Chapter 19
JOSEPHINE PAUSED just shy of the distillery’s front porch to catch her breath. She’d helped clear the table after breakfast earlier, then washed the dishes and left them to dry before rushing out the door.
Though she and Miss Mary hadn’t formalized her duties at the boarding house yet—she figured that would come after confirming she had a job—she simply couldn’t leave all that to Calla.
Not when she was enjoying all of Calla’s fine cooking, and not while knowing Miss Mary still hoped to hire a second cook to ease Calla’s load.
Ascending the stairs to the front porch of the white clapboard building, she heard the trickle of water again and looked toward the cave at the base of the rocky bluff a short distance away. Such a tranquil setting, and so opposite what she was feeling now.
She simply could not return to the boarding house without securing this—
The office door suddenly swung open.
“Well, good morning, Mrs. Dunham!” Jack Daniel’s wry smile said everything. “What might bring you to my door on this lovely March day? And so early? I’m barely into the office myself.”
Reading the playful sparkle in his eyes, she took a deep breath.
“I always find it difficult,” he continued before she could even start her readied speech, “to have to eat crow so early in the day. Just kind of chokes you a good one, right about here, don’t you think, ma’am?
” He gripped his throat just above his bow tie and made a show of not being able to swallow.
“Just doesn’t . . . want to . . . go down. ”
Josephine laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it.
Mr. Daniel paused, his expression lighting.
“Now that right there might be one of the prettiest sounds I’ve ever heard.
” He looked at her with a steadiness that might have unnerved her had he not already told her she wasn’t his type.
“Yes, ma’am, you should do that more often. And please, in my presence.”
Gaining her composure, she gave him a smart nod. “Allow me to clear my throat of said crow, sir, and perhaps I will.”
Laughing, he moved to one side. “Please, Mrs. Dunham, grant me the pleasure of your company in my office.”
Josephine stepped inside and started to take her seat in one of the two chairs facing his desk.
“Oh no, no.” He gently took hold of her elbow and led her around the desk. “This is where the distillery’s bookkeeper sits.”
He pulled out his office chair, but she didn’t sit. “Mr. Daniel, first, I must apologize to you for—”
“Mrs. Dunham, when your boot gained my porch a second ago, and I saw you standing there? You said everything to me that needed saying. I know how strongly you feel about distilleries and whiskey making. And yet here you are.” His tone softened.
“Coming back today took courage, and likely gnawed a fairly good hole in your pride through the night. Which makes this reprisal even more meaningful. For us both.” He glanced at the desk.
“Because when I closed my eyes last night, I wondered what on earth I was going to do with all this. So, please . . . Everything has been said between us. Agreed?”
She held his gaze, marveling at his kindness, and not at all certain she could carry out her still-forming plan to sabotage the distillery’s production. “Thank you, Mr. Daniel. And agreed.”
“Now, if you’ll sit, we can start reviewing all of this paperwork and—”
“Do we need, perhaps, to discuss again the various aspects of the position?” she asked carefully. “Have . . . any of the conditions changed?”
His brow furrowed, then understanding dawned. “Ah . . . You mean has the salary changed? Due to you dressing me down so squarely yesterday and giving me your honest opinion of what I’ve chosen to do with the whole of my life?”
Merriment lit his eyes, but she could not laugh.
“Ma’am, not many people have attempted to do that to me in recent decades.
And certainly none have done it with such style and grace, and on my own turf, to boot.
So again, you and me? We are more than fine.
I admire a woman with grit and backbone.
Someone who’ll speak her mind straight out.
So, to answer your question . . . The salary I quoted stands firm.
But I am thinking of taking back the offer of the free bottle of Jack every month. So if that’s a deal breaker then—”
Josephine claimed his office chair and began sorting papers. “Are you going to keep jabbering on, sir, or shall we get started?”
He chuckled and pulled up another chair beside hers.
For the next several minutes, she listened patiently as he presented document after document, explaining each as though she couldn’t determine its purpose at a glance.
“Now this one here”—he held up an order from a bottle supplier out of Kentucky—“is for bottles, so you need to make a file for—”
“Mr. Daniel.” Josephine placed her hands on the stacks of paper. “While I appreciate your instruction, I am more than capable of sorting through all of this on my own.”
“But this is important stuff, ma’am. I’ve got to make sure you understand who my suppliers are and what they routinely ship—”
“For inventory purposes and on what schedule,” she finished for him. “Yes, I know. Because timing is important, and you must keep adequate stock on hand. I assure you, I am quite clear on those points.”
“You know, Mrs. Dunham . . . You’re a fair mite bossier than I thought you’d be.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I like it.”
Josephine rose. “Then you’ll be absolutely enchanted when I ask you to kindly take your leave—”
“Of my office?” he interjected.
“Yes, sir, precisely.” She gestured toward the door.
“Perhaps it would be advantageous if I were to sit quietly in the corner and just observe in the event that—”
“Should I have questions, Mr. Daniel, I’ll keep track of them.” She shooed him toward the door.
He grinned. “This is gonna be fun, Mrs. Dunham.”
“Doubtful, Mr. Daniel.” She worked to school her smile.
He retrieved his hat from the coat tree. “I’ll be around if you need me. Door open or closed, ma’am?”
She caught the humor in his tone—and the subtle echo of what she’d asked him upon leaving his office just yesterday. “Closed, please, Mr. Daniel. Thank you.”
She watched him through the office window until he rounded the corner, actually wishing she could dislike him, at least a little.
But he was an amiable, even charismatic man.
Generous, too. The salary he’d agreed to pay her—fifteen dollars a week—was nearly double what she’d earned as a teacher in Atlanta, which meant she could send a portion to Sarah once it was safe to correspond.
She glanced at the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall. Friday, the tenth of March. Mr. Daniel said payroll was issued every Wednesday, which meant five days before she’d be paid. First order of business would be to somehow purchase another skirt and blouse, or perhaps a dress.
The mercantile sold cloth off the bolt but no ready-made clothing, and yards of fabric did her little good personally.
Maybe she’d have to slip into Ol’ Miss Ruby’s when her daughter-in-law wasn’t looking.
She’d also need to give Miss Mary something for room and board.
But at least she had the promise of money coming in.
She exhaled as the moment settled around her. Here she was standing in the office of a distillery—employed as its bookkeeper. What would Sarah say? And her fellow suffragists? More than that, Miss Anthony?
But no disappointment they could express would equal the bruising already left by her own conscience.
Jack Daniel’s coveted gold medal on the opposite wall caught her eye, and she stared it down, sensing challenge.
As guilty as she felt about working at a distillery, another guilt chided her—the motivation that had changed her mind about taking the job.
To do the distillery harm. Yet she needed only to think of the battered women and children she’d tried to help through the years—innocents who’d suffered grievously at the hands of alcohol—and that particular guilt eased its grip.
She moved behind Mr. Daniel’s desk and, choosing to stand, pushed aside the leather office chair. It rolled easily on casters as she surveyed the work before her. “If you know the enemy and know yourself,” she spoke softly, “you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”
It was a quote from The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a book her father had encouraged her brother to read. And so, of course, she had read it, too.
She wasn’t at war with Jack Daniel personally.
From all appearances, he was quite wealthy, so whatever she might manage to do would hardly cause him irreparable harm.
No, it was whiskey making itself that drew her aim.
She intended only to impair the distillery’s ability to produce it, for however long she could.
Industry payback, some might call it. But before she could act, she needed to understand how this burgeoning enterprise truly worked.
She set to work organizing the stacks of paper, finding little pattern in their present arrangement. Even within a single pile, dates jumped erratically, some documents separated by months, others out of sequence altogether.
But after a while of skimming and combing, dividing and stacking, natural categories began to emerge—inventory management, orders and invoicing, payroll and employee records, correspondence, shipping and logistics, sales records, and general accounting for office supplies and sundries.
One thing became apparent almost immediately—Jack Daniel enjoyed food.
And, at times, a great deal of it. The man clearly liked to entertain.
Orders from the mercantile revealed quantities that would have fed a family of ten for a week or more, and not modestly.
He also favored finer fare, with certain delicacies shipped in from considerable distances.
Reading about the food made her hungry, and she pulled out the cloth sack holding a leftover biscuit and thick slice of ham.
Calla had insisted on packing her lunch, fully confident she’d secure the position.
Josephine ate it like a sandwich, but halfway through found it difficult to swallow.
Yet she hadn’t thought to bring anything to drink.
She searched the office for a glass or cup and finally unearthed an old mug. Carrying it outside, she walked the short distance to the spring at the base of the bluff, the cool air from the cave greeting her before she stepped into the shade.
She rinsed the mug, then filled it once, twice, and a third time, draining each one. She couldn’t remember tasting water so cold and invigorating. Refreshed, she returned to her work.
Using the dusty stack of file folders Mr. Daniel had located for her in a cabinet from the back room, she labeled each one in turn, the simple act of setting things aright bringing a quiet satisfaction. She had always valued order and neatness. Everything in its place.
Which stood in stark contrast to her life at present.
How she wished she could go back to that suffragist rally only two days ago. As satisfying as it had been to put Clay Darden in his place in that moment, the cost had been too great. To her. And far more to him.
The image of him lying sprawled on the ground, blood pooling, the brick still in her hand, rushed forward. She had killed a man. In self-defense, yes. But the truth remained unchanged, and no amount of washing had fully erased the stain of his blood from her blouse.
Part of her wished she could apologize again to young Bethie about the clothing. The greater part, however, dreaded their paths crossing at all. She didn’t want to cause the girl any further pain. And the thought of facing Dodge Coburn again filled her with a dread she could scarcely name.
Turning back to her work, she quickly found a rhythm, recognizing repeat names on bills and receipts, the stacks growing more orderly by the minute—until her gaze snagged on a document bearing the words United States Bureau of Tax Revenue across the top.
Immediately, Mr. Prince, the revenuer staying at Miss Mary’s, came to mind.
She paused, leaning against the desk, and read through the lengthy verbiage of the official-looking document.
From her work with the suffrage movement, she knew whiskey production was heavily taxed and tightly regulated by the federal government, and that strict compliance was a top priority for distillery owners.
Failure to comply carried serious consequences.
A distillery could be shut down for weeks—if not months, or longer.
As the implications settled, something else began to stir. Possibilities.
She pulled a fresh file folder from the stack and wrote Tax Revenue on the outer edge, retribution wrestling with remorse.
But the shutdown would only be temporary.
Nothing permanent. If she could even manage it.
Because as of yet, she had no idea what steps would be required.
It wasn’t like she would be burning down a building or taking an ax to the stills in a fit of—
Boot steps sounded on the porch.
Pulse jumping, she hastily tucked the tax documents into the folder and slid it onto a side table, guilt quickening her movements. As the door opened, she straightened and schooled her features into calm—then froze.
Dodge Coburn paused on the threshold, doorknob still in hand. “Mrs. Dunham?”