Chapter 26
THE NEXT MORNING following her breakfast duties, Josephine hurried out the front door on her way to the distillery, and nearly collided with a gentleman on his way in. She didn’t recognize him, and she’d met every boarder. Perhaps he was a new arrival.
Regaining her balance, she smiled. “Welcome to Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House. If you’re looking for Miss Mary, you’ll find her in the kitchen—through the dining room on the left.”
“Well that’s a good thing. Because I’m her husband.”
Josephine wished the porch would open up and swallow her whole. “Mr. Bobo, please accept my apologies. I’ve only been here a handful of days so—”
“No harm done, Miss . . . ?”
“Mrs. Dunham.”
Though his smile remained pleasant, she sensed she’d offended him, which likely meant she’d just offended his wife. She knew there was a Mr. Bobo. She simply hadn’t met him yet.
“Lacy Jackson Bobo, at your service, Mrs. Dunham. I’ve been away on business in Shelbyville, Tullahoma, and the surrounding area this past week.”
“Well, welcome home, sir. It’s good to meet you.”
“Jackson!”
At Miss Mary’s voice, Josephine turned.
Miss Mary stepped onto the porch. “I thought you weren’t getting back until the end of the week.”
“Finished my dealings earlier than planned. I hope that’s not a disappointment.”
Miss Mary shooed away the comment. “You know better than that.”
“I don’t know. Judging by the name of this place, I’m never quite sure.”
Josephine thought he was kidding, yet if she read his wife right, Miss Mary didn’t welcome the joke.
“But as promised—” Jackson Bobo reached into his worn satchel. “I picked up newspapers from each town I visited, like I always do. I know how you like to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”
An icy shiver slid down Josephine’s spine.
“Thank you, Jackson. I’ll read these later today. But first, let’s get you some breakfast.” Miss Mary turned back inside. “Have a good day, Mrs. Dunham. And again, good for you on getting that job. Don’t let me down!”
The door closed, and Josephine moved down the walkway toward the street, her surroundings barely registering.
Newspapers from each town? The iciness slithered into her chest, tightening her breath.
She paused, tempted to go back inside, to invent some excuse to get her hands on those papers.
But not with Miss Mary. That would definitely raise suspicion.
By the time she reached the distillery office—taking the longer route to avoid the jail—she’d mostly talked herself off the cliff. What were the odds that smaller town newspapers would run the story if Chattanooga hadn’t? She clung to that logic, thin as it was.
Mr. Daniel had left for Nashville the day before, so the office was quiet.
He’d mentioned a meeting with the owner of the Maxwell House Hotel—one of the South’s most prestigious establishments—to discuss carrying his whiskey in the gentleman’s bar.
She’d never been there, of course, but had read about the hotel in newspaper coverage of the Tennessee Centennial Exposition seven or eight years earlier.
From all accounts, the place was magnificent.
No doubt, Jack Daniel would return successful in his endeavor.
She kept an eye out for Dodge Coburn, not quite ready for another encounter. She hoped he’d given Bethie the book, and had kept her name out of it. She couldn’t stop stewing over his comment about suffrage ideas having already cost him.
His protectiveness of Bethie made sense.
She’d felt much the same about her students.
How much deeper that instinct must run for a niece—a child you were raising yourself.
But it was his remark about his gut telling him she was hiding something that troubled her.
He didn’t strike her as a man who let go of things easily.
The office door creaked open.
Josephine looked up half expecting to see Mr. Coburn. Instead, a man stood in the doorway—not tall, but broad shouldered, his vest straining at the buttons, a badge pinned to his chest.
Her heart dropped to her stomach.
“Mrs. Dunham, I presume?” He stepped inside and removed his hat. “Sheriff Rigby. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. See who’s got a hold of Jack’s ear these days.” His gaze swept the office. “He around?”
She had the distinct sense he already knew the answer, and that his cordiality was calculated. “It’s good to meet you, Sheriff Rigby. And no, Mr. Daniel is away. In his absence, may I help you?”
“Oh, I don’t need any help, really.” He walked to the desk and eyed the open ledger and stacks of invoices. “I check in from time to time. Make sure he’s staying on the right side of the law.” A polite smile followed.
Josephine returned it, closing the supply ledger and placing it atop the paperwork. “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
“As sheriff, I make it my business to know what’s going on in my town. And who’s new in it.” He settled on the edge of the desk. “So tell me about yourself, Mrs. Dunham. Where’re you from?”
She laid her pen aside, her hands steady despite the tremor inside. “The Chattanooga area. And before you ask what brought me here, I’d think one look at my face answers that plainly enough.”
He seemed taken aback, but not for long.
“You know, the world’s turning upside down these days.
” He sighed. “What with women wanting to be treated like men. Taking men’s jobs.
Some even wanting the ballot.” His smile held warning beneath the polish.
“I say let’s leave those weightier matters to men.
That’s only my opinion, of course, but I reckon the Almighty intended it that way from the start. ”
Perhaps it was his smug expression or the condescension in his tone, but she recalled something Miss Anthony had shared, and couldn’t resist. “As a dear mentor of mine often says, I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I notice it always coincides with their own desires.”
He laughed. “That’s mighty clever sounding on the surface. But it’s my experience, Mrs. Dunham, that some women just don’t know their place.” He fingered his hat in his hands. “But life has a way of reminding us where we belong. Best we listen when it does.”
Heat surged in her chest, but she held her tongue.
He slipped his hat back on. “You need anything while you’re here, you know where to find me.” His gaze lingered. “And I know where to find you.”
Later that afternoon, Josephine reluctantly returned to the boarding house, half expecting to find Miss Mary waiting for her, newspaper in hand, demanding an explanation for what happened in Atlanta.
But when Josephine opened the front door, the lobby was empty and the house quiet, save for sounds of supper preparations drifting from the kitchen. Already, savory aromas filled the air.
Still not confident she was out of the woods, she quietly opened the kitchen door. Calla stood at the stove, pouring a generous amount of honey into a cup of tea.
“I’m back from work,” she finally said when Calla didn’t turn.
Calla sucked in a breath and nearly dropped the cup and saucer. “Gracious, you scared me to death! Next time make some noise when you come in.” She tossed Josephine a smile, but her tone held a trace of irritation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Calla took a long drink, then another. “No harm done. Just shaved a few years off my life, which ain’t the worst thing.
” She gestured toward the table. “Sit yourself down and rest a minute, then we’ll finish supper.
Help yourself to the corn bread there if you’re hungry.
Miss Mary left newspapers for us. Mr. Bobo always brings them back with him. ”
“You’ve already read them?”
“Mostly.” Calla glanced over her shoulder.
“One goes on about President Teddy Roosevelt’s niece having married her fifth cousin once removed earlier this month.
Line after line given to the bride’s dress and how she looked.
Then bad news filled the pages. An explosion at a shoe factory in Massachusetts killed fifty-eight people.
Another in a mine in West Virginia took twenty-four more.
” She shook her head. “Got enough sorrow right here. Don’t need to borrow it from the rest of the world. ”
While Calla turned back to the stove, Josephine quickly scanned each newspaper. They were thinner than The Chattanooga Times—and none mentioned her name. Or Clay Darden’s. Her nerves eased, she helped with supper, then the cleanup afterward.
When the last dish was washed and put away, Calla handed her a slip of paper. “If you’re sure you’re wanting to learn how to cook . . . I wrote out what’s needed.”
Josephine studied the list of ingredients. Simple enough. And she did want to learn. “You’re certain you feel up to it tonight? You seem tired.”
“I’m all right, long as it’s fit to eat when you’re done.” Calla winked.
“You’re going to stay here with me, right? Until it comes out of the oven?”
Calla huffed. “After what you did with those biscuits, you think I’d leave you alone in here? Miss Mary walks in and sees you cradling a mixing bowl, spoon in hand, she’ll faint dead away on that plank floor.”
Josephine laughed. “All right then. Gingerbread with lemon sauce!”
“That’s one of Miss Mary’s favorites. You do this without burning down her house, and it’ll go a long way toward winning her over.”
Josephine gathered the ingredients, then started by measuring the molasses, the thick syrup slow to pour. She glanced at the list again. “Half a cup of sugar. Do you know this recipe by heart?”
“Mmmhmm . . . But I should. Been making these recipes for years. Now mix that good so the sugar blends nice and smooth. Butter’s on the table. I’ll get your water boiling. You want a cup of tea? I’m making me another.”
“Yes, please.”