.

The vision Laurel inspired by her desire to bring education back into these mountains caught fire inside of him—her purpose, contagious. He’d wandered into this world, half as a runaway and half as a man searching for a purpose, and in over two weeks, he’d seen more passion in a mountain girl with barely anything worldly than he’d seen in anyone.

The knowledge clicked inside of him the way a tune wound its melody beneath his skin, bringing his fingers to life on the strings of his violin. Was this what his uncle felt as his vision for Maple Springs swelled to reality? One tiny mountain church became two, then three. One school was planted, then two? One mountain-trained doctor, then a college-trained one?

His uncle had started all of that. Had God called Jonathan to a similar mission? Surely not. He wasn’t as charismatic as his uncle. He didn’t know the people or culture like Laurel. How could God use him with his quiet demeanor and gnawing limp?

The mountains, cold blue and vast in their expanse, seemed to bolster his heart with possibilities as endless as their reach. Could this world truly offer him something he’d never known…a place to belong?

After school, Jonathan made his way to Mrs. Cappy’s store, in desperate need of some “sweet milk,” as the mountain folk called it, and anything else besides eggs. He’d had eggs for nearly every meal since moving to the mission house. Thankfully, apples were in season, but even those had lost a little of their appeal. He’d even resorted to some long-lost skills he’d learned as a child on his grandfather’s farm, by killing, field dressing, and subsequently burning rabbit on one occasion. But…even burnt rabbit tasted better than another meal of eggs.

The jingle of bells announced his entrance into the eclectic store. Over two weeks ago, Jonathan had looked humorously at the simple offerings on the shop shelves, but today, Mrs. Cappy’s mountain store seemed a treasure trove of options. Beef and deer jerky waited on the shelves for purchase, along with some homemade-looking pastries and cakes of various styles. There were even a few candies in jars waiting for his taste buds.

A potbelly stove stood in the middle of the room with a long L-shaped white shelf to the left and two rows of various items to the right. Barrels lined the way to the counter, each filled with a different article for purchase—one full of potatoes, another of boxed crackers. Jars and cans of foods lined the shelves on the wall, and Jonathan stepped directly toward a few canned fruits and vegetables.

The door’s bells jingled again and in walked a tall man, built like a mountain himself. He had to bend slightly to fit through the door, his rolled-up shirtsleeves pinching against glistening dark skin on his massive arms. He made an imposing figure in the little store. An impressive specimen of humanity, and one of the only negros Jonathan had seen since arriving in North Carolina, they’d crossed paths at the train depot when Jonathan needed directions to find his way to Maple Springs. What had his name been? Harris?

The man’s dark eyes widened, and then his white smile split his face with welcome. “Well now, I see they ain’t run you off yet.”

The jovial welcome eased Jonathan into conversation. He stepped forward and offered his hand, bridging the short distance. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Harris. What brings you up the mountainside?”

“Mrs. Cappy knows I come once a week for some of the sweets she fixes for sale.” He nodded toward the showcase at the end of the L-shaped shelf. “Right now, she’s got some apple fritters that my men can’t get enough of.”

Jonathan flipped his gaze from the glass case back to Mr. Harris. “Fritters?”

The man’s smile creased at the corners of his eyes. “They ain’t no need to talk when you can taste, Teacher. Come on.”

Laurel emerged from a back room, her thick blond hair pinned back into a bun, and a white apron making her look like a server from a French pastry shop. She patted her hands together and grinned. “You men look awful hungry. What can I get for you?”

Mr. Harris sidled forward and leaned his elbows on the shelf. “Mr. Taylor ain’t never had no apple fritter before, Miss Laurel. You reckon we ought to remedy that?”

She raised a brow and studied Jonathan from head to toe. “If that ain’t about criminal, I don’t know what is.” She dusted her hands against her apron and stepped to the showcase, keeping her attention on his face. “But Elias is right as rain. You can’t go another day without one of Mrs. Cappy’s fritters.”

Laurel placed one of the crescent-shaped pastries onto a piece of brown paper and set it on the counter, the customary glint in her eyes in full sparkle.

“I’m trusting you, Miss McAdams.”

“Shows you’re a smart man.”

Mr. Harris’s deep laugh rumbled through the room as Laurel handed him one of the fritters too. “I trust you to cause a little mischief every once in a while.”

Her grin broadened, capturing Jonathan’s attention again. “Well now, Elias, that shows you’re a smart man too,” she replied, turning her attention, with all its pixie-glint, back to Jonathan.

“Go on, Teacher. Give that fritter a taste. It might not be change-your-life good like Mama’s strawberry stack cake, but it’s close enough to leave a memory.”

Jonathan bit into the pastry and closed his eyes. A wonderful combination of sugar, butter, maybe cinnamon, and some other type of sweetness poured over his tongue, reviving his appreciation for apples. And the apples! They held a tangy flavor to complement the sweet in a most tantalizing way, with the entire bite wrapped in soft bread.

Bread! He’d missed bread.

“Looks to me like Teacher doesn’t mind that fritter one bit.” Laurel’s voice broke into his appreciation.

He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth with the corner of the paper. “Did you make these?”

“I know how to make them, but not as fine as Mrs. Cappy.” Laurel closed the showcase and proceeded to wipe down the countertop she stood behind.

“Miss Laurel’s cobbler is the best in these parts,” Mr. Harris said. “Ain’t tasted better this side of Asheville anywhere.”

Her face bloomed from the compliment, enhancing the natural beauty she wore so well. Jonathan’s gaze caught for a second before he turned back to Mr. Harris. “I look forward to trying cobbler then too.”

“You won’t regret it.” Mr. Harris waved his fritter toward Jonathan as he spoke. “You been here, what, nearly three weeks now, Mr. Taylor?”

Jonathan nodded, savoring another bite.

“How’s school teachin’ been going?”

“Call me Jonathan, please.”

Mr. Harris’s face took on a curious expression, surprise turned to pensive, before he offered a small smile. “Elias.”

“I have a great deal to learn about Appalachia and the people, but I certainly hope I can bring a lot to them as well. For the most part, the students are eager and curious. The greatest challenge is their range of needs, from early readers all the way to more advanced.”

Elias nodded, his gaze roaming the store. “Like any place, you have the hard people and the good ones.” He tipped his head toward Laurel.

Laurel planted her palms on her hips and raised a playful brow. “If you think sweet talkin’ gets you another free fritter, you ain’t never lived ’neath the wrath of Mrs. Cappy.”

Elias chuckled and placed the last bite into his mouth, his expression sobering. “Good or bad, them young’uns are lucky, that’s for sure. They wasn’t no schoolin’ for me. Workhouse was all we had.”

Jonathan recollected little about his studies on America’s war between the North and South. The conflict appeared a massive tangle of politics, states’ rights, human rights, and a great deal of unfettered anger, but certainly over half a century made a difference in educating whites and blacks.

“It’s never too late to learn, Elias.” Jonathan tried the name on his tongue. Different, but a smooth path of vowels and consonants. “Learning is a lifetime pleasure, and reading can be taught at any age.”

Elias rubbed the back of his head and shrugged. “That’s all good, but I’m more in need of cypherin’ than readin’.”

“Cyphering?” He looked to Laurel.

“Math.” She mouthed the word.

“Well, that can be taught as well, if you’re interested.”

Elias looked around the room as if waiting for someone to object. “I know my young’uns would love more schoolin’ than what me or the boys can teach ’em. They barely know their alphabet nor nothin’ about their numbers.”

Jonathan swallowed another bite of the delicious fried pastry. “You have children?”

The man’s face softened with a gentleness Jonathan didn’t know in a father. “Hank and Dolly. Ain’t big enough for your part of the school yet, but they’s smart. Dolly’s learnin’ to cook ’bout anything she tastes, and Hank’s gonna be a fine builder one day. Good with his hands.”

“And they live with you at the mill?”

“’At’s right. Me and the boys. Their mama took sick a few years ago with typhoid, so it’s been the three of us since. We had a man stop in once in a while to teach ’em a little, but they only got so far on their readin’ and cypherin’.”

“Why not bring them to the school?” Jonathan gestured toward Laurel. “The sawmill isn’t even as far as the Dawsons’ house, and they walk the distance every day. It would be an opportunity to get some consistent teaching.”

Elias stared at Jonathan for a long silence, measuring, then glanced over at Laurel as if she had the answer for whatever caused his sudden seriousness.

“My children? In your school?”

The quiet bound with a sudden tension. Had Jonathan stepped into one of the feuds he’d heard about in these mountains? Was there a conflict between Elias and Jonathan’s uncle? Neither possibility seemed to fit. “Of course,” he answered, slowly looking from Elias to Laurel for clarification.

Elias narrowed his eyes and then seemed to find whatever answer he was looking for. His smile softened, almost sad. “That’s awful kind of you, Mr…. Jonathan,” he corrected, nodding slowly. “Awful kind. Maybe for another time. But I best be gettin’ back to the mill.” He turned to Laurel. “I believe you know what I come for, Miss Laurel.”

She was already taking out a few more of the apple fritters and wrapping them for travel. Then she added some deer jerky to the bag. Jonathan watched, attempting to make sense of Elias’s response, but Laurel’s voice pealed into his thoughts.

“You ain’t missed a week yet, Elias. Sure you don’t want to take a slice of raspberry cake with you too. I bet Dolly’d figure out how to make one in no time at all.”

He whistled low and rubbed his palms down his flat stomach, the previous levity returning. “Well now.” He released a long breath. “If you add one of them jars of raspberry jam to the order, then I reckon she can.”

Laurel’s light laugh met his remark and returned the sunshine to the room. Jonathan could only imagine the mischief and fun Laurel and his sister, Cora, could get into. Both exuded an inner delight, though Cora’s came with a less mature bent. Laurel held an undercurrent of depth and knowledge that gave her eyes a wisdom, a strength, he didn’t quite understand, but…he wanted to.

Elias paid for his goods and turned, bag in hand. “Pleasure to see you, Jonathan. Good luck with the school.”

Jonathan wasn’t certain what to say, so he wished the man a good day as he left.

“I’ve been meanin’ to come talk with you, Teacher, since the deal we made, but Mrs. Cappy’s been gone to town for supplies the past two days, so I’ve been full-up here at the store. She just got back about an hour ago, so I’ll have some time to teach you.”

Jonathan pulled his attention away from the door and approached the counter. “Teach me?”

“You haven’t forgot our deal already, have you?”

He placed his palms on the counter and leaned forward. “A fair trade, I believe you called it.”

“I did for sure, though I was half hoping you’d forgotten about our deal.” She reached down behind the counter and pulled out a satchel. With halting movements and a wary glance in his direction, she finally succeeded in drawing out some papers from the bag and placing them on the counter. “I ain’t…haven’t had anyone read my writing except my old teacher. Sometimes I’ll read things out to Mama or Maggie, but I’m a lot more skittish about giving you my words than about teaching you mountain ways.”

He shot her a look. “Why?”

“Sharing my words? My thoughts?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It feels like you’re seein’ inside of me, to the core.”

At her sweet confession, something in their kinship deepened. “I feel certain there’s only good things to see.”

Her gaze flickered to his and held before her grin tipped with a twist of one brow. “You remember when I wanted to light into Ozaiah Greer like a wind-throwed tree? There wasn’t nothing good to see in my heart then.”

He tapped the papers against his other hand. “Well, those were extreme circumstances.”

“And trying to teach Avis Morgan to read this week? That boy stuck a frog right down the front of my apron. You can be sure as shootin’ my thoughts took a murky turn.”

Jonathan laughed and glanced down at the pages. “Will I find deep-felt essays about the evils of boys and frogs in this set of papers then?”

Her smile took a nervous turn, and she looked down at the pages in his hands, in uncustomary seriousness. “Well, I figured if you were serious about helping me…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I’d give you a few things to look over. Different styles, as my teacher called it. There’s an essay on the theme of working for your dreams from the book Little Women. And then there’s a fiction piece I wrote, a tall tale for the young’uns. I put a poem in there too.”

“That’s excellent.” He held her gaze, attempting to reassure her. “I’m excited to read these.”

Every crinkle from her puckered brow to her pinched lips screamed doubt.

“I’m serious, Laurel. If your natural flair for colorful speech comes out in your writing, I feel certain I’m to enjoy the discovery.”

She shrugged off the compliment with another sideways glance and then tapped the counter. “And after school tomorrow, if you’ll come on down here to the store, I’ll give you your first cookin’ lesson.”

His jaw came unhinged. “Cooking lesson?”

The signature impish grin returned. “I’ll teach you how to make pone bread. Mrs. Cappy has a newer cookstove like yours in the mission house, and she’s said we can practice on it after school.”

As if she’d heard her name, Mrs. Cappy came out of the back room, her wiry gray hair pinned into a tight knot at the base of her neck and her dark eyes sending anything but welcome in Jonathan’s direction.

“Mrs. Cappy.” He nodded a greeting.

She sniffed, gathered up a few scoops of flour into a bag, and then returned to the back room. Every time he saw the storekeeper, images of the witch from Hansel and Gretel crowded his mind. Perhaps he should stay clear of Mrs. Cappy and her cookstove.

“Don’t let Mrs. Cappy bother you none.” Laurel leaned forward, whisper low and close. “She’s always got the mullygrubs, but down deep she’s soft as fresh biscuits.”

Jonathan felt fairly certain he could listen to Laurel and her lyrical phrasing all day long. “She is a little terrifying.”

“Only her eggs.” Laurel winked and then reached to the shelf behind her and brought a small cloth bag around to the counter. “I went ahead and baked some pone bread for you to take home with you tonight.” She lowered the cloth to reveal a circle of golden bread. “Pone is one of the most important foods you can make for these parts, and since you’re living on your own without a wife, I reckon it’s a fittin’ idea to learn first. This is corn pone.”

The scent of warm butter and corn rose to his nostrils and made his mouth water. He sighed and took the offering. “You’re wonderful.”

“And you’re a hungry man. Take some more of the jerky with you when you leave. It’ll taste fine with the corn pone for now. I’ll teach you gravy too, but that can be tricky. And since you took such a shine to sun tea at the get-together Sunday, I figured I oughta teach you how to make it too.”

“I think we need to renegotiate our deal. I am, by far, the better recipient of it.”

“I wouldn’t go countin’ my chickens yet, Teacher. You ain’t started the hard work, but I reckon you can live off of sun tea, pone bread, a few eggs, and some side meat for a while without getting sallow-faced.” The glint in her eyes teased out his grin. If she’d been a woman back home, he’d have taken her forwardness as flirting, but he knew Laurel well enough now. In fact, it seemed to be ingrained in most of the mountain folks he’d met, a forthrightness. Manipulation appeared to be a waste of time and words. No, she was refreshingly authentic. And somehow, her existence in his world made everything a little better.

The poor man didn’t know anything about cooking a’tall. Laurel held back her giggle at every turn, especially the first time he lifted the iron skillet and nearly dropped it on his toe. After a few attempts, they finally had success, and the proud beam on his face nearly had Laurel wanting to go through all the trial again.

He had such a good heart. Did he see himself that way?

While the corn pone baked in the oven, Laurel suggested they look for some elderberry leaves to make a few jugs of sun tea. She’d been cooped up inside the store too long without a breath of afternoon air, and the sky called for a visit. They followed a path behind the store that led toward an outcropping called Lady Hawk’s Roost, a place with a view clean to Wilkesboro and beyond. The autumn day teamed with life and color and the tangy scent of wild grapes and fresh pine.

“You smell that sweet scent in the air?” She looked over at Jonathan as he walked by her side, the wind tousling his hair with such force, he removed his hat.

He drew in a deep breath, a smile spreading across his face. “Yes. A flower? Fruit?”

“Wild grapes.” Her feet followed the scent as she searched the woods for the familiar vines. “We ought to pick some before they’re finished for the season, and we can make you some jam to tide you through winter.”

“I need to work much harder on my end of this bargain, Laurel.”

She chuckled and stepped off the path, pushing through the brush to a place where a rocky ledge opened to an endless horizon. The late-afternoon light hazed the distant mountains into the sky, as if the colors had smudged from deep blue to white by a careless thumb. Her eyes, her skin, drank in the view, every shade of blue, every hue of afternoon auburn sinking into her skin. Strength, peace, a sweet belonging.

“I wish I had the words to describe a view like this to Hazel Spencer.” The wind blew her hair in a wild tangle around her head, but she paid it no mind. “She’s been blind since anyone can remember, but I can’t rustle up the right way to show her this view through words.”

“That reminds me.” Jonathan turned to her, breaking her focus on the view. “I think Isom may need glasses.”

“Glasses? How do you know?”

“He was showing all the signs when I observed him during church on Sunday. Rubbing his eyes, squinting. With your parents’ permission, I’d like to come to your house to examine him.”

Cold splashed over Laurel’s skin as if winter had already come blowing through. Visit home? She released the hold on her breath and gave an internal prayer of gratitude to God. Her daddy’s attempts to get liquor from Hezekiah had temporarily failed because of the moonshiner’s being abed with the miseries. Maybe that bought Laurel’s family another week at least. Maybe two.

“You can examine eyes?”

“It’s one of the things I learned before my medical training was interrupted.” He shrugged. “I’m fairly adept at sutures and some infection treatment too.”

She stepped toward a nearby vine that twisted from one tree to the other. The dark purple grapes hung in healthy clusters from their places, as if requesting relief from the heaviness. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her pocket knife and then crimped her apron into a basket to catch the clusters as they dropped. Jonathan rushed beside her to help, slowly taking the knife from her hands.

“I see you are adept”—she tried the word—“at picking grapes too.”

He chuckled, his shoulder brushing hers in his attempt to relieve the cluster from the vine. “A skill honed more on my grandfather’s farm than in the halls of university.”

Jonathan needed to get to their house sooner rather than later. “How about tomorrow for supper?”

“Your parents wouldn’t mind?”

She shook her head. “They’d be obliged to you. Mama’s wrestled with Isom’s learnin’ for years. Maybe this is the answer. He’s struggled somethin’ fierce to read.”

“That reminds me of another question I have for you, if you won’t find me impertinent.”

She shot him a grin. “Impertinent?”

His face relaxed with a smile. “Rude. Intrusive.”

She gave a slow shake of her head and opened up her apron wider to accommodate another bunch of grapes. “I think your definition of…impertinent and mine are different. Go ahead.”

“Elias Harris. Why wouldn’t he bring his children to the school?”

Jonathan Taylor really did have one of the kindest hearts in all creation. What on earth was he doing in Maple Springs? “Elias doesn’t want to cause a ruckus at school. He’s too good for that.”

He peered down at her, arms raised to grip the vine. “A ruckus?”

“Them being colored and all. Some folks ain’t too keen on coloreds learning or worshipping among white folks.” She looked down at the bounty in her apron, a sadness she couldn’t name weighting her shoulders. “Why, you hear most folks still talk about the war among the states like it was yesterday ’cause their daddies or granddaddies are still livin’ and talkin’ about it.”

“So, if Elias’s children came to school, it may cause trouble?”

“For some folks.”

Jonathan sliced a few smaller bunches from the vine and then paused to look back down at her. “How does your family feel about people of various skin colors learning together?”

She met his gaze, thinking, wondering. “Before your uncle came to be preacher, we had a heap of preachers come through that spent a whole lot of time shouting about God’s wrath and judgment. About bad blood and some folks deserving one way of life while others deserve another. None of it ever sat right with my granny or mama, who’d come from a tradition of teaching that paired God’s wrath with God’s love. If that makes sense.”

His brow puckered.

“I know wrath and judgment has its place, else God wouldn’t have put it in the Bible, but your uncle came and preached God’s love and beauty too. He brought a new kind of preachin’. Though some folks said he didn’t have enough wind for them, he spoke in a way that makes a body want to pull up a chair and stay awhile. Like God had more to say with gentle talk than hard. More about beauty and love and kindness than hate and vengeance and war.”

Jonathan was staring at her in a strange way. His gaze never left hers, intense and nearly causing her thoughts to stumble around in her head.

“I haven’t seen schools with all colors of folks in them before. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be so. God’s truth is in His Word, but He’s also been kind enough to spill His answers into the whole world around us.” She waved her hand toward the view. “Not one single tree as far as you can see, not one, is exactly the same as another, but they all work together to create this kind of beauty. God uses them all. Studyin’ on that sure helps make big things big and small things small.” She pushed her hair back from her face to have a clearer view of his face, his expression. “He made all sorts of critters too, even polecats.” Her grin twitched. “Why wouldn’t He want variety in His people? Makes a heap of sense, don’t you think?”

He stared back at her with those round, dark eyes of his, and suddenly the cool breeze turned almost springlike. She liked his eyes. Kind eyes. Intelligent ones.

“It does, Laurel.”

Her name somehow sounded sweet. Different. Almost magical.

“Indeed, it does.”