Page 26 of In These Hills

Jack shuffled papers from one pile to another, scowling, then finally stopped and propped his feet on the edge of the desk, his black boots polished to a shine. “I hate the business side of business!”

“You actually feed off the business side of business. And you’re good at it. It’s all the paperwork you hate. You ought to hire someone to come in and straighten out all this for you.”

“Give me a name, and I’ll do it! I thought my nephew Lem was gonna step in, but he’s got too much on his plate right now.”

“Miss Mary’s the only one I know of with a mind sharpened for business enough to wade into all this. But she’s got her hands full up.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jack shot him a look. “And with more than just running that inn.”

Dodge nodded but said nothing, aware of Miss Mary’s home situation, mainly due to her and Kathleen having been thick as thieves, the two of them, in recent years. He doubted things had changed much for Miss Mary over the past seven months since Kathleen’s passing. Jackson Bobo, Mary’s husband, wasn’t a bad sort, by any means. He just never seemed quite able to settle down and put his hand to any one thing long enough to make a go of it.

Wanderlust was a dangerous indulgence, and a person didn’t have to wander far to fall prey to it. Always chasing greener pastures or quick riches was its own kind of curse.

“Cattle ready for market?”

Dodge nodded again. “The road to Tullahoma’s muddy but passable. I’ll help load them on the train myself.”

“I bet you will. Seeing as they’re all yours this time.”

Dodge smiled. Having sunk his savings into the land out west, it would feel good to have a little cushion again.

“That was a good deal you made with me all those years ago when you suggested I start a cattle farm.”

“If memory serves, and it does, you were the one who offered the deal.”

“Let’s not muddy the memory with facts, Dodge. Let’s just say it was a good deal for us both. You starting my cattle farm with your family’s herd, then gradually cutting me in for half.” Uncle Jack winked. “I trained you right.”

They laughed, and Uncle Jack looked down at the mess of paperwork on his desk. “Now if I could only find someone to help me with all this.”

“Maybe in the evenings, I could—”

“You’ve got more than you can handle already, Dodge. Especially with young Bethie now. I’ll just buckle down and get it done. But thank you.”

“One last thing, Uncle Jack.” Dodge withdrew the envelope from his pocket. “After a lot of thought . . . and a fair amount of prayer, I’ve decided—”

“You’re selling your Wyoming land,” Jack said, disbelief in his tone.

Dodge hesitated. “It’s the right thing to do. I just need to make sure before mailing this that you’re good with me . . . staying on.”

Jack snuffed out the cigar in an ashtray and rounded the desk. He gripped Dodge around the back of the neck like a father might have done, and looked up. “You know how I feel about you, son. I swear, I see so much of me in you. Always have,” he whispered, his voice going raspy.

Dodge swallowed, not having expected this exchange to be so hard.

“I’m sorry things worked out this way for you. And for little Bethie. Your ranch in Wyoming would have been the best there was and your cattle the finest. But in the same breath, you know how grateful I am that you’re staying. You will always have a job at my distillery, Dodge Coburn. Because you’re the best at what you do, no matter what you put your hand to. Kind of like me.” Winking, he clapped Dodge on the back. “But you know the Hackett brothers will take this extra personal. Cole, the oldest, has already been sniffing around here, gunning for your job.”

“I know that, too. I can talk to him.”

“No. Leave that to me. He’ll take it better that way, I think. And if not, I’ll just fire the arrogant ass.”

Jack laughed, and Dodge followed suit, doing his best to cover the profound sadness he felt.

He turned back at the door. “Would you give me a couple of days before making this public? I still need to tell Bethie.”

11

FIGHTING A SENSE OF DOOM, Josephine lifted the cast-iron skillet, unprepared for its weight. Exhausted, she’d slept little and had risen before dawn to scour the kitchen and library for recipes.

Miss Mary’s book collection was extensive—law, science, arithmetic, languages, Greek mythology, shelves of classics and Shakespearean works. Dickens, Brontë, Whitman, Henry James. But the volumes on animal husbandry, farming tools, and agricultural methods were entirely new to her.