Chapter 13 #2
Josephine clutched the high-waisted cerulean skirt, keeping the hem clear of mud and puddles.
The homespun ensemble was lovely, sewn by an expert hand.
At first she’d taken the pattern for dots.
Only later had she realized dozens of tiny cream-and-pink wildflowers were embroidered into the folds.
The cream blouse, with pearl buttons and delicate lace at the collar and sleeves, was just as fine.
Still, Josephine wished she’d had time to wash and press her own clothing. Because if anything happened to this . . .
She glanced at the sealed envelope and the name written on it. Mr. Daniel. The same name as in Miss Mary’s note. Recalling the gentleman she’d run into in the library last evening—and given Lynchburg’s size—she doubted it was a coincidence. Jasper . . . something Daniel.
She only hoped he wouldn’t fault her for anything she might have said or done. More than that, she hoped he was hiring. In a town like this, opportunity had to be scarce.
Her thoughts returned to what Miss Mary might have written about her. The envelope was sealed tight. Not that she would have read the contents, however tempted. But there was no getting around delivering the note as promised. Miss Mary would follow up, for certain.
With a full sun overhead and keeping a quick pace, she began to perspire.
Townsfolk watched her pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to open disgust. Much like the train.
Vanity reared, persistent as ever, and she hoped her wounds would heal without scarring.
She vowed to apply Calla’s salve morning and night.
Taking the boardwalk, she passed a whitewashed brick building bearing the name Farmers Bank on the north side of the square and admired that such a small town boasted such a fine financial institution.
Shops with awnings framed the square, but the White Rabbit Saloon stood out most. Was no corner of the world untouched by liquor?
A few doors down, a colorful window display slowed her steps.
Velma’s Candy, the shingle read. Hand-drawn pictures of confections made her mouth water.
Inside, a woman with a large bowl tucked in the crook of her arm stirred furiously, intent on her task.
Another female entrepreneur, perhaps. This town kept offering surprises.
At that moment, the woman turned, and Josephine resisted the urge to duck from view, knowing she’d already been seen.
The woman smiled and waved, then pointed to the sign on the door.
Open 3pm - 6pm, Monday through Friday. Josephine nodded as if that had been her question and gave a thumbs-up with an expression indicating she’d come back some other time.
But she’d need money first.
Nearly to the main road, a building set back from the boardwalk caught her eye, as did the man sitting out front whittling, watching her.
Too far away to require conversation, thankfully, she offered a nod and kept moving past the jail, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
The deputy—or sheriff—returned the gesture and continued to follow her progress.
The presence of law enforcement in this small town didn’t surprise her, but neither did it lend a sense of safety as it once would have.
After turning the corner and finding no one behind her, she breathed easier.
Lynchburg had no telegraph, which she would have considered antiquated before.
Now it felt like a saving grace. Still, from now on she would keep to the far side of the square.
The main road followed a meandering creek, and as she walked east, private residences gradually gave way to rural businesses.
She passed a tannery, the sharp stink reaching her before she spotted two men bent over a stretched hide.
Then a cotton mill and gristmill, and finally a cotton gin.
For all its size, Lynchburg lacked no industry.
After fifteen minutes, she spotted a small, wood-framed saltbox cottage with a front porch up ahead on the right. Massive oaks arched above it, lending the place a sheltered, homey feel.
A shingle hung from the porch ceiling—
JACK DANIEL DIST.
LYNCHBURG, TENN.
Jack Daniel Distributors. Not Jasper, as he’d introduced himself last evening. A nickname, perhaps. Or maybe the owner was a relative and he ran the business.
Wondering what kind of business it was, she guessed a successful one, judging by the numerous larger outbuildings dotting the acreage.
What Miss Mary hadn’t told her was that the house was situated by a cave.
Hearing the faint melody of water and feeling her throat go dry, Josephine couldn’t resist.
As she neared the mouth of the cave, cool air greeted her.
Lush ferns and shade-loving moss clung to stacks of damp, layered rock supporting the bluff, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle drifted toward her.
Spring water spilled from the cave into a small pool before continuing in a streambed to outbuildings beyond.
Josephine leaned over the rocky ledge, cupped her hands, and drank.
The water, cold and clear, revived her. She peered into the cave, but darkness swallowed the view, as though guarding secrets.
If she and Todd had ventured upon such a place in their younger years, they would have explored without hesitation. So much of her life had died with him.
Unbidden, the memory rose of standing beside him in church—Todd’s rich baritone lifting his favorite hymn: Nearer, my God, to thee .
. . But she pushed it away. Both the memory, and the hymn.
Yearning to be nearer to God was not foremost in her thoughts right now.
But it had been in Todd’s, especially near the end.
He’d often spoken of feeling God’s direct nudges, moments of unmistakable guidance.
She’d never fully understood it, nor experienced anything so certain.
Now she wished she’d asked him more, and wondered if she’d missed something that might have shed light on his death. His murder.
She regretted not hugging him goodbye that last night as he’d rushed out to a meeting, troubled by something that had happened.
How many times had she urged him to meet at the house, where she could at least know the men he worked with—his partners in crime, as she’d teasingly called them.
But he had always insisted on meeting elsewhere.
In moments like this, she still felt like half of herself was missing, reaching for someone who wasn’t there anymore. And never would be again. Would it always be this way?
The sharp clang of iron on iron carried toward her from an outbuilding and reverberated in the cave. Sensing the clock ticking . . .
She hurried back to the little white house and stepped up to the porch. Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Miss Mary had said knocking wasn’t necessary, but propriety—and the need to make a good first impression—argued otherwise.
After checking her hair in the front window, she squared her shoulders, summoned the confidence she’d once worn with ease, and knocked.