Page 19 of In These Hills

“After supper,” Miss Mary continued, “I told her to go stick her nose in a book. She can borrow whatever she takes a hankering to, as usual.”

Dodge slipped his hat on and redirected his gaze to Josephine again. This time she didn’t look away.

“Mrs. Dunham, you take care. I hope things go better for you here on out, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coburn. Both for the ride and . . . for your kindness.”

He tugged the brim of his hat and left, presumably to retrieve his daughter and head home to his wife. The realization that he was married brought a slight, surprising disappointment, which Josephine quickly dismissed. Best she concentrate on getting her story straight before Miss Mary’s next cross-examination.

To her relief, Miss Mary took her leave as well, but her voice carried as she visited with tenants in the dining room. She addressed each by name and conversed as though they were family. Her keen wit drew laughter more than once, and Josephine wondered which of the men she’d glimpsed at the table was Mr. Jackson Bobo.

The door to the dining room opened and the woman Josephine had seen clearing the table when they first arrived entered carrying stacks of dirty dishes. Josephine tried to catch her eye, unsuccessfully so.

“Mrs. Gibbs—” Calla looked up from where she kneaded a wad of dough on the worktable. “This here’s our newest guest. Meet Mrs. Dunham from over Chattanooga way.”

Mrs. Gibbs deposited the dishes by the washbasin. “Yes, I done met Mrs. Dunham on her way in.”

Josephine formed a half smile and paid for the effort. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gibbs. I’d like to thank you for your sensitivity earlier. In asking Mr. Coburn to bring me to the kitchen the back way instead of traipsing me through the dining room.”

“Oh, it were my pleasure,” the woman responded, yet her cool expression conveyed otherwise. “Just how long you planning on being in town . . . Mrs. Dunham?”

Josephine glanced at Calla to see if she noticed anything odd about the woman’s behavior, but Calla was focused on her task. “I . . . don’t know exactly. A few days at least.”

“Well, you boasting from the big city and all, I doubt you be finding much here to your liking. Probably be aching to leave quicker than you think.”

Certain now that she wasn’t imagining it, Josephine studied the woman. In turn, Mrs. Gibbs gave her a look like she was yesterday’s trash—or worse. Josephine didn’t know how to respond.

“Well . . .” Mrs. Gibbs opened a cupboard and retrieved a purse. “I best be getting on home, Calla. I done cleared the table of dishes and people, then wiped it all down. I can’t be here tomorrow night, and done told Miss Mary. But I’ll be back the day after to help. Hope y’all have a good night.”

Calla waved a floured hand. “’Night, Mrs. Gibbs. You be careful going home now.”

“Oh ain’t nobody gonna dare mess with me, Calla. You know that.”

The women laughed, but as Mrs. Gibbs left, she shot a parting look at Josephine that held nothing short of warning.

Staring after her at the closed door, Josephine fought to make sense of the exchange, and couldn’t. A possibility occurred to her, but she immediately dismissed it. She’d only just met the woman. Impossible that Mrs. Gibbs would know about what she’d done back in Atlanta. Perhaps the woman found her haggard appearance distasteful. After all, numerous passengers on the train had given her disapproving looks. And with Mrs. Gibbs working for Miss Mary, the woman was no doubt protective of her employer.

Deciding that had to be it, Josephine returned to her meal and ate until she could hold no more, then watched as Calla scraped the remnants of her plate into the compost bucket. She’d gone so long without food, the act felt wasteful, especially with food this good. Yet she said nothing, her full belly conspiring with exhaustion to keep her silent.

Dodge had mentioned something about this being the only inn in town, so she had to find a way to stay here. At least for a while, until she knew what to do next. Would it ever be safe to return to Atlanta? The image of Clay Darden on top of her filled her mind again—the rage in his eyes, him removing his belt as terror coiled in her gut, then how she’d struck him in the head and his lifeless body falling limp. She kept reminding herself she’d done it in self-defense. That she’d had no choice. Either that or be beaten to death. But as Sarah said, that wouldn’t matter.

She squeezed her eyes tight to dispel the memory but all she could see was the blood pooling beneath his temple. Would a jury of men be able to see the truth if it was laid before them? Or in killing Clay Darden, however unintentionally, had she issued—and signed—her own death warrant?

8

“WHY, LOOK AT YOU, MRS. DUNHAM,” Calla said a minute later, pulling Josephine back to the present. “So plumb tuckered you can hardly keep them eyes open. Let’s get you where you can rest.”

Josephine gave herself a mental shake, the disturbing images gradually fading. “Please, call me Josephine. And I insist on helping you with the dishes first. The one who cooks should never have to clean up alone.”

“Now that’s a kitchen rule I like . . . Josephine. I’m Calla Jenkins, but you call me Calla. I always welcome an extra set of hands.”

Water heated quickly on the cast-iron stove, heat emanating from its intricately patterned sides and doors, and they set to work.

“Thank you again for dinner, Calla. I haven’t had food that delicious since I don’t know when.”

Calla winked. “I’m thinking you were just hungry.”

“I was that, but the truth remains.”