Page 117 of In These Hills

“God bless you for your kindness,” Mrs. Watson finished in a whisper. “I’ll be praying for you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, and I’ll be doing the same for you.” The commitment felt hypocritical, in a way. But as she’d prayed that morning for Calla, just because she no longer believed God heard prayers on her own behalf didn’t mean he wouldn’t hear them for someone else.

Mrs. Watson insisted on hugging her before she left, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Josephine hurried back to the desk, grabbed a pencil and opened the ledger, then quickly scanned the most recent entries. Her determination grew stronger by the second.

Each entry recorded the day, month, and year of the measurement of whiskey, along with the barrel location within the warehouse—shelf and position number. Each barrel had been assigned a unique number, then there was the fill date, which she assumed was when the whiskey had been stored in the barrel. Several other columns bore title notations that she wasn’t quite certain about, then a column with the title “Tax Paid/Bonded.” Each entry either contained a check mark with a date or had been left blank. But what her gaze snagged on was the column furthest right—where the initials DC had been neatly scripted on almost every line.

The pencil in her grip suddenly felt like a dagger. She couldn’t do this. Then again, how could she not? When compared to the damage alcohol had done to countless women and children and for so long, this was such a small retribution. She felt like she needed to do it for the cause alone. She’d gleaned enough from her father being an attorney to know she would be breaking a law in changing the figures—tampering with official government records. But Miss Anthony had broken a law too, when she’d voted as a woman. And what if the distillery being shut down even for a brief time gave people opportunity to reconsider? Perhaps even Jack Daniel himself would—

No, she was fooling herself if she thought he would change his mind. But perhaps others might.

Her mind racing, her palms sweaty, she thought of Calla again, the hopelessness in the woman’s eyes, and quickly rescanned the columns. She chose four random entries—not bearing the initials DC, but someone else’s . . . GC. She quickly checked the payroll roster from the past two weeks. No one with those initials. Perhaps that person no longer worked here. Which was all the better for her.

She carefully changed the numbers in the columns marked Mash Tub/Still No., Capacity (gallons), Proof Gallons Produced, and Warehouse Entry—then added either a check mark to the empty Tax Paid/Bonded column, or carefully erased the check mark already there.

Reviewing the edited entries, she could hardly tell what she’d changed, so doubted whether anyone else would be—

A forceful knock sounded on the office door and her heart catapulted to her throat. Before she could answer, the door opened just as she slammed the ledger shut.

45

“SHERIFF RIGBY!” Josephine shoved the gauger book off to one side, certain that what she’d just done was clearly written on her face. “How may I help you today, sir?”

Sheriff Rigby glanced at her hand still resting on the ledger. “Jack in?”

“No, sir, he’s not.” She reached for a stack of bills, wanting to at least give the appearance of being busy. “I’d be happy to take a message for him.”

“How about you just tell me where he is.”

Condescension layered his tone, but feeling so off-kilter in the moment, she let it pass. “He was headed toward the stillhouse a few moments ago. I imagine he’s still there if you’d care to seek him out.”

He looked around the office, then back at her. “I got word you’re running a little mercantile of your own out of this office. Is that true?”

“A mercantile?” She forced a laugh. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I’m aware of the amount of food and other whatnot you’ve been buying at the Carvers’ mercantile. I’m just wondering what you’re doing with it all.”

She knew Mrs. Carver would never have divulged that, which left her husband. “Sheriff, as I’m certain you’re already aware, I’m staying at the boarding house in town. And the amount of food we go through each week is considerable.”

He eyed her. “Think you’re pretty high and mighty just waltzing into town and taking this job, don’t you?”

She stared. What was it about men in positions of power that made them feel the need to belittle everyone else? She recognized the bait when she saw it—and she’d fallen for it before with men like him. It had cost her dearly. “I’m grateful for this job, Sheriff. And to Mr. Daniel for the opportunity he’s given me.”

“I’m sure you are.” An unpleasant smile curved his mouth. “Question I’m wondering is . . . how grateful.”

Heat sluiced through her at his insinuation, and she came to her feet. “I’ll be certain to tell Mr. Daniel you stopped by, Sheriff Rigby. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

To her relief, he started for the door, but then he paused.

“Rest assured, Mrs. Dunham, should I get an inquiry about a flighty woman, or if your husband comes looking for you, which I’m sure he will, eventually, it’ll be my pleasure to turn over the details of your whereabouts. Good day to you.” He tugged on his hat and left the door ajar.

Josephine went cold inside. Here she’d been checking newspapers every day, dreading what she might find. It had never occurred to her that Sheriff Rigby might actually volunteer information about her to law enforcement in other towns or cities. As she watched him walk down the street and around the corner, something deep inside her told her to run. Now. But to where? And with scarcely any money.

She was getting paid again this afternoon but how far would that take her? And the overarching question that gnawed at her—was there anywhere she could run where it would be far enough to escape all this?

Through the window, she spotted Dodge and Mr. Daniel nearly back to the office—Mr. Daniel moving slowly—and she quickly returned the gauger’s ledger to the edge of the desk and bent over the stack of bills, every nerve on edge.

Mr. Daniel limped inside and sank down into one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Turns out, it wasn’t anything serious. Young Gilbert just got a bit spooked is all.”