Her Inspiration

A Broadway scribe,Harold Montague,whose quill has grown dull on velvet cushions,is dispatched to the mist-veiled hollers of Kentucky like a pilgrim hunting relics of grit.His manager sniffs that the new comedy smells too much of polished mahogany and not enough of mountain pine.In the hush between fiddle tunes and the clandestine gurgle of copper stills,he collides with Kate Kendall—barefoot muse with coal-bright eyes who can quote Shakespeare while skinning a squirrel.Nights smell of mash and gun-oil;days taste of sassafras and gossip.Harold,notebook in hand,ingratiates himself with moonshiners who trust no stranger carrying anything fancier than a mule whip.Jealous mountaineer Looney Lige,smarting from Kate’s preference for city vowels,sells the location of the still to revenuers.Big Hank’s clan,roused by betrayal, knot a noose for the outsider they believe wore a federal badge beneath his tweed.Kate, hair whipping like a rebel flag,intercepts the lynch mob at the cliff’s lip—her rifle kissing the dusk.Harold,ash-white,boards the next iron horse to Manhattan,convinced the Appalachians have swallowed his heart whole.Yet at the chaotic dress rehearsal of his play,the manager unveils the imported leading lady:Kate Kendall herself,now in silk stockings and a knowing smile,carrying the hollers in her lungs and the city in her stride.The curtain rises on a comedy suddenly rich with thunder and loam.