Mrs. Petunia Grant, The Schoolmaster’s House at Yellow Rock—two editions Ladies’ Home Journal (Feb, April 1937), one edition Black Beauty by Anna Sewell (ink marks on pages 34 and 35)

 Mr. F. Homer, Wind Cave—one edition Folk Medicine by D. C. Jarvis

 The Sisters Fritz, The End Barn, White Ash—one edition Cimarron by Edna Ferber, Magnificent Obsession by Lloyd C. Douglas (note: three back pages missing, cover water-damaged)

The books were rarely new, and were often missing pages or covers, she discovered, while helping Frederick Guisler to shelve them. He was a wiry, weather-beaten man in his late thirties, who had inherited eight hundred acres from his father and who, like him, bred and broke horses, including Spirit, the little mare Alice had been riding. “She’s got opinions, that one,” he said, stroking the little horse’s neck. “Mind you, never met a decent mare that didn’t.” His smile was slow and conspiratorial, as if he wasn’t really talking about horses at all.

Every day that first week Margery would map out the route they would take, and they would head out into the still morning, Alice breathing in the mountain air in heady gulps after the stifling fug of the Van Cleve house. In direct sun, as the day wore on, the heat would rise in shimmering waves from the ground, and it was a relief to climb into the mountains, where the flies and biting creatures didn’t buzz relentlessly around her face. On the more remote routes Margery would dismount to tie string to every fourth tree so that Alice could find her way back once she was working alone, pointing out landmarks and notable rock formations to help her. “If you can’t work it out, Spirit will find the way back for you,” she said. “She’s smart as a tack.”

Alice was getting used to the little brown and white horse now. She knew exactly where Spirit would try to spin, and where she liked to speed up, and she no longer yelped but leaned forward into it, stroking the horse’s neck so that her neat little ears flicked back and forth. She had a rough idea now of which trails went where, and had drawn maps for each, which she tucked into her breeches, hoping she could find her way to each house on her own. Mostly she had just begun to relish the time in the mountains, the unexpected hush of the vast landscape, the sight of Margery ahead of her, stooping to avoid low branches, pointing out the remote cabins that rose up like organic growths amid clearings in the trees.

“Look outwards, Alice,” Margery would say, her voice carrying on the breeze. “Not much point worrying what the town thinks about you—nothing you can do about that anyway. But when you look outwards, why, there’s a whole world of beautiful things.”

For the first time in almost a year, Alice felt herself unobserved. There was nobody to pass comment on how she wore her clothes or held herself, nobody shooting her curious glances, or hovering to hear the way she spoke. She had started to understand Margery’s determination to have people “let her be.” She was pulled from her thoughts as Margery slid to a stop.

“Here we go, Alice.” She jumped off by a rickety gate, where chickens scratched in a desultory way in the dust by the house and a large hog snuffled by a tree. “Time to meet the neighbors.”

Alice followed her lead, dismounting and throwing the reins over the post by the front gate. The horses immediately lowered their heads and began to graze and Margery lifted one of her bags from the saddle and motioned to Alice to follow. The house was ramshackle, the weatherboarding drooping out of place like a wonky smile. The windows were thick with dirt, obscuring the interior, and an iron wash kettle sat outside over the embers of a fire. It was hard to believe anybody lived there.

“Good morning!” Margery walked halfway toward the door. “Hello?”

There was no sound, then the creak of a board, and a man appeared in the doorway, a rifle cocked on his shoulder. He wore overalls that had not troubled a washtub in some time, and a clay pipe emerged from under a bushy mustache. Behind him two young girls appeared, their heads tilted as they tried to peer at the visitors. He gazed out suspiciously.

“How you doing, Jim Horner?” Margery walked into the little fenced-off enclosure (it could barely be called a garden) and closed the gate behind them. She appeared not to notice the gun or, if she did, she ignored it. Alice felt her heart race a little, but followed obediently.

“Who’s this?” The man nodded at Alice.

“This is Alice. She’s helping me with the traveling library. I wondered if we could talk to you about what we got.”

“I don’t want to buy nothing.”

“Well, that suits me fine, because we ain’t sellin’ nothing. I’ll take just five minutes of your time. Could you spare a cup of water, though? Sure is warm out here.” Margery, a study in calm, removed her hat and fanned her head with it. Alice was about to protest that they had just drunk a pitcher of water between them not half a mile back, but stopped. Horner gazed at her for a moment.

“Wait out here,” he said eventually, motioning to a long bench at the front of the house. He murmured to one of the girls, a skinny child with her hair in plaits, who disappeared into the dark house, emerging with a bucket, her brow furrowed with her task. “She’ll get you water.”

“Would you be kind enough to bring some for my friend here, too, please, Mae?” Margery nodded at the girl.

“That would be very kind, thank you,” said Alice, and the man startled at her accent.

Margery tipped her head toward her. “Oh, she’s the one from Engerland. The one married Van Cleve’s boy?”

His gaze switched impassively between them. The gun stayed at his shoulder. Alice sat gingerly on the bench as Margery continued to talk, her voice a low, relaxed sing-song. The same way she spoke to Charley the mule when he became, as she called it, “ornery.”

“So I’m not sure if you’ve heard from town but we got a book library going. It’s for those who like stories, or to help your children get educated a little, especially if they don’t go to the mountain school. And I came by because I wondered if you’d like to try some books for yours.”

“I told you they don’t read.”

“Yes, you did. So I brought some easy ones, just to get ’em going. These ones here have got pictures and all the letters so they can learn by themselves. Don’t even have to go to school to do it. They can do it right here in your home.”

She handed him one of the picture books. He lowered his gun and took the book gingerly, as if she were handing him something explosive, and flicked through the pages.

“I need the girls to help with the picking and canning.”

“Sure you do. Busy time of year.”

“I don’t want them distracted.”

“I understand. Can’t have nothing slowing the canning. I have to say it looks like the corn is going to be fine this year. Not like last year, huh?” Margery smiled as the girl arrived in front of them, lopsided with the weight of the half-filled bucket. “Why, thank you, sweetheart.” She held out a hand as the girl filled an old tin cup. She drank thirstily, then handed the cup to Alice. “Good and cold. Thank you most kindly.”