Page 60 of In These Hills

Josephine wanted to say yes, knowing that was expected. “I used to believe that,” she said softly. “But lately I’ve been given cause to doubt.”

“Because of what you’ve endured?” Calla asked, the question mirrored in Nannie’s gaze.

“Not only that, it’s—” Again, she hesitated, careful not to be too transparent. “A lot has happened in recent years. A lot of loss.” She swallowed. “But truly, I’d rather talk about something—”

“Nannie’s school!” Calla said, clapping her hands as she stood. “How about y’all talk while I wash dishes?”

“How about we all talk and work?” Nannie countered.

“I agree!” Josephine stood, grateful for the reprieve. “While y’all do that, I’ll get started on tomorrow morning’s biscuits!”

Calla laughed full and unguarded, and Josephine joined her, surprised at how good it felt.

Nannie looked between them. “Am I missing something?”

At Calla’s urging, Josephine shared the embarrassing story—Calla supplying details as needed—and it did her heart good to tell something about herself that was wholly true, even if not flattering.

A short while later, with the kitchen put to rights, Calla invited Josephine to join her and Nannie as they walked to the preacher’s house where Nannie would be staying with the family for the night. Josephine declined, wanting to give them time together.

Nannie paused on the front porch. “I hope our paths cross again, Josephine Dunham. Know that I’ll be praying for you, trusting that the Lord Jesus does have a plan for your life. Even here in little ol’ Lynchburg, Tennessee.”

“Y’all don’t be forgetting this is where I live my life,” Calla shot back, a subtle smile betraying her.

“Thank you, Nannie. I’ll be praying for you, too. I do still pray . . . on occasion.” Josephine gave a small shrug. “I’m just not sure he’s listening these days.”

“I’ve been there,” Nannie said gently. “Everyone has, if they’re honest.” She lifted her gaze to the dusky sky, the sinking sun painting the forested hills in a soft luster. “Never forget—even though Jesus was God’s Son, he learned obedience from the things he suffered.”

Josephine waited.

“Pain draws us closer to God, my dear sister. It helps us hear his voice . . . better than anything else.” Nannie leveled her gaze. “I don’t like that truth, but me not liking it doesn’t change it.” She took Josephine’s hand. “Do me one favor, Josephine. Promise me you won’t judge God by your circumstances. Not now, not ever. He works on a far larger landscape than the one we can see. And please don’t judge all men by one. There are good men in this world. Many of them. To judge them all the same isn’t fair. To them, or to yourself. God created men and women to work alongside each other in his Kingdom. We truly are better together.”

Josephine held her gaze. “That’s actually two favors,” she answered, then seeing Nannie’s sincerity, she nodded. “I promise . . . to try, at least.”

“Fair enough.” Nannie squeezed her hand. “And don’t let what your man did to you put out your fire. God’s Spirit within you is far stronger than you realize.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now, give me time to get that school funded, find a location, and get it running. But sometime in the future, probably not until well into next year, if you’re looking for a teaching position in Washington, DC—” She winked. “You let me know.”

As Calla and Nannie walked arm in arm down the street, Josephine headed back inside.

A newspaper lay on the foyer table. Sunday, March 5, 1905. Exactly a week ago, three days before she’d fled Atlanta.

As it turned out, Jack Daniel was the wealthy man in town who shared newspapers with Miss Mary, which made her new job downright fortuitous. It also made her the one who now delivered the papers to the boarding house.

Calla had told her it usually took a full week for The Chattanooga Times to reach Lynchburg. Which meant if the incident had been reported in The Atlanta Journal the following day—and surely Mayor Darden had seen to that—she likely had three or four more days before someone here might read about it.

She would simply have to get to those newspapers before Jack Daniel did—and hope no one else in town subscribed.

Hearing Miss Mary speaking with someone toward the back of the house, Josephine ducked into the library, relieved to find it empty. Relishing the chance to read, she selected a novel she’d been eyeing, lit the oil lamp on the side table, and settled into the corner chair, tucking her legs beneath her.

She’d first read Black Beauty as a child and had loved it ever since, though certain passages still unsettled her. She smoothed a hand over the green cloth cover, the gilt-and-black embossing worn smooth with age. Then she opened it. A first edition, like the one in her family’s library.

“1877,” she whispered, published four years before her birth.

She knew something of the late author, Anna Sewell, having once written to the London publisher after recommending the book to her students. Black Beauty—Sewell’s only novel—had been written later in life and over several years while the author was very ill, and published only months before her death.

Reading the opening lines felt like greeting an old friend.

“The first place that I can well remember,” Josephine read softly, “was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end.” She traced the words with her finger. Brilliant, how Miss Sewell chose to write the novel through the horse’s eyes. The first novelist to do so, according to her publisher.

Moments later, fully immersed, Josephine sensed movement across the room, and slowly lowered the book to see Bethie Coburn, of all people, standing by the shelves, scanning the spines.