Page 138 of In These Hills

Dodge looked at them. “What’s going on?”

Josephine held out the paper. “He’s not dead, Dodge. I didn’t kill him. I thought I had, but I didn’t.”

Dodge glanced at Miss Mary before scanning the front page. “Josephine told me everything a few days back,” he said, still reading. “But only after I found her ring in the wagon. When I gave it back to her, she accidentally slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand.” He finally looked up. “That’s when I knew my suspicions were right.”

“For what it’s worth—” Miss Mary looked over. “I never quite bought that part of your story.”

Calla reached for her left hand. “I ain’t even noticed you wearing it.”

“But a thousand-dollar bounty.” Dodge dropped the newspaper on the table. “That’s not insignificant.”

Josephine checked the date of the newspaper. “This was printed yesterday. How did it get here so quickly?”

“Mr. Bobo got back from his trip a couple of hours ago.” Miss Mary gestured to two other newspapers on the chair beside her. “He brought all these with him.”

“Any of those papers carrying this story?” Dodge asked.

“No.” Miss Mary looked at him, then Josephine. “At least not yet.”

Josephine gave a humorless laugh. “I had a feeling Mr. Bobo’s traveling and bringing you newspapers wasn’t going to work well for me.”

“These were all still wrapped tight, though,” Miss Mary offered. “So he hasn’t read a one of them. And if he’d read it elsewhere, he would’ve said.”

“So as far as we know,” Dodge continued, “the four of us are the only ones in Lynchburg who’ve seen this.”

Miss Mary and Calla nodded.

“And can we agree to keep it that way? At least until we can figure out . . . next steps?”

Again, they nodded.

But Josephine caught the familiar words and knew he hadn’t said them by mistake. His attention was already on her when she turned, and the concern in his gaze—along with his carefully guarded affection—laid waste every remaining mantra. Now if she could only find a way to escape the far-reaching arm of Mayor Darden’s justice.

53

THE NEXT EVENING, Josephine arrived for the dinner party at Jack Daniel’s residence a little late, not at all surprised to discover he lived in the finest home in town.

The large two-story Victorian house, set back a good distance from the road and a quick walk from the distillery, was flanked on either side with magnolias and crepe myrtles gone a little wild. A muted shade of blue, or what once might have been teal green, covered the weathered wooden siding, and intricate woodwork of gingerbread trim and decorative railings accented the wraparound porch. Hanging ferns and potted geraniums, along with front flower beds overflowing with lilies, irises, and daffodils gave the place a touch of elegance she’d come to expect from Mr. Daniel.

As she climbed the steps to the front porch, soft strains of piano music drifted through the open floor-to-ceiling windows of what appeared to be a ballroom on the main floor. Why was she not surprised. Her thoughts turned to the young woman Mr. Daniel had spoken of—Fannie, he’d called her—the one who had played the piano for his parties. And she felt quite certain, based on the weight of memory in his voice that day, that he still thought of her, too.

She knocked on the door, wishing again she could have foregone this event, especially after yesterday’s discovery in the newspaper by Miss Mary. But she had given Mr. Daniel her word, and she was eager to talk to Dodge again. She’d seen him in passing today, but never alone.

She’d worn her best dress, which fell far short of anything remotely formal. But she had taken extra care with her hair. Thanks to Calla’s braiding skills, she trusted the elegant chignon borrowed from Miss Mary would hold for the night.

A woman in crisp, formal serving attire answered the door. “How do you do this evening, Mrs. Dunham. Come right on in. Everyone’s in the ballroom just there.”

“Thank you.” She continued in the direction the woman had gestured, then paused just outside the room, wondering at Mr. Daniel’s definition of a dinner party. This was a proper Southern social soiree.

At a glance, she estimated at least a hundred people—most already twirling and dancing on the polished marble floor, others gathered in small groups visiting, drinks in hand. The room, a good thirty feet wide and at least fifty feet long, had high ceilings, close to sixteen feet, she guessed. Rich red draperies framed the tall windows, lending an elegance to the room that complemented the grand piano in the corner. If not for the candlelit crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow over the elegant gathering, she might have believed she was still in Atlanta.

A touch to her elbow brought her around and though she instantly knew those eyes, she still couldn’t help but stare. She had considered Dodge Coburn handsome before, but this . . .

He wore a dark single-breasted waistcoat with matching vest, the pieces accentuating his broad shoulders and tapered waist. His white dress shirt with its stiff, starched collar contrasted with his tanned skin, and the formal trousers, night-and-day different from the dungarees he wore every day, were classic straight legged with a crisp crease down the front. But it was his freshly shaven face that caused her mouth to slip open.

“May I have this next dance, Miss Dunham,” Dodge said where only she could hear, bending slightly at the waist.

“What happened to your beard?”