In This Mountain by Jan Karon Read Free Book Online Page A

Park. His name is George Gaynor. He’s…a convicted felon, out on parole after eight years in prison.”
    Harley looked dismayed, then dropped his gaze to the floor.
    “What is it, Harley?”
    “Well, Rev’ren’, they’s one thing I ain’t never tol’ you. I was meanin’ to, but…th’ reason I didn’t never tell you is ’cause you didn’t never ask me.” Harley raised his head and looked his landlord in the eye. “I served time.”
    “Aha.”
    “What done it is, I was runnin’ from th’ po lice back when I was haulin’ liquor. I didn’t want t’ run, nossir, but I was s’ scared, I couldn’t think whether I wanted to keep a-goin’ and maybe git caught som’ers down th’ road, or stop an’ face th’ music.”
    Harley sighed. “I kep’ a-goin’. They run me all th’ way to Cumberland County with fifty gallons of lightnin’ in m’ fender wells, an’ th’ harder they run me, th’ madder they got, ’cause I had a ’62 Chevy V-8 that went like a scalded dog.” Harley sighed again. “Pulled three years. Hit sobered me up, in a manner of speakin’.”
    Father Tim nodded.
    “I hate t’ tell you that, hit pains me.”
    “What’s done is done.”
    “When they let me out, I never hauled another drop. An’ not too long after that, I quit drinkin’ th’ lowdown stuff—just quit foolin’ with liquor all th’ way around.”
    He put his hand on Harley’s shoulder. What would he do without this good man the Lord had dropped in his lap? “That hard thing had a bright side, then.”
    Harley nodded, then grinned with relief, displaying pink gums entirely vacant of teeth.
    “Keep your ear to the ground for George, if you will. He’ll be arriving sometime in June. You’ll like him, he’s a strong believer.”
    “I’ll do it. An’ Rev’ren’…”
    “Yes?”
    “I wouldn’t want th’ boy t’ know, hit’d not be right f’r th’ boy t’ know what I tol’ you.”
    “He won’t hear it from me.” He turned to go.
    “Rev’ren’?” Harley swallowed hard. “I thank you f’r…lettin’ me tell you that.”
    “I thank you for telling me,” he said.
     
    He’d done everything possible to trace Dooley’s missing siblings. Sammy and Kenny had, in fact, been missing for more than nine years, and nothing, no matter what he did, seemed to result in useful clues. Dooley’s stepfather, Buck Leeper, was doing his share: He’d worked on a false lead to Kenny for a full year and it had turned into a dead end.
    Locating the first two Barlowe children had been miraculously simple. Father Tim and Lace Turner had hauled Poo out of the Creek community, and Jessie, then five years old, had been traced to Florida. On the oddest of hunches, he and Cynthia had made the long trip to Lakeland with Jessie’s mother, Pauline, and now, thanks be to God, three of the five siblings were safe and accounted for. More than anything, yes, more than anything, he wanted to see the whole family reunited with their utterly transformed mother who had surrendered her life to Christ and married a believer who loved her kids.
    He tried not to despair over the mounting discouragement he felt, and firmly denied the thought that occasionally came to him; the thought that, deep down, he had given up hope.
     
    “Sit still,” he told his wife. “I’ll get it.”
    He’d always rather liked a ringing doorbell. One never knew what surprise or even amazement might be waiting. It was a great deal like the mail in that regard.
    He could scarcely see Jena Ivey, owing to the enormous basket of flowers she was delivering to their threshold. Jena ducked her head around the ivy that trailed profusely from one side.
    “Congratulations!” she crowed, shoving the vast thing into his arms. He staggered backward from the weight of it.
    “Congratulations? What did I do?”
    “Nothing, as far as I know, it’s for Cynthia!” The hardworking owner of Mitford Blossoms was positively beaming.
    “Of course! Yes, indeed.