Chapter 20
REACTING TO THE SHOCK in Mr. Coburn’s expression, Josephine squared her shoulders, standing as tall as she could.
Her conscience alone was punishment enough, but seeing herself reflected in his eyes stung.
Her convictions—so fiercely declared only yesterday—now chafed like an ill-worn robe of self-righteousness.
If only she hadn’t been so forceful with him, so absolute.
I would never take such a job. And yet here she stood.
She gave a crisp nod. “Mr. Coburn. Good morning. How may I help you?”
The slight narrowing of his gaze told her that greeting alone would not suffice.
Already self-conscious about the slow-healing marks on her face, she was doubly aware of them in his presence, but refused to show it. “I realize this must come as a surprise.”
He let out a measured breath. “Ah . . . yes, ma’am. That’s one way to put it.” He removed his hat and closed the door behind him, his gaze never leaving hers. “I was under the impression you turned this job down. In fact, I’m quite certain you told me as much yesterday.”
“That is true.” She clasped her hands. “I did refuse Mr. Daniel’s offer.
At first. But after giving it more careful thought, I realized it was hasty of me to cast aside such an opportunity, given my current circumstances.
” She hesitated, then pressed on. “And since Miss Mary was the one who sent me to speak with Mr. Daniel, and since I am staying under her roof . . . Well, refusing him felt increasingly untenable. I did not wish to offend her.”
The explanation felt thin even to her own ears. And his expression confirmed it.
“So,” he said quietly. “A female suffragist working in a distillery. What about the convictions you spoke of yesterday? With such certainty.”
Tempted to look away, she resisted, not wanting to appear weak to this man. “You said yourself, Mr. Coburn, that many people would welcome such an opportunity.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—”
“Would crawl over cut glass is, I believe, the phrase you used,” she continued, lifting her chin, knowing her anger was partially fueled by her own guilt and disappointment in herself.
His stare held. “That’s exactly what I said. It just never occurred to me you were the type of woman who would listen.”
Heat flared in her chest. She knew when she was being baited.
“I can’t imagine how I’ve survived this long without a man telling me how to think, especially one as humble as yourself.
How fortunate our paths crossed.” The brittleness of her smile matched her tone.
“I am quite busy, Mr. Coburn. So I will ask again . . . What is it you need?”
He didn’t say anything. And didn’t have to. The suspicion in his eyes said it all. He didn’t believe her. Which parts, she didn’t know. But she hadn’t counted on this. She hadn’t counted on him.
“Mr. Coburn—” Fighting desperation, she lowered her head, a courtroom tactic coming to mind.
One she’d learned from watching her father practice his masterful closing arguments.
She and Todd had swiftly adopted the gesture when debating issues in front of their parents.
Todd had nicknamed it “the humble, deliberating pause” and had mastered it far better than she ever had.
But she needed it now.
Slowly lifting her gaze, she attempted as contrite a tone as she could muster.
“As you advised me yesterday, Mr. Coburn, I checked the community board in the mercantile. And unless I wished to slop pigs, hire on at the mill, raise a barn, blacksmith, or assist Ol’ Miss Ruby with sewing while carefully avoiding her daughter-in-law—”
A flicker of humor touched his eyes.
“—then bookkeeping at a distillery proved to be the only position in Lynchburg for which I possess a useful skill. As a former schoolteacher, that was a most humbling discovery. But a true one. And with little money left to my name, I had no real choice. Pride notwithstanding.”
He seemed to weigh this then, to her surprise, took a seat.
She followed suit, settling into Mr. Daniel’s office chair.
“You have to admit, Mrs. Dunham. It’s quite a reversal. And in so short a time.”
“I cannot argue with that. But I trust you now understand the reasons behind my decision.”
He didn’t answer at first, his stare appraising. “I think I have a right fair understanding, yes, ma’am.”
His disappointment was undeniable, as was the doubt framing it. “Well . . . I need to get back to work. Mr. Daniel isn’t paying me to sit and converse.” She started to rise.
“Actually, ma’am, I came on business. I was hoping to see Uncle Jack, but I expect you can help me.”
“Uncle Jack?” She sat back down.
“No relation. I’ve known Jack Daniel all my life. I was born and raised here in Lynchburg and have worked for him for years. In fact, most people in town call him that.”
Priding herself on having guessed correctly about Mr. Coburn’s association with the distillery, she retrieved a pen and paper. “Are you here regarding another shipment of bottles?”
He frowned. “Bottles?”
“Yes. Aren’t you a supplier for the distillery?”
The frown creased further, until understanding swept it away. “Ah, you’re talking about the wagonload I had when you hitched a ride. No, ma’am, I work with the livestock. That wagon from Tullahoma was just a favor.”
“So you’re a farmhand then.”
A slow smile curved his mouth and its effect was downright disarming. Warmth swept through her, and she found it difficult to maintain his gaze—yet impossible to look away.
She swallowed. “S-so, Mr.—” Her mind went blank.
“Coburn,” he supplied softly.
“Yes! I know your name, Mr. Coburn.” She exhaled. “So what is it exactly that you require?”
He leaned forward. “I was doing some reading on Texas fever last night—”
“Texas fever?”
“The cattle on the distillery’s farm just uphill are failing, ma’am, and we believe it’s Texas fever. I think I’ve found something that’ll help and came by to tell Uncle Jack I’m sending a telegram to Tullahoma to request supplies.”
She penned a quick note for Mr. Daniel, pausing as she wrote. “And do you have authority for this expense without prior approval?”
Again, that patient smile. “Yes, ma’am. That won’t be a problem.”
“Very well then. I’ll make certain Mr. Daniel is aware.” She rose, hoping he would take the hint. She set the note atop a small floor safe near the desk. “Will there be anything else?”
“I think that’s it for now.” He stood, hat in hand, his attention moving to the stacks of paper and folders covering the desk. “Something tells me you’re going to whip this place into shape. And maybe even Uncle Jack along with it, if he stands still too long.”
Though his tone was pleasant enough, he didn’t smile when he said it.
“I was hired to pay the bills and keep the office running smoothly. That’s my intention, Mr. Coburn.” She crossed to the door and opened it, welcoming the cool breeze if not the sunshine on her face.
He slipped his hat on. “Well, I hope this proves to be a . . . better situation for you, Mrs. Dunham. Uncle Jack’s a good man, and a lot of people in this town are right partial to him.
Look up to him. Not to mention are employed by him.
Regardless that you don’t see eye to eye with him on the subject of whiskey. ”
And there it was again. Suspicion. Clear as day.
“Good day, Mr. Coburn. I’ll make certain Mr. Daniel gets your message.”
He didn’t move. “What I said before, about you being the type of woman to listen. I didn’t mean it exactly the way it came out. It’s just with you being part of the suffrage movement and knowing how you all feel about things . . . Seeing you here caught me off guard, is all.”
Josephine just stared, letting the silence answer for her.
He finally tugged the brim of his hat. “Good day to you, Mrs. Dunham.” Almost out the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, ma’am,” he said quietly, his gaze taking in her face, “whoever did this to you should be whipped. And I will gladly do the honors should he ever show his face in this town.”
“But you promised!” Bethie cried. “You promised Mama and me!”
Dodge reached for her arm, but she jerked away, nearly sending her supper plate crashing to the floor. “I know that, honey. I do. But things have changed. I wish we could still go, too. But—”
“We can go!” Tears welled and spilled. “Just you and me. That’s what Mama wanted. For us to go like we planned. I know it!”
“Bethie . . .” He pulled his chair closer so he could face her square on. “I’m convinced your mama knew before she died that Wyoming wasn’t a possibility anymore. Not with her having to leave us.”
Bethie set her jaw, whether to keep from crying or to hold back words she knew better than to say, he couldn’t tell.
“Wyoming is hard country,” he went on gently. “Wild and treacherous. A person has to carve a life out of land like that. It’s dangerous, sometimes downright hostile. And it’s no place for a little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl! I’m near grown, Uncle Dodge. And I can do this. I’m not scared.” She drew in a thin, hitching breath. “I can help with the cattle. Drive the herd. I ride better than half your hands, you’ve said so yourself. I can drive the wagon, too. You and me . . . we can do it. Please.”
The pleading in her voice cut him clean through. But it was the accusation in her eyes—the betrayal—that twisted the knife.
“Bethie, with everything in me, I wish we could still go. But I’ve had to accept that we can’t. And I’m so sorry, but somehow you’re going to have to find a way to accept that, too.”
She opened her mouth, but he pressed on.
“I’ve put the land up for sale, honey. I signed the papers. It’s only a matter of time now before someone buys it.”
That time frame was hopeful fiction and he knew it. Four hundred and twenty acres wouldn’t sell quickly—not at a fair price—but he couldn’t leave even the smallest door ajar.
Bethie wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand, fists clenched tight. “Mama still wanted us to go,” she said, voice flat. “Just you and me. She told me that before she died.”
All pleading was gone now. Something harder had taken its place. But it was the shadowed anger in her eyes that confirmed the lie.
“Bethie girl,” Dodge whispered, sinking to one knee so they were eye to eye. “Your mama wouldn’t want you to lie, sweetheart. She didn’t say that . . . did she.”
Her face crumpled. Her breath broke loose into sobs, and Dodge drew her to his chest. For a moment, she went slack against him, weeping the way she had as a little girl after a fall or scraped knee. Then she shoved him away.
“I don’t want to live with you anymore.”
The words struck like a blow.
“Honey . . . this is your home. You and me, we have to stick together now that—”
“I said I don’t want to live with you!” She shoved her chair back. “I don’t want to live here either. I’m gonna go live with Moriah and her family.” She bolted for her bedroom and slammed the door.
Dodge rose, starting to go after her, then stopped. He couldn’t say why, other than he knew he’d only make things worse. He cleared the table, stacked the dishes by the washbasin, then reached for his hat.
Jessie trotted after him.
“Not tonight, girl.” He knelt and rubbed her ears. “You stay here. Watch over Bethie.”
Jessie whined softly, then settled down facing the front door.
“Good girl.”
Dodge reached above the doorframe, took down the .45 caliber Remington, and headed for the lower barn, hoping Doc Wyatt might still be there.