Page 54 of In These Hills

What feeds your soul . . .

The words lodged deep, stirring an ache Dodge didn’t have time for and could do nothing about. He could still have a good life here in Lynchburg. He did have a good life, especially compared to so many. It just wasn’t the one he’d dreamed of. The one that fed his soul.

He would mend things with Bethie, too. That would take time, and patience. But she mattered more than anything now. He would make certain she understood that.

He ran a gloved hand over the heifer’s distended belly. “Does she have a chance, Doc?”

“She may yet. Pregnancy can sometimes spare them the worst. But the others . . .” Doc Wyatt looked down the line of stalls. “They won’t last another day. If they make it through the night.”

Dodge retrieved his Remington.

“You want my help?” Doc asked softly.

“No, sir. It’s mine to do.”

Doc squeezed his shoulder. “Have you told Bethie yet? About Wyoming?”

Dodge nodded. “Tonight. At supper. Didn’t go well.”

“Did you expect it to? That girl’s every bit the dreamer her mother was. And just as fiery. Which means she’ll be fine in the end. She’s strong.”

Dodge said nothing, just silently vowed that no foolish dreams or fanciful imaginings would be planted in her head. No matter what—or who—he had to protect her from. He shed his gloves, wrapped burlap around the rifle barrel, and stepped into the next stall.

He made it quick and clean, then moved on. At least this was one promise he’d made to Bethie that he could keep.

Two mornings later, Josephine awakened and, for a moment, couldn’t remember where she was. Then reality came crashing back. With effort, she resisted the fear rising inside and, instead, thought of Sarah and silently repeated, This isn’t forever, it’s just for now—the promise they’d made to each other before she fled Atlanta.

She sat up and stretched, having slept fitfully. Calla was already gone, and the pale pink of dawn edged through the curtained window above her bed. Her gaze fell on the rag doll perched on the sill, and she thought back to that moment of panic at the train station in Tullahoma, when the man had pursued her beyond the exit.

The doll with its golden yarn hair and embroidered smile was a cheerful little thing, likely far more so than the girl who had lost her. The finely sewn blue calico dress and white pinafore were rumpled and worn thin in places, and faint smudges dulled her happy face. Clear signs she had been well loved. Yet judging by the fine clothing of the family, Josephine suspected the doll, though once treasured, had already been replaced. Perhaps even forgotten. The thought bothered her more than it should have.

She wondered if Bethie might like it. Not that she was in any position to offer a gift to the girl. And not that Bethie would want it, coming from her.

Knowing Calla was already at work on breakfast, Josephine dressed quickly—wincing at her reflection as she left the cabin.

The house was quiet, the kitchen, too. But the aroma of coffee, the pot angled on a burner, and two loaves of bread rising on the worktable told her Calla had been up for some time. A large pot of water steamed on a back burner.

She poured a cup of coffee and had barely taken a sip when a commotion sounded from behind the house. She peered out the back window to see Calla in the chicken yard near the coop. Gathering eggs, she assumed—until Calla suddenly grabbed a chicken by the legs. The bird squawked and flapped. Calla held it upside down for a minute, and the bird grew strangely calm. Then, in one swift motion, Calla grasped the bird by the neck and—almost before Josephine realized what was happening—swung it overhead in a sharp, whipping motion. The chicken went limp, and Josephine’s hand shot to her mouth.

Calla laid the bird on a stump, reached for a hatchet, and—quick as a thought—severed its head. She held the body steady as the blood drained, then caught another bird and dispatched it just as efficiently.

Thinking of the fried chicken she’d enjoyed since arriving, Josephine knew she’d never eat it again so casually. She also knew better than to underestimate this woman. Calla—and Miss Mary—were both forces of nature in their own right.

Josephine opened the back door for her. “Remind me never to get you riled.”

Calla laughed. “I saw you watching. I’m guessing killing chickens ain’t something you’ve done before.”

“How could you tell?”

“Reckon it was that hand shooting up to your mouth that tipped me off. You ever plucked one?”

Josephine just looked at her.

“All right then. Time to learn.” Calla nodded toward the steaming pot. “We’ll just dip these two lovelies in that pot of water for a minute. That’ll loosen up the feathers. Make them easier to pluck.”

“I thought you said we were having pork roast for lunch today.”

“We are. But Sundays are special. Miss Mary likes to serve two meats.”