Chapter 49
“THIS TRENCH needs to be five inches deeper, Jake. And an even six feet in height the entire length.”
“You got it, boss.” Jake and the men with him started digging again.
Dodge worked his way down the twelve-foot-long, four-foot-wide makeshift wooden vat he and others had built over the past two days, measuring as he went.
The vat had to be deep enough to fully submerge every cow, bull, steer, and calf.
That was the only way to kill the ticks.
Concrete would’ve been better, the agricultural department said, but hauling materials and waiting on curing time would’ve cost them the herd.
So Dodge chose speed over permanence: a wooden vat built from local oak, sealed with pine tar.
Once it dried, they’d mix the arsenic solution and begin dipping—experimental, risky, but their last, best hope.
He climbed from the vat and grabbed his shirt from the fence rail. He mopped his forehead, the April sun blazing overhead. So much for March going out like a lamb. The turn of the calendar had brought with it unseasonably dry, scorching heat, which meant the ticks would thrive.
Another day or so and dipping could begin—assuming the arsenic and remaining ingredients arrived by courier as promised in the agricultural department’s telegram delivered yesterday.
He took a good, long drink of water from the bucket by the well, then doused himself with the remainder of it, the cool water running down his chest and back.
He glanced toward town, his mind circling Josephine’s near-disastrous plan to sabotage the distillery. How different her presence in Lynchburg would feel if she’d gone through with it. She’d come close, despite her last-minute change of heart.
He and Uncle Jack had hashed it out since, agreeing her remorse seemed genuine. And she had given her word. Still, he wasn’t finished reckoning with it and decided it would be wise to keep a closer watch where she was concerned, in case her suffrage fervor flared again.
He’d been tempted to tell Uncle Jack about finding her wedding ring, but seeing as he still had it in his possession, he’d thought better of it. He resolved to return it to her the very next time he saw her.
And if that sent her back to her husband—whom he still struggled to believe existed—so be it. He had no right to influence her either way. With effort, he’d laid his desire for her at the foot of the Almighty’s throne. Now if he could only leave it there.
“Is it safe to approach?”
Hearing Uncle Jack’s voice, Dodge turned to see him—and Josephine—cresting the hill.
“Sure. We haven’t mixed the solution yet.” He grabbed his shirt from the fence rail and went to meet them, not missing Josephine’s lingering look as he pulled it on. Try as he might to curb his desire for her, those looks didn’t help.
“Care for a tour of the ‘canal of prosperity,’ as the government’s calling it?” Dodge asked.
“I’m in.” Uncle Jack gestured, then looked at Josephine.
“Lead the way, Mr. Coburn.”
Dodge walked them through the entire process, answering questions as they went. Minutes later, they ended back where they’d begun.
“One question, Dodge.” Uncle Jack stroked his beard. “Any chance this whole dipping process will be finished by next weekend?”
“If the arsenic and other ingredients arrive tomorrow as planned, we’ll be done in two days. Three tops. And should see results within a week. Why?”
“Because our first group of vendors arrives next Friday!”
Josephine’s head snapped up. “Next weekend? Mr. Daniel, that doesn’t leave us time to prepare for everything you want to do.”
“We’re only showing them the distillery, Mrs. Dunham. Telling them how we make the whiskey. That’s what they want to hear about. Then we’ll have dinner at my house that night. All very simple.”
“But not simple to execute,” she countered. “Where will the guests stay? Who’s giving the tours? Which buildings will they see? Are the employees prepared? Are the facilities ready for visitors?”
Uncle Jack just smiled. “It never ceases to amaze me how many prodigious thoughts are spinning around in that remarkably capable—and might I add, lovely—head of yours.”
She exhaled. “Mr. Daniel, I—”
“I’ve already put my nephew Lem Motlow on it. Guest lists, schedules, accommodations. All of it.”
Josephine paused. “Lem Motlow as in Ophelia Motlow’s husband? Miss Mary’s sister?”
Seeing her confusion, Dodge jumped in. “One and the same. Lem is Uncle Jack’s sister’s oldest son. Lem recently married Ophelia, Miss Mary’s younger sister, after his first wife died a couple of years back. Everybody in town’s related somehow, Josephine, so best tread carefully if you gossip.”
“So then,” Uncle Jack continued, “everything’s in hand.
It promises to be a grand success. Lem says we even have guests requesting to bring guests!
” His full mustache twitched as he smiled.
“And if memory serves . . . you promised to attend the dinners, Mrs. Dunham. So I will most favorably anticipate your presence next Friday night.”
“I believe she promised to save you a couple of dances as well,” Dodge added, fully expecting the glare she tossed him.
“Indeed, she did, Dodge. Now, one more thing . . . I want a shingle made with our motto.”
Josephine looked at them. “The distillery has a motto?”
Mr. Daniel cleared his throat. “Every day we make it, we’ll make it the best we can!
What do you think? Better yet!” Uncle Jack snapped his fingers.
“Let’s have it printed on a big banner we can drape across the side of one of the barrel houses.
That way, all the vendors will see it when they arrive. ”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Josephine gave him an enthusiastic smile. “For Mr. Motlow to pursue.”
Uncle Jack chuckled. “First time I met you, Mrs. Dunham, I knew I’d met my match. And I have not been disappointed.”
The sparkle in her eyes said she appreciated the comment, even if the slight tilt of her head suggested she intended to carry on exactly as she pleased.
“Shall I escort you back to the office, Mrs. Dunham, on the way to my next meeting?”
“You go on ahead, sir. I have something I need to speak with Mr. Coburn about.”
Once Uncle Jack was out of earshot, she leaned in slightly. “You said the other day, Dodge, that you’d like to help the person struggling. That you thought you could.”
Following her train of thought, he nodded.
“While I’m still not at liberty to share who it is, I’m wondering .
. .” Earnestness filled her expression. “How do you help someone who’s addicted to liquor?
I know all the right things to say. I’ve stood outside taverns and have handed out pledge cards.
I’ve spoken publicly about the evils of drink and the need to stop.
” She briefly looked away. “But I have no idea how to practically help someone. But I deeply want to.”
More convinced than ever that Calla was that someone, he didn’t dare admit it.
But if it was her, he hurt for her. And that also meant he’d somehow missed the signs, and that hurt on a whole other level.
“First, I know about this because someone I’ve worked closely with here at the distillery struggled with drinking too much.
He quit about six years ago. I remember the time frame because he and I just talked about it the other day. ”
“I would imagine many people here are plagued with that particular problem.”
Accusation layered her tone and apparently she heard it, too.
She winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound—”
“I think you might be surprised, Josephine, at how many people work here yet who only drink it on occasion. Some perhaps never. Take me, for example. I’m a regular taster for the distillery and—” He paused for effect. “I enjoy that aspect of my job. And even the taste of it.”
She made a face, and he laughed.
“And I will, on rare occasion, have a glass of Old No. 7, and I’ll enjoy it. But I don’t have to have it, and beyond that, I’ve made a conscious choice not to have it on a regular basis. Because—”
“Because you’ve seen what liquor does to people,” she interjected. “The misery and trouble it brings.”
He held her gaze. “Because I’ve learned that while a man—and woman—are free to choose, not everything he or she chooses is good for them. And anything we can’t control—drink, food, anger, bad habits . . . desires—”
Something flickered in her eyes.
“—those things end up controlling us. And I don’t want to be ruled by anything or anyone. Well, except the Almighty.”
She searched his gaze, her own so full of honesty and curiosity, then she chuckled beneath her breath. “Underestimated,” she whispered.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I’m just saying I underestimated you, yet again. And we’ll simply have to agree to disagree on the taste.”
“Is that right?” He smiled, remembering the jerky she loved so much. “Remember that recipe you wanted me to share with you?”
“For the jerky you make. Yes. Are you finally ready to—” Awareness flickered across her face. “No . . .”
He laughed and looked away for a beat. “I haven’t had the heart to tell you, seeing as how you love it, and yet knowing how you feel about Old No. 7.”
“And you’ve let me eat it, even knowing what you do about me.”
Hearing both teasing and slight seriousness in her voice, he held up a hand. “All the alcohol cooks out of it during the process. Or mostly all.” He winked. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.”
She tossed him a playful glance of promised retribution, then shielded her eyes from the sun, her expression going serious again. “How did you help that friend? Practically speaking, I mean.”
“Mainly I was just there whenever he needed anything. Someone to talk to, to go fishing with, shooting with. Sometimes I’d just sit and listen as he walked back through his life, reliving both the good and the bad.
I guess you could say my door was always open.
Doc Wyatt helped him a good deal, too, though.
Doc mixed up some remedies. Nothing magic, mind you.
Nothing like those ‘natural tonics’ laced with alcohol that swindlers in big cities hawk on street corners.
Doc’s grandmother was what we used to call a healer.
Talk to him. He was here a while ago, but left.
He’ll be happy to help you . . . and whoever it is you’re trying to help. ”
She nodded, taking it all in. “Thank you, Dodge.”
“You’re welcome, Josephine.”
She turned to go, and he remembered the ring in his pocket.
“I need to talk to you about something, too, Josephine. If you have a minute.”
“Sure.” She glanced around. “But could we find somewhere out of the sun?”
They walked a short distance down a sloping path through a stand of pines to the creek where the canopy of an old oak provided relief from the heat.
Water sluicing over smooth rock and the chatter of birds overhead made a comforting backdrop.
He gestured to a fallen log, then sat beside her, keeping a respectable distance, mindful of the solitude around them.
He could feel her watching him as he reached into his pocket.
“I found this a few days ago. I keep meaning to give it to you but—” He started to say he hadn’t had the opportunity or had forgotten, but didn’t want to lie.
“It was wedged between the floorboards beneath the driver’s seat in the wagon. ” He opened his palm.
A soft gasp threaded her lips. She took it from him, her eyes filling. She slipped it on her ring finger, then held out her hand to admire it. “Oh Dodge, thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me. I thought I’d lost it forever.”
He looked down at her hand, watching her closely. “I’m glad you got it back. It obviously means a lot to you.”
“It does. More than I can say.” She quickly looked up. “I mean, not because of the marriage so much, of course. Not after what . . . he did. But because this belonged to my mother.”
He nodded as though understanding what she meant, as though believing her.
“Well . . .” She finally wiped her cheeks. “I’d better get back to the office. But truly, Dodge, thank you for this. And for the tour.”
“My pleasure.”
She started to rise, but on instinct bolstered by gut hunch, he took hold of her hand and pulled her back down beside him. Her eyes went wide, but she didn’t move away. Not an inch.
“Just one question before you go, Josephine.”
She swallowed, her breath quickening.
He looked down at the ring, then slowly back up at her. “If you’re married, as you say you are . . . why are you wearing your wedding band on the wrong hand?”