Chapter 38
THE NEXT EVENING, Josephine hurried from the distillery office toward the boarding house, hoping to arrive in time to help with pre-supper preparations—one of her duties assigned by Miss Mary.
She’d stayed later at the office than planned, partly to finish ordering additional supplies for the distillery, but also because Clara Hackett had sent a friend to her.
Midday, a timid knock had sounded at the front door.
The woman who stood there, little more than a shadow, was the wife of another distillery worker, desperate for food for her three children.
No bruises marked her face, but her eyes bore a weight of brokenness all the same.
When Josephine returned from the mercantile with the box of provisions, the woman had wept, scarcely able to meet her gaze.
But watching her walk away with the food had felt like a small victory.
Another victory—one she acknowledged with far less ease—was discovering a way to halt production at the distillery. A few moments’ access to the gauger’s ledger would do it. The hurdle was gaining that access. Even so, she had a plan.
She held no illusion that stopping production at one distillery would spark sweeping change. But even if it forced even a handful of people to reconsider their stance on liquor, it would be worth it. Her suffragist sisters would agree.
The creak of a wagon descending from the cattle farm quickened her steps. She glanced back, hoping it wasn’t Dodge—or any of the Hackett brothers. Dodge’s warning had taken firm root. She would help Clara Hackett again without hesitation, but she had no desire to encounter her husband—or his kin.
Not recognizing the man driving the wagon, she rounded the corner and pressed on.
She hadn’t seen Dodge since yesterday. Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
She’d caught a glimpse of him that morning and had vanished into the back room while he spoke with Mr. Daniel about the cattle.
Still no word from Washington, and nearly half the herd gone.
She’d heard the strain in his voice and felt for him. But she hadn’t been ready to face him.
Embarrassed didn’t begin to describe what she felt.
What had she been thinking? But that was just it, she hadn’t thought. She’d simply reacted. One minute they’d been arguing, the next she’d imagined brushing her lips against his, tasting his kiss. Then she’d been in his arms, without the slightest protest.
What must he think of her? A married woman behaving so? And that soft sigh she’d let escape. Where had that come from? Heat flooded her body again just thinking about it.
He had to know how moved she was by him, and him having that knowledge felt like she’d somehow relinquished some unspoken balance of control between them, which was flat unnerving. Yet when he’d sworn it would never happen again, she’d felt a sense of disappointment at that prospect.
Because it wasn’t only physical attraction that drew her to Dodge Coburn. It wasn’t just his blue eyes or tender strength. He was a kind, caring, and intelligent man. Respected by men and women alike. Mr. Daniel regarded him almost as a son. And Bethie adored him.
Wise or not, she’d searched the library again last night, scanning books for his marginal notes.
And she’d found them. The man was well-read, perceptive—far more than he let on.
He’d admitted some suffrage reforms were reasonable, even if he questioned the timing.
He’d called her a fighter—and meant it as praise.
But none of that changed the truth. She’d killed a man.
In self-defense, yes. But would a jury of men see it that way?
Would they acquit her? She knew better. And while this quiet little town hidden in the backwoods of Tennessee was a place to hide, at least for now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that even Lynchburg wasn’t far enough away to evade Mayor Darden’s reach.
The supper bell clanged just as she stepped inside the boarding house. She grimaced, knowing Miss Mary’s stance on tardiness. She stashed her reticule—a simple handsewn wrist bag she’d purchased from Miss Ruby along with a new skirt and blouse—in the library and made a beeline for the kitchen.
“Miss Mary, I’m so sorry I’m—”
“You’re late, Josephine. Grab the fried okra, please, then come back for the apples. Everything else should be out there. But mind yourself, those dishes have been in the oven.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, well now . . .” Mrs. Gibbs walked from the pantry, a jar of molasses in her hands. “Reckon punctuality ain’t held in high regard where you come from. But ’round here, it still means something. Not to mention you being late adds a burden to me and Calla.”
“As I said, Mrs. Gibbs, I’m sorry. The time just got away from me.” Growing accustomed to the woman’s occasional jabs, Josephine attempted to catch Calla’s attention and failed.
A week had passed since the tea incident, and she and Calla had yet to speak of it.
Meanwhile, Calla retreated more and more into herself.
Concerned, Josephine wondered if being discovered was causing her to drink even more.
She hoped not. She missed the ease of their friendship and playful banter in the kitchen.
But far more, she saw the evidence of Calla’s pain in her eyes and in her silence.
She grabbed a cloth and carried the fried okra to the dining room, feeling the heat of Mrs. Gibbs’s stare on her back.
Tenants were filtering into the front hallway from their rooms, and no guests from town that she could see.
She greeted each one by name and exchanged pleasantries, then returned to the kitchen.
“So you’re sure you’re all right, Calla?” Miss Mary asked softly. “Nothing ailing you? Other than the sadness, which I know still hurts.”
Mrs. Gibbs huffed. “That, and having to do more than her share of the work because Mrs. Dunham here—”
“You’ve already pounded that stake into the ground, Mrs. Gibbs.” Miss Mary aimed a look worthy of an old schoolmarm. “Please start filling up the tea glasses in the other room.”
Brushing past Josephine, Mrs. Gibbs gave her a look that would sour milk.
“No, ma’am, I ain’t ailing,” Calla finally answered, her attention firmly fixed on the steaming pot atop the stove. “I’m just a bit tuckered is all.”
“Well I’m still advertising for another cook.” Miss Mary gave Calla’s back a quick pat. “Even put an ad in the Tullahoma paper a few days back. I’ll hire someone soon as I can, I promise.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know. Don’t you worry, I don’t mind all the cooking. I can do it.”
“And I’ll do better at helping as well,” Josephine said softly, guilt chiding her. “In fact, I’ll do the dishes tonight, Calla. The pots and pans, all of it. After you eat, you go on to bed and get some rest.”
Calla turned, and though it could have been the steam from the pot, Josephine would have sworn tears filled her eyes, which brought emotion to hers.
The recent distance between them had been difficult, but the hardest part of the day by far was at night when she and Calla were together in the quarters out back.
Josephine had taken to turning in as soon as possible, then lying as still as she could, feigning sleep, while listening to the slow brew and whistle of the teakettle, then the telltale mixing of what she assumed to still be whiskey into Calla’s tea—all the time feeling like an intruder, and knowing Calla wished she’d never offered to share her room.
Eager for this day to end, Josephine picked up the hot dish of candied apples, careful to keep a firm grip with the cloth, when the backdoor burst open.
“Miss Mary! Calla Lilly!” Bethie ran full force into the kitchen and gave each woman a hug. The girl wore loose-fitting denim overalls with a blue blouse that complemented her eyes. “What are we having for dessert tonight?”
Miss Mary brushed the blonde hair back from Bethie’s face. “Calla’s fixed her buttermilk pound cake with chocolate sauce.”
“That’s Uncle Dodge’s favorite!”
Josephine looked past Bethie, hoping against hope that Dodge wasn’t following, but she didn’t stay to find out. She escaped into the dining room where Mr. Motlow and Mr. Parks were seated, stoic, on opposite sides of the table, Miss Livvy and Mrs. Gibbs holding the balance of conversation.
Ignoring the dark glance from Mrs. Gibbs, she listened for Dodge’s voice coming from the kitchen. But, thankfully, didn’t hear him.
Mr. Prince entered the dining room and took his usual seat, nodding to his fellow tenants. “How are you this fine evening, Mrs. Dunham?”
“I’m well, Mr. Prince,” she managed. “How was your day, sir?”
“Most productive, madam. I’m finally wrapping up my inspection of another local distillery, which went longer than expected.
I thought I discovered a possible infraction.
” His brows rose. “In the end, there was none, mind you. But I took the opportunity to reinforce the firm and swift arm of justice of the United States Department of the Treasury, should one have been discovered.”
“As is your duty, Mr. Prince,” Mrs. Gibbs chimed in, her tone stiff. “Distilleries are not above the law, after all.”
“No, Mrs. Gibbs, they certainly are not. No matter how successful.” With customary fastidiousness, he draped his cloth napkin on his lap. “Or how much they contribute to the federal government’s coffers.”
An image flashed through Josephine’s mind of the reaction from Mrs. Gibbs’s daughter Rowena when finding that bottle of whiskey in her order that day in the mercantile.
The girl had not been pleased. Josephine had never met Mr. Gibbs, but her imagination filled in the blanks.
Plus, the revenuer’s comment about wrapping up another inspection explained why she hadn’t seen him at the distillery since he’d stopped by a few days ago to visit with Mr. Daniel.
Mr. Daniel had given him a tour of some of the buildings, but they’d never returned to the office, which all meant the review of the gauger’s ledgers hadn’t taken place yet.