For a few minutes, I sat on the mossy bank eating a cold meat sandwich I’d packed, watching the creek waters gasp and ripple over rocks, their airy song rising into the woodlands’ boughs of budding trees. My thoughts pulled to my life over in the Cumberland, Mama and Papa, what we had and what we’d never have because of their love. I pressed a finger to my mouth, wondering if I would ever have a chance at love.
My mind drifted to Byrne’s sudden adulthood I’d read about in the newspaper, and I knew if I was to ever have a chance at anything, I had to find a way to earn mine.
Junia plodded over to my side and dribbled water on my head and brayed. I followed her wide eyes. Two young boys carrying fishing poles hurried toward us. I dusted off the crumbs on my hands and slipped back on my gloves.
“Ma’am, you’re the new Book Woman, aren’t ya?” the taller boy called out. “I’m Pete Duncan, and this here is my brother, Franklin.”
“Hello, Pete and Franklin,” I said, standing, smoothing away the droplets of water on my hair, dusting off my riding britches. “I’m Honey Lovett, the assistant outreach librarian.”
“Sure glad to run into you. We heard about the new book route. We’d be wanting ya to include us, ma’am. We’re only five minutes across the creek, the little, white board house with the two goats in the yard.”
Junia hawed, and the boys’ eyes rounded. They took a step back. “Mama and us love the books, and we can read jus ’bout anything ya give us. If it ain’t much trouble, Book Woman.”
“I’d be happy to schedule your drop on Fridays,” I said.
“Thank ya, ma’am,” they both chorused.
Prying, I asked a little bit about them so I could choose their reads. Pete was twelve and enjoyed detective novels, while Franklin told me he was going on ten and liked any books about dogs and nature. I listened while the young’un proudly trilled birdsong his papa had taught him. Franklin called out to the catbirds, finches, and warblers, and I marveled and clapped when they separately answered back again and again.
Thrilled to have more patrons, I said goodbye and rode off toward the next book drop.
A few minutes later, Junia stopped suddenly and straightened her ears. I crooked my neck to the right and left, hearing shouts and hollering sifting through the trees.
Alarmed, I dug my heels into the mule’s sides and rode her into the yard up ahead.
A woman stood by the well screaming, waving her hands back and forth. A clothesline full of cloth diapers, linens, and britches billowed in the breezes behind her. A soiled sheet lay on the ground beside a turned-over laundry basket.
I called out, “I’m the Book Woman, what’s wrong?”
“It’s my boy, Johnnie Gillis.” She bobbed her head and ran to the well. “Help me, Book Woman! Over here, over here.”
Junia snorted and sidestepped, trying to turn us back.
“Halt,” I commanded and climbed down, grabbing the trembling mule’s rein and tugging her over to the well. “What is it?” I said breathless.
“It’s my Johnnie. He’s done fell into the well. I thought I’d use the clothesline since it was warm. Only took my eye off him for a minute to hang my last sheet. Help me, oh Lord, mercy, help me. My husband’s gonna be real mad,” she pleaded tearfully. Her cheek was bruised, and she had a cut above her brow. “Help me, Book Woman.”
I peered over the well and saw the small young’un, shivering, gripping the rope and an ol’ bucket sitting halfway in the water with the other. He couldn’t be more than two years old, three at the most.
“Get him out!” she hollered. “I’m not strong enough. Bring him up on that rope.” She jabbed a finger to the tight, knotted cotton wrapped around the crank.