Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder by Catherine Marshall

fifteen-year-old son of Fairlight and Jeb, stepped forward. “Teacher, I’d thank you to let me pick up the marbles for you. Little Burl was afraid you’d burn your fingers. He’s right. Them marbles are red hot.”
    â€œHow’d they get so hot?”
    â€œThey was put in the stove, ma’am.”
    â€œYou—did you—?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. Not me. Guess it was just foolery.”
    Calmly John took a rag from his pocket, gingerly picked up the marbles one by one and then left them on the rag on Christy’s desk.
    This was too much. A low-down prank—ingenious, but mean, almost as bad as the one on the playground. “Look, a prank’s a prank,” Christy said. “But this wasn’t funny. There are tiny children in this room. What if some of them had stepped on red hot marbles with bare feet? They’d have gotten badly burned. You see, glass holds heat—”
    â€œIt sure does!” a self-assured masculine voice said from the doorway. “And your teacher’s right.”
    As David strode toward the teacher’s desk, Christy realized how drained she was. The marble trick had been one problem too many.
    â€œRecess time for you, Teacher,” David said.
    Christy smiled gratefully. She hated to admit it, but she was as relieved as any child would be at the end of the school day.
    She couldn’t wait to leave.
    The creek was running even faster than it had been the day she’d fallen in. It had warmed up slightly over the week, enough to melt some of the jagged ice that rose like frozen, miniature mountains from the stream.
    The log bridge swayed like a baby’s cradle, back and forth, back and forth, in the steady wind. Here, from the bank of the creek, the scene wasn’t nearly as frightening—just a few logs over a stream that glistened in the winter light. It hardly seemed like a likely place to come face to face with death.
    But then, maybe that’s how many things were. Up close, things that seemed simple and straightforward could become complicated and frightening.
    Coming to Cutter Gap was like that. She’d known it would be hard, teaching poor children in the mountains. But not this kind of hard. She hadn’t bargained for mean students, nearly as old as she was. She hadn’t counted on sixty-seven barefoot pupils, most of whom had never seen a book in their lives. She hadn’t planned for the difficulties she would have in communicating.
    She remembered, with a shudder, the “pump knot” on little Vella’s head and the hot marbles on her classroom floor. She certainly hadn’t bargained for that kind of meanness.
    Christy brushed the snow off a boulder and sat down. She had her diary with her. She’d retrieved it from the mission house before coming here this afternoon. She opened to her list of goals and laughed out loud. Teaching French? Etiquette lessons? What had she been thinking?
    She heard footsteps and turned, her heart pounding.
    â€œI’d have thought you’d want to stay as far away as possible from this bridge,” David said, laughing as he approached.
    â€œYou know what they say—when you fall off, you need to get right back up on the horse.”
    David frowned. “You didn’t cross—”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid it may be spring before I cross that bridge again. I think I should let that particular horse thaw out a bit.” She moved over, making room on the boulder. “Were you looking for me? I didn’t forget a meeting, did I?”
    â€œNo. I just happened to notice you when I came out of my bunkhouse to chop some wood. Thought you might need a little moral support.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Christy asked lightly. Had she done such a bad job that he’d already heard stories from the children?
    â€œFirst days are always hard. And this is no easy job.” David tossed a rock out into the stream. It landed