Chapter 52
JOSEPHINE HURRIED from the distillery office to the boarding house, having promised to be on time today.
Miss Mary rang that bell at six o’clock sharp every evening and, for some reason, the proprietress had been short-tempered, even terse, this week.
Perhaps not feeling well from her pregnancy.
Whatever the cause, she wasn’t about to be late.
The hectic pace of the last five days was catching up to her.
But at least everything appeared ready for the vendors arriving midday tomorrow in time for a tour then the Friday evening dinner party, followed by more activities on Saturday.
True to Mr. Daniel’s word, his nephew Lem Motlow, a man roughly twenty years her senior, she guessed, had handled the majority of the details.
And in true Jack Daniel style, the event promised to be lavish and entertaining.
As she passed Velma’s Candy, she waved to Velma inside, thinking about those caramels and pralines again, as well as the fudge she’d purchased two days ago.
She’d shared it with Calla who relished every bite.
Dodge had been right about Doc Wyatt. She’d spoken with the physician earlier that week, and he was eager to help “her friend.”
I see a woman determined to make her own history, not one content to just walk through someone else’s . . . Dodge’s words echoed in her mind for the thousandth time. He’d captivated her thoughts all week.
She’d seen him several times in the office and when she and Mr. Daniel went to watch the dipping process, which, so far, seemed to be working. But although everything appeared fine on the surface, she sensed a shift in the undercurrent. She’d attempted to sort out her feelings about him.
Her attraction to him was undeniable. She greatly respected him, cared for him deeply, and every time she left his company, she regretted having to.
But how he fit into her life—Bethie, too, for that matter, as much as she adored the girl—was what she couldn’t come to terms with.
Especially with the shadow of Clay Darden’s death hanging over her.
As she turned up the walkway to the boarding house, the suffrage mantras she had fast embraced—Freedom, not marriage. A wife is not a possession. Liberty before love—marched through her mind again, and didn’t help the sorting process. But that was just it . . .
No matter how many times she honestly and unbiasedly viewed Dodge Coburn through a suffrage lens, none of those mantras fit the man she knew. None.
She walked through the front door and caught a whiff of fried chicken, candied cinnamon apples, and something else .
. . maybe collard greens. For her lunch, Calla had sent a slice of leftover meatloaf with bread and while delicious, that seemed a distant memory now.
If she wasn’t mistaken, she smelled buttermilk pound cake, too, and was glad Dodge and Bethie were coming for supper.
She rushed into the kitchen with not a moment to spare. “As promised, here I am, ready to work. So tell me what—” She stopped short, seeing Calla and Miss Mary seated at the kitchen table.
Calla’s face showed concern, but it was the thunder in Miss Mary’s expression—and the newspaper in her hand—that threatened to buckle her knees.
“W-what’s wrong?” she asked, and caught the almost imperceptible shake of Calla’s head.
“What’s wrong?” Miss Mary repeated. “What’s wrong!? What’s wrong is that you lied to me. To us. Straight-faced. Over and over again. And this, after I opened not only my home to you, but my heart.” She took a sharp breath. “Calla did the same, and this is how you repay us!”
Miss Mary waved the newspaper clutched in her grip, and Josephine caught the words Suffragist and Murder in the headline—and the air evaporated from the room.
“I-I can explain,” she began, her voice coming out higher pitched. “However the newspaper reported it, it’s likely wrong. Or else biased. So please, give me the chance to—”
“Biased? You’re telling me there’s another way to describe this?”
“Yes! There is. I’d been speaking at a rally in Atlanta that morning . . .” The words tumbled out, one after the other, coming faster and faster, until each next breath seemed impossible to take. “He dragged me into the alley. He began beating me. I—”
“Josephine, we’re talking about attempted murder here! That’s an accusation that’s very difficult to get wrong.”
“I understand, but if you’ll only listen to—” She stilled, Miss Mary’s words circling back with force. “Attempted murder?”
Miss Mary exhaled. “I’m done with the lying, Miss Josephine Dunham. I will no longer abide your—”
Josephine grabbed the newspaper.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing? We’re in my house and—”
She read the headline. Atlanta Suffragist Sought for Attempted Murder. She looked up. “But I killed him. When I left him, he was dead.”
Miss Mary fell silent.
But Calla moved closer. “What do you mean you killed him, Josephine? This newspaper don’t say nothing about you killing a man. Only that you tried.”
“I didn’t try to kill him. I was just trying to stop him. He attacked me first. I was only defending myself.”
Miss Mary pointed to the newspaper. “This says nothing about self-defense, Josephine. They’re saying you acted with forethought!”
Josephine skimmed the front page and sure enough, the article painted a very different picture from the truth.
One of a militant female suffragist who had lured a man into an alley under questionable intent but with the real goal of killing him, not only for retribution after he dared to interrupt her speech and publicly deride her opinions, but for revenge against his father’s efforts to protect the law-abiding citizens of Atlanta from this maniacal band of emotionally unstable women.
But all Josephine could think about . . . “Clay Darden is alive.”
Calla touched her arm. “But why did you think he was dead?”
“Because once I hit him with that brick, he fell on top of me. Blood poured from his head. We couldn’t find a pulse and—”
“We?” Miss Mary’s eyes widened. “Someone else was in on this with you?”
“There was no this, Miss Mary, I promise. I—”
“Supper can wait,” Miss Mary announced and dragged a kitchen chair from beneath the table. “I want you to sit right down and tell us what happened. And I want the truth.”
Glimpsing cautious trust in Miss Mary’s eyes, Josephine did as asked and told them everything, same as she had Dodge. They asked questions, and she answered.
When she finally finished, Miss Mary’s hard stare portended the reaction Josephine had feared from her. Only, it hurt far more now that she cared so deeply about the woman.
“From the minute I took you into my home, Josephine Dunham, I feared you’d bring trouble. But I did it anyway because I felt the Lord telling me to. And here you did exactly what I thought you would. Only it was trouble bigger than I could ever imagine.”
Josephine bowed her head, just as Miss Mary’s hand covered hers.
“I’m not saying I agree with all the choices you’ve made,” Miss Mary continued. “All the lying specifically. But given the same circumstances, Lord help me, I reckon I would’ve done the same.”
Calla leaned close. “No wonder you were so scared those first few nights. I heard you in your bed crying, even though I know you didn’t mean for me to.”
Josephine lifted her gaze, squeezing both their hands. “All this time, I thought I’d killed him. I thought I was wanted for murder. But he’s alive.”
“Well, don’t start celebrating just yet, Josephine.
” Miss Mary’s eyes darted to The Chattanooga Times on the table.
“Did you read clear to the bottom? That last part? Since they haven’t been able to find you, the mayor of Atlanta just put out a reward for anybody who can bring you back to face justice. ”
“And brace yourself,” Calla said. “It’s a lot of money!”
Josephine read the last paragraph and her stomach dropped.
“What’s a lot of money?”
Recognizing his voice, Josephine turned to see Dodge standing in the doorway.
Miss Mary quickly moved to cover the newspaper, but Josephine stopped her.
“It’s all right, he knows.”
“He knows?” Miss Mary asked.
Dodge looked at them. “What’s going on?”
Josephine held out the paper. “He’s not dead, Dodge. I didn’t kill him. I thought I had, but I didn’t.”
Dodge glanced at Miss Mary before scanning the front page.
“Josephine told me everything a few days back,” he said, still reading.
“But only after I found her ring in the wagon. When I gave it back to her, she accidentally slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand.” He finally looked up.
“That’s when I knew my suspicions were right. ”
“For what it’s worth—” Miss Mary looked over. “I never quite bought that part of your story.”
Calla reached for her left hand. “I ain’t even noticed you wearing it.”
“But a thousand-dollar bounty.” Dodge dropped the newspaper on the table. “That’s not insignificant.”
Josephine checked the date of the newspaper. “This was printed yesterday. How did it get here so quickly?”
“Mr. Bobo got back from his trip a couple of hours ago.” Miss Mary gestured to two other newspapers on the chair beside her. “He brought all these with him.”
“Any of those papers carrying this story?” Dodge asked.
“No.” Miss Mary looked at him, then Josephine. “At least not yet.”
Josephine gave a humorless laugh. “I had a feeling Mr. Bobo’s traveling and bringing you newspapers wasn’t going to work well for me.”
“These were all still wrapped tight, though,” Miss Mary offered. “So he hasn’t read a one of them. And if he’d read it elsewhere, he would’ve said.”
“So as far as we know,” Dodge continued, “the four of us are the only ones in Lynchburg who’ve seen this.”
Miss Mary and Calla nodded.
“And can we agree to keep it that way? At least until we can figure out . . . next steps?”
Again, they nodded.
But Josephine caught the familiar words and knew he hadn’t said them by mistake.
His attention was already on her when she turned, and the concern in his gaze—along with his carefully guarded affection—laid waste every remaining mantra.
Now if she could only find a way to escape the far-reaching arm of Mayor Darden’s justice.