Page 32 of In These Hills

Dodge sobered. “How’re you getting along, sir? I know you still miss her. It’s been what? Two years?”

“Two years, two months, and four days.” Doc’s gaze drifted to the hills. “But we had sixty-one wonderful years together. Well, most of them were good anyway.” He winked, then sighed. “I always thought I’d go first. What with my heart condition. But God had other plans.”

“He often does,” Dodge said softly.

“Oh to be young again like you, Dodge, with your whole life stretching out before you.” He gripped Dodge’s shoulder. “You and Bethie will be sorely missed. I still can’t picture this distillery, this holler, without you all in it. Won’t be the same. There’ve been Coburns here since before Lynchburg became a real town. And despite what you’ve always said, I still held out hope you might take my place one day once I’m gone.”

“I’m a cattleman, sir. Not a doctor.”

Doc laughed. “That’s not what Dr. Salmon used to say. He claimed you devoured every medical book in his library, and kept coming back for more.”

Dodge didn’t answer immediately. “I know what I was born to do. And once a man knows that . . . nothing else compares.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “Please keep this between us for now, but . . . I’ve decided not to go to Wyoming. I can’t take Bethie out there alone. It was different when Kathleen was alive. I’ve known for a while now it wasn’t going to work. Just took me some time to accept it, I guess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dodge. Sorry as I can be. How’d Bethie take it?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

Doc whistled low. “I don’t envy you that talk. She’s a handful, just like her mother was, God rest her.” He smiled faintly. “I don’t see dandelions but what I don’t think of Kathleen. She made the best dandelion wine I ever had. And I’ve had my share.” Doc Wyatt glanced in the direction of the distillery. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for your life. At least, not for the rest of it.”

“But it’s a good life,” Dodge said a little too quickly. “And Uncle Jack’s been real good to me.”

“As well he should. You’ve helped make him a very rich man. And I’m not talking about just being his cattle foreman. I heard what happened yesterday with Hackett and Cartwright. Nobody else could’ve handled that like you did. You’re respected. Even by men hoping to take your job.” Doc climbed up to the buckboard. “I’ll send word the minute I hear from DC.”

Dodge gathered his supervisors, ordered quarantine signs posted, then headed back down to the distillery, Jessie on his heels. School would let out soon and he wanted to be there to meet Bethie. He’d take her for candy at the mercantile then once they got home, he’d break the news.

But first, he needed to talk to Uncle Jack.

The office was empty, but Jack’s suit coat still hung on the coat tree. Dodge penned a note and started to leave it atop the desk, then saw the chaos of paperwork and left it on his chair instead. He’d swing back by on their way home.

Josephine closed the front door of the boarding house behind her and hurried to the street, later than planned. Turning right, she followed the directions Miss Mary had left in a note on the kitchen table before heading to an afternoon appointment. The town square lay a short walk ahead and, judging by the wagons and foot traffic, business was brisk.

Calla had heated water for a bath, and Josephine had nearly cried when she sank into the soothing warmth, her aching muscles finally yielding. At Calla’s urging she washed her hair, then sat out back in the sunshine, towel-drying it before sweeping the curls up with borrowed pins and a comb. For a brief moment she almost felt like a new woman—until she caught her reflection in a mirror.

She looked every inch a battered wife and would keep to that story, ring or no ring, though losing her mother’s ring still stung. She could tell Miss Mary didn’t fully believe her anyway. The woman had an uncanny intuition and a bluntness both admirable and unnerving.

At the square, a handsome courthouse sat in the center, and Josephine paused to reread the note.

Cross the square and turn right at the mercantile. Continue past the blacksmith and dry goods store. That road leads from town. After a fair piece, you’ll see a white-framed house with a front porch on your right. You can’t miss it. Don’t worry about knocking. That’s Mr. Daniel’s office. Go on in and introduce yourself, and give him the envelope. Mrs. Dunham, please be mindful of the skirt and blouse I’ve made loan to you. They belonged to a dear friend who passed away last year. So your care is greatly appreciated.

Josephine clutched the high-waisted cerulean skirt, keeping the hem clear of mud and puddles. The homespun ensemble was lovely, sewn by an expert hand. At first she’d taken the pattern for dots. Only later had she realized dozens of tiny cream-and-pink wildflowers were embroidered into the folds. The cream blouse, with pearl buttons and delicate lace at the collar and sleeves, was just as fine.

Still, Josephine wished she’d had time to wash and press her own clothing. Because if anything happened to this . . .

She glanced at the sealed envelope and the name written on it. Mr. Daniel. The same name as in Miss Mary’s note. Recalling the gentleman she’d run into in the library last evening—and given Lynchburg’s size—she doubted it was a coincidence. Jasper . . . something Daniel.

She only hoped he wouldn’t fault her for anything she might have said or done. More than that, she hoped he was hiring. In a town like this, opportunity had to be scarce.

Her thoughts returned to what Miss Mary might have written about her. The envelope was sealed tight. Not that she would have read the contents, however tempted. But there was no getting around delivering the note as promised. Miss Mary would follow up, for certain.

With a full sun overhead and keeping a quick pace, she began to perspire. Townsfolk watched her pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to open disgust. Much like the train. Vanity reared, persistent as ever, and she hoped her wounds would heal without scarring. She vowed to apply Calla’s salve morning and night.

Taking the boardwalk, she passed a whitewashed brick building bearing the name Farmers Bank on the north side of the square and admired that such a small town boasted such a fine financial institution. Shops with awnings framed the square, but the White Rabbit Saloon stood out most. Was no corner of the world untouched by liquor?

A few doors down, a colorful window display slowed her steps. Velma’s Candy, the shingle read. Hand-drawn pictures of confections made her mouth water. Inside, a woman with a large bowl tucked in the crook of her arm stirred furiously, intent on her task. Another female entrepreneur, perhaps. This town kept offering surprises.

At that moment, the woman turned, and Josephine resisted the urge to duck from view, knowing she’d already been seen. The woman smiled and waved, then pointed to the sign on the door. Open 3pm - 6pm, Monday through Friday. Josephine nodded as if that had been her question and gave a thumbs-up with an expression indicating she’d come back some other time.

But she’d need money first.