Chapter 43
A SECOND RIFLE SHOT EXPLODED, and Josephine looked down to see the boar jolt then stumble. Its front legs buckled, and its massive body skidded toward the base of the tree in a spray of dirt and dried leaves. Right where Bethie had fallen.
One last defeated grunt, and the animal lay still. Same as the one crumpled near the wagon, Jessie standing over it barking, the dog’s side smeared with blood.
“Jessie!” Bethie screamed, hopping down and clutching her arm.
“Uncle Dodge, is she—”
“She’s all right. Or will be once we wash the boar’s blood off of her. Are you both okay?”
Bethie rubbed Jessie’s ears. “I hurt my arm a little, but it’s not bad.”
Dodge turned to Josephine, question in his eyes.
“I’m fine. But are you?” She pointed to the blood darkening his torn pant leg.
“It’s nothing. Must’ve caught it grabbing the Remington. Didn’t even notice till it was over.”
“But you’re okay?” Bethie asked, looking up.
“Absolutely. But that was closer than I’d like.” He looked at Josephine. “Thank you,” he whispered, glancing at Bethie hugging Jessie again. “For getting to her. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”
“You would’ve shot the boar just like you did,” Josephine said gently. “And she would have been fine.”
He looked down. “Right,” he finally said, his voice not convincing.
“Uncle Dodge, I thought you said you weren’t bringing the Remington!” Bethie’s eyes flashed.
He sighed. “Bethie, what I said was—”
Then her expression softened, and she ran to him.
Dodge caught her up and held her close. “Careful of that arm. Doesn’t look broken.”
“It’s not. I just fell on it wrong, is all.”
He looked at Bethie then Josephine, and Josephine sensed what was coming and wished he wouldn’t.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunham,” Bethie said, barely meeting her gaze. “For jumping down and getting me. Turns out you’re pretty brave. And strong, too. For a citified woman.”
Josephine laughed. “Is that what I am? A citified woman?”
Bethie smiled. “Well, you’re sure not from around these parts.”
Dodge set her down and kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to field dress the boars, starting with the one by the tree, then we’ll head on back.”
Too late, Josephine realized her expression must have given her away.
“What?” he said, pulling a leather-wrapped bundle from the wagon. “Did you think we’d leave them behind? Those are good eatin’!” He winked. “You ever tasted boar?”
“No, but I’ve had dinner with a few.”
He laughed, and to her surprise, Bethie did, too.
He shook his head. “A citified woman who tells jokes. Not sure we’re ready for that.” He whistled, and Jessie jumped into the wagon. “You three stay here. This won’t take long.”
“I’m happy to help, Mr. Coburn. I’m not squeamish and don’t mind getting messy.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Dunham, but I’d rather you and Bethie stay put. Keep watch with Jessie.”
“What he means”—Bethie looked over—“is he’ll be faster without worrying about you, and he wants you safe instead of watching him cut the boar open and scrape out the innards.”
Josephine looked between them.
Dodge gave a little nod. “That’s about right. But if you want a lesson—” He gestured toward the driver’s bench. “I’ll be back for the other one in about twenty minutes, and that’ll be the best seat in the house.”
Nearly two hours later, as Dodge guided the wagon back through town, Josephine sneaked a look at him—across Bethie, who was sandwiched between them on the bench—and at the blood and mess still staining his clothing, even after he’d washed in the creek.
She’d never seen someone field dress an animal before. Watching Calla kill chickens, while impressive, paled in comparison, and the visuals and stench would long stay with her. She’d gained new respect for butchers and a deeper gratitude for how any kind of meat made it to her plate.
She’d insisted on helping lift the carcasses into the wagon, leaving her skirt and blouse sullied.
Each boar weighed at least a hundred pounds, maybe more.
Young males, Dodge had said, more tender and less gamey.
Despite how quickly he’d worked, buzzards were already circling by the time they pulled out.
He looked over. “You’re sure you don’t want me to take you back to the boarding house first?”
Bethie discreetly nudged her, as if Josephine could have forgotten the girl’s earlier whispered—and surprising—request.
“No, that’s all right, I can walk back. There’s still plenty of daylight left.”
With a nod, he prodded the mules uphill and stopped in front of the cabin. “I might be a while, Bethie. After I drop the boar off with Ol’ Pop—” He looked at Josephine. “He’s our cook for the farm . . . I need to check on the cattle.”
“That’s all right, Uncle Dodge. I’ll be fine.”
Josephine climbed down then turned to help Bethie, bits of twigs, thistle, and dry grass tangled in the back of the girl’s blonde hair. Josephine grabbed the .22 along with Bethie’s satchel from beneath the bench seat as Dodge released the brake.
“We’ll be back in a while. I’ll take Jessie with me and wash her up in the creek.”
He guided the wagon past the barn and around the corner, the set of his shoulders indicating fatigue, or the weight of what could have happened earlier.
Likely both. Josephine followed Bethie up the steps, still curious about the girl’s request. She must have landed on her arm harder than she’d admitted.
Bethie closed the front door behind them. “I usually draw my own bath. After all, I am nine.”
“Of course you do. Just tell me where everything is, and I’ll get the water heating. If we hurry, we’ll be done before your uncle gets back.” Josephine kept her tone casual. But the fact that Bethie Coburn saw her as an ally instead of an enemy, even briefly, was no small thing.
“We keep the tub in here.” Bethie opened a door that revealed a storage room smelling faintly of lye and pine. A galvanized tub, large enough for an adult to sit in with knees bent, leaned against one wall. “I can drag it to my room.”
“Oh, I can do that for you. You go ahead and—”
“I can do it.”
And she did, using only her left arm. After showing Josephine where the pots were, Bethie disappeared into her bedroom, tugging the tub behind her and closing the door. Josephine remembered that room from her earlier visit.
The woodstove wasn’t as large or fancy as Miss Mary’s, but it worked much the same. She built the fire, set four pots on the burners, then placed a bucket beneath the pump. She primed it until cold, fresh water finally gushed from the spout, then she filled each pot in turn.
She knocked on the door. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Josephine opened it to find Bethie sitting on the bed, her overalls hanging loose from her shoulders, her expression pained.
“What’s wrong, Bethie?”
“I can’t move my arm enough to take off my shirt.”
“Well, here . . . Let me help you.”
Even before Josephine touched her, Bethie winced.
“It hurts that badly?”
Bethie nodded, clearly hating the dependence. Something they shared.
“Let’s take it slow. You just concentrate on keeping your right arm still, and I’ll ease the shirt off your left arm, then over your head.”
Bethie nodded and drew a steadying breath.
Josephine worked carefully, inching the sleeve up the girl’s arm and stretching the fabric as much as she dared. Bethie’s breathing grew labored, and when the right sleeve finally slid free, Josephine saw the swelling above the elbow and the dark bruise already blooming beneath the skin.
She winced. The injury was far worse than Bethie had let on. And that didn’t surprise her. Sympathy would not be welcome.
“What a tale you have to tell your friends at school!” Josephine said lightly as she carried pots from the stove and poured them into the tub. “Two wild boars charging you! Your uncle shooting them both. But with that arm swelling, we don’t want the water too hot. I’ll add some cold.”
By the time the bath was ready, Bethie had kicked off her overalls, shoes, and socks. Only her knee-length drawers remained.
“I found some Castile soap in the storage room. If you need help washing your hair, I can—”
“I don’t.” Bethie lifted her chin. “I thank you kindly, Mrs. Dunham. But I can manage from here out.”
Josephine smiled. “All right, then.” She paused at the door. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to heat a bit more water and wash up before I head back to Miss Mary’s.”
Bethie nodded.
Josephine closed the door, checked the mantel clock, refilled the pots, and set them to heating. The kitchen was simple and utilitarian. She found herself wondering about Kathleen Coburn, what kind of woman she’d been. But she felt certain of one thing: they would have agreed on women’s rights.
Fifteen minutes later, just as she’d finished washing up, Josephine heard a faint, “Mrs. Dunham? Are you still here?”
She crossed to the bedroom door. “I am. Do you need anything before I go?”
Silence followed, thick with wounded pride.
“I do need your help again . . . please.”
The humility in the request tugged at her. Josephine opened the door to find Bethie turned away, her hair partially wet and partially soaped, twigs and grass still tangled through it.
“How can I help?”
“I think I’ve got some burrs in my hair. I can’t get them out.”
“Let me see.” Josephine gently ran her fingers through. “Yes, I feel them.” She lathered her palms and carefully worked the suds through. More than once, the burrs pricked her fingers. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m being gentle. But they’re really stuck.”
“Will you have to cut them out?” Dread edged her voice.
Josephine shook her head. “No, no cutting. It’ll just take time. Are you cold?”
Bethie gave a small nod.
The remaining two pots of water keeping warm on the stove served their purpose in reheating the bath, and Josephine returned to her task.
Twice, the soap slipped from her hands and Bethie had to fish it out.
The third time she dropped it, the sudsy water made it hard to find, and they both started giggling.
But the fourth time, the soap hit the floor and went sailing.