Chapter 16
NO SOONER HAD JOSEPHINE LEFT the distillery office than she collided with Dodge Coburn barreling around the corner, his expression a tangle of concern and frustration. He stopped short and caught her arm to steady her.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am.” He stepped back, granting quick release, and removed his Stetson.
His gaze swept the length of her again—appraising, yes, but not for any untoward reason, she knew now. Still uncomfortable and eager to change from these clothes, she forced herself to look up. “Mr. Coburn, please accept my apologies again for—”
“It’s not your fault, Mrs. Dunham.” He held up a hand. “And I’m sorry for the way Bethie spoke to you. That wasn’t right. I talked with her and—”
“Your niece had every reason to react as she did. To see a complete stranger wearing her mother’s clothes?” Josephine winced. “I venture to say I would have reacted much the same way at her age.”
“Your allowance is kindly taken, ma’am. It was a hard thing for her.
” His jaw tightened. “But Bethie shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked like that.
And certainly not to someone her senior.
My niece, she’s a passionate thing, just like her mama, God rest her.
” He exhaled. “Still, she’s got to learn you can’t just go around saying whatever comes to mind. ”
Touched by his affection for the child, she glanced toward the office. “That’s a difficult lesson. One even some adults have yet to master.”
A slow smile tugged one side of his mouth. “Jack Daniel always speaks his mind. You never have to guess where you stand with him. He lets you know straight up.”
“Much like Miss Mary.”
“Yes, ma’am. They’re akin that way.”
It struck Josephine then how familiar Dodge Coburn had been with Mr. Daniel, how he’d walked in as if the place belonged to him.
And she’d heard the telltale tink of glass in the wagon bed on the way from Tullahoma.
A distillery needed bottles. Perhaps Mr. Coburn was a supplier, a partner in crime, and probably getting rich by association—while also worsening the situation for untold women and children in this town and far beyond the reach of Lynchburg, too, if what Mr. Daniel had said was true about his distillery’s growth.
Gold medal for World’s Best Whiskey, indeed.
A breeze rustled the branches overhead, sunlight sluicing through, and Josephine looked away, painfully aware of the wounds on her face—and of those discerning blue eyes.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Coburn, I’d best be on my way.”
“You could do a lot worse than working for Jack Daniel, you know. Folks in this town would crawl over cut glass for the offer you just got. If they had the know-how to do the job, which they don’t.”
Josephine searched his expression for any hint of humor.
But he was serious. “Mr. Coburn, you know very well that I cannot, nor would I ever choose to, work for such an establishment. My beliefs forbid it. Though I’m sure you found amusement watching that scene unfold, despite my current circumstances. ”
His eyes held hers. “I’d have to be a fairly base man to find amusement in the situation you now find yourself in. And I assure you, ma’am, I am not.”
Taken aback and a little ashamed at her hasty judgment, Josephine inclined her head. “Thank you, Mr. Coburn. That’s . . . most kind.”
“But while you’re holding tight to those beliefs, I’d ask you to consider something .
. . Not everyone in the world is out to get you, ma’am.
Some folks actually want to help. Maybe even lighten your load.
Good people, too. Different from you, for sure.
But different doesn’t mean they’re against you.
” He slipped his hat back on. “As my father used to say . . . That’s all for free, but free don’t always mean dreck. ”
Josephine studied him. His demeanor seemed genuine enough but experience had taught her caution.
Rare was the man who considered a woman his equal, and when the topic turned to women’s rights, most tried to placate their inferiors with a smile or proverbial pat on the head.
Like her father had done. The worst sought to cow women into submission.
Intuition told her Dodge Coburn wasn’t in that latter category. But he likely fell into the first.
Best she set him straight right now. “Mr. Coburn, while holding to such convictions may seem frivolous to someone like you—”
“I didn’t say that, ma’am—”
“I have witnessed what alcohol does to a man and what pain it inflicts on his family. Innocent women and children suffer. Wages meant for food and clothing go to bar tabs and barrels. So while others might crawl over cut glass for that job, I am not one of them. I’ll find gainful work elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere,” he echoed, brows lifting. “In Lynchburg.”
“Yes. This town may be small, but surely there are other opportunities. I taught school back in—” She caught herself. “Chattanooga . . . So bookkeeping is not the only skill I possess.”
Humor slow-brewed in his eyes. “I’d wager that’s a right true statement.” He gestured toward the square. “Folks hiring usually let the word walk until it finds its mark. Some tack notices on the board inside the mercantile. Mr. and Mrs. Carver keep a good ear on what’s what.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coburn. I’ll visit there now. Good day to you.”
She turned to go, catching his slow smile again.
“And a fine day to you, too, Mrs. Dunham.” He tipped his hat. “And . . . good luck.”
“Xparianxt hawg haend,” Josephine read softly, scanning the scraps of paper pinned to the mercantile’s “community board,” as an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Carver—the proprietors—had called the rough-hewn plank hanging slightly askew near the front door.
She sounded out words phonetically, after deciphering the poorly written script. Nothing she wasn’t accustomed to as a teacher. But it was a characteristic typically seen in younger students, not adults. Then again, each step changes the view, as Todd used to say to her.
Thinking of her brother stirred the melancholy crouched at the fringes, ready to pounce. Remember, you didn’t always know what you know now. Give others the chance others gave you. Taking his advice to heart, she read on with a more generous eye . . .
Mill werker at Mckays.
Blacksmith with tuuls se Big Jed.
Many listings had curled edges, evidence of longevity. Farmhand needed. Includes room and board. See Mitchamore Farm. Room and board would help, but the fact she knew nothing about farming or tending livestock could prove problematic.
Carpenter for barn razin. Hot meals and room for pay. While she had to smile at that one, she felt less skilled with every line read.
Distillery Laborers Needed.
Her brow rose.
Men of good character sought . . . mash tubs, stills . . . experience welcome, training provided . . . good wages.
The ad was well written, the lettering precise. Jack Daniel was certainly educated. Not a single misspelling. The teacher within her gave him excellent marks, though “men of good character” for a distillery gave her pause.
Her gaze slid to another notice overlapping older ones. Excellent cook needed for boarding house . . . inquire to Mrs. Bobo.
Josephine inwardly groaned and forced herself to look again, until a notice near the bottom caught her eye.
Schoolteacher Needed. Position open for a lady or gentleman . . . modest salary . . . lodging arranged . . .
Hope rising, she unpinned the notice and hurried back to the counter.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Carver. This ad—” She held out the piece of paper. “Do you know when it was posted? And whether the position has been filled?”
Mrs. Carver read the ad. “Why yes, ma’am. A teacher was hired a few months back. Ain’t that right, Harold?”
His confirming nod sent Josephine’s hopes crashing.
“Fellow named Weston,” Mr. Carver said. “Come down from Fayetteville way. Lives just up the hill if you need him.”
“No, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.” Josephine tried to phrase her next question without sounding condescending. “Do the ads posted on the board stay up for a certain period of time . . . or indefinitely?”
Mr. Carver set aside the cloth in his hand and offered a patient smile—one she imagined he reserved for confused children. “That there’s a community board, Miss—”
“Dunham. And it’s Mrs.,” she corrected.
“Mrs. Dunham,” he continued. “Folks post what they need or got to sell—jobs, crops, sewing, building. It’s where they see what’s going on in town, too.
So we don’t rightly track it when news goes up or is hauled down.
We leave that to the one doing the posting.
That’s part of what makes it community.”
“I see . . .” Josephine found the notion somewhat charming, though highly inefficient.
She noticed Mrs. Carver eyeing her skirt and blouse and hastened to conclude her business.
“I’ll return this advertisement to the board.
But would you happen to know of any opportunities in town that aren’t posted? ”
Mr. Carver shook his head. “Not for womenfolk.”
He returned to his work, while his wife discreetly gestured Josephine to the side.
“There’s things womenfolk only tell me, Mrs. Dunham,” Mrs. Carver said softly, leaning close.
“Ol’ Miss Ruby’s down with the arthritis again.
She can’t keep pace with her sewing, so she’s needing help.
Only, her daughter-in-law can’t be knowing of it.
So you’d have to come and go when Erma Dale ain’t home. ”
Josephine hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t sew well, Mrs. Carver. I can mend, but it’s none too pretty. I’m a teacher by training.”
“Well . . .” Mrs. Carver sighed wistfully. “That teaching job would’ve fixed you right up then, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it would have.”
“Can you cook good?” the woman asked, then must have read the answer in Josephine’s face. “Hmmm . . . No cooking either.”
Josephine attempted a pleasant countenance, feeling small and foolish in this woman’s eyes.