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Headstrong and independent, Christy is determined to change the lives of the children in Cutter Gap. Yet it seems that anything new and strange poses a threat to the mountain people, who are proud of their way of life. Evidently, Christy has angered someone enough to cause a string of mysterious pranks. The handsome minister fears that the pranks will turn dangerous. Unfortunately, he doesn't realize how right his fears are.

Strange things are happening in Cutter Gap and everybody is convinced that Christy is cursed. After all, who can explain Bob Allens' mysterious accident on his way to bring Christy to Cutter Gap? Or the lightning strike that sent a tree through the school window? Will fear and superstition triumph? Will Christy be driven out of Cutter Gap forever? Or will Christy overcome and win the hearts of the mountain people?

Christy Huddleston's dream is to teach poor mountain children. Join Christy as she crosses from the familiar world of parties and pretty things to the different world of Cutter Gap, located in the heart of the Smoky Mountains. There she meets the doctor who needs her help to save a life and the handsome minister who helps her face the challenges of teaching and loving the mountain people.

When Christy travels alone to a nearby mountain, she vows to discover the truth behind the terrifying legend of a strange mountain creature. But what she finds seems worse than anything she could ever have imagined!

Ceylon was a child, very much like yourself. Well, perhaps not so very much. Unless you are orphaned and homeless and often alone; unless you’ve wandered from jungle to forest and joined up with a traveling merchant caravan; unless you stand no taller than my kneecap and have skin that smells like the bark of a cinnamon tree, you are not so very much like Ceylon. He was a treeborn, and if you saw him you would think, “My, isn’t he a gangly little fellow! All arms and legs like branches on a tree. But oh! He does smell lovely, doesn’t he? Like Christmas.

Mapaline was a child, very much like yourself. Well, perhaps not so very much. Unless you live in a deep, vast wilderness of forests and rivers and streams; unless you sleep in a small room, hung high up in the limbs of an old maple tree; unless you stand no taller than my kneecap and have hair that changes with the seasons, you are not so very much like Mapaline. She was a treeborn, and if you saw her you would think, “Isn’t she a pretty little girl. But . . . somehow—”and you would feel silly saying it—”somehow she makes me think of a tree. Not very much, but still . . .”