“I was on my way to drop off the loans to you at the outpost, and I figured the gal ran off. Caught her just as she screamed past, and riderless at that,” the librarian said with a chuckle.
“She misses Mama.” I took her reins, relieved.
“Yes, your mama’s been sorely missed in these parts.” He looked off and I could see he was thinking about her, his book woman from long ago. He was a dear patron, and Mama had helped Oren Taft get the library job. “Let’s get your reading material to the chapel,” he said. “I have to get back down to the library and work the desk. My boy will meet up with you Thursday.”
“Mr. Taft, much obliged for your help today, and I’ll be there to meet him. Junia—” I started to scold as I mounted but stopped. I didn’t have the heart to go on. The poor mule’s head hung cheerless, her sides quivered with an ache brought on by the loneliness that only loss brings.
“I miss her and Papa too.” My own heart was heavy, the weight of the hard Kaintuck land and even harder life and folk pressed in, smothering.
“Honey”—Mr. Taft studied me a moment before speaking quietly—“books can help soothe all matters of the heart. Your mama taught me that.” He nodded. “I remember her loaning me a tattered book by a fella named Rabindranath Tagore from way across the big pond. Far from these ol’ blood-soaked knobs and our whisperin’ blue hills. I recall one of his passages she’d quoted for me: ‘Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.’ I’ll be mindful to try and find you some of his works, if you like.”
“Real pretty, Mr. Taft. I love reading the poetry books.”
The librarian followed us back to the outpost. I tethered Junia to a tree and then helped him unpack the reading material and take it inside.
Before he left, he handed me a note. “Miss Foster asked me to pass this to you. There’s a few more requests for book drops. Miss Foster said she’d be much obliged if you can fit the folks into your schedule. And there are also requests for certain reads from your patrons.”
My patrons. The words lifted my heart. “Obliged, Mr. Taft.” I took the paper and glanced at the names, surprised to see Francis and one other patron whose name I didn’t recognize.
He set down the lantern on the table. “Keep the light for your outpost.” He dug a cookie out of his coat pocket and passed it to me. “This will keep Junia near and doing your bidding. My woman mixes up a batter of oats, carrots, apple, and molasses, then bakes ’em and cuts ’em into cookies for my steed.”
Then he was off and out the door, whistling, as his horse crossed creek waters to head toward town.
I stepped off the porch and grabbed my small satchel. “No more trouble from you today,” I warned. Junia stared into my eyes looking innocent, though we both knew different. I broke off part of the oat cookie, and her ears flopped with pleasure as she tasted the sweet ingredients.
“You like that, Junia?” She nudged my hand for more. “I’ll bake you some but only if you stop running off.” I scratched her neck, fed her the rest.
Back inside, I looked around the small church. Except for a scarred wooden table with a chair and some makeshift shelves, the outpost was empty, full of cobwebbed corners and years of grime and ghost sermons.
Tucked back on a shelf, I found one of Mama’s old scrapbooks, a precious book that she and the other Pack Horse librarians used to make for their patrons when the books were hard to come by. I blew on the cover, wiping away the dust with my arm.
Mama had talked a lot about the Pack Horse Library Project that the Kentucky Federation of Women’s Clubs created in 1913. The program expired the next year after the benefactor, a Kentucky coal baron, passed away. But in 1934, the Kentucky women suggested it be revived under President Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration. It ran till 1943, when the funding stopped.