The Heartbeat of the Mountain Read online

  She looked out and up at her mountain. Everything was black outside; there was no real view, no nodding of pine branches or chirps of robins in her support. “You’re a big help,” she said to the unresponsive blackness. The moon silhouetted the clouds, quietly assembling. Luvella scanned them and knew they were preparing for a showdown.

  “Fits my mood just dandy,” she said, smiling. “I love storms. Everything is clean afterward. You have yours tonight, and I’ll have mine tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Six

  Luvella, riding on the wagon bench with her father, looked over her notes for the meeting and thought about what she would say about the trip to Pittsburgh. Daddy still hadn’t said another word about it. She was sure all the members would like the festival idea—especially Mr. Smythe. And he’d bring the other men to agree. But the chamber of commerce…

  The merchants’ group membership had grown from the original five members—Steckie, Daddy, Mr. Johannson, Mr. Smythe, and Luvella—to every business owner in the Valley. Jude Harley, the banker, was the eleventh and newest member, and now the meetings were held in the church so everyone could fit comfortably.

  Luvella entered the church and walked toward the front from where Steckie and she would speak. She was halfway down the aisle when she noticed the red hair, the tall man sitting right in the front row of benches.

  Oh! Wouldn’t you know he’d sit right up front. She hesitated, then turned to see if Daddy was behind her. But he was tethering the horses. She scanned the church again. Mr. Smythe was sitting next to the stranger and on the other side of the aisle were Mr. Johannson and Mr. Pearson. That’s good. She headed directly for Mr. Pearson.

  “Would you save the place next to you for my father, please?” She wanted to go over to Mr. Smythe and say, “Mr. Smythe, this meeting is for members only,” but she didn’t. She just looked at him and then at the stranger.

  Mr. Smythe blushed and cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the red-haired man stood and looked down at Luvella. “I’m the new owner of the inn and, as such, am a member of this group.” He smiled beneath cold blue eyes. “My name is Sigfried Bocke.”

  Luvella raised her eyebrows and looked at Mr. Smythe. He said, “It isn’t finalized yet, Luvella, but Mr. Bocke is very interested in purchasing the inn.”

  Just what I wanted to hear. But does that mean Mr. Bocke has changed his mind and now only wants to buy my caboose? She turned away, as if to push that thought behind her, along with Mr. Bocke. Mr. Johannson acted like Mr. Bocke’s purchase of the caboose was not going to be accepted by the railroad, so I don’t think I have to worry. Oh, how Mr. Smythe will love what I have to say today. But how will I deal with our Mr. Bocke if he tries to take over here?

  Steckie was still at the church door, so Luvella went back and repeated to him Mr. Bocke’s and Mr. Smythe’s statements. Then she returned to the front to prepare for when she would speak. She arranged her notes on the lectern—twice, as a matter of fact. Daddy came to the front at Mr. Pearson’s beckon and sat next to him. Luvella’s father watched her as she meticulously tidied her papers, probably wondering what was going on. He always told her he dreaded what was coming next when she was thinking hard.

  She looked up and scanned the people assembled. As she sat next to her father, Steckie went to the lectern to begin the meeting. He cleared his throat and spoke up over the quiet conversations. “It looks like everyone is here,” Steckie said, “and as you all know, Luvella has to leave on a trip today. So let’s start.”

  The rustle of clothing and scuff of boots on the floor quieted as the folks settled into attention.

  “Pieter, could you begin by giving us a report on our money?” Steckie stood aside so Mr. Pearson could come up front.

  Pieter Pearson ambled forward from his front seat and stood next to Steckie. His tall frame, with his thick blond hair, bushy eyebrows, and sandy mustache, were counterpoints to Steckie’s medium build and dark, curly hair.

  “We have twenty dollars and fifteen cents sitting in Jude’s bank, now that he’s a member.” He grinned at Mr. Harley, and several of the men chuckled. “There are still some dues outstanding for this year. You know who you are.” Luvella felt, rather than saw, Mr. Smythe wriggle in his seat. “We have no debts,” Mr. Pearson finished and went back to his seat next to Daddy.

  “Thank you, Pieter.” Steckie nodded at him. Then he faced the red-haired man. In crisp tones, he said, “Ben, would you introduce our guest for today?” He accented the word guest, and if the membership missed it, Luvella noted by his frown that Mr. Bocke did not. Steckie licked his lips in satisfaction.

  Mr. Smythe stood and turned to the people. His shoulders sloped, his face drawn. “This here is Sigfried Bocke. He’s lookin’ to buy my inn and wants to see how our Valley businesses work together.” Mr. Smythe turned to sit, and Mr. Bocke began to rise. Before he could stand and speak, Steckie raised his voice slightly over the murmured reactions to the inn news. “Thank you, Ben, and good luck to you. Now let’s get to some new business Luvella wants to talk to us about.”

  Mr. Bocke settled back on his bench. Luvella could sense the glacial penetration of his eyes as she stepped up to the lectern and focused on the other people before her.

  “I read an article in the new Harper’s about how a group of business people in Brooklyn organized a festival.”

  Faces stared at her, alert, waiting. Even Mr. Bocke’s eyes shifted to…curiosity? She explained the festival and its results. More staring. They have no idea how we can use a festival. Luvella wasn’t surprised.

  “First order of new business today.” She glanced at Daddy when she said first. He didn’t flinch. “I propose that Muncy Valley have a festival.” The red head stiffened in his seat, his back pitch-fork straight. People looked at each other and back at Luvella. Shoes shuffled. “This is exactly what I suggest.”

  She laid out her plans: Every merchant participates; sale prices on a few items; others at full price; use the older children to help out; arrange some items on the porches of the stores, so the whole Main Street looks like a festival; music and dancing in front of the inn. At this point, Luvella looked at Mr. Smythe. He had already brightened, but at the thought of activity right in front of the inn, his shoulders squared and his back straightened.

  Luvella continued, “If Mr. Johannson and Mr. Pearson would agree to fiddle for us, if we decorated the whole stores area of the Valley and be sure to use bright colors, and if we had a large picnic area right next to the music…” She smiled as everyone nodded and whispered to each other, and grins grew. She held her hand up to quiet them, never finishing her sentence.

  “I recently learned of a source of baskets—handmade baskets. All sizes and colors and reasonably priced. I think baskets would make a good theme for the festival. Each place of business would have baskets, some to display their smaller items for sale and others to sell separately. I suggest we call the festival A Basket Bonanza.” She realized she had never asked Uncle Isaac about prices of the baskets. After only a breath’s hesitation, she added, “I’ll get the exact price schedule soon. Another idea for using the baskets is to fill them with lunches or pies and sell the two as a package.”

  Mr. Smythe spoke up, a renewed vibrant timbre to his voice. “Luvella, that is a Jim-Dandy proposal. That will bring just what we need to Muncy Valley.”

  Luvella knew he meant just what I need for the inn. There were ayups and yups and heads bobbing. She continued, “Mr. Melk, you realize this will include you, too.” The sandy-haired farrier, with arms and hands almost the size of a black bear’s, beamed his relief.

  Mr. Bocke’s carrot-colored head swung around, first one way and then the other. His frown was deep, his movements agitated.

  Luvella moved with the momentum. “Mr. Johannson, would you work with whoever you want to set up the music and dancing? Mr. Smythe, would you arrange for a picnic area? And could you make space in your inn in case of rain?” Luvella clenched her stomach mus
cles to keep from laughing. Mr. Smythe was almost bouncing off his bench with joy, and the red head was twisting within himself, his face crimson with anger.

  “Mrs. Maarten, would you mind being in charge of the picnic baskets and the food? You can work with Mr. Smythe on the food. Umm, we may have to check with the new Food and Drug Administration on that now. I’ll write them and find out.

  “And finally, I will have a meeting very soon with you three so we can go over everything we’ve learned and decided. We have to move fast on this because we want to have the festival before the cold weather sets in. I’d say we should have it on the first Saturday in September.” She looked around the church. No one said no.

  Luvella shifted her papers in front of her. “The next order of business…” She glanced over at her father. He was nodding.

  Her father stood, first looked at Luvella, and then turned to face the people. “I’ll take this.” Luvella held her breath. “Luvella discovered something else in Harper’s magazine. It looks like there are other organizations, just like ours, in Pittsburgh and other big cities. Each city calls its group the chamber of commerce, and there is a convention of all the Pennsylvania Chambers in Pittsburgh this October.”

  Luvella eyed the people, simple folk, hard-working, mind-your-own-business people. A convention was big-city stuff and didn’t concern them. They turned their puzzled faces to Willem Andersson.

  Her father ran his hand over his graying hair. Luvella knew he was “working up a head of steam,” as he called it. His voice rose, and he looked around, meeting each person eye-to-eye. “You’re all my friends. You know I’m not a braggin’ man.” Assenting nods all around. “But Luvella here has done a good job in her own business and for all the businesses here in the Valley.”

  Mr. Smythe clapped his hands, big, slow claps. Mrs. Maarten took it up, and soon the church was filled with applause and a chorus of “ayups.” Luvella bent her head, feeling the heat and the blush start in her face and travel clear to her toes. She blinked hard to clear her eyes of welling tears.

  Her father continued. “Well, Luvella thinks it would be a big benefit to our businesses if we sent one of us, at the group’s expense, to that convention.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And I agree with her.”

  Mr. Sigfried Bocke leaped up from the front bench and spun around to face the people. “This is preposterous.” Spittle sprayed from his mouth, like venom. “You’re letting a frilly little girl lead you all by your noses.”

  Luvella’s father, who stood only as high as Mr. Bocke’s shoulder, almost crouched, as a bobcat does just before he lunges for the kill. He blurted loudly to be heard over the commotion, “Mr. Bocke, you are a guest here only. Please sit down.”

  The red head waved his arm, pointing at Luvella. “I suppose she’s the one who wants to go to Pittsburgh and come back and tell you all what to do next.”

  Daddy, who was still standing in front on the other side of the aisle, said, “I am offering to go for the group. I think Luvella ought to go, too, because she has more business sense than the rest of us put together.” Ayup…ayup…ayup. “And Mr. Bocke, my frilly little daughter’s father told you to sit down.” Daddy, his lumberjack biceps flexing under his shirt, glared the red head into his seat.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” Luvella bent her head in her father’s direction. She explained further the chamber of commerce, its goals and its supporting and connecting branches around the country. She stood as tall as she could, then, and said, “I’d like to bring this to a vote today. We have to make reservations for their conference. How many want my father and me to go to Pittsburgh to see what other towns are doing to improve their business conditions?”

  Mr. Harley raised his hand slowly, his face turning crimson when everyone looked at him. “How much will this trip cost?” he asked.

  Mr. Johansson stood immediately. “I can answer that. Two round trip tickets on the W and NB to Pittsburgh, one night at an inn, would cost about five dollars.” He nodded toward Luvella’s father. “I expect you’d take care of your own meals?”

  Both Daddy and Luvella said, “Yes,” and Luvella repeated, “How many vote for the trip to the convention?”

  Mr. Smythe immediately shot his hand up; Mr. Johannson looked around and slowly raised his hand. Mrs. Maarten and Mrs. Kiergen, sitting next to each other, raised their hands in unison, and the others all followed. Luvella noticed Mr. Harley was the last to agree. But he’s happy to take my money every week, she complained to herself.

  “Good. We’re all together. The next step is to agree on paying the expenses. Everyone who agrees to that, raise your hand, please.” This was quicker, since Mr. Johannson’s casual estimate.

  “Good.” Luvella gathered her papers. “Mr. Johannson, Mr. Smythe, and Mrs. Maartens, please get your people together right now so you can begin festival plans immediately. I’ll give you exact requests for money for Pittsburgh as soon as I know the details. Right now, let’s start our festival plans while we’re all here. Thank you everyone. The meeting is over.”

  Mr. Smythe ran to Luvella and grabbed her arm. “The Basket Bonanza is a lifesaver. That is exactly the…the spark we need to fire up Muncy Valley.” He blushed at his own unintended eloquence. “Bless you, Luvella.” He squeezed her arm and turned toward the people.

  Mr. Bocke stood, looking abandoned and confused. Then he sidled next to Luvella and hissed in her ear, “You’ll regret this, you…you little ninny.” He whirled around and slithered out of the church.

  Daddy came to the front. “Come on, Luvella. I’ll take you back to the house.” He winked at her, and his mustache broadened over a wide smile.

  Just before he pulled the horses into their drive, he said, “Oh, by the by, Luvella. I slipped my Colt .45 into your saddlebag this morning. It’s loaded, so be careful with that bag. I know you’re a crack shot, but remember, aim just a mite high when you shoot with that gun.” He waited while she jumped down from the wagon. “Don’t ever go into those woods without protection. Especially at night.”

  Chapter Seven

  Uncle Isaac stood near the barn door, holding the bridles of both horses. He had saddled Luvella’s Daisy for the long trip and waited, quietly talking to the horses. Luvella quickly changed into a riding skirt, the closest thing to pants Mama would let her wear, and grabbed her saddle bag carefully. If Mama finds out I have a gun in here, both Daddy and I will be in trouble. Mama stood by the door to the kitchen and handed their lunches, wrapped in a cloth, to Luvella as she raced to the doorway.

  “Goodbye, Mama. You get your rest, now.” They hugged each other.

  “Luvella,” Mama whispered. “Explain to Aunt Hilda why I’m not there with her.” Mama choked through the words. “And tell her…tell her I…I’ve missed her terribly all these years.” She waved to Uncle Isaac, hugged her daughter again, and turned to enter the house.

  Luvella and Uncle Isaac cantered down Mountain Road, toward the Valley. Avoiding the merchants’ area, they took the road to Daddy’s sawmill, then turned to climb the road following the creeks north toward Forksville.

  Uncle Isaac led the way, pushing the horses to a gallop, but as the road became steeper, he slowed a little. “I want to get past Eagles Mere before we stop for lunch. So, if you can do it, we can gallop some, then slow to a canter. The horses should hold up at that pace.”

  “I’m right with you, Uncle Isaac,” Luvella responded, her voice smooth, even with the rise and fall of her body in the saddle.

  Daddy had always told her, “You have good control of your legs in the saddle. Yup. Good strong legs.”

  Uncle Isaac rode ahead of Luvella in silence. When the sun was high, he stopped and swung one leg over the horse’s head to slide to the ground. He came back and helped Luvella jump off her horse. “Let the horses rest a few minutes.” He walked to a clear spot where they could see the beautiful woods all around them and a river winding below. Luvella followed. “That’s Trout River down there. R
uns from Hunter’s Lake.” He stood and looked at the river for several minutes, then gazed at the mountain of trees rising around it.

  Luvella wondered if he were thinking of Aunt Hilda, like she was. She couldn’t stop thinking of her and how she would take care of this dying woman.

  “My people lived and hunted here just twenty years ago,” the old man said, “up until the battle at Wounded Knee changed everything.” Silent for several long moments, he finally sighed and changed the subject. “Your Bible tells the story of Noah and his ark. Our people also believe in the great flood where all men perished, but we believe the turtle saved us. The turtle, which can live in water and on land, survived the flood and filled the earth with people again. That is why the Turtle Clan is most important in all our tribes.”

  Luvella didn’t know what to say. Her family didn’t talk about beliefs. They just tried to live them. Isaac turned slowly and walked to Daisy’s side, holding his folded hands open for Luvella to stand on and mount her horse. “It is time to go.”

  In quietude, they galloped, cantered, and walked up the road and around Eagles Mere Lake to its northern tip, where Isaac again studied the water. At the turn of the road, they continued straight, following a trail through the woods. “This is shorter and faster,” Uncle Isaac explained.

  The trail was wide enough for a wagon to fit between the trees on either side but hadn’t been cleared of stones and most tree roots like the road had been. Luvella concentrated on the trail for Daisy’s safety, watching for stray rocks, branches, and of course, snakes. The trail ran alongside a creek, and Luvella’s thoughts ran amok, like the dancing froth of the rushing water. She inhaled the scent of pines, much stronger here than at home, and she felt exhilarated, heady with her own deep love of the mountains and with Uncle Isaac’s tales.