Hawks Mountain - Mobi

She came to the mountain to remember who she is. He came to forget who he was.

Rebecca Hawks has come home to remember who she was before the lure of life as a social worker in a big city nearly destroyed her—and might, still. She’s moved back to her family’s namesake mountain in
West Virginia
, where Granny Jo Hawks can help her forget the horrors she'd seen and been unable to prevent.

Ex-Navy Corpsman, Nicholas Hart, has moved to
Hawks
Mountain
in hope that its timeless Appalachian serenity will help him overcome his painful war memories.

Now Rebecca and Nicholas must find each other—and their chances of a life together after putting the past to rest—on Hawks Mountain.

Come home to
Hawks
Mountain
.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Granny Jo’s Journal

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Granny Jo’s Journal

About Elizabeth Sinclair

Spring

Welcome to
Hawks
Mountain
. It overlooks
Carson
,
West Virginia
, a quaint, friendly little town snuggled in the valley between
Hawks
Mountain
and Hominy Ridge.
Population 2,217—plus or minus.
Depending on how long Bill Foster is home on leave from the Merchant Marines. He and Lulu have six kids and counting.

It appears that this is a good time for me to introduce myself. My name’s Josephine Walker Hawks, of the
Charleston
,
West Virginia
Walkers, but you can call me Granny Jo. Everyone hereabouts does.
Everyone except our full-of-himself mayor, George Collins, who has insisted on wearing a three-piece suit and calling me
Ms. Hawks
ever since he took office.

I came to
Carson
some fifty years ago as the bride of Earl Hawks, the only man I’ve ever loved. A long time ago, we lost our only son and his wife in a car accident, and then a few years back I lost Earl. His passing left a big, empty hole in my life. Had it not been for the good folks of
Carson
, I’m not sure I would have made it through those terrible times. But now I have Jake, my faithful mutt (thanks to that handsome, unmarried vet, Doc Mackenzie, who keeps the old dog fit as a fiddle). I raised Rebecca, my son’s daughter, from the time she was just a toddler, then she went off to college. It was a lonely time for me after she left,
but .
 . .

Oh, dear, please forgive an old woman. I shouldn’t be dragging you down with my sorrowful stories.

When I started writing this, I wanted to tell you all about my little hometown. Yes, it’s my hometown. I may have come from
Charleston
, but
Carson
has filled my heart to overflowing for a good many years, and I’ve taken it to me as my own. Most times, I have a hard time recalling when I lived anyplace but here.

A visitor to Carson would first see the tree-lined streets and the quaint shops lining Main Street: Bessie Wright’s Used Bookstore, Bill Keeler’s Market, Terri’s Tearoom and Package Store (Bill Keeler’s favorite stop on his way home—and not for the tea), Bart Lawson’s Wheels and Deals bike shop, the Post Office, the courthouse, the school, Christ’s Holy Church and in the middle of it all, the town square that Bessie Wright keeps filled with flowers in the warm months and the Nativity around Christmas.

I suppose, to a stranger, it looks like any other small town. Truth be
known .
 . . it is. Right down to the not-so-secret secrets and the heartwarming stories of love, friendship, and neighbor helping neighbor. Since I live up on
Hawks
Mountain
, you’d think I’d be removed from most of what goes on in the valley, but I’m not. If it happens in
Carson
, then everyone in the valley knows about it in record time thanks to
Laureene
Talbot, the local elementary school teacher and town gossip. And if they don’t know,
Laureene
is more than happy to tell them her version.

No one knows for sure who it was that first settled here. Rumor has it (and if there’s anything that flourishes in
Carson
,
it’s
rumors), that a fella named Jeddah Carson came through here on his way west to
California
. He liked the valley and the mountains so much that he gave away his covered wagon and put down roots.

’Course,
bein
’ out of the way and kinda quiet, the oldsters are happy living out their days here just like Jeddah did, but
youngin’s
bein
’
youngin’s
, they can’t wait to escape to the excitement of the big city. Some never come back, some do. My granddaughter, Rebecca Hawks, was one that came back. But not because she missed the mountains so much as to escape from some ugly truths she’d found beyond our hills.
Truths that left scars on her tender heart.

Then there’s those that aren’t born here, but are drawn here because of the simple way of life and the natural beauty of our mountains. At first, I thought Nicholas Hart was one of them. But I soon learned he hadn’t come here for the mountains or the laid back living. He bought a piece of my mountain on the ridge above me and built himself a nice cabin. Kept to
himself
. First off,
Carsonites
thought he was just unsociable, but then we found out that he’d taken refuge up there to hide from the memories that gnawed at him. Terrible memories he carried on his soul after fighting in a war on the other side of the world. Funny thing about memories, they tend to follow you no matter where you go.

Then he met my Becky.

First time I saw Becky and Nick together, I knew, just as any fool with eyes in their head would have, that they were smitten. (Last time I saw a look like that in a man’s eyes, it was in my Earl’s when we met in
Charleston
.
Married him two months later.)
Becky’s not one to let a problem go unsolved, and it wasn’t long before she’d set her sights on solving Nick’s and in doing so, came to terms with her own guilt and fears. But even more important, they found something that has the power to heal anything.

A long time ago, more years than I care to remember, when I was in school, I heard a quotation from one of those Greek fellas. Sophocles, I think. He said:
One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life. That word is love
. Smart fella that Sophocles. ’Cause that’s just what happened to Becky and Nick, and it took a little boy named Davy Collins and his momma,
Lydia
, to make them see it.

But I’ll let you read their story for yourself. So get yourself a big, cold glass of sweet tea, find a nice, comfortable rocker to sit yourself in, put up your feet and learn about the healing powers of love.

Y’all come back soon.

Love,

Granny Jo