Page 64 of In These Hills

“You have determination, Mrs. Dunham,” he finally said. “You’re a fighter. I saw that straightaway.” His gaze briefly lowered to her mouth, then he looked away, frowning. “That can be a good thing, as long as it’s tempered with wisdom. Just be careful. Folks around here don’t take kindly to others meddling in their affairs. In fact, they can get downright prickly about it.”

“You mean men who mistreat their wives won’t take kindly to a woman being given a seat at the table—and to having a voice in the laws that govern this land.”

He opened his mouth as though to respond, then sighed instead, weariness in the act. “I trust I’ve made my position clear. Bethie is my charge, my responsibility.” He paused, then swallowed with effort. “She’s all I have left of my sister. I love her with all my heart. And I will not allow her to be misled. Good night, Mrs. Dunham.”

26

THE NEXT MORNING following her breakfast duties, Josephine hurried out the front door on her way to the distillery, and nearly collided with a gentleman on his way in. She didn’t recognize him, and she’d met every boarder. Perhaps he was a new arrival.

Regaining her balance, she smiled. “Welcome to Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House. If you’re looking for Miss Mary, you’ll find her in the kitchen—through the dining room on the left.”

“Well that’s a good thing. Because I’m her husband.”

Josephine wished the porch would open up and swallow her whole. “Mr. Bobo, please accept my apologies. I’ve only been here a handful of days so—”

“No harm done, Miss . . . ?”

“Mrs. Dunham.”

Though his smile remained pleasant, she sensed she’d offended him, which likely meant she’d just offended his wife. She knew there was a Mr. Bobo. She simply hadn’t met him yet.

“Lacy Jackson Bobo, at your service, Mrs. Dunham. I’ve been away on business in Shelbyville, Tullahoma, and the surrounding area this past week.”

“Well, welcome home, sir. It’s good to meet you.”

“Jackson!”

At Miss Mary’s voice, Josephine turned.

Miss Mary stepped onto the porch. “I thought you weren’t getting back until the end of the week.”

“Finished my dealings earlier than planned. I hope that’s not a disappointment.”

Miss Mary shooed away the comment. “You know better than that.”

“I don’t know. Judging by the name of this place, I’m never quite sure.”

Josephine thought he was kidding, yet if she read his wife right, Miss Mary didn’t welcome the joke.

“But as promised—” Jackson Bobo reached into his worn satchel. “I picked up newspapers from each town I visited, like I always do. I know how you like to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”

An icy shiver slid down Josephine’s spine.

“Thank you, Jackson. I’ll read these later today. But first, let’s get you some breakfast.” Miss Mary turned back inside. “Have a good day, Mrs. Dunham. And again, good for you on getting that job. Don’t let me down!”

The door closed, and Josephine moved down the walkway toward the street, her surroundings barely registering. Newspapers from each town? The iciness slithered into her chest, tightening her breath. She paused, tempted to go back inside, to invent some excuse to get her hands on those papers. But not with Miss Mary. That would definitely raise suspicion.

By the time she reached the distillery office—taking the longer route to avoid the jail—she’d mostly talked herself off the cliff. What were the odds that smaller town newspapers would run the story if Chattanooga hadn’t? She clung to that logic, thin as it was.

Mr. Daniel had left for Nashville the day before, so the office was quiet. He’d mentioned a meeting with the owner of the Maxwell House Hotel—one of the South’s most prestigious establishments—to discuss carrying his whiskey in the gentleman’s bar. She’d never been there, of course, but had read about the hotel in newspaper coverage of the Tennessee Centennial Exposition seven or eight years earlier. From all accounts, the place was magnificent. No doubt, Jack Daniel would return successful in his endeavor.

She kept an eye out for Dodge Coburn, not quite ready for another encounter. She hoped he’d given Bethie the book, and had kept her name out of it. She couldn’t stop stewing over his comment about suffrage ideas having already cost him.

His protectiveness of Bethie made sense. She’d felt much the same about her students. How much deeper that instinct must run for a niece—a child you were raising yourself. But it was his remark about his gut telling him she was hiding something that troubled her. He didn’t strike her as a man who let go of things easily.

The office door creaked open.

Josephine looked up half expecting to see Mr. Coburn. Instead, a man stood in the doorway—not tall, but broad shouldered, his vest straining at the buttons, a badge pinned to his chest.