Chapter 29
A MAN IN OVERALLS WALKED IN with a little girl in tow, and Josephine felt a stab of disappointment, which she swiftly brushed aside.
The man offered no smile, yet his countenance was kind.
Whatever warmth he lacked, the girl more than made up for.
Mischief lingered in the vivacious gleam of her eyes, and Josephine felt an instant fondness for her.
Especially when the girl smiled at her still-healing face without so much as a flicker of discomfort.
“Good day, Uncle Jack.” The man extended a large, calloused hand, as the squeak of wagon wheels drifted in through the open door.
Jack Daniel shook it heartily. “Ballard Preston! Good to see you. I was just about to hunt down Dodge and ask him to send word we need more mules.”
“Dodge must’ve read your mind, sir, ’cause he’s already been to see me. Me and Agnes brought down six.”
Only then did the man look Josephine’s way.
“Ballard,” Mr. Daniel said, gesturing. “Allow me to introduce my new bookkeeper, Mrs. Josephine Dunham. She’s recently moved to town and needed employment, and—”
“The Almighty knew you needed help, sir,” Mr. Preston drawled, his dry humor never touching his features, which somehow made it even funnier. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Dunham. Welcome to town.”
“Thank you, Mr. Preston.”
He glanced down. “This here’s my daughter Agnes.”
Josephine smiled. “Nice to meet you, Agnes.”
Agnes dipped a little curtsey. “Howdy-doo, ma’am.”
“Let’s get you paid, Ballard.” Mr. Daniel bent down to open the safe.
Josephine felt Agnes watching her and sneaked a quick wink. The girl winked right back, adding a tiny shoulder shrug as if they shared a secret.
Mr. Daniel straightened, face reddening. “I never can get this dad-blame thing open.” He tried again, then looked as though he might actually kick the safe.
“Mr. Daniel,” Josephine intervened. “What can I do to help?”
He dug through his coat pockets, vest pockets, then sighed. “Of all the—”
Footsteps sounded on the front porch a second time.
When Josephine met Dodge Coburn’s gaze, something shot clean through her, stealing her breath for a beat. He paused, too, then looked away, as if nothing had happened.
“Morning, folks.” Mr. Coburn shook Mr. Preston’s hand. “Ballard, good to see you. Morning, Agnes.” He chucked the girl under the chin. “Bethie was just talking about you at breakfast. She’s got a book she wants to share.”
“Dodge!” Frustration roughened Mr. Daniel’s voice. “This blasted safe is giving me fits! Would you try it?”
Within seconds, Dodge Coburn opened the door, and Mr. Daniel muttered something Josephine hoped Agnes didn’t hear.
“Just leave the blasted thing open,” Mr. Daniel grumbled. “Payroll’s at noon.”
Grateful to hear she’d be paid today, Josephine watched as Mr. Daniel counted out a generous stack of bills.
“Here you go, Ballard. And thank you for coming down so quick. I know that’s a haul from up in the hills.”
“Railroad still ignoring your ask for a closer stop, Uncle Jack?” Mr. Preston asked.
“They are. Dodge and I keep proposing new track closer to town, and to Fayetteville, but they refuse. So for now, we’ll keep you busy breeding and breaking those Jacks and Jennys.”
“Fine by me, sir.” A bona fide smile finally crossed Mr. Preston’s face.
Mr. Daniel clapped his shoulder. “And don’t go letting George Dickel, Wooten, Nutt and Renegar, or Brinkley and Patterson—any of those other distilleries—pick you off. You’re the best around, and we aim to keep you. Busy and well paid.”
They shook again—less like a farewell than a contract.
“Hold up there, Ballard.” Mr. Daniel reached into his pocket and crouched to Agnes’s height. “You help your papa get those mules to town?”
“Sure did, Uncle Jack. I mucked the stalls and helped with all the feeding, too. Raisin’ mules for Jack Daniel is an honor for us Prestons.”
The girl recited it with practiced pride, as though she’d heard it said a hundred times.
Mr. Daniel pressed a coin into her hand. “This here’s for you and you alone. Go to the mercantile and get you some candy. And eat it before you get home so those brothers of yours don’t gobble it up!”
Agnes beamed. “Thank you, sir. But . . . might it be agreeable if I spent it on a story instead? If I find one to my liking?”
“Darlin’, you earned this money. It’s yours to spend as you please. With your papa’s say, of course.”
Mr. Preston’s hand settled on her slender shoulder. “Books are better than candy any day. But who knows—” Pride filled his gaze. “Maybe we can get both.”
As father and daughter walked away—Agnes hustling to match his stride—Josephine caught a glimmer of emotion on Mr. Daniel’s face. Whatever else he was, he cared about people. He had a gift for finding common ground, too. A trait he and Miss Mary shared.
“Uncle Jack, I need a word.” Mr. Coburn closed the door, direness in his voice.
“The cattle?” Mr. Daniel asked.
He nodded, then hesitated, glancing at Josephine.
“Go on,” Mr. Daniel urged. “Mrs. Dunham’s made of tougher stuff.”
“We lost another twenty-four since yesterday afternoon. Same symptoms, all of them.”
Mr. Daniel’s features tightened. Josephine’s did, too. When Texas fever was mentioned the other day, she hadn’t understood how serious it was.
“How many are we down since this started?”
Mr. Coburn exhaled. “Fifty-one. Most of them the steers meant for market.”
“Don’t let them suffer, Dodge. You know how I feel about that.”
“I feel the same, sir. And I’m not.” A heaviness settled in the lines around Dodge Coburn’s eyes. “I’m doing it quick and clean, like you taught me. Doc sent another telegram from Tullahoma, trying to hurry Washington along.”
“Washington moves slow, Dodge.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m sorry, Uncle Jack. We’ve done all we know to do.”
“No need to be sorry to me, son.” Mr. Daniel ran a hand through his thinning hair. “You’ve always treated my cattle like your own, and I won’t forget it. I’d head to DC myself and raise a ruckus if it would help.”
“I doubt it would. Doc thinks we’ll hear back soon.”
“Still no spread to people?” Mr. Daniel asked.
That got Josephine’s attention, as did the flicker of uncertainty in Mr. Coburn’s eyes.
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“Then do what you need to do. Whatever Doc says, too. And Dodge . . .” Mr. Daniel’s voice gentled. “However this turns out, I’m grateful you’ve decided to stay here.”
Hope warmed Mr. Daniel’s features. The opposite settled in Mr. Coburn’s.
“You and Bethie aren’t going to Wyoming?” Josephine blurted before she could stop herself.
Dodge Coburn finally looked at her. “No, ma’am. We’re staying put.”
“And Lynchburg is the better for it.” Jack Daniel turned to Josephine. “Anything Dodge needs, Mrs. Dunham, already has my approval.”
“I understand, sir.” What she didn’t understand was the small spark of pleasure she felt at learning Dodge Coburn wasn’t leaving.
Mr. Daniel checked his pocket watch. “Tom Motlow asked me to stop by the bank this morning. Dodge, would you stay and help Mrs. Dunham with payroll? Just get her started.”
“Will do, sir.”
“My meeting won’t take long. I’ll head up to the farm after.”
He left the door open, and Dodge Coburn knelt and withdrew a thick leather pouch from the safe. “Has he gone over payroll details with you?”
“Some. I’ve prepared the ledger and addressed the envelopes with each employee’s name.” Josephine removed the stack from the desk drawer. “But I don’t know what each employee earns.”
He thumbed through the envelopes, whistling low. “Alphabetical. We usually just scribble names as they come in.”
“I like order, and things being in their proper place.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m sure you do.”
She felt a prickle of defensiveness. “Mr. Daniel is paying me to organize this office, Mr. Coburn, which means—”
“I meant no disrespect, ma’am.” He lifted a hand. “Truth is, I’m impressed. Uncle Jack is, too.” He looked around. “This place hasn’t looked this good since . . . well. Ever. He says you’re doing a fine job. And I appreciate it.”
She let out a breath. “And I apologize for misreading you.”
His gaze held hers. “Friends again?”
She made a show of weighing her options. “Perhaps . . . if you’ll tell me where to get the jerky you gave me that day in the wagon.”
He studied her. “From memory, that didn’t sit too well.”
“That’s because I hadn’t eaten and was not in a good way. I usually don’t like jerky, but that was . . . delicious.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that compliment.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You made it?”
His brow furrowed. “Now that I think I should definitely take offense at.”
“Probably,” she admitted, grinning. “But I’m surprised, that’s all. And—fine—a little impressed. What do you put in it that makes it taste so good?”
A shadow crossed his expression.
Then she understood. “Ah . . . An old family recipe you don’t share.”
“No, ma’am, it’s not that. I just—”
A group of men passed by the window outside, headed for the office.
“Payroll time.” Mr. Coburn reached for the pouch. “How about I stay with you today. And next week you’re on your own.”
“Sounds fair.”
He introduced her to each man, but the line moved so fast she barely managed to stuff envelopes with the bills Dodge handed her. She’d never match names to faces—except the three Hacketts. Brothers, surely, judging by their similar arrogance.
The shortest sauntered up with a grin that told Josephine everything she needed to know about him.
“And just who might you be, sweet little missy?”
Mr. Coburn stepped forward. “Micah, take your pay and move on.”
“I’m just being friendly.” Micah’s gaze slid to Josephine. “Mrs. Josephine Dunham, ain’t it?” He laughed and his three brothers joined in. The implication was clear—they’d heard the rumor.
Mr. Coburn looked ready to come around the desk, but Josephine beat him to it.
“Yes, Mr. Hackett,” she said evenly, checking his name in the ledger and handing him the envelope. She was tempted to ask him if he needed help counting, but when she met his eyes she saw Clay Darden’s instead—and a chill went through her.
She looked past him. “Next.”
The last of the men cleared, then another group arrived, followed by women—young as late teens to older women, all from the bottling house. Conversation came more easily with them.
What didn’t escape Josephine was how nearly every one of them—regardless of age—looked at Dodge Coburn with open admiration, some even with a touch of longing. Either he didn’t notice, or he chose not to. “True North,” Miss Mary had said, and Josephine was beginning to see it.
With only two envelopes left—his and hers—Mr. Coburn closed the door, his expression somber.
“Thank you for not engaging with Micah Hackett.”
“I considered it.”
“I could tell. The Hacketts are a hotheaded lot. Cross one and you’ve crossed them all.”
“Men like that are walking advertisements for why God made women—and gave them more discernment.”
“Don’t hold back now,” he said, his tone dry. “Say what you mean.”
She smiled. “Perhaps I should have held that back.”
“No, ma’am. Always say what you think with me. Whether you think I’ll like it or not.”
She tilted her head. “Well, you’d better brace yourself. I do have opinions.”
“That,” he said, counting bills into her envelope, “I have never doubted.” He handed it to her. “Congratulations on your first official earnings.”
She stared at the money, an odd sourness rising knowing her earnings were tied to the successful sale of liquor.
Mr. Coburn tucked a thick wad of bills into his own envelope, returned the pouch to the safe, and locked it. Through the window, Josephine spotted Mr. Daniel coming back.
Dodge must have seen him, too. He grabbed his hat from the coat-rack. “Have a good day, Mrs. Dunham.” And went out to meet him.
They rounded the office building and headed uphill toward the outbuildings, their easy camaraderie obvious, as was their mutual respect.
Josephine returned to the invoices.
The mail arrived soon after, including two letters from new vendors—one in Nashville, the other Chattanooga—now carrying Jack Daniel whiskey. Both expressed an earnest desire to come to Lynchburg to see the distillery and to meet “the esteemed Mr. Jack Daniel himself.”
She stared at the letters, unsettled. The distillery was making a name for itself, exactly what she didn’t need. And she was helping it happen.
Her mind went to the tax revenue file she’d tucked in the back of a drawer.
She would have to be careful. And timing was everything.
But regardless of how kind a distiller might seem, didn’t she owe something to the countless women and children who had suffered so terribly at the hand of alcohol?
How could she be this close to a distillery, to its inner workings, and do nothing?
By midafternoon, the office looked night-and-day different from when she’d first walked in a week ago. She unearthed a bottle of linseed oil from the back room and set to polishing the desk and adjoining table, then oiled the springs in Mr. Daniel’s squeaky leather chair.
When four thirty came and went, she closed up the office and started toward the boarding house—then caught a whiff of something foul. She slowed, frowning, but as quickly as it came, the smell lifted on the breeze.
She continued on, aware of the looks from passersby. They thought they knew her story. She hoped they never learned the truth. Once again, she wondered who had started the rumor. And why.
Calla would be nearly finished with supper for the tenants by now.
Sensible as it was to return to Miss Mary’s, she found herself tempted to head to the cattle farm to see how things were faring.
But her presence would likely not be welcomed by Dodge Coburn, and for sure not by Bethie, if the girl was around.
Best to go back to the boarding house.
Repeating the thought like a mantra, reminding herself that distance from Dodge Coburn was the wiser choice, she made it two blocks before turning around and heading uphill instead.