Page 77 of In These Hills

Her mind went to the tax revenue file she’d tucked in the back of a drawer. She would have to be careful. And timing was everything. But regardless of how kind a distiller might seem, didn’t she owe something to the countless women and children who had suffered so terribly at the hand of alcohol? How could she be this close to a distillery, to its inner workings, and do nothing?

By midafternoon, the office looked night-and-day different from when she’d first walked in a week ago. She unearthed a bottle of linseed oil from the back room and set to polishing the desk and adjoining table, then oiled the springs in Mr. Daniel’s squeaky leather chair.

When four thirty came and went, she closed up the office and started toward the boarding house—then caught a whiff of something foul. She slowed, frowning, but as quickly as it came, the smell lifted on the breeze.

She continued on, aware of the looks from passersby. They thought they knew her story. She hoped they never learned the truth. Once again, she wondered who had started the rumor. And why.

Calla would be nearly finished with supper for the tenants by now. Sensible as it was to return to Miss Mary’s, she found herself tempted to head to the cattle farm to see how things were faring. But her presence would likely not be welcomed by Dodge Coburn, and for sure not by Bethie, if the girl was around.

Best to go back to the boarding house.

Repeating the thought like a mantra, reminding herself that distance from Dodge Coburn was the wiser choice, she made it two blocks before turning around and heading uphill instead.

30

SLIGHTLY OUT OF BREATH FROM THE CLIMB, Josephine paused at the crest, surprised by the sweep of gently rolling fields stretching all the way to the foothills beyond. Split-rail fences stitched the land into corrals and pasture, and from where she stood, she could make out two large barns and several smaller outbuildings. A snug log cabin sat tucked among the stalwart pines and newly leafed oak, its porch swing—suspended by thick ropes—drifting lazily in the breeze.

It looked like a picture. Earthy greens against a cloudless blue sky, the whole scene peaceful enough to mask the trade that thrived a stone’s throw away.

A bunkhouse stood beyond the barns, set well away from the cabin, and judging by the number of farmhands moving about, it was likely full—and presumably where Dodge Coburn lived.

Then again, no. He wouldn’t live in such an unsuitable environment for Bethie.

The breeze shifted and the same foul odor she’d caught wind of earlier—sharp and metallic— permeated the air. She covered her mouth and nose as her gaze trailed to the far end of one of the fields. Thick plumes of smoke curled upward from a smoldering mound, and farmhands—their faces half-covered with kerchiefs—loaded burlap-wrapped cargo into waiting wagons.

She looked closer, and her stomach clenched.

Taking measured breaths, she searched for Dodge Coburn among the men, but didn’t see him. Or Mr. Daniel.

She ventured into the nearest barn, the air heavy with hay and dust. The smell of death lingered, diminished only slightly, mingled with labored breathing and low, pitiful moans that twisted her gut tight.

She paused to let her eyes adjust, and voices drifted toward her. One she recognized.

“Doc, you’ve got to tell him to give her more time. She’s due to drop her calf any day now.”

“Child, I don’t tell your uncle what to do,” a man replied gently. “I tell him the condition of each animal as best I know it, then he decides.”

“But this is Maple. She’s special. I raised her. Bottle-fed her. I was going to take her with us. Uncle Jack said I could.”

The man’s voice dropped too low for Josephine to hear.

She couldn’t see Bethie or the doctor the girl was speaking with, but guessed they were just beyond the stalls lining the corridor. Being in a barn again stirred memories of her early years teaching—taking her students to a dairy farm outside Atlanta so they could glimpse a life beyond brick and streetcars, most having been raised in the city as she had. Eventually, those visits had been deemed impractical, and finally unnecessary, by the school board.

Standing here now, and considering her lack of skills relevant to such a setting, she questioned that decision more than ever.

She moved quietly down the corridor just as someone entered from the opposite end. Instinctively, she stepped back out of sight, but not before recognizing the girl immediately.

Rowena Gibbs. And the basket on her arm likely contained something to entice a certain someone the girl was after.

“What are you doing here?” Bethie snapped.

“I’m here to see your uncle, girl. Do you know where he is?”

“Wherever he is he’s too busy to talk to you.”

Josephine bit back a smile. Bethie’s protectiveness was fierce—and understandable.

“Tell him I’m leaving something for him on the porch. I’ll come back tomorrow.”