The Heartbeat of the Mountain
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Author’s Note
The Heartbeat of the Mountain
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“No!” Luvella blurted and then cleared her throat dramatically. I don’t want any news of this getting to those men. “I…mean, I may not announce this to the group just yet. When I get a few free minutes at the store tomorrow, I’ll come over to find out the railroad’s decision.” She pushed one long curl back into the ribbon again. “Thank you, Mr. Johannson,” she said, using her low voice and smiling. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
She turned into the wind, which suited her mood perfectly, soaring and exhilarating and powerful, as Mr. Johannson went into the depot. She almost floated over to the Muncy Inn, where her best friend, Anna, was waiting for her. Anna was the only other person, besides Steckie and Bessie, who knew about what she planned for the caboose.
Inside the inn lobby, Anna’s father was sitting in his office behind the registration counter glowering at some papers. The smell of his cigar mingled with that of fried bacon wafting in from the Smythe family’s quarters in the back.
Anna pulled Luvella into a small sitting area off the lobby. “Oh, tell me, Luvella. Quickly!” She held both of Luvella’s hands in her own.
“I think I did it, Anna! I think I did it!”
Author’s Note
Although my research for this novel has been thorough, and I have a lengthy bibliography, this is a work of fiction. I have taken liberties with the layout of Muncy Valley so it supports the needs of the story, particularly the bonanza and football game. The football game is completely fictional, although Jim Thorpe was indeed on his way to the Stockholm Olympics at the time. (In actuality, I’m sure Pop Warner would never have allowed any of his players to participate in a sandlot game like the one in this story.)
Although my research discovered a Native American presence, especially in the early Forksville area, my story probably includes a stronger influence than actually occurred. However, many Native Americans stayed, very quietly, as close to their lands as possible after our government transferred their children from their homes to industrial schools to train them in “white man’s” ways, language, clothing, and culture and tried to move all Natives to reservations. The Delawares had called that area of Pennsylvania home for many, many years. Muncees was a tribe within the Delaware Nation. I have to say, this is not one of our country’s proudest moments.
Although Luvella’s Promise, the children’s prequel to this novel, is based on many stories my mother had told me about her growing up in Muncy Valley, this story, The Heartbeat of the Mountain, is pure and complete fiction.
Any errors in historical and/or geographical data are completely mine and not from any of the learned suppliers of my research or my editor or publisher.
The Heartbeat of the Mountain
by
Joan Foley Baier
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Heartbeat of the Mountain
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Joan Foley Baier
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1387-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1388-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Jack, Bruce, and Tom
who are my warriors
Acknowledgments
This book has been years in the making and then more years of submitting to various publishers and finally, selecting from the short list of publishers who had accepted my manuscript. And the list of people to whom I owe much is a long one.
In my research process, I visited the Muncy Valley, Pennsylvania area several times, my early visits for information and data primarily for the prequel to The Heartbeat of the Mountain, Luvella’s Promise. The people in Sullivan County were so friendly and helpful, I discovered there was another story about Luvella, and that is how The Heartbeat of the Mountain was born.
On one of my visits there, I, and my mother who is the inspiration for Luvella, participated in a book signing at Kathleen Nelsen’s Katie’s Country Store (now under different management) when she hosted a Basket Bonanza. It was a festive occasion, and although her store was the only one having it, the sale was a major incentive for me to make it an integral activity in my Heartbeat novel. Kathleen graciously gave me permission to use the sale title in my story, and generously included her statement that she “has no monopoly or claim to the words.” Thank you, Kathleen.
The folks at The Sullivan Review, the museums in Dushore and Eagles Mere, and the Visitors Center in Muncy Valley were all so eager to help. Marianne Frasier of the Council on the Arts in Sullivan County was a wealth of information. Also the Wyalusing, Pennsylvania Eastern Delaware Nations Cultural Center kindly welcomed my mother and me into their new, at that time, center and even invited us to an upcoming pow-wow. Another year, I was invited to share in the Forksville Festival for a book signing, along with storytellers and exhibits of their Native American heritage. My heartfelt gratitude goes to all of you.
Many thanks must go to my early readers: Margie Hillenbrand, Sue Murphy, Sheri Gumina, and Cynthia Bassett. Their patience, suggestions, and insights inspired me to continue that long, lonely journey through writing a novel.
Football is not one of my pursuits, vicariously or otherwise. I had to do considerable delving to get the feel of a game. When I finally put one together on paper, my grandson, Brian Page, reviewed it thoroughly and saved my life more than once in the process. Thanks, Brian!
Much appreciation and recognition for their professional input on horses, their behaviors, care, reactions, stamina, and everything horsey go to Gwenn Green and Jackie Paterson.
Working with my editor, Allison Byers, has been a joy, and I appreciate so much her input and corrections. I’m a lover of exclamation points, which became very obvious to me when I saw her delete them, one by one. Thank you, Allison, for a great job, well done. And I’d like to thank the president of Wild
Rose Press, Rhonda Penders, also, for her patience and professional management.
My family, of course, is always and forever providing all-round support in my writing endeavors and my granddaughter, Brittany Touris, is my trusted sounding board. Thank you! And finally, to Paul Vail, who encouraged me constantly to keep writing and accompanied me on my most recent research foray to Muncy Valley and Sullivan County: rest in peace, Paul.
Chapter One
Muncy Valley, Pennsylvania
1912
A sudden gust of summer wind held her hostage, as if in warning. She shook her head, chin up, feeling a curl of her hair pull loose from the large white bow in back. That dream is spooking me. But I know what I’m doing, and I need the caboose to do it. She turned around to look up at the mountain, its pines nodding in the breeze. Besides, my mountain stands strong with me. Nothing is going to scare me away.
She thought she saw a movement—something brown—in the woods close to the road. Probably a deer.
She continued walking down the mountain road, avoiding the wagon ruts and the tiny rivulets of ochre water running down them from last night’s rain. As she remembered the rain beating against her bedroom window, waking her to her dream, a shiver rippled through her.
Oh my goodness, Luvella. Stop being so dithery. You have to concentrate on your purpose this morning.
Behind her, a scuff! She began to turn when an arm suddenly wrapped around her neck, pulling her backward. A dirty hand, smelling of tobacco, covered her mouth and stifled her scream. She closed her eyes and bit hard on the disgusting hand. She pulled at his arms and kicked his leg. He yanked her neck tighter. She could hardly breathe.
He bent back, bending her also and lifting her feet from the ground. He pressed his head close to hers. His whiskers brushed against her cheek as he growled into her ear, “Lissen here, little filly. Stay away from that caboose if you know what’s good for ya.”
“I told ya she’d be a hussy,” a second man hissed from the woods near the road. “But Rusty said not to hurt her.”
“Shut up!” the man holding her snarled. He lifted her even higher, squeezing her ribs until she thought they would crack. Then he threw her to the ground. She landed on her hands and knees. Like a rag doll, her head jolted forward and hit the dirt road. She grunted like an old man from the impact.
She felt like Mr. Melk’s hammer had struck her knees, smashing them through to the backs of her legs. Her hands burnt, and she was sure they had been pushed right up to her elbows. At the same time, the sounds of snapping twigs and something pushing through brush told her the two men were running away. She coughed as dust and mud swirled into her face and up her nose. Oddly, she could see her reticule lying perfectly on the road, as if she had laid it there. Nothing had fallen out—not her comb, her white lace-trimmed handkerchief, or even her hairpins.
White spots danced behind her eyes. She forced her arms—her hands were still where they belonged—to push herself up from the road, to her tortured knees, and to her feet. Her head pounded; her forehead burnt from hitting and scraping against the road; her neck felt battered.
She threw furtive glances in all directions. No signs of those men, but she didn’t want to dawdle.
She looked at the front of her white cotton dress. “Oh, no-o—o!” she cried. She brushed off much of the dusty mess, but where her legs had rubbed into the road, there were darker smudges. On her arms, too. She looked back up the road to where her house was.
No. Mama would faint dead away if she saw me like this. I’ll go to Bessie’s.
She limped down the road and soon turned left onto Main Street.
The street stretched before her; off to the right was the road leading to Daddy’s sawmill. The scene straight ahead, seeming to change every day according to the weather, always caught her breath. Today she just welcomed it, the safety of it.
Under clouds buffeted by the wind, the buildings in their muted shades of grays and blues and barn-red prompted an image of Mama’s current patchwork quilt project. When the sun peeked through, the colors brightened, and the contours were more clearly defined—the blue cottage look of Muellers’ house-ice cream store-post office, the prim brown of Mrs. Kiergen’s sewing store and her upstairs apartment, the deep red of the train depot. Her line of vision stopped there. That was her destination. But first, she turned left into Bessie’s house.
When she opened the door, her sister’s smile changed immediately to shock. “Luvella! Get in here! What on earth happened to you?”
Bessie led her younger sister to the kitchen table and gently pushed her onto a chair. “Your face! What happened to your face? And your neck! It’s all red and looks like it’s going to bruise.” She grabbed one of Vanessa’s diapers and pumped water on it, wringing most of the water out. “Luvella Andersson, tell me everything right now!”
As Bessie ministered to her, Luvella relayed what had happened and what the men had said. And as she reviewed the scene, she felt the full weight of it, the threat of it, the danger to her. Her eyes overflowed, and she struggled to stay calm. She didn’t want to wake Bessie’s baby.
“Well,” Bessie said, “even though you won’t be seeing Mr. Johannson today, you will be working at the store. We can dab some powder on that brush burn on your forehead and let me get that old gingham dress I wore before Junior was born and I was thin, like you. You can wear that today while I wash and iron this dress.”
“Oh thank you, Bessie. You’re a blessing. But I am definitely going to my meeting with Mr. Johannson. And I am definitely going to rent that caboose.”
After making Bessie promise to not tell Mama or Daddy about those men, she continued her determined walk down Main Street, only slightly favoring her right leg. Her long skirt billowed with the wind. She scowled. Sometimes skirts can be such a bother. I bet I could have run away from those men in a shorter skirt. Halfway into her sixteenth year and her first year to wear ankle-length dresses, she still longed for the freedom of the shorter version.
She waved at Mrs. Kiergen, who was arranging a dress in her store window. Luvella was careful to show only the good side of her face. Then she recommenced her brisk pace past Steckie’s Hardware store and its front corner where her gift business resided. As she walked, her eyes sought the old caboose, deteriorating in the lot between Steckie’s and the train depot. It stood amidst tall grass and weeds, like an old cow in a wheat field, and possessed none of the splendor Luvella hoped to bring to it.
She studied the flaking dark red paint on its west side, the cracked glass, the back door, which faced the front of the lot and would be her front entrance, with the curtain on only one of its twin windows. She knew from her previous inspection that the interior was in just as much neglect. Why do those men want this wreck of a building? They certainly don’t seem like businessmen.
She scanned the yard, her eyes resting momentarily on the privy in back, between the caboose and the depot.
Aha. If this had been a better morning, she would have chuckled. Mr. Johannson has had it painted very recently. So, he is interested in renting this to me.
She closed her eyes to see her vision of success, to see her future here, and if she planned right, the prosperous future of Muncy Valley. Little Muncy Valley, in northern Pennsylvania, thriving. Groups of people, filling the shops and businesses—especially her crafts business—and walking the boardwalk, which she had urged the merchants to install last year. Another idea she’d taken from reading Harper’s Magazine.
A cloud-driven shadow skulked across her vision. She stared at the door. Something…Something else about that caboose… Her dream surfaced again, the view of the caboose pulling away, that tall man emerging in a threatening stance onto its back platform. Goosebumps prickled the back of her neck. But more determined than ever, she walked past the old railroad car to the train depot and her meeting with Mr. Johannson, the railroad’s manager and her key to the caboose.
At the stoop to the depot, she stopped. I have to a
ct like a businessman. This is my last chance to stand up to him. Then she tucked her errant hair into the tied ribbon, squared her shoulders, and brightened her face with a confident smile. She stepped up and opened the door.
Mr. Johannson stood when she entered the depot. That’s good. He’s finally treating me like a grown lady.
“Good morning, Luvella,” Mr. Johannson said formally between lips stretched in a cursory grin. He held in his hand a short piece of wood, to which keys were attached, and tapped it against his leg. “You’re sure about this?”
He’s nervous, too. “Absolutely,” she said. “But I’d like to see it again.”
Mr. Johannson peered at her, squinting his eyes. “What happened to you, Luvella?”
“Oh, bumped into the doorway in the dark last night,” she lied.
She followed Mr. Johannson out of the depot, taking long strides to match his and counting them…nine, ten, eleven. About thirty feet. An easy passage for the train travelers to enjoy a little shopping. She couldn’t help it. She smiled. But climbing the five steps to the back platform and into the abandoned railroad caboose, she hesitated and gripped the framework of the door. The cool, dank air raised the hairs on her arms and prickled her scalp, feeling like ants crawling through her hair.
That dream haunts me. And those men… I have to figure out who that man was in my dream. And I wonder if he’s connected to those men. She studied the man before her. Maybe Mr. Johannson? His head almost touched the car’s ceiling. He’s tall, too, but he just doesn’t have that…that evil air about him.
He peered down at her, his brows pinched together. “Are you reconsidering, Luvella? You look worried.”
“I was thinking about all the work this will need,” she said, cloaking her fears with the little lie.
“Well-ll,” Mr. Johannson replied. “I’ve been thinking, too. I haven’t seen your daddy here yet. When will he want to see it? He’ll have to give his consent, y’know.”
Luvella lowered her head and turned away from Mr. Johannson. Ignoring his question, she strolled down the aisle. She stopped halfway down, sensing Mr. Johannson right behind her. Then, filling her chest with air and resolve, she turned sideways to the manager. She reached out to run her fingers over some of the gouges in the benches along the wall and traced the cracks in one of the windows. She squinted to look out a second cracked window and tugged at the back door’s cloth curtain, which fell into her hand, while Mr. Johannson shifted feet and cleared his throat.