I tapped the pencil on the page, thinking. There was librarian Oren Taft’s Tobacco Top community. Nine families lived there, and they were known as holler dwellers, some of the poorest in the hills. Mr. Taft was working at the library full time after moving his wife closer to town. I would be delivering reading materials to his son on Thursdays.
Coal miner Bonnie Powell, frontier nurse Amara Ballard, and the Gillis family would be scheduled for Friday. I paused as I wrote down the last name. There were quite a few families named Gillis, and I wondered which one this was.
By the time I was through shining Mama’s boots to wear on my first day at work, it was time for bed and I rushed outside to feed Pennie and Junia.
***
After a quick breakfast, I wrapped two sausage patties and a fried apple pie, adding two carrots for Junia to have on our first day at work.
Eager to be out riding the hillsides, Junia moved at a steady pace. It was like she sensed my new life had awakened her ol’ one, feeling the hope and promise that the books would bring us.
In the woods, chimney smoke curled into the fog, feathery, revealing the camouflaged nests of small ghost homes. When Junia saw the boarded-up church by the creek, she neighed and whinnied. “Whoa, ol’ girl.” I tried to slow her down. But she sped up even faster, remembering the outpost and her rider from back then.
The mule stopped in front of the chapel door and lifted her nose, sniffing. Junia snorted and searched with her big eyes and pinned-up ears. She swung her head to the left, then to the right, and scouted some more, her ears still pinned straight. Again, she looked around, baring her teeth as if struggling with her next move. From the vine-wrapped crumbling chimney, a single dove cooed soft and then louder twice more before flying off, its flapping wings thrumming through the trees.
The ol’ apostle girl heaved, swished her tail, then let out a slow rippling haw, a muffled chord of cries that I’d never heard before. The sound came from deep within her, dull and long, past the reaches of flesh and muscle, traveling directly from an abandoned heart.
I climbed down and scratched her ears, trying to soothe her. “Junia, I’m sorry but she’s not here.” I patted her neck. “You’ll have the book route again and make her proud.” I sighed, aching for Mama, for all of us. If only she was here to see it. “I miss Mama too,” I whispered.
Junia’s big eyes popped even wider when I mentioned her.
Slowly, I moved down along her side to her rump. “I need to unload the pannier and satchel of food and take it inside, ol’ girl. It’s our first day on the job.”
As soon as I lifted the bags, Junia was off, neighing and hawing, racing toward the east. “JUNIA!” I dropped the bags and chased after her, both of our screams lighting the nuthatch, chickadees, and warblers from their nests, the leaves singing in protest.
“Junia!”
Breathless, I stopped a mile later alongside the mouth of the creek, bent over, and rested my hands on my thighs. In a minute, I called out for her but heard only the prattling trills of birdsong, and no Junia anywhere in sight. I kicked a rock, scattering dirt and debris, angry at my foolishness for letting her run off a second time. I blinked, searched around me again.
I ran for another mile, stopping to scan the woods and call for her. Exhausted, I began walking, fearing I might have to walk the thirty miles over to Thousandsticks.
A few minutes later, I heard her indignant screams and barking haws.
Mr. Taft, the librarian, led Junia behind a horse, a sunny grin on his weathered face.
Junia kicked forward, nipping, trying to get a piece of his steed.
“Oh, ol’ girl, you scared me something silly.” I ran up to them, my eyes blurring from tears. “Mr. Taft, I’m much obliged for your help, sir. She ran off at the outpost.” I looked her over for any scratches and scrapes, checking her hooves before pressing a cheek into her fur. “You’ll be okay, Junia.” I ran my hands, up, down, and under, searching like Mama’d taught me.