CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

REVEREND IVERSON, FOR all his good qualities, had one decided weakness: his wife's pecan pie. Mrs. Iverson was in the habit of making it every Sunday as a special treat, and Miss Alice and I had been privileged enough to learn how to make it, although Anne steadfastly refused to tell anyone the exact ingredients used in her "secret" pecan filling.

This Sunday we were at work in the kitchen, putting in two fresh pies – it had become, in the last two months, something of a ritual. I loved these lazy afternoons after the service was over. Laughing and chatting comfortably with Miss Alice and Anne in the small kitchen scented with mouth-watering spices was a particular pleasure.

The delicious result of our labor was well worth the trouble, and I always managed to sneak a few pieces for Neil, who had an insatiable sweet tooth. I doubted he would be back in the Cove soon enough this week to have his usual share – there was a small rash of dysentery up on Raven Mountain, and he had been traveling back and forth almost constantly for days.

Fortunately, no illness had struck Cutter Gap yet; I didn't think I could bear a serious epidemic – even of something as comparatively commonplace as dysentery – so close to the last one. It still bothered me that Neil had to be exposed to such a range of diseases, but I kept my concerns to myself, knowing that he had chosen to accept the risks by taking this line of work.

"Christy, knead with your knuckles, not your palms." Anne was peering over my shoulder, pointing sternly at the mass of dough under my fingers.

"Sorry," I mumbled, embarrassed at being caught dawdling – there was no dawdling in Anne's kitchen. She and Miss Ida would have gotten along famously.

Miss Alice was busily roasting a handful of sugared pecans over the stove, but I could see the amusement tugging at her lips, and I wondered if she had ever had the same thought. Probably. She was just too diplomatic to say so.

"Looks like this one is about done," Anne announced, peering into the old pot-bellied stove. "Ten more minutes, I'd say." She straightened up and groaned lightly, twisting her arm around to rub her back. "Moses had better appreciate this; you'd think after twenty years, he'd never want to eat another pecan again. I had my fill years ago – Lord knows why I keep making them."

Miss Alice chuckled. "Love defies all logic."

"Maybe so...." Glancing over at me, Anne grinned. "Learn from our mistakes, Christy. Don't spoil that man of yours any more than you do already."

Blushing, I put the dough aside and went to wash up some dishes, concentrating fiercely on a dirty plate to avoid having to meet anyone's eye.

The front door slammed open, flying into the wall with a deafening bang. I shrieked, the plate slipping from my hands and shattering on the floor. Before I could react, Miss Alice was gone, out into the hallway to confront whatever was there. Anne followed quickly, and I was left standing there dumbly until a familiar voice cut through to me.

"Alice!"

The urgency in Neil's shout sent a cold shock through me – in a panic, I hurled the dishrag into the sink and ran.

Neil, Jeb, and Bob Allen were in the hallway, supporting a limp body between them. I didn't recognize the unconscious man; my attention was caught by the fact that there was blood everywhere. My stomach lurched as the scene began to sink in – Bob's leather jacket and Neil's hands were covered with gore. The bitter, coppery scent of blood assaulted my nose and filled my stomach. My head began to spin.

I felt Anne's strong hands on my shoulders, pulling me back into the doorway, away from the sight. "Christy, go get water."

I moved without any thought, weaving dizzily out to the water pump. The fresh air blew away the horrible smell, and my vision cleared; I pumped as quickly as I could, splashing the water all over my shoes and skirt as the bucket filled. Struggling with the weight, I hauled it into the kitchen, not caring about the mess I was making. Anne took it from me as soon as I crossed the threshold, pouring it into a pan to boil over the stove.

I could hear voices upstairs – the men must have brought him up to one of the bedrooms. Pausing to snatch a few blankets and towels from the linen cabinet, I hurried up the stairs.

Neil and Miss Alice were sitting on either side of the Iversons' bed, consulting quietly with each other while the others hung back. Neil saw me first, his face lined with tension; he beckoned me forward.

Miss Alice had wiped away some of the blood on the man's face, and my heart leapt into my throat as I realized who was lying there.

"Mr. Taylor!" I croaked, looking to Neil for some kind of explanation. What on earth was Bird's-Eye Taylor doing here in Cutter Gap? He had disappeared again just after I left for my holiday in Asheville, and he hadn't been seen since. What had happened to him?

"Sam Houston and Creed found him," Neil whispered. "Mary tried to patch him up as best she could while Bob went to get me."

I swallowed. "Is...will he be okay?"

Neil shook his head. "I don't know yet."

Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and Reverend Iverson rushed into the room, tailed by a white-faced and frightened Sam Houston.

"Bob, Jeb, will you come here and hold his arms still?" Neil appeared to take no notice of the newcomers, focused entirely on the curved needle he was threading. "His leg is fractured. I'll need to set it before the swelling starts."

"Christy," Miss Alice put her hand on my shoulder, "perhaps you can take Sam Houston downstairs and find something for him to eat?"

Sam Houston nodded enthusiastically, but judging from the look on his face, he wanted an excuse to escape the blood and needles more than he wanted food.

"Of course. Call if you need something, Miss Alice." Taking his hand, I led him down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I cut him a slab of cured ham and some bread. He picked at his dinner listlessly, without the usual appetite of an active boy; it didn't take long for him to abandon the pretense and ask if we could move into the parlor.

It was still late afternoon, but I brought in a few pillows and some blankets, and made up a makeshift bed on the divan. Sam Houston, undoubtedly exhausted from all the fuss, lay down without a fuss, and I sat next to him, listening to the muffled sounds coming from upstairs and wishing I knew what was happening.

We didn't talk – Sam Houston was uncharacteristically silent. I hummed softly, combing my fingers through his hair; he winced as I hit a high note. I stopped and smiled. "That bad, is it?" I whispered.

He looked apologetic. "Ye can't hold a tune worth nothin', Miz Christy."

The voices upstairs grew louder, and feet shifted on the floor, bodies moved, lifting something, turning something. I remembered what Neil had said just before we left and realized what was happening. Too late, I reached out to cover Sam Houston's ears – the sickening sound of snapping bone told me that Neil had set the broken leg. Sam Houston shuddered and wrapped one hand unconsciously around his arm, where the fracture had healed over. I squeezed his shoulder and hummed again – anything to drown out the noises above us.

It didn't take long for the weary boy to doze off. No one came downstairs, and I was wary of going back up. Anxious to help in some way, I ended up sweeping the broken glass and scrubbing down the hall floor, which was spattered with blood. The smell made me sick to my stomach, but I held my breath and worked, praying all the while that Neil and Miss Alice would be able to save their patient.

Finally, as the afternoon waned into evening and still no one emerged from the Iversons' room, I curled up on the chair next to Sam Houston and closed my eyes. There was nothing to do but wait.

A/N: *Gasp!* I know, I know – I'm a real jerk for making you wait until the next chapter to find out what happened to our favorite ornery old moonshiner. : )

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