Appalachian Song

Prologue

APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS

NORTH CAROLINA

FEBRUARY 1, 1943

My heart thumped hard beneath Mama’s thin coat while I waited for Amos at our secret place. Holes in the chinking of the old trapper’s cabin let in frigid mountain air, with another storm brewing by the looks of heavy gray clouds in the sky, but I couldn’t leave for Tennessee tomorrow without seeing Amos one last time.

Tears blurred my vision.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave North Carolina, but mostly I didn’t want to leave Amos. Pa said Amos was a good-for-nothin’ kid, but I loved him. He was the first boy I’d ever kissed. Last week after Pa announced we were movin’ to Tennessee, I begged Amos to marry me.

We can wed soon as you turn sixteen, he said, holding me while I cried in his arms right here in this cabin.

But that’s almost two years, I sobbed. I wanna be your wife now.

He’d gently lifted my chin with his thumb until I looked up at him. I’m right anxious for you to be mine, too, but I’m only seventeen. In two more years, I’ll be a man and can take care of you proper-like. ’Sides, if the war don’t end and I gotta join the Army after my birthday, you’d be all alone till I got back. It’s best to wait.

He was right, of course. Still, I couldn’t leave without him knowing how much I loved him.

Peering out the frost-covered window of the cabin, I waited. Icicles hung from the eaves, and the forest beyond wore a fresh blanket of white, lovely yet dangerous should someone get turned round and head deeper into the mountains. I used to wish I could get lost in those woods and disappear, but all that changed when I met Amos Cole last summer. His laughter and steadiness filled in the holes Mama’s death and Pa’s neglect had left in my heart. I knew I’d love Amos forever.

It wasn’t long before I saw him, his red plaid jacket a bright spot in the snowy world. Tall and handsome, the sight of him always took my breath.

I hurried to the door. I’d taken care with my hair and worn Mama’s best dress. I didn’t want Amos to think of me as a fourteen-year-old girl today.

His face was red from the cold wind, but he smiled when he saw me. You look real pretty. He stomped snow off his boots before entering.

You do too.

He chuckled, then looked around. It’s cold in here.

The cabin had been abandoned for ages and only held a table, one rickety chair, and a narrow log bed frame with a stained straw tick.

We can make a fire, I said, indicating the stone fireplace.

I can’t stay long. Pa needs me to chop wood before the storm gets here.

His words reminded me our time together was short. My own pa was expecting me to help with the packing.

I swallowed hard. Amos, I began, more nervous than I’d ever been. I . . . I love you.

He reached for my hands and squeezed my icy fingers. I love you too.

I gathered my courage. I want to be with you. Now. Here, in our secret place.

The widening of his eyes told me he understood my meaning.

I don’t think we should. He cast an uneasy glance to the bed. It ain’t right.

I put my fingers to his mouth to shush him. I’m leavin’ tomorrow and don’t know when I’ll see you again. Tears slipped down my cheeks. Please, Amos. Make me yours. For always.

We stared at one another, the magnitude of what I was asking between us.

Just when I began to fear he might turn and leave, Amos pulled me against his chest, where his heart thundered.

I love you more than anything, he whispered before his lips met mine. Not in the chaste, gentle way we’d always kissed before, but with a passion I hadn’t even known existed.

When he led me over to the bed and loved me, I knew I’d never be the same.

I became a woman that day.

One

DEEP IN THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS

TENNESSEE

JUNE 15, 1943

A gunshot pierced the morning stillness of the holler. Ol’ Clem commenced to barking up at the house, sending a flock of sparrows fluttering to the safety of a stand of blooming tulip poplars.

Bertie straightened from where she’d been stooped over a row of young tomato plants and turned in the direction of the sound. The same green hills and tree-covered mountains she’d seen the entirety of her fifty-two years of life filled the view, offering no answers as to which neighbor had fired the weapon. While it wasn’t uncommon to hear gunshots in their part of the Appalachians, the time of day—nearly noon—made it so.

Another shot sounded, followed by a third.

Someone huntin’ this late in the mornin’? Sister Rubie, who’d been working at the opposite end of the garden since sunrise, came toward Bertie where she stood with her ear tuned to the echoing report. Sound carried for miles in the hills, ricocheting off damp earth and ancient oaks, until one couldn’t be certain from whence it first came or where it might find a resting place.

I s’pose. Bertie, who’d misplaced her hat at some point that morning, noted her sister’s face was amply shaded from the bright morning sunshine by the wide brim of her bonnet, thus avoiding the redness Bertie was certain her face sported. It wasn’t the first time she’d suffered her own neglect and it wouldn’t be the last. Most critters are tucked in the shade of the brush by now. Seems foolhardy to be out huntin’ in the heat of the day.

Sounded like it came from Mooney Point. Aren’t there new folks livin’ over thataway? Rubie looked to the north, but their own land was all that was visible from the garden, not far from the two-room cabin Papa’d built for Mam after they married in 1870.

Bertie nodded. I haven’t become acquainted with them yet but heard tell a family with a passel of young’uns moved into the Tucker place some months back.

They listened a while longer, but no more shots were fired.

We best get indoors, Sister. Rubie’s keen gaze studied Bertie’s face. You’re beginnin’ to look like one of Papa’s McIntosh apples.

Bertie huffed. One would think after all the years of workin’ the garden I’d have sense enough to keep up with my head covering.

’Tisn’t that you aren’t sensible, dear. You simply have too much on your mind. I know you’re worried ’bout the Alister babe, even if you won’t admit it.

Her empathetic words unlocked a load of frustration.

Ramsey Alister is actin’ foolish, and I don’t mind sayin’ it. Bertie punctuated her opinion with a firm nod. There’s no cause for him to take that sweet young bride of his to Knoxville. I’ve delivered half a dozen breech babies, all of ’em healthy. You mark my words. Them city doctors will cut Sharalyn open without so much as a by-your-leave, with Alister parked out in the waitin’ room, banned from being by her side. Wouldn’t it be better for me to work with God and nature and bring that child into the world without maiming its mother?

The stiff, starched bill of Rubie’s home-sewn bonnet lifted until sparkling blue eyes, the hallmark of the Jenkins family, were visible. Certainly it would be best for you to attend the birth, Sister, but Ramsey is as strongheaded as his pa. There’s naught else to be done but pray the wee one arrives safe and sound with no harm to Sharalyn.

The statement held simple truth. There was naught else to be done. Ramsey Alister was the babe’s father and had made his decision.

Still, Bertie’s hackles wouldn’t settle. What gets my goat is the man tellin’ me I’m too old to midwife for our mountain folk anymore. Why, I was there when he himself came into the world, blue-faced and silent. I don’t take credit for breathin’ life into him, as that’s God’s job, but the Lord and I have been workin’ together for nigh on forty years. I’ll stop deliverin’ babies when he tells me to and not a moment sooner.

With a gentleness none of the other Jenkins siblings possessed, Rubie laid her hand on Bertie’s cheek. It is still God’s job, Sister, even when you aren’t there to assist him.

The mild rebuke hit its mark.

Bertie’s rigid shoulders dropped. Papa always said you were wise beyond your years, even as a young girl.

"Papa also used to take a switch to my legs when I expressed my wisdom a bit too loudly."

Their shared laughter worked to soothe Bertie’s ire. We best get to the house and help with the noon meal. Otherwise— she winked—Jennie might take a switch to us both.

Bertie led the way down a narrow path, around mounds of cucumber and squash plants, past the peas and onions, before she came to a rusted metal gate. The paling fence Papa had built decades ago kept out deer, wild hogs, and other critters large enough to destroy the life-sustaining garden, but there wasn’t much they could do about rabbits and other varmints small enough to squeeze beneath the gray, weathered slats.

As they made their way to the house, Bertie did a mental inventory of everything she and Rubie had accomplished that morning, as well as work that awaited them on the morrow. Not nearly as big as it had once been when Papa and Mam’s large family lived at home, the garden and everything it produced provided life and liberty to Bertie and her four sisters. Only the corn and wheat fields held greater importance, and that because a good portion was cash crop. Although the sisters’ farm produced nearly everything they required to live, a few necessities like sugar, soda, coffee, and salt must be purchased at the general store in Cosby Run, an hour from the homestead by mule or half that if they went on foot through the woods.

Bertie chuckled to herself, hearing Papa’s booming voice in her mind. Life and liberty, you say?

Yes, sir, she gave silent answer.

Five aging spinsters living alone in the mountains of Tennessee fought for life and liberty every single day. Papa’d been gone for twenty years now. His sons were good to see to their sisters on occasions of great need, but Bertie, Rubie, Jennie, Amelie, and Bonnie couldn’t rely on their brothers for the day-to-day needs of their farm. Thomas and Chad had farms and families of their own, as did Catie—or Catherine, as she liked to be called now—the only Jenkins sister who’d married and moved away from Brier Creek. The five sisters who remained on the family land worked hard to preserve the independent yet solitary life they’d chosen.

Bertie paused and surveyed her surroundings with gratitude.

The two-room cabin where Mam and Papa raised eleven children. The barn, corncrib, smokehouse, gristmill, and springhouse filled with crocks of butter, cream, and milk. She and her siblings used to hide in the small building on hot summer days long ages ago, dipping their bare toes in the cold mountain water. Hogs lazed in their pens while chickens clucked about on a never-ending search for bugs and lizards. Bees happily buzzed among wildflowers, garden plants, and even Papa’s apple orchard, where several varieties were just beginning to bloom due to a late freeze. The tiny pollinators eventually made their way to the half-dozen hives Rubie tended with unhurried care each day. Bertie’s mouth fairly watered at the thought of the fresh honey they’d enjoy now that the mountains were once again alive with glorious blooms.

Theirs was a good life, indeed, if unconventional in the eyes of outsiders.

When she and Rubie reached the house, the usual daily activities of their sisters greeted them. Bonnie stood near the springhouse with hands deep in a washtub set over a low fire despite her recent flare-up of arthritis—Bertie made a mental note to make her sister some chamomile tea to ease the joint pain—while Amelie pinned damp handmade skirts, blouses, and underthings on a line to dry. With eleven children, Mam had Papa fix a sturdy clothesline as close to their water source as possible. Though just the five sisters occupied the homestead now, laundry was still done outdoors unless frigid winter days kept them inside.

Jennie, the eldest at sixty years, looked up from where she sat on a bench on the porch churning butter. You hear the shots?

Bertie and Rubie mounted rock steps and joined Jennie in the shade of the covered outdoor area where the sisters often took their work, sewing, or even meals during the warmer months.

Rubie thinks it came from Mooney Point. Bertie sat in a wooden rocker, crafted by their father years ago, and fanned herself with her apron. Odd time to be huntin’, we figure.

Jennie glanced her way and frowned. Alberta Mae, where is your bonnet? Your face is as red as—

One of Papa’s McIntosh apples. I know.

You’ll be sorry come mornin’. Jennie’s thin lips pinched. Rub some aloe on it so it won’t blister.

Bertie clamped her mouth shut. She wasn’t a child in need of Jennie’s mothering. She was, after all, the family member who did most of the doctoring.

Jennie served a noon meal of cold mutton, applesauce from last season’s apples, and biscuits. Later, while Bertie slathered an aloe salve on her sunburned skin—not because her bossy sister said to but because everyone knew aloe soothes sunburns—her mind drifted to the cause of her distractedness that morning.

Concern for the Alisters had occupied her mind since Ramsey knocked on the cabin door the previous day to inform Bertie they no longer required her services as midwife for the impending birth of their first child.

At the last checkup, Bertie found that Sharalyn’s baby hadn’t turned as it should. She’d massaged the mother’s huge belly to no avail and proceeded to explain the process of a breech birth to the frightened couple. Yes, it came with risk, she’d told them, but every birth did. A bottom-first baby could still enter the world naturally; they’d just need to be especially vigilant in monitoring its progression and heartbeat. The young parents, anxious but willing to trust Bertie, agreed. Bertie went home to prepare a special birthing kit with items she’d need for a breech delivery that was sure to commence in the next week and had it waiting by the door.

Then Ramsey’d shown up without a hint of apology and said he was taking his wife to the city for the delivery.

How many babies has Ramsey Alister birthed? she muttered as she settled in a chair on the porch with a lapful of knit stockings in need of mending. "None. How many babies have I helped bring into the world? Too many to count. But nooo, Bertie don’t know what she’s talkin’ about when it comes to his baby. Them city doctors know better than Bertie."

Her one-sided conversation would have continued had Clem’s ears not perked up just then. He lifted his head and emitted a low growl from his place at her feet.

What’s ailin’ you, boy?

Bertie followed his intense gaze, fixed on the wooded area past the corncrib. Something moved in the brush, but her eyesight wasn’t as good as the big yellow dog’s was, even at ten years of age.

It’s probably just a deer. Cats and bears ain’t gonna come callin’ this time of day.

Despite her droll declaration, Clem raced off the porch, barking as he passed the corncrib and disappeared into thick foliage. Bertie hoped there wasn’t a polecat waiting for him. That dog had been sprayed more times than she cared to deal with.

His barking quieted a moment later, yet whatever was in the brush hadn’t run away.

The figure moved again. Was that a person?

Hello? Is someone there? Bertie set her mending on the plank floor and stood. Come on out. No need to be unneighborly.

Jennie appeared in the open doorway to the kitchen, hands covered in bread flour. Who are you talkin’ to?

There’s someone in the bushes over yonder. She indicated the spot with her chin.

Jennie squinted in that direction. I don’t see anyone. She gave Bertie a look, as though she thought sun sickness might be the culprit.

A thud sounded. Like something hitting the ground.

Clem commenced barking again, but this time he came out and stood with eyes fixed on Bertie for several beats before he returned to whatever hid in the bushes.

We best find out what’s got that dog worked up fore he barks himself hoarse.

Bertie and Jennie left the shade of the porch and made their way past the log corncrib, empty and ready for a new crop come harvest. When they poked through the foliage, both women drew up short at the sight before them.

Clem stood over a girl, not more than thirteen or fourteen years old, collapsed on the ground.

What on earth? Jennie exclaimed.

Bertie knelt beside the girl and smoothed long honey-colored hair from a pretty but pale face. She’s fainted.

With experienced eyes, Bertie took note of several clues. Swollen breasts. A slight bulge beneath the homespun dress. Although the stranger didn’t appear to be more than a child herself, Bertie was certain a babe grew within her womb.

We best get her to the cabin, out of this heat, Bertie said.

When she slid her arm beneath the girl’s shoulder, a warm, sticky substance met her hand. She pulled it away to see bright red staining her skin.

Good gracious, Bertie breathed. She’s bleeding.

Jennie knelt on the opposite side of the unconscious girl and together they carefully rolled her over so Bertie could examine her.

She tugged the loose neck of the blood-soaked dress and eased it down until an ugly, oozing, perfectly round wound was revealed in the flesh of the girl’s thin shoulder.

Bertie gasped, but she knew her eyes didn’t deceive her.

What is it? Jennie asked.

She’s been shot, Sister, Bertie hissed. This wound is fresh. Her gaze darted to the woods behind them. Normally so familiar and peaceful, they suddenly seemed dark and sinister.

Who could have done such a ghastly thing? One of their neighbors? An outsider?

She met her sister’s bewildered gaze.

Whoever did this, she said, her voice low and alive with fear, could still be out there.

Two

T

HE EVERYDAY QUIETUDE

of the Jenkins cabin shattered in a rush of activity.

Boil some water!

Put her on the sofa.

The blood’ll leave a stain. Use the cot there in the corner.

What happened? Who is she?

Bertie’s sisters’ anxious voices filled the gathering room, each attempting to speak over the others, as she and Jennie carried in the unconscious girl. Though the stranger was slight in size, it had taken every bit of strength she and Jennie possessed to carefully lift the child from the forest floor and make their way to the cabin. It was a relief to settle her on the cot near the cold fireplace. The narrow bed was used only when they had a visitor or when a sister couldn’t sleep and didn’t wish to disturb the others in the sleeping loft above the kitchen.

The excited chatter frayed Bertie’s already-taut nerves.

She’s been shot. Her voice rose above the din, returning the room to welcome silence.

Eyes wide, her siblings stared at her, shock and confusion on their sun-wrinkled faces.

We’ve no answers to your questions and no time to waste. That bullet’s gotta come out and the wound cleaned. Amelie, bring my bag. Bonnie, we’ll need bandages. Rubie, get Papa’s rifle and set it by the door. We don’t know if the varmint who shot her is nearby, but we can take no chances. Get to it, Sisters.

The women sprang into action, darting about the cabin on their missions.

Do you reckon the one who done this will come searchin’ for her?

Jennie’s low-spoken, ominous words drew Bertie’s attention. The worry she saw in her sister’s eyes reflected the rising dread in her own heart. I don’t know what to think. She glanced down at the girl. But if we don’t get that bullet out and the wound closed, it won’t matter. She’s lost a lot of blood already.

You’ve never taken a bullet out of someone before.

Bertie thought of the many cuts, gashes, bruises, animal bites, and broken bones she’d tended over the years. I reckon there’s a first for everythin’.

After a long moment, Jennie nodded, touched Bertie’s arm in an uncharacteristic show of affection, and headed to the kitchen. I’ll boil water. You’ll need a poultice, too.

With each of her sisters busy at their assigned tasks, Bertie returned her attention to the girl on the cot. Before they’d lifted her from the forest floor, Bertie’d used her apron as a bandage, hoping to stanch the flow of blood. Now she carefully undid the knotted material.

The many questions her sisters asked echoed through her mind as she worked.

Who was this girl? Who’d shot her and why? The father of her child? Had it been a terrible accident or was this the result of something far more sinister?

The realization that Bertie might have endangered her family by bringing the girl into the cabin was a sobering thought, yet she’d had no other choice. The Bible’s Good Samaritan hadn’t considered his own safety when he helped the man who’d been beaten and robbed. Bertie and her sisters could do no less, could they?

With gentle care, she lifted the girl’s arm to peek at the wound.

A moan parted the patient’s lips. Don’t . . . don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt . . . my baby.

Bertie stilled.

Although the girl’s eyes remained shut, the weak, frightened words told Bertie this was no accidental shooting. She placed her hand on a warm cheek. Rest easy, dear one. You and your babe are safe.

After a moment, the girl’s body relaxed, and she slipped back into unconsciousness. Bertie prayed she would remain so, at least until the bullet was removed from her body.

For the next hour, with her sisters’ help and encouragement, Bertie painstakingly sought to locate the bullet embedded deep in the torn flesh. Her simple medical instruments, useful at birthings, weren’t designed for surgery of this kind, but somehow Bertie managed to extract the hateful metal, bringing with it a fresh flow of dark blood.

I need to sew the wound closed, she said to no one in particular, her focus on quelling the river of red that ran down pale skin onto the sheet.

Amelie handed her a threaded needle. It’s been sterilized, she volunteered.

Bertie nodded her thanks and set to work. With careful, even stitches, she closed the wound, mindful not to pucker the skin. Next, she took the poultice Jennie had prepared—the odor telling her it was a mixture of garlic, mustard, and yarrow—and placed it over the clean, stitched-up bullet hole. The warmth and herbal mixture would draw out infection that tried to settle in the wound as well as help with swelling.

After wrapping the entire shoulder with clean bandages, Bertie sat back on her haunches, rotating her neck to ease the tension in her muscles. Well, that’s all we can do. It’s up to the Lord now.

The five women bowed their heads as Jennie said a brief-but-to-the-point prayer over their patient, asking God for quick healing and safety for them all. Late-afternoon sunshine out the window reminded them chores awaited.

I’ll milk the cow, Bertie. Rubie’s words were directed to her sister, but her soft gaze stayed on the girl. The poor child may need you.

Let’s hope she sleeps. I fear she’ll be in much pain when she awakens.

Rubie reached to smooth a strand of honey-colored hair. So young. Why would anyone wish to harm her?

Until they learned more about the girl, the circumstances of her arrival at their cabin would remain shrouded in dark mystery.

Bertie circled her arm around Rubie’s thick waist. Together they studied the lovely face, pleased to see a bit of color had come to their patient’s cheeks. Bertie hoped it was brought on by a return to normal blood flow to the girl’s heart rather than fever.

Take Amelie with you when you go to the barn, Sister. I think it best if no one goes out alone until we know how this happened.

Rubie nodded and left for her chore. From the next room, the aroma of roasted pork drifted to her, along with hushed voices and the clink of cutlery being set out on the worktable.

Bertie sank onto one of Papa’s handcrafted ladder-back chairs someone had placed next to the sickbed, exhaustion washing over her as her bones settled against the hard wood. She closed her eyes and checked off a mental list of what needed to be done in the coming hours.

Change bandages. Make a new poultice. Spoon fluids. Pray.

It had been some time since she’d doctored a seriously ill patient. Most mountain folks didn’t bother with hospitals and school-educated doctors. With Knoxville nearly two hours away by automobile, it was too far for illness or injury that wasn’t life-threatening. Many mountain families tended their own sick, with the Jenkins family as no exception. Bertie’d learned about herbs, medicines, and midwifery from Mam, who’d learned it from her mama. She’d attended her first birthing at the age of eleven, awed by the miracle she’d witnessed. Afterward, Bertie told Mam she wanted to learn to be a healer. Papa’d been pleased to hear such and allowed her to spend time with Mam mixing teas and medicinal concoctions rather than weeding the garden or cleaning out the chicken coop.

Sister?

Bertie’s eyes sprang open. Darkness filled the world out the window above the cot, and the glow of kerosene lamps illuminated the cabin. She stretched and wondered how long she’d been asleep.

You should eat something. Jennie stood next to the bed, her hand on the forehead of the unconscious girl. I’ll sit with her.

With a groan, Bertie stood, her neck and limbs stiff. I suggest we find a more comfortable chair if we’re to keep watch through the night. Her glance went to the stars sparkling in the inky sky. Best we draw the curtains, should anyone come lookin’ for her.

So saying, she moved to tug the faded fabric, so lovingly sewn by Amelie as a surprise for Mam many years ago, across the windows on either side of the stone fireplace.

I’m thinkin’ the one who done this won’t be stopped by a drawn curtain if they come for her. Jennie carried over a rocking chair with a cushion and set it near the cot.

Bertie hoped her elder sister was wrong, but after she pulled the curtains on the kitchen windows, she slid heavy bars in place across the outside doors in each of the two rooms. They only barred the doors when a curious bear or a strong wind threatened to push them open. Tonight, something worse than a hungry bear lurked in the darkness. Papa’s rifle stood in the corner, loaded and ready.

Low voices came from the sleeping loft above the kitchen while Bertie sat at the table and ate the supper Jennie had left warming for her on the back of the wood-burning cookstove. The soft chatter of her sisters preparing for bed, nourishing food in her belly, Papa’s well-built cabin offering time-tested protection. It all served to remind her God had always seen to their needs and safety, and he would do so again and again.

Now he’d brought a wounded lamb for them to care for. Bertie hoped answers about who she was and what happened would come with the morning sun,