Page 49 of In These Hills

For the next several minutes, she listened patiently as he presented document after document, explaining each as though she couldn’t determine its purpose at a glance.

“Now this one here”—he held up an order from a bottle supplier out of Kentucky—“is for bottles, so you need to make a file for—”

“Mr. Daniel.” Josephine placed her hands on the stacks of paper. “While I appreciate your instruction, I am more than capable of sorting through all of this on my own.”

“But this is important stuff, ma’am. I’ve got to make sure you understand who my suppliers are and what they routinely ship—”

“For inventory purposes and on what schedule,” she finished for him. “Yes, I know. Because timing is important, and you must keep adequate stock on hand. I assure you, I am quite clear on those points.”

“You know, Mrs. Dunham . . . You’re a fair mite bossier than I thought you’d be.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I like it.”

Josephine rose. “Then you’ll be absolutely enchanted when I ask you to kindly take your leave—”

“Of my office?” he interjected.

“Yes, sir, precisely.” She gestured toward the door.

“Perhaps it would be advantageous if I were to sit quietly in the corner and just observe in the event that—”

“Should I have questions, Mr. Daniel, I’ll keep track of them.” She shooed him toward the door.

He grinned. “This is gonna be fun, Mrs. Dunham.”

“Doubtful, Mr. Daniel.” She worked to school her smile.

He retrieved his hat from the coat tree. “I’ll be around if you need me. Door open or closed, ma’am?”

She caught the humor in his tone—and the subtle echo of what she’d asked him upon leaving his office just yesterday. “Closed, please, Mr. Daniel. Thank you.”

She watched him through the office window until he rounded the corner, actually wishing she could dislike him, at least a little. But he was an amiable, even charismatic man. Generous, too. The salary he’d agreed to pay her—fifteen dollars a week—was nearly double what she’d earned as a teacher in Atlanta, which meant she could send a portion to Sarah once it was safe to correspond.

She glanced at the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall. Friday, the tenth of March. Mr. Daniel said payroll was issued every Wednesday, which meant five days before she’d be paid. First order of business would be to somehow purchase another skirt and blouse, or perhaps a dress.

The mercantile sold cloth off the bolt but no ready-made clothing, and yards of fabric did her little good personally. Maybe she’d have to slip into Ol’ Miss Ruby’s when her daughter-in-law wasn’t looking. She’d also need to give Miss Mary something for room and board. But at least she had the promise of money coming in.

She exhaled as the moment settled around her. Here she was standing in the office of a distillery—employed as its bookkeeper. What would Sarah say? And her fellow suffragists? More than that, Miss Anthony?

But no disappointment they could express would equal the bruising already left by her own conscience.

Jack Daniel’s coveted gold medal on the opposite wall caught her eye, and she stared it down, sensing challenge. As guilty as she felt about working at a distillery, another guilt chided her—the motivation that had changed her mind about taking the job. To do the distillery harm. Yet she needed only to think of the battered women and children she’d tried to help through the years—innocents who’d suffered grievously at the hands of alcohol—and that particular guilt eased its grip.

She moved behind Mr. Daniel’s desk and, choosing to stand, pushed aside the leather office chair. It rolled easily on casters as she surveyed the work before her. “If you know the enemy and know yourself,” she spoke softly, “you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

It was a quote from The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a book her father had encouraged her brother to read. And so, of course, she had read it, too.

She wasn’t at war with Jack Daniel personally. From all appearances, he was quite wealthy, so whatever she might manage to do would hardly cause him irreparable harm. No, it was whiskey making itself that drew her aim. She intended only to impair the distillery’s ability to produce it, for however long she could. Industry payback, some might call it. But before she could act, she needed to understand how this burgeoning enterprise truly worked.

She set to work organizing the stacks of paper, finding little pattern in their present arrangement. Even within a single pile, dates jumped erratically, some documents separated by months, others out of sequence altogether.

But after a while of skimming and combing, dividing and stacking, natural categories began to emerge—inventory management, orders and invoicing, payroll and employee records, correspondence, shipping and logistics, sales records, and general accounting for office supplies and sundries.

One thing became apparent almost immediately—Jack Daniel enjoyed food. And, at times, a great deal of it. The man clearly liked to entertain. Orders from the mercantile revealed quantities that would have fed a family of ten for a week or more, and not modestly. He also favored finer fare, with certain delicacies shipped in from considerable distances.

Reading about the food made her hungry, and she pulled out the cloth sack holding a leftover biscuit and thick slice of ham. Calla had insisted on packing her lunch, fully confident she’d secure the position. Josephine ate it like a sandwich, but halfway through found it difficult to swallow. Yet she hadn’t thought to bring anything to drink.

She searched the office for a glass or cup and finally unearthed an old mug. Carrying it outside, she walked the short distance to the spring at the base of the bluff, the cool air from the cave greeting her before she stepped into the shade.

She rinsed the mug, then filled it once, twice, and a third time, draining each one. She couldn’t remember tasting water so cold and invigorating. Refreshed, she returned to her work.