Chapter 7
JOSEPHINE BLINKED, thrown even more off-balance.
This was Miss Mary? The dour, persnickety old spinster she’d imagined?
This woman couldn’t be more than ten years her senior, if that.
Yet she exuded authority—and unmistakable skepticism.
She had an old soul quality about her, too.
The faded blue of her eyes, perhaps, or the way her light brown hair was plaited and coiled in a knot at the nape of her neck.
Whatever the case, Josephine knew instinctively not to underestimate her—or get on her bad side.
“Miss Mary,” she responded and tried to produce a smile.
Her lower lip felt like it might split open again from the effort.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you . . . ma’am,” she added, unable not to, despite their closeness in age.
Her stomach rumbled, and she hurried to cover the sound.
“You have a lovely boarding house. It’s very welcoming.
Especially on such a dark and rainy night. ”
Miss Mary gave a slow nod, the silence lengthening. Thankfully, Dodge Coburn filled it.
“Mrs. Dunham’s in need of lodging for the night, Miss Mary. And I was wondering if you might put her up. If it’s not too much of a bother.”
A smile, tepid at best, tipped the woman’s mouth. “No bother at all. You’re welcome to stay the night here, Mrs. Dunham.” She glanced about. “But I’m not seeing your bags.”
Josephine winced. “I had to leave hurriedly, so—”
“Leave from where, if that’s not prying overmuch?”
“Chattanooga,” Josephine answered quickly, working to form a story that would hold water.
“I thought I heard some city in your voice. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?
” Miss Mary’s gaze moved over Josephine’s face, pained empathy softening her features.
“Just so we’re both tugging on the same end of the rope .
. . I don’t kin to a man raising his hand to a woman.
Ever. But neither can I abide you bringing trouble to my doorstep.
To my tenants, and into my home. So don’t think me unfeeling for asking, but . . . are you running from your man?”
Taken aback by so direct a question, Josephine simply nodded.
“Any reason of thinking he knows you’re here? In Lynchburg?” Miss Mary continued. “And that he’ll come banging on my door in the dark of night?”
Josephine shook her head, keenly aware of everyone’s attention, especially Dodge Coburn’s. “No, ma’am. He doesn’t know where I am. I promise.”
Miss Mary eyed her. “Dodge says he picked you up in Tullahoma. You got people there?”
“I’ve got no people. Not anymore. It—” Her voice broke. “It’s just me now.”
Miss Mary held her gaze, then eventually looked back at Calla. “Fetch Mrs. Dunham some supper, please, Calla. Then get some quilts. We’ll make her a pallet here in the kitchen by the stove. I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunham, but all my rooms are let.”
“She can stay with me in my room, ma’am,” Calla offered softly.
“All right then. That’s done. Go on and rest yourself before your legs give way beneath you.” Miss Mary gestured to a small table in the corner of the kitchen. “And take off that damp coat or you’ll catch your death for sure.”
Josephine obeyed, her knees ready to buckle.
Not a minute later, Calla placed a large dinner plate piled high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes smothered with gravy, fried okra, cooked apples, and a crusty biscuit slathered in melted butter before her. “Here you go, young missus. And I’m sorry about that ring,” she whispered.
Eyes filling with emotion, Josephine looked up and mouthed the words Thank you. But no sound came. It occurred to her then that a wedding ring from an abusive husband wouldn’t be near so tender a loss, so she downplayed the grief, rather than let it show.
“Drink a swallow or two of this milk first.” Calla set a glass by the plate. “Then start in slow with the taters. The candied apples with cinnamon should sit well too. The rest’ll be there when you’re ready.”
Calla gently touched her shoulder and moved away, and Josephine stared at her own empty left hand, wondering if somehow God had played a role in her losing her mother’s ring.
Maybe this was his way of punishing her for lying about her current situation.
Or for killing Clay Darden. Or maybe for not thinking as highly of him as she once did.
But how did you think highly of someone who had the power to change your circumstances for the better, and yet didn’t?
She took a long swig of milk, the cool working its way down inside her. It tasted better than anything she could remember, despite the tenderness of her swollen lip. She sipped slowly, waiting, not wanting a reprisal of what had happened with the jerky.
“Well,” Dodge said behind her. “Think I’ll go find Bethie.”
Josephine perked up at the name. Bethie? Was the man married? Was that his wife, or did he have a daughter? She would’ve pegged him as a loner.
“Not before you have supper, you don’t.” Miss Mary’s tone brooked no argument. “Now sit on down. We’ve got plenty, as usual.”
“Thank you, Miss Mary. I won’t decline your hospitality, but I need to get going. See my load secured for the night, and Bethie home and to bed. I hope she didn’t put y’all out much.”
“No way that girl could put us out,” Miss Mary responded. “Ever.”
“Though, land sakes . . .” Calla chuckled. “She totes a poke full of questions ’round with her. Pulls them out almost faster than I can give answer.”
Dodge laughed and the sound was so genuine, so inviting, Josephine had to look back, mashed potatoes and gravy melting in her mouth.
The difference in the man was striking. She’d experienced his surprising decency firsthand.
But his smile hinted at a layer of kindheartedness that, on first impression, she would’ve doubted existed.
Miss Mary gave his shoulder a motherly pat. “Sweet Bethie takes after her mama in that way, for sure. A generous dose of sweetness cut through with some downright ornery—and a mouth that never stops.” Her smile softened. “But you’re doing good, Dodge. Never doubt that. You both are.”
Tenderness swept Dodge Coburn’s expression, and while Josephine knew it wasn’t polite to stare—especially at another woman’s husband—she couldn’t not.
Despite his formerly gritty demeanor and rough exterior, those blue eyes and the emotion in them tugged at something inside her.
He fingered the Stetson in his hands as though uncomfortable beneath the praise, which made him considerably more attractive than Josephine cared to acknowledge.
He chose that moment to glance her way, and she busied herself with smoothing the cloth napkin in her lap, embarrassed at having been caught staring, while also painfully aware of how rough she must look right now.
“Here you go, son,” she heard Calla say, then watched the woman push a cloth-covered tin into his grip. “I’d say there’s enough for two meals, but I done seen you eat too many times. And don’t you worry about feeding Bethie. She ate with us earlier.”
He looked down at the tin. “Thank you kindly, both of you ladies, for helping me like you do. I’m much obliged.”
Miss Mary waved off the comment. “Go on now. You’ll find Bethie in the library. Sound familiar?”
“Yes, ma’am, it does,” he answered.
“After supper,” Miss Mary continued, “I told her to go stick her nose in a book. She can borrow whatever she takes a hankering to, as usual.”
Dodge slipped his hat on and redirected his gaze to Josephine again. This time she didn’t look away.
“Mrs. Dunham, you take care. I hope things go better for you here on out, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coburn. Both for the ride and . . . for your kindness.”
He tugged the brim of his hat and left, presumably to retrieve his daughter and head home to his wife.
The realization that he was married brought a slight, surprising disappointment, which Josephine quickly dismissed.
Best she concentrate on getting her story straight before Miss Mary’s next cross-examination.
To her relief, Miss Mary took her leave as well, but her voice carried as she visited with tenants in the dining room.
She addressed each by name and conversed as though they were family.
Her keen wit drew laughter more than once, and Josephine wondered which of the men she’d glimpsed at the table was Mr. Jackson Bobo.
The door to the dining room opened and the woman Josephine had seen clearing the table when they first arrived entered carrying stacks of dirty dishes. Josephine tried to catch her eye, unsuccessfully so.
“Mrs. Gibbs—” Calla looked up from where she kneaded a wad of dough on the worktable. “This here’s our newest guest. Meet Mrs. Dunham from over Chattanooga way.”
Mrs. Gibbs deposited the dishes by the washbasin. “Yes, I done met Mrs. Dunham on her way in.”
Josephine formed a half smile and paid for the effort. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gibbs. I’d like to thank you for your sensitivity earlier. In asking Mr. Coburn to bring me to the kitchen the back way instead of traipsing me through the dining room.”
“Oh, it were my pleasure,” the woman responded, yet her cool expression conveyed otherwise. “Just how long you planning on being in town . . . Mrs. Dunham?”
Josephine glanced at Calla to see if she noticed anything odd about the woman’s behavior, but Calla was focused on her task. “I . . . don’t know exactly. A few days at least.”
“Well, you boasting from the big city and all, I doubt you be finding much here to your liking. Probably be aching to leave quicker than you think.”
Certain now that she wasn’t imagining it, Josephine studied the woman. In turn, Mrs. Gibbs gave her a look like she was yesterday’s trash—or worse. Josephine didn’t know how to respond.
“Well . . .” Mrs. Gibbs opened a cupboard and retrieved a purse. “I best be getting on home, Calla. I done cleared the table of dishes and people, then wiped it all down. I can’t be here tomorrow night, and done told Miss Mary. But I’ll be back the day after to help. Hope y’all have a good night.”
Calla waved a floured hand. “’Night, Mrs. Gibbs. You be careful going home now.”
“Oh ain’t nobody gonna dare mess with me, Calla. You know that.”
The women laughed, but as Mrs. Gibbs left, she shot a parting look at Josephine that held nothing short of warning.
Staring after her at the closed door, Josephine fought to make sense of the exchange, and couldn’t.
A possibility occurred to her, but she immediately dismissed it.
She’d only just met the woman. Impossible that Mrs. Gibbs would know about what she’d done back in Atlanta.
Perhaps the woman found her haggard appearance distasteful.
After all, numerous passengers on the train had given her disapproving looks.
And with Mrs. Gibbs working for Miss Mary, the woman was no doubt protective of her employer.
Deciding that had to be it, Josephine returned to her meal and ate until she could hold no more, then watched as Calla scraped the remnants of her plate into the compost bucket.
She’d gone so long without food, the act felt wasteful, especially with food this good.
Yet she said nothing, her full belly conspiring with exhaustion to keep her silent.
Dodge had mentioned something about this being the only inn in town, so she had to find a way to stay here.
At least for a while, until she knew what to do next.
Would it ever be safe to return to Atlanta?
The image of Clay Darden on top of her filled her mind again—the rage in his eyes, him removing his belt as terror coiled in her gut, then how she’d struck him in the head and his lifeless body falling limp.
She kept reminding herself she’d done it in self-defense.
That she’d had no choice. Either that or be beaten to death.
But as Sarah said, that wouldn’t matter.
She squeezed her eyes tight to dispel the memory but all she could see was the blood pooling beneath his temple. Would a jury of men be able to see the truth if it was laid before them? Or in killing Clay Darden, however unintentionally, had she issued—and signed—her own death warrant?