Page 136 of In These Hills

Too late, she realized her silence had revealed more than she’d intended. “Dodge, the way you described your dream of Wyoming sounds truly breathtaking—”

“But?”

Another layer of disappointment lined his voice, and she hated having put it there. “There’s no ‘but’ really. It’s just that . . . I’ve studied world history all my life and what I’ve always dreamed of seeing are the great cathedrals of Europe or the ancient pyramids of Egypt, that’s all.”

A long moment passed, and the front door opened.

Miss Mary stepped out. “I’m just coming to say good night.” She paused for a long moment. “Everything all right out here?”

Dodge stood. “You bet, Miss Mary, everything’s fine. Thanks again to you and Calla for supper. It was delicious.”

“Want me to send Bethie on out?”

“Please. And tell her no more pie.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Miss Mary said as she closed the door.

Josephine rose, the creak of the rocker overloud in the quiet. “Dodge, I didn’t mean to upset you by what I said, I—”

“You didn’t.” He looked at her, his face hidden in the darkness. “It’s just that, when I look at you, I see a woman determined to make her own history, not one content to just walk through someone else’s.”

52

JOSEPHINE HURRIED from the distillery office to the boarding house, having promised to be on time today. Miss Mary rang that bell at six o’clock sharp every evening and, for some reason, the proprietress had been short-tempered, even terse, this week. Perhaps not feeling well from her pregnancy. Whatever the cause, she wasn’t about to be late.

The hectic pace of the last five days was catching up to her. But at least everything appeared ready for the vendors arriving midday tomorrow in time for a tour then the Friday evening dinner party, followed by more activities on Saturday. True to Mr. Daniel’s word, his nephew Lem Motlow, a man roughly twenty years her senior, she guessed, had handled the majority of the details. And in true Jack Daniel style, the event promised to be lavish and entertaining.

As she passed Velma’s Candy, she waved to Velma inside, thinking about those caramels and pralines again, as well as the fudge she’d purchased two days ago. She’d shared it with Calla who relished every bite. Dodge had been right about Doc Wyatt. She’d spoken with the physician earlier that week, and he was eager to help “her friend.”

I see a woman determined to make her own history, not one content to just walk through someone else’s . . . Dodge’s words echoed in her mind for the thousandth time. He’d captivated her thoughts all week.

She’d seen him several times in the office and when she and Mr. Daniel went to watch the dipping process, which, so far, seemed to be working. But although everything appeared fine on the surface, she sensed a shift in the undercurrent. She’d attempted to sort out her feelings about him.

Her attraction to him was undeniable. She greatly respected him, cared for him deeply, and every time she left his company, she regretted having to. But how he fit into her life—Bethie, too, for that matter, as much as she adored the girl—was what she couldn’t come to terms with. Especially with the shadow of Clay Darden’s death hanging over her.

As she turned up the walkway to the boarding house, the suffrage mantras she had fast embraced—Freedom, not marriage. A wife is not a possession. Liberty before love—marched through her mind again, and didn’t help the sorting process. But that was just it . . .

No matter how many times she honestly and unbiasedly viewed Dodge Coburn through a suffrage lens, none of those mantras fit the man she knew. None.

She walked through the front door and caught a whiff of fried chicken, candied cinnamon apples, and something else . . . maybe collard greens. For her lunch, Calla had sent a slice of leftover meatloaf with bread and while delicious, that seemed a distant memory now. If she wasn’t mistaken, she smelled buttermilk pound cake, too, and was glad Dodge and Bethie were coming for supper.

She rushed into the kitchen with not a moment to spare. “As promised, here I am, ready to work. So tell me what—” She stopped short, seeing Calla and Miss Mary seated at the kitchen table.

Calla’s face showed concern, but it was the thunder in Miss Mary’s expression—and the newspaper in her hand—that threatened to buckle her knees.

“W-what’s wrong?” she asked, and caught the almost imperceptible shake of Calla’s head.

“What’s wrong?” Miss Mary repeated. “What’s wrong!? What’s wrong is that you lied to me. To us. Straight-faced. Over and over again. And this, after I opened not only my home to you, but my heart.” She took a sharp breath. “Calla did the same, and this is how you repay us!”

Miss Mary waved the newspaper clutched in her grip, and Josephine caught the words Suffragist and Murder in the headline—and the air evaporated from the room.

“I-I can explain,” she began, her voice coming out higher pitched. “However the newspaper reported it, it’s likely wrong. Or else biased. So please, give me the chance to—”

“Biased? You’re telling me there’s another way to describe this?”

“Yes! There is. I’d been speaking at a rally in Atlanta that morning . . .” The words tumbled out, one after the other, coming faster and faster, until each next breath seemed impossible to take. “He dragged me into the alley. He began beating me. I—”

“Josephine, we’re talking about attempted murder here! That’s an accusation that’s very difficult to get wrong.”