Chapter 18
“ARE THEY ALL GONNA DIE, UNCLE DODGE?” Bethie asked, dread threading her voice.
Dodge latched the cabin door and watched his niece lean against the porch railing, staring out at the cattle scattered across the fields. Jessie lay at her feet, head on her paws, keeping watch just as closely.
For a moment his mind betrayed him, and Bethie was a toddler again—chubby hands gripping those same spindles as she pulled herself upright for the first time. He and Kathleen had clapped and cheered, later sipping dandelion wine while he rocked Bethie to sleep in the porch swing.
Then the memory faded, leaving him in a world without his sister, and Bethie without her mama.
She was growing too fast. Nine years old and nearly grown, and he had no earthly idea how to navigate the years ahead. Truth was, he’d been in deep water for a while now.
“I don’t think we’ll lose all of them, honey,” he said gently. “But a good many will die.”
“And there’s nothing to stop it?”
He slipped an arm around her shoulders, but she edged away slightly, apparently still riled over him correcting her misbehavior yesterday. Bethie could hold a grudge with the best of them. Same as Kathleen at that age.
He wished he could shield Bethie from everything hard.
But that wasn’t life, and losing cattle would pale in comparison to learning they weren’t going west. He couldn’t even give her the gift he’d had specially made for her in Tullahoma, not after forbidding her to ride Ginger Snap until they had answers.
“Doc Wyatt thinks it’s Texas fever.”
Her eyes searched his. “That sounds bad.”
“Straight shooter?” he asked softly, thinking of the fourteen steers following the same course as the two from yesterday—all formerly headed for market.
She nodded without hesitation. “Straight shooter.”
“It’s bad, Bethie. Doc’s written a man he knows in Washington, DC, who works for the Department of Agriculture. We’re hoping for answers. But right now, there’s no cure we know of.”
She turned back toward the fields. “Will they hurt before they die?”
Her question took him straight back to Kathleen’s bedside, Bethie there with him toward the end, Kathleen’s breath labored and raspy. He tightened his grip around Bethie’s shoulders, and this time she leaned into him. And something deep inside, like a cord anchored fast, tugged hard.
“I promise,” he said softly. “I’ll do everything I can to keep them from suffering.”
She nodded.
In the silence following, he recognized the moment he’d both been waiting for—and dreading. “Bethie, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about—”
“I decided I want Mama’s clothes back,” she blurted. “The ones that woman was wearing yesterday. I been thinking hard on it, and I want them back!”
Dodge hesitated, intent to stay the course but knowing this mattered too. “You know your mama gave those clothes to Miss Mary before she died. The two of them were close, and your mama wanted her to have them, knowing how Miss Mary always admired them.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Bethie scoffed. “Mama wanted Miss Mary to have them. Not some hoople-headed—”
She must have read the warning in his eyes.
“—some . . . level-landed nobody we don’t even know. And who didn’t know Mama at all.” Her voice cracked, and she bowed her head.
The image of Josephine Dunham wearing his sister’s skirt and blouse had unsettled him, too. But the woman’s remorse had been genuine. He couldn’t say how he knew—only that he did.
Bethie lifted her chin. “I’m gonna ask Miss Mary if I can have them back. For safekeeping.”
Dodge knelt. “Tell you what . . . I want you to think on it for a few days first. Will you do that for me?”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“All I’m asking . . . is you ask the Almighty what he thinks about that first, and listen to what he says. Then we’ll talk again. If you still want them, we’ll go together. Deal?”
He held out his hand, waiting. Prayer hadn’t always come easy to him, but lately he found himself leaning on it more. Especially in moments like this. And hoped she would, too.
Her handshake felt firm as a pledge.
“Is Uncle Jack mad at you?” she asked. “With all the cows sick and us leaving?”
“No, he understands. But that’s part of what I need to talk to you about, honey. And it’s not an easy thing to—”
“Mornin’, boss!” a couple of farmhands called out as they passed the cabin. “Mornin’, Miss Bethie!”
“Morning, Hank,” she called back, waving. “You too, Duffy! It’s Friday, best mind the barrel check today. Make sure those bungs are holding tight. That’s part of fine whiskey making!”
The farmhands laughed. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Bethie!”
Dodge nodded a greeting, vaguely unsettled by the exchange.
Bethie knew the rhythms of this place as well as Kathleen had.
And while Wyoming was no longer an option, raising a young girl around a distillery carried its own weight.
She had that same independent streak as her mama—You tell me I can’t, and I’ll show you I can. The thought dug in, and grew talons.
“Come on, Bethie girl,” he said. “Let’s walk. Don’t want you late for school.”
He took the porch steps in twos and whistled for Jessie. The dog bounded down as Bethie grabbed her pack off the rocker and fell into step beside them.
“You remember how your mama and I talked about how we were going west to—”
“Wyoming,” she filled in, smiling up at him. “Mama said it was her dream. And a gift for me.”
His gut knotted. “Life out there is hard, Bethie. Harder than you think. And—”
“Hey, Bethie!” a high-pitched voice called out. “Hey, Mr. Dodge!”
They turned to see little Moriah Green racing up the road, her smile big as ever.
The girl skidded to a stop, panting. “Wanna walk the rest of the way together, Bethie? But we gonna have to hightail it. Else we’ll be late and have to write sentences after.”
Bethie peered up. “Can I, Uncle Dodge?”
“May I,” Dodge corrected, then seeing the moment gone, kissed Bethie on the crown of her head. “Run on. We’ll talk more at supper. And no stopping at the Carvers.”
As the girls raced down the road, he wondered, as he sometimes did, if the veil of heaven ever lifted, even a little, allowing what happened here to be glimpsed from there.
Not that everything on this side was worth seeing.
Not hardly. But this life shaped the next, so it figured that some who’d gone on might take a gander back.
“Our girls are like two peas in a pod.”
Dodge turned to see George Green, Moriah’s father, approaching. “Morning, George. I’d say two very silly peas.” They shook hands and fell into comfortable stride together, Jessie sticking close.
“You should’ve come to Uncle Jack’s last night, Dodge. Mmmm . . . That fancy pineapple cake was some kind of good.”
“I appreciate you and your family coming by for Bethie. She enjoyed it. She needed some time away from me, I think, and I needed to tend the stock.”
“Sorry about the cattle, Dodge. Word’s traveling fast.”
“Good. Folks need warning. Doc’s hoping to know something more next week.”
George hesitated. “Bethie was in rare form last night. She told everybody about the woman wearing Kathleen’s clothes. She said you thumped her a good one for telling the woman off.”
“I didn’t thump her a—”
George laughed. “We know. That Miss Bethie . . . she’s her mama made over. Fit for the stage, both of them. But you’re doing good with her, Dodge. Lottie says the same.”
Dodge shook his head. “Some days I wonder.”
“Being a papa is hard. ’Specially the way you came about it. And on your lonesome.”
“But that’s just it, I’m not her papa. I’m her uncle. But this . . .”
“Just know you’re doing fine by her. Kathleen would be proud.”
“Thanks, my friend.”
They walked on, silence a part of their friendship as much as conversation. He’d worked with George and several members of his family at the distillery for years, and though George was a few years older, they’d shared a bond from the beginning.
Dodge fondly remembered Nearest Green, George’s father and Uncle Jack’s first head distiller.
Enslaved at the time, Nearest—along with the late Lutheran preacher Dan Call—had taught young Jack the craft of whiskey making.
The business of it, however, Jack had taken to on his own.
Natural-born entrepreneur if ever there was one.
They passed a field thick with wildflowers—black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, wild bergamot, and his late mother’s favorite, purple coneflowers—and Dodge remembered Kathleen’s habit of keeping a pitcher of wildflowers on the kitchen table.
How had that slipped his mind? He hadn’t seen that blue metal pitcher in months.
As they neared the distillery, its distinctive smell—a pungent, yeasty tang with a sour edge, an acquired appreciation—wafted toward them. And while part of him knew he’d carry a yearning for Wyoming until his dying day, he would have missed all of this, too. It was in his blood.
“You know this place won’t be the same without you two, Dodge. Uncle Jack won’t be either. What’s he gonna do without you?”
Dodge slowed. “Keep a secret for me? Just until I’ve told Bethie?”
George frowned.
“I’ve decided not to go. I can’t take her all the way out there. Not just the two of us.”
George sighed then slowly nodded. “I wondered about that. What about your land? All those acres you bought?”
“I’m trying to sell them. Mailed the papers to a land agent yesterday. I’ve spent months trying to make it work, but that’s just selfishness on my part. Staying’s the right thing. I’ve just got to tell her.”
George shook his head. “I don’t envy you that.”
Dodge gave a dry laugh. “That’s what Doc said. I’ve told him and Uncle Jack, but no one else.”
“And nobody’ll hear it from me. Not even Lottie. And while I’m sorry for you—you’ve wanted this for a long time—I’ll say this much . . . I ain’t disappointed you’re staying. You’re part of this place. This town. And Uncle Jack losing you would be like losing his right arm.”