Midnight Rescue / The Proposal / Christy's Choice (5 page)

David cleared his throat. “So how's the patient?” he asked. He was dressed in his proper ministerial clothes—striped pants, a white shirt, and a dark tie. His hair was carefully combed. Christy always thought he looked older and more dignified on Sundays.

“The patient is already complaining,” Christy said. “I'm not sure if that's a good sign or not.”

“I happen to be suffering in silence.” The doctor held up his coffee cup. “You know, Christy, as much pain as you put me through, I could really use something stronger. A little of that moonshine would come in handy right around now.”

“How can you joke about that?” Christy cried. “It's moonshine that nearly got you killed! What if that bullet had been a few inches nearer your heart? What if Duggin had hit your head?” She rolled her eyes. “Come to think of it, if he'd hit your head, the bullet would probably just have ricocheted off.”

David nodded. “I agree with Christy, Doctor. As a matter of fact, my sermon this morning is going to be on the evils of moonshine. I'm hoping it will have some effect.”

“Take my advice, David.” The doctor poked at his oatmeal with a spoon. “Don't go meddling where you don't belong.”

“Meddling?” David demanded. “You're sitting there with a hole in you, talking about meddling? Maybe you think these mountain men can guzzle all the homemade liquor they please, but when they endanger others. . . . Suppose that bullet had hit a child, Doctor? What then?”

The doctor leveled his gaze at David. “No one knows more than I do about the pain and death these mountains have seen. But I've been here a lot longer than you. And I'm telling you, if you climb up in that pulpit today and preach against the evils of illegal liquor, you won't accomplish what you're hoping for.”

“How can you be so sure?” Christy asked. “You've never set foot in that church. You've never heard David preach, either. But I have. And he is a very persuasive speaker.”

“I'm no theologian,” the doctor said. He pushed his tray aside once again, dropping the napkin over his now-cold oatmeal. “But I know that when you accuse people, a wall goes up. The last thing they're interested in then is changing their views. All they do is crouch behind that wall to defend themselves.”

“Sometimes that's true,” David said, “but just the same, I have to try.”

The doctor ran his hand through his messy hair. “There's something you two need to understand. Back in these mountains, there's only one real source of money, and that's the sale of good whiskey to outsiders. These people need food and clothes and medicine. How else are they going to get it?”

“But that's not the only way!” Christy cried in frustration. “They could come to us—to the mission—for help.”

The doctor shook his head. “Too proud. That's not the way of these folks. They don't want charity.”

Silence fell. Christy looked over at David. He seemed as frustrated by the doctor's words as she was.

“Well, I need to get over to the church. I'll see you there, Christy,” David said curtly. “Glad you're doing better, Doctor.”

“David?” the doctor said.

“Yes?”

“Be careful what you say. Or you may live to regret it.” He paused. “As a friend, I'm warning you.”

David's eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think the better of it. He left briskly, slamming the door behind him.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Ruby Mae poked her head inside. “Miz Christy?” she asked. “You about ready to head on to church?”

“In a minute, Ruby Mae.”

Ruby Mae gave a little wave to the doctor. “How'd you like the oatmeal, Doctor? I helped Miss Ida do it up for you. Put my own special fixin's in.”

“It had a . . . unique . . . flavor,” said Doctor MacNeill.

Ruby Mae grinned at Christy. “Knew he'd like it,” she said.

“Ruby Mae, did you wash up the breakfast dishes, like Miss Ida reminded you to?” Christy asked.

Ruby Mae pursed her lips. “No'm, I can't rightly say that I did. I had to give this nice bran mash I made to Prince, on account of him winning the race and all. By the way, Doctor, your horse is doin' fine, too, though I 'spect he misses you. I gave him a little bran mash, too.” Christy sighed. “Those dishes—”

“Won't wash themselves, yes'm, I know. Miss Ida tells me that all the time. I'll do 'em as soon as church is over.”

“All right, then. Wait for me in the parlor. I'll be right down.”

As the door closed behind Ruby Mae, Christy stared at the doctor's white bandage. It brought back vivid memories of the dark blood, the gaping hole, and the look of pain in the doctor's eyes as she'd removed the bullet. A feeling of anger seared through her. “I don't understand you,” she muttered.

“Many women have tried,” the doctor joked, but Christy was not amused.

“It's only by the grace of God that you're alive, Neil,” Christy said in a hushed voice, barely controlling her anger. “How can you see the enemy and not want to fight back?”

“The enemy?”

“Moonshine, of course. Illegal liquor and the drunkenness and the feuding that come with it.”

The doctor gave her a weary smile. “I wish it were that simple, Christy. But the enemy is much bigger. It's ignorance. And poverty.” He closed his eyes. “And that,” he added, “is an enemy you are not going to defeat with one sermon.”

The service was well under way, and as far as Ruby Mae was concerned, the fun part—the singing and foot-tapping and clapping—was done. Now the preacher was speaking.

Ruby Mae sat in one of the front pews. Miz Ida sat on one side, her hands folded primly in her lap. Miz Christy sat on the other. She had a far-off look in her eyes, as if she were figuring something complicated, like one of those math problems Rob Allen liked to work on so much.

Of course, Miz Christy was big on thinking. Ruby Mae knew, because she'd taken a peek at Miz Christy's diary a while back. It was full of big thoughts, deep as the well in the mission yard. Miz Christy had been mad as a plucked hen when she'd caught Ruby Mae reading it, but she'd forgiven her eventually.

She'd even given Ruby Mae a diary of her own to write in. What she wrote, though, wasn't what you'd call deep. Mostly, Ruby Mae just wrote about how wonderful Prince was. Once or twice she'd even written about Rob Allen's dimples.

Ruby Mae craned her neck, scanning the rows behind her. The preacher was just getting to speechifying, and she didn't want to be rude. But still, she was curious about whether Rob was here today.

She saw her ma and nodded. Ruby Mae was surprised to see her step-pa there, too. He hardly ever came to church. He always said, “I don't take no stock in a brought-on city fellow comin' here, a-telling us how to live.” Maybe her ma had dragged him here today to show he was sorry for shooting the doctor and all.

Just then, Ruby Mae caught sight of Rob sitting at a desk in the back corner. She gave a little wave, and he waved back.

Miz Ida elbowed her hard in the ribs. “Behave, Ruby Mae,” she scolded.

Ruby Mae sighed. Between Miz Alice, Miz Christy, and Miz Ida, you couldn't take a breath without one of them telling you how and when and why.

She focused her gaze on the preacher. His face was red, and his eyes were burning. He pounded his fist on the pulpit.

Maybe she was missing something. He always talked mighty pretty, about God and love and such things, but she wasn't much on listening to preaching.

Still, there was a strange kind of silence in the church today. The usual coughing and shifting and baby-crying had stopped. The only sound was the shuffling of the pigs who often slept under the floorboards in a crawl space. The room was as still and waiting as the moment before a storm comes.

“Some of you,” the preacher was saying, “feel that after a minister has finished his Sunday service, he should shut his eyes to everything going on outside the church. ‘Mind your own business,' I have been told.”

The preacher paused, gazing out at the crowded room. “Now, in the last twenty-four hours, I've done a lot of thinking about what Jesus' attitude would be toward us here in Cutter Gap, right now in 1912. You'll recall that Jesus said, ‘Everyone that doeth evil hateth the light lest his deeds should be reproved. But he that doeth truth cometh to the light.'” The preacher took a deep breath. “He also said, ‘No man can serve two masters.' In other words, you can't serve Christ on Sunday, and then serve evil on Monday. That just is not possible.”

A long silence followed. Suddenly, the preacher pounded the pulpit with his fist again, and Ruby Mae jumped.

“Men and women,” he cried, “in this Cove there are those who are working at night—in the darkness—and they are serving evil!”

His voice rang out, climbing into the high rafters. People shifted and murmured.
What did he mean,
Ruby Mae wondered.
What evil?
She looked over at Miz Christy for an answer, but her teacher's eyes were glued on the preacher.

“Yesterday, we saw the truth of what I'm saying,” the preacher continued, his voice lowered to a near-whisper. “We had a celebration, a celebration for a woman, Miss Alice Henderson, who has devoted her life to doing God's work. There was a race, you may recall.”

The preacher fixed his gaze on Ruby Mae, and she felt prickles travel the length of her spine. Was he mad at her? Was she somehow doing evil? Sure, she'd been shirking her chores, but was that enough of a sin to get the preacher so all-fired angry?

“Ruby Mae Morrison surprised us all by winning,” the preacher continued. He smiled right at her, and she relaxed a little.

“And then—” his voice boomed, “a shot rang out, and a man . . . an innocent man . . . nearly lost his life.”

The preacher moved away from the pulpit. He walked down the aisle separating the two halves of the room. Ruby Mae had never seen him so angry. It scared her. Judging from the looks of others in the room, it scared them, too. Some people even looked a little angry.

“The liquor being brewed hereabouts is the devil's own brew,” the preacher said. “You know and I know that it leads to fights and killings. Christ meant for our actions on Sunday and every other day to be alike. Don't make the mistake, men and women, of underestimating Him. Our God cannot lose. He will not lose the fight against evil in this Cove, or anywhere in our world!” preacher's face was flushed, his eyes glowing as he watched Jubal depart. “How many of you want to be on the Lord's side?” he demanded. “Do you?” He pointed his finger out into the crowd. “And you? How about you?”

No one moved. His voice echoed in the silent room. A baby sobbed softly. Ruby Mae felt someone move beside her. She looked up to see Miz Christy, standing proud and tall.

“I do,” she said.

On the other side of her, Ruby Mae felt Miz Ida stand.

“And so do I,” she called out.

Ruby Mae hesitated. No one else was standing. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath.

Her knees trembling, Ruby Mae slowly stood. Miz Christy smiled down at her. “I do,” Ruby Mae called out in a voice that seemed thin and puny in the huge room.

She glanced back. Her ma was staring at her with a face that showed no emotion.

Just then, her step-pa climbed to his feet. He sent a cold look toward the preacher. Ruby Mae knew that angry stare far too well.

“Best stay out of other folks' affairs, Preacher,” Mr. Morrison warned. “Next time I fire off my rifle, it may not be no accident.”

One by one, several other men stood and followed Ruby Mae's stepfather out the door.

Five

T
hat evening, Christy retrieved her diary before crawling into bed. It was late and she was tired, but she wanted to sort out her complicated feelings about the past day.

And it had been a very long day. The doctor, feverish and grumpy, was proving to be a difficult patient. Nothing was ever right. His sheets were tangled. His tea was cold. His dinner was bland. He was bored. He wanted to go home to his own cabin. He had work to do.

But that was just a minor concern. Ida and Miss Alice could handle Doctor MacNeill.

It was David's sermon that had Christy so worried. She was afraid that his stern words had just served to drive away the people he'd hoped to win over. After the service, she'd sensed them staying far away, just as the doctor had warned. Even among those who had stayed through the service, the usual happy chatter had been replaced with terse goodbyes and sullen stares. Obviously, feelings ran very deep on the subject of illegal liquor.

Christy uncapped her pen and began to write:

April 7, 1912

I'm so worried. Miss Alice and David have often warned me that these beautiful mountains are full of danger, and that these wonderful people are capable of dark and dangerous acts. But these past couple of days, I've begun to see it for myself.

During David's sermon today about the evils of moonshine, several men stormed out. And afterward there was a tension in the air I've never felt before. The doctor says David and I are too new to Cutter Gap to understand these people. He says we shouldn't interfere.

But yesterday I was the one who had to remove a bullet from that man's shoulder—a bullet that wouldn't have been there without the help of liquor. Doesn't that give me a right to an opinion? How can it be wrong to try to change a hurtful thing?

And the illegal liquor that is everywhere here is a hurtful thing. I have only to remember the sound of that gunfire, or the sight of Doctor MacNeill's blood-stained shirt, to know that much.

Still, I feel uneasy. I can't say why, exactly. But something about the look in the faces of those mountain people, even more than Duggin Morrison's outright threat, makes me feel like we haven't seen the last of the trouble over moonshine.