Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder

Christy
^®
Juvenile Fiction Series
VOLUME ONE

Christy
^®
Juvenile Fiction Series

VOLUME ONE

Book #1 –
The Bridge to Cutter Gap

Book #2 –
Silent Superstitions

Book #3 –
The Angry Intruder

VOLUME TWO

Book #4 –
Midnight Rescue

Book #5 –
The Proposal

Book #6 –
Christy's Choice

VOLUME THREE

Book #7 –
The Princess Club

Book #8 –
Family Secrets

Book #9 –
Mountain Madness

VOLUME FOUR

Book #10 –
Stage Fright

Book #11 –
Goodbye, Sweet Prince

Book #12 –
Brotherly Love

Christy
^®
Juvenile Fiction Series
VOLUME ONE

The Bridge to Cutter Gap
Silent Superstitions
The Angry Intruder

Catherine Marshall

adapted by C. Archer

VOLUME ONE
The Bridge to Cutter Gap
Silent Superstitions
The Angry Intruder
in the
Christy
^®
Juvenile Fiction Series

Copyright
^©
1995
by the Estate of Catherine Marshall LeSourd

The
Christy
^®
Juvenile Fiction Series is based on
Christy
^®
by Catherine Marshall LeSourd
^©
1967
by Catherine Marshall LeSourd
^©
renewed
1995 by Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

The
Christy
^®
name and logo are officially registered
trademarks of Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

All characters, themes, plots, and subplots portrayed in this
book are the licensed property of Marshall-LeSourd, L.L.C.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be
reproduced in any form without the written permission
of the publisher, except for brief excerpts in reviews.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson
^®
,
a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

ISBN 1-4003-0772-4

Printed in the United States of America
05 06 07 08 09 BANTA 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Bridge
to Cutter Gap

Contents

The Characters

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

The Characters

CHRISTY RUDD HUDDLESTON
, a nineteen-
year-old girl.
Her father, mother, and brother George.

CHRISTY'S STUDENTS
:

        ROB ALLEN, age fourteen.

        CREED ALLEN, age nine.

        LITTLE BURL ALLEN, age six.

        BESSIE COBURN, age twelve.

        VELLA HOLT, age five.

        SAM HOUSTON HOLCOMBE, age nine.

        SMITH O'TEALE, age fifteen.

        RUBY MAE MORRISON, age thirteen.

        JOHN SPENCER, age fifteen.

        CLARA SPENCER, age twelve.

        ZADY SPENCER, age ten.

        LULU SPENCER, age six.

        LUNDY TAYLOR, age seventeen.

        SCALAWAG, Creed Allen's pet raccoon.

ALICE HENDERSON
, a Quaker mission worker from Ardmore, Pennsylvania.

DAVID GRANTLAND
, the young minister.

IDA GRANTLAND
, David's sister.

DR. NEIL MACNEILL
, the physician of the Cove.

JEB SPENCER
, a mountain man.

FAIRLIGHT SPENCER
, his wife.
(Parents of Christy's students John, Clara, Zady, and Lulu)
Their toddler, LITTLE GUY.

BOB ALLEN
, keeper of the mill by Blackberry Creek.

MARY ALLEN
, his superstitious wife.
(Parents of Christy's students Rob, Creed, and Little Burl)

AULT ALLEN
, Bob's older brother.

MRS. TATUM
, the boarding-house lady.

BEN PENTLAND
, the mailman.

JAVIS MACDONALD
, the train conductor.

DR. FERRAND
, a medical missionary in the Great Smoky Mountains.

One

I
t was her worst nightmare come true. She couldn't cross. She couldn't cross the bridge, not if her very life depended on it.

Christy Huddleston managed a grim smile. Bridge! It was not a bridge at all, just two huge, uneven logs with a few thin boards nailed across them here and there. A deadly layer of ice coated the logs and boards. Far below, frigid water swirled past and around and over jagged chunks of ice and razor-sharp rocks.

Christy took a step closer to the bridge. The whole contraption swayed in the biting wind. Her stomach swirled and bucked. She had never liked heights, but this . . . this was impossible.

She looked across to her guide, Ben Pentland, on the other side of the swollen creek. The mail-man gazed at her doubtfully. He'd told her she wouldn't be able to make this seven-mile journey through rough, snowy terrain. “Too hard a walk for a city-gal,” he'd said, and now she wondered if he'd been right.

“Stomp your feet,” Mr. Pentland called. “Get 'em warm. Then come on—but first scrape your boots, then hike up your skirts.”

Christy hesitated. She could no longer feel her toes inside her rubber boots. Her long skirts, wet almost to her knees, were half-frozen.

Mr. Pentland shook his head. “Can't get to where you're goin' without crossin' this bridge.

” His words hung in the brittle air. Not for the first time that day, Christy wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake coming to this place. What was she doing here, deep in the Tennessee mountains in the middle of winter, heading off to a world she'd never seen before? Teaching school to poor mountain children had seemed like a fine idea in the cozy warmth of her home back in Asheville, North Carolina. But now . . .

Christy fingered the locket her father had given her before she'd left Asheville. Inside was a little picture of her parents and one of Christy and her brother George. No one in her family had understood why she'd felt she had to come to this wild and lonely place to teach at a mission school.

And now, she wasn't so sure herself.

“Guess you ain't crossed a bridge like this before,” said Mr. Pentland.

“No,” Christy agreed, forcing an unsteady smile.

She took a deep breath, then put one foot on a log. It swayed a little. Her boot sent a piece of bark flying. She watched it as it twirled down, falling the dozen feet to the water. The water snatched at the bit of wood and sped it away.

Another step, and she was on the bridge. The sound of the water became a roar in her ears. There was no turning back now. “You're doin' fine,” came Mr. Pentland's soothing voice. “Keep a-comin'. Not far now.”

Not far now?
It seemed he was a hundred miles away, safe on the far side.

The logs swayed and tilted. Christy stared at her feet as she struggled with her heavy wet dress. Another step, another. With great effort, she forced herself to look at Mr. Pentland.

She was halfway there. She was going to make it.

Another step, and another. The far side was—

]Her boot slid on a crosspiece! She clutched at empty air for support that was not there, slipped and landed hard on her knees. She clung as best she could to the icy log.

Mr. Pentland was shouting something and coming out to her. She crawled another few inches toward him.

Why am I here, risking my life to get to a place I've never seen?
some sensible part of herself kept asking.
Why is teaching so important to me?
Had it only been yesterday that she'd stepped aboard the train to Tennessee, so confident and full of hope? Christy's mind raced as she slowly crawled toward Mr. Pentland.

Then her right knee hit a slick spot on the log. Her weight shifted. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, she slid over the side of the bridge.

“No!” she cried. She clawed for support, but her fingers lost their grip. She was falling, falling, toward the icy water below. The roar of the water and the sound of her own screams filled her ears, and as she fell she wondered why she had to die now, die here—when she was trying to do something so good.

As the icy waters rushed over her, the events of the last two days flashed across Christy's mind.
Was this the way it would end?

Two

O
ne day earlier.

“Now, you watch your step going out to the car. With all that snow last night, the walk's bound to be icy.” Mrs. Huddleston fussed with the bow of her crisp white apron. Tears glistened in her eyes.

Christy took a deep breath to keep herself from crying, too. The look of love and longing in her mother's eyes was hard to bear. “I'll be careful,” she promised.

Slowly, Christy took in the smells and sights around her, all the things she was leaving behind for who knew how long. The smell of starch in her mother's apron, the hissing of the pine resin in the big iron stove in the kitchen, and the sleepy half-smile on her brother George's face. He had stumbled out of bed just in time to see Christy off.

“We have to go,” Mr. Huddleston repeated from the doorway. “The engine's running. I had a time cranking the car in this cold.”

Mrs. Huddleston took Christy's hands in her own. “You're sure about this?” she whispered.

“Positive,” Christy said.

“Promise me you'll take care of yourself.”

“I promise. Really I do.”

After a flurry of hugs and kisses, Christy settled at last into the front seat of the car. Her father drove silently, intent on navigating the icy roads. Asheville was a hilly town, and driving took all his concentration as he made his way in the pre-dawn gloom to the railroad station.

In the gray light, the station had a ghostly look. Black smoke billowed from the engine smokestack. Mr. Huddleston parked the car and they climbed out. The slamming of the car doors seemed unnaturally loud and final. Christy began the walk to the train, keeping pace beside her father.

She tensed, waiting for what she knew would come. She'd battled long and hard with her parents for the chance to leave home like this. They considered her far too young, at nineteen, to be going off alone on a wild adventure like teaching school in the Tennessee mountains.

She'd told them that she was grown-up now. That this was, after all, 1912, and that women could take advantage of all kinds of exciting opportunities. Her life in Asheville was nothing but teas and receptions and ladies' polite talk, dance-parties and picnics in the summer. A good enough life, certainly, but she knew in her heart that there had to be more than that waiting for her somewhere. All she had to do was find it.

Her parents had argued with her, pleaded, bargained. But Christy was stubborn, like all the Huddlestons, and this time she was the one who'd gotten her way. She'd been thrilled at her victory, too—that is, until now, looking at her father's worried, gentle face, and his too-gray hair.

“My hand's cold,” she said suddenly, sticking her hand into the pocket of his overcoat. It was a childish gesture, but her father understood. He paused, smiling at her sadly.

“Girlie,” he said, using his favorite nickname for her, “do you really think you have enough money to get you through till payday?” His breath frosted in the crisp January air.

“Plenty, Father.”

“Twenty-five dollars a month isn't going to go far.”

“It'll be good for me,” Christy said lightly. “For the first time in my life, I probably won't have the chance to shop.”

Reaching into his other pocket, Mr. Huddleston retrieved a small package. It was wrapped in blue paper and tied with a satin bow.