“Miss, you ought not to feel so squirrelly,” he said. “Jenny ain’t gonna hurtcha none.”
“What if she rears and tosses me off?”
“Don’t reckon that’s possible,” Fin said. The ol’ pony jest plodded slowly along the path, but the city lady sat stiff-backed, gripping the saddle horn with both hands, and her pretty face was all tight and tense and pale.
“This pony doesn’t seem very happy to have me on her back.”
“Jenny can git sulky. She’s a touch moody.” He rubbed an eye and yawned.
“Do we have much farther to go?”
Mid-yawn, a laugh nearly burst out of Fin. They were still ambling along the creek, slow as molasses in January. He rolled his eyes, wondering how long these errands might take. It was his own fault; he knew better than to let Miss Cora catch sight of him in town. She always had things for him to do, and whilst she paid him a fair wage, Fin would ruther call his own shots on his rare day off. But how did a man say no to the likes of Miss Cora? He never could. He shoulda known better than to sit at the livery in her line of vision. Fin sat down in the sun to rest a spell, and that was when Miss Cora spotted him from her window, rapped on the glass, crooked her finger, and beckoned him to her office. Something about Miss Cora made his back go straight as an arrow. Eyes on the back of her head. Eyes everywhere. He was more than a little afreared of her. Everyone with half a brain was.
But he was smart enough not to tell this city lady anything more than she needed to know. “Pert-near. Jest up yonder a bit. Deerlick Holler.” He glanced at her. “Don’t suppose ya know why we call places hollers and not valleys.”
“I have no idea.”
“Cuz ya can holler across and still be heered. Cain’t do that in a valley.”
She didn’t respond. “Tell me again to whose house we’re going?”
He snorted. To whose house? Such fancy talk. Nobody talked like that. “Mollie McGlothin. She’s as old as the hills. Older. Her great-grandpappy was one of the first settlers ’round these parts. Mollie claims he was kin to Daniel Boone, but it’s best not to ask her to prove it. She can git tetchy.” He turned back to check on Miss Lucy and thought her face seemed a little less drawn, so he decided to keep on talking. He liked to talk and tell stories. “Mollie McGlothin’s birthed hundreds o’ babies. Thousands, maybe.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s the gospel truth. She’ll tell ya ’bout it. She birthed pretty nigh on everybody in the county.”
“Oh! Now I see. You meant she’s trained in midwifery.”
He turned to look at her. “No. She helped the womenfolk have their babies.” He noticed Miss Lucy had loosened up her grip on the saddle. She still held on tight, but she wasn’t clenching quite so much. He didn’t think so, anyhows. She was wearing gloves.
“I didn’t expect it to be such a circuitous trail.”
“Huh?” He frowned. Angie Cooper was always showing off by throwing them fifty-cent words at him. “What’s cir . . . cir . . . cue . . .”
“Circuitous. Circular. It appears we’re going in circles through the trees.” She let out a deep sigh. “It’s so dark and shady. More of a forest than I’d expected, as well.”
Going in circles? Well, how else did a body get hisself up a steep hillside? Oh brother. Fin had a heckuva lot better things to do with his time than this. But he did like the feel of them bit pieces clinking in his pocket. He pointed to a fork in the path. “We’re going down that way. Coming up to Ghost Crick. Jenny’ll cross nice and easy. She’s done it thousands of times afore. Crick used to be a good bit wider and deeper, but we’ve had a real bad dry spell this year.”
“Ghost Crick?”
“Yes indeed, Miss Lucy. Thar’s a haint that lives in the water. Long time ago a feller crossed the creek on his horse and the horse began to sink in the middle. The feller called for holp and folks ran to holp him, but afore they could git to him, this feller and his horse plumb disappeared. Never to be seen again.” He paused and shifted around on his horse so he could see Miss Lucy’s face as he delivered the rest of the story. “Except on full moons. Folks say there’s a man on his horse swimmin’ down the creek, calling out for holp.” He cupped his mouth to mimic the haint’s shouts. “Holp! Holp me! I be drownin’!”
Her eyes went wide, jest as he’d hoped.
“Finley James, by any chance are you telling me that tale just to spook me?”
“No, miss. That tale is the gospel truth. And you can call me Fin. Everybody does except Miss Cora. She says it holps to put the fear of the devil in me.” Angie Cooper called him Finley James, too, which annoyed him to no end.
“Tell me what my errand is with Mollie McGlothin.”
“Mollie’s got herself a daughter Jane up there in Chicagy who sends her letters. She be wantin’ to know what Jane sez. Miss Cora does the readin’ and writin’ for her.” He glanced back. “And now you be doin’ it.” They ambled along the narrow bank of the creek. Little by little, the creek widened, then joined another branch, until it had become one large stream. When he didn’t hear another question aimed at him, he looked back and realized Miss Lucy wasn’t following behind him. Way back, Jenny had stopped to snack on some grass, and Miss Lucy looked like she was scared half to death. He turned Sheila around. If’n he lost the city lady, Miss Cora would never let him hear the end of it. “Shake the reins, Miss Lucy.”
She jiggled the reins and Jenny kept munching on the grass.
“Harder. Give her a kick.”
“But I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Not to fret. Ponies got thick hides.” Fin watched Miss Lucy give Jenny a feeble kick in the girth, which the ol’ pony ignored. He turned Sheila back and leaned over to grab Jenny’s bridle to yank the pony away from her snack. They plodded along for several minutes, then he turned to give her fair warning. “We’re heading acrosst Ghost Crick.”
Miss Lucy stared at him.
“What’s wrong?” What’s wrong now, he wanted to add.
Her gaze was fixed on the crick. “There’s absolutely no way I can cross that.”
“Jest grab on to Jenny’s mane and hang on tight.” He kicked his horse and took Jenny’s reins to lead her down the bank. The pony huffed and snorted as they went, hooves skidding at times, which made Miss Lucy yelp. As they waded into the water, he said, “Best not to look down.” He held tight to Jenny’s reins so the pony wouldn’t balk.
“I’m not looking down. I’m not even looking.”
He glanced back to see Miss Lucy’s eyes squeezed shut, her arms clinging around poor Jenny’s neck for dear life. He grinned. One thing he had to admit about this little city lady—she looked and acted like a fish outta water, and he’d half expected her to turn tail and head back to town. But she sure as heck weren’t giving up.
Heck was the sole cussing word his maw would allow him, so he tried to use it as often as he could.
LUCY WOULD HAVE screamed as the pony picked her way through Ghost Creek, but she was terrified that any movement or sound she made might cause the pony to miss a step and she would nosedive into the creek.