Read In This Mountain for Free Online

was back in her cheeks and adrenaline was pumping; the place was humming again, as if power had been restored after a blackout.
    “Well, then, go to it, and thank God for both of you!”
    His wife turned and looked at him, smiling. “Darling,” she murmured with evident admiration, “you could have been a Marine!”
     
    “For you,” said Cynthia, going about her daily task of mail call.
    He eagerly opened the envelope postmarked from a federal prison.
    Dear Father:
    Thanks for your letter of last month. I haven’t responded as quickly as usual, for a great deal is going on here. God is working in very unexpected ways.
    The short of it is this:
    After eight years, I am being released on good behavior. My hand is trembling as I write this, as I didn’t know whether I would ever be able to share such glorious good news.
    It is my hope that I might be welcome in Mitford. If you could help me find a place there, I will be always grateful and will work hard to earn your trust, and the trust of everyone in Mitford. As I have said many times, I never felt so at home anywhere else. I will need employment and will appreciate it if you will keep your eyes open, though I know there’s not much of a job market for convicted felons.
    Pray for me, Father, as I go through these next few weeks, I should be arriving in Mitford, if that is all right with you, the middle of June.
    I don’t know what to tell you about my job skills, as I would never again be accepted within the university system. My main interests are living this merciful new life for Christ, and reading. I can play a little softball and restore antique cars, which, as I look at what I just wrote, is a pretty pathetic resume. I would be eager and willing to learn a trade, anything short of breaking wild horses…well, even that.
    Enclosed is the monthly check for the Children’s Hospital. I have saved nearly all the rest of my income from working in the prison laundry, and so will have some means, however limited, to make a go of things.
    Please note the new address they’ve assigned me until my release. I look forward with hope to your letter.
    Yours in the One Who is our faithful shield and buckler,
George Gaynor
    “You’re beaming,” she said.
    “George Gaynor is being released from prison.”
    “Thanks be to God!”
    “He’s coming to live in Mitford. We must find him a job.”
    “Yes! Terrific! And a place to live,” she said, her wheels already turning.
     
    He snapped the red leash on Barnabas and walked up the street, whistling. He hadn’t surprised himself by whistling in a very long time, probably not since his jaunts on the beach at Whitecap.
    He was in a visiting mood. If Homeless Hobbes hadn’t moved to the country when the Creek community was uprooted by the shopping center, he’d trot over there for a chinwag. He often missed Homeless’s comfortable companionship and hard-won wisdom. In truth, his visits to the shack on the creek had once been a great getaway….
    He hailed Avis Packard, who was smoking a cigarette in front of The Local; he stuck his head in the door of the Collar Button and spoke to the Collar Button man, who was taking inventory and looking grumpy; he veered into the Sweet Stuff Bakery and said hello to Winnie Kendall, averting his eyes from the bake case and trying not to inhale too deeply as her husband, Thomas, removed a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.
    Walking on, he hooked the leash around the iron leg of the bench outside the Grill and went in for a large order of fries and chicken tenders, plus a Little Debbie snack cake. Then, clutching the bag, he trotted to the old Porter place, a.k.a. the town museum, to visit Uncle Billy and Miss Rose.
    Uncle Billy Watson hoisted himself from the chair with his cane, shuffled to the back door, and looked out, grinning. “Law, if hit ain’t th’ preacher! Rose, come an’ look, hit’s th’ preacher!”
    He called to his schizophrenic wife of more than fifty