at loose strands of hair, one hand going out to a man who approached with a plate of pie. “Reverend Stripling, this is Jared Murdock, the man who helped Alisha last night.”
The jovial young-looking reverend pumped Jared’s outstretched hand, balancing his pie with the other hand. “Nice to meet you. We sure appreciate what you did for Alisha.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” Jared said. “Both of you.” Then he extended a hand to Mrs. Wilkes. “I guess I need to get the key to my cabin from you.”
“Yes, got it right here,” Mrs. Wilkes said, digging into a big blue vinyl tote bag that stated I Love Quilting on its side. Producing the key, which was attached to a white furry rabbit’s-foot keychain, she said, “We don’t get many visitors this time of year when it’s still chilly out. Most folks like to come in late spring or during the summer—family-type outings.”
Jared saw the curiosity in the woman’s hazel eyes. “I don’t have family,” he said, his tone hesitant.
“That’s a shame,” Loretta replied. “Me, I got family to spare. I’m kin to most of the people on this mountain.” She laughed again, the sound like a soft melody.
“And it looks as if a lot of them are here with you today,” Jared said as a small boy of about seven whizzed by him, a blue plastic Richard Petty Nascar race car in his hand.
Loretta grabbed the boy without batting an eye. “Robert, slow down there.” After giving the boy a stern warning, she turned back to Jared. “Yes, sir. Sorry I had to bring along the two younger ones. Can’t leave them with their older brother. They fight too much.” She motioned around the room. “That’s my husband, Tate. He’s holding our boy, Joshua. And I think you know Mrs. Curtis from the store.”
Mrs. Curtis smiled brightly, but didn’t bother to carry on any conversation. When Jared smiled back, the older woman quickly averted her eyes.
“And Langford and Dorothy Lindsay—they run the Hilltop Diner, across from the store.”
Trying to be polite, Jared waved and spoke to the big-chested black man and his petite, smiling wife as they lifted their hands and nodded toward him, their direct stares intimidating and obvious. Jared felt as if he were being put to some sort of test. They didn’t like having an outsider among them.
But in this case, they couldn’t turn him away. Jared had helped Alisha. And since the whole mountain seemed to love and admire Alisha Emerson, these people had to be grateful and courteous to him.
For now, anyway.
The rest of the day went by for Alisha in a blur of shapes and sounds. Visitors came and went, careful not to linger too long or get too close to the tiny newborn baby.
Dr. Sloane examined her, then declared she was doing okay, all things considered. And he pronounced little Callum as being near perfect—no problems there either that he could tell. He seemed to want to linger, his eyes centered on the baby, his expression solemn and quiet, even though his hands shook. Alisha could clearly see that he had a hangover. Again.
Then Miss Mozelle gave Alisha another examination, using her own unique brand of medicine—part folklore and old wives’ tale, part prayer and healing, and always, always, with the firm belief that God was in complete control.
Jared walked in just as Miss Mozelle lifted Callum out of his tiny cradle and held him to her heart. Amazed, Alisha watched as the woman gently rocked the baby back and forth, cooing to him in some ancient dialect that had a soothing rhythm to it. Jared shot Alisha a puzzled, questioning look, but remained silent and respectful. Miss Mozelle had that kind of effect on people.
“She’s saying a Cherokee prayer for him,” Alisha explained in a soft whisper. “To ward off evil.”
Miss Mozelle kissed the baby, then put him safely back into his little bed, seemingly satisfied that she’d done her job.
“Take this here,” she told Alisha later, handing her a packet made of cheesecloth tacked together with string. “It’s wild cherry bark. Brew you some tea—it’s good for the blood. You need to rebuild your blood now, honey. Lady’s slipper leaves will do the same, but I ain’t got any of them right now.” Then she’d wagged a long finger. “And remember, if the colic takes little Callum, just wrap a warm towel around his tummy. That’ll soothe it right away.”
“Thank you, Miss Mozelle,” Alisha said, grateful for the kind woman’s knowledge and wisdom. Alisha felt safe with Miss Mozelle. But sometimes she also felt raw and exposed to the woman’s keen intuitions. From the moment they’d met, Miss Mozelle had watched her closely, as if she already knew why Alisha had come home to Dover Mountain. Alisha had confided in the wise older woman, to a certain degree, at least. There were some things she couldn’t share with anyone, not even Miss Mozelle.
“You got some healing to do, don’t you, precious? That’s all right by me. Me and the good Lord, we’re watching out for you. You can rest easy now.” Miss Mozelle told Alisha that later in the afternoon, after she’d sent all the well-wishers on their way, telling them mother and child needed to rest.
All the well-wishers but one, of course.
Jared Murdock was still here. Maybe Miss Mozelle had finally met her match.
As if Alisha’s thinking about the man had summoned him, he appeared in the bedroom door with a soft smile on his rugged face. “Did you get any rest?”
Alisha stretched, then grinned. “Yes, I did, actually. Callum had his lunch feeding and then we both had a nice nap. But I think I need to get up and move around some more now though. Miss Mozelle—”
He held up a hand. “I know, I know. She said you had to keep the blood circulating through your system. Said—let’s see if I can remember—the only way to get over being weak is to get on with being strong.”
Alisha had heard that same advice many times since coming here. And she supposed that was exactly what she’d done all along. She’d been weak once, but now she had to be strong. For her son’s sake.
“Miss Mozelle is an amazing woman,” Alisha said as she slowly eased up off the bed. Taking the thick floral wrapper that Jared handed to her, she allowed him to help her pull it over her flannel gown.
“Everyone seems scared of her,” Jared replied, his touch on her arm comforting and warm.
“As well they should be. Miss Mozelle believes in the old ways of the mountain people.”
“I kind of gathered that.”
“She’s had a hard life here on the mountain, but she’s educated. Her father, Jasper Cooleridge, wanted all of his children to have an education, but especially his firstborn. She attended Spelman College in Atlanta.”
Jared looked surprised. “Wow, that’s one of the best African-American colleges in the South.”
Alisha laughed, fluffed her braid. “Yes, and she’d be the first to tell you that.” Clasping her hands, she continued. Telling him about Miss Mozelle was much safer than talking about herself. “Her father died the year before she started school, but her mother urged Miss Mozelle to go on to college. She was studying to become a doctor—something unheard of for a black woman in that day and time—then her mother passed away during Mozelle’s junior year at
