Page 110 of In These Hills

“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.

“Ugh, I’m sorry.” Laughing, Josephine wiped her hands on a towel she’d found in the cupboard. “I can’t seem to hold on to anything.”

Bethie pointed. “I think it went over there.”

Josephine peered beneath the bed and spotted the bar of soap. Retrieving it, she noticed other items beneath the bed, too—a sewing basket with scraps of material and spools of thread, a brush and mirror, a small jar of scented water, and—she squinted—a blue metal pitcher holding dried flowers, brittle with age.

She instantly knew who they’d belonged to.

“Found it!” She held up the soap, not wishing to intrude on Bethie’s hidden memories of her mother. “Do you know if y’all have castor oil or lard? The soap isn’t quite doing the job.”