Page 44 of In These Hills

While Calla’s humility was admirable, Josephine doubted anything the woman did was merely fair to middling. The custard in her fudge pie melted on the tongue, the pastry absolute perfection. Atlanta restaurants would have lined up to hire her.

But Josephine knew the truth, even with all the education she’d amassed through her life, Calla and likely everyone in this town possessed more practical skills than she did. So much for being “the youngest but most mature candidate” the Atlanta Educational School Board had ever interviewed. A lot of good that did her now.

Behind her, Calla moved about the room preparing for bed. Josephine shifted on the cot, careful not to reveal she was still awake. Grateful for Calla’s loan of a nightgown, she tugged at the too-short sleeves and tried to get comfortable. Her belly was full, but the hollowness inside her felt cavernous.

After supper, she’d brushed the dust from the skirt and blouse sewn by Dodge Coburn’s late sister and returned them to Miss Mary—relieved to have them out of her care. Then she’d soaked and scrubbed her own clothes and hung them by the fire to dry.

“Josephine,” Calla whispered after a minute. “If you’re still awake, you want some tea? Got some chamomile that might help you sleep.”

Josephine sniffed, willing her voice steady. “No thanks. But I appreciate it.”

Soft footsteps approached, but she didn’t turn, not trusting the ache in her throat. A gentle hand smoothed her hair, and her resolve nearly crumbled.

“You’re going to be okay, young miss,” Calla said softly. “I know you’re affrighted, being so far from home and on your lonesome. Or leastwise, it feels that way. But you’re not alone. Not hardly. Wherever we go, the good Lord sees. He knows. And he’s got grace—” Her fragile voice broke. “—even when we got none for ourselves.”

Josephine drew in a shuddered breath. At last, she turned. “Thank you . . . Calla Lilly,” she whispered.

Calla laughed softly. “You heard Miss Mary earlier.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“My mama gave it to me. She said it comes from stories her mama told her about the most beautiful flowers growing back home, right along the riverbanks. White, pink, yellow, purple, even a dark red-brown. Big old trumpet-looking blooms with leaves shaped like Indian arrowheads.” She sighed. “Mama wanted me to remember where my people came from. So she gave me this name.”

Josephine’s chest ached at what Calla said, and didn’t say. She reached from beneath the covers and clasped Calla’s hand. “It’s wrong,” she whispered. “People owning people.”

Calla held her gaze for a long moment, the distant night song of crickets moving closer in the silence. “It sure is. And it’s wrong, too . . . a man beating a woman.”

Josephine swallowed. “It sure is.”

Giving her hand a final squeeze, Calla moved away.

Minutes later came the soft whistle of the kettle, the slosh of water, and the faint clink of a spoon. Josephine glanced back to see Calla rocking gently, stirring honey into her cup from the little blue bottle. The chair creaked in steady rhythm as she sipped.

At last, Calla crawled into bed. The ropes beneath the hay-stuffed mattress groaned softly, then the lamp went dark. Josephine pulled the thin blanket to her chin, the night air cool and damp. But sleep wouldn’t come.

Sometime later, the mantel clock chimed twice on the hour, worry keeping rest at arm’s length. What if Jack Daniel changed his mind? At the same time, accepting the job felt traitorous. If given the opportunity to explain herself to fellow suffragists, she hoped they would understand. But if the roles were reversed . . . would she?

Without that job, Miss Mary would send her straight back to Tullahoma—where authorities waited.

18

“ARE THEY ALL GONNA DIE, UNCLE DODGE?” Bethie asked, dread threading her voice.

Dodge latched the cabin door and watched his niece lean against the porch railing, staring out at the cattle scattered across the fields. Jessie lay at her feet, head on her paws, keeping watch just as closely.

For a moment his mind betrayed him, and Bethie was a toddler again—chubby hands gripping those same spindles as she pulled herself upright for the first time. He and Kathleen had clapped and cheered, later sipping dandelion wine while he rocked Bethie to sleep in the porch swing.

Then the memory faded, leaving him in a world without his sister, and Bethie without her mama.

She was growing too fast. Nine years old and nearly grown, and he had no earthly idea how to navigate the years ahead. Truth was, he’d been in deep water for a while now.

“I don’t think we’ll lose all of them, honey,” he said gently. “But a good many will die.”

“And there’s nothing to stop it?”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, but she edged away slightly, apparently still riled over him correcting her misbehavior yesterday. Bethie could hold a grudge with the best of them. Same as Kathleen at that age.

He wished he could shield Bethie from everything hard. But that wasn’t life, and losing cattle would pale in comparison to learning they weren’t going west. He couldn’t even give her the gift he’d had specially made for her in Tullahoma, not after forbidding her to ride Ginger Snap until they had answers.