Page 88 of In These Hills

Josephine looked up. “Really? We’re done?”

“No, but I sense you are.”

She returned his smile. “Why don’t you give me a condensed version of the rest. In case Mr. Daniel quizzes me.”

Dodge obliged, continuing with details she’d never remember. “After the barrels are filled, they’re rolled into barrel houses to mature. Summer heat expands the wood and whiskey seeps into the charred oak. Winter cool contracts it and pushes it back. That’s what ages and colors it. About four years, give or take.”

“Four years?”

“Good whiskey can’t be hurried.”

That earned him a look. “So after four years, you bottle it?”

“Not exactly. Each barrel’s similar, and unique. We don’t depend only on time, but taste and color. Aroma and flavor, too. And not all of what goes in comes out.” Warmth lit his eyes. “Some evaporates. We call that the angel’s share.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The portion lost to the air.” He shrugged as if it were a simple fact. “A gift, as distillers like to say. Offered up to heaven.”

“I seriously doubt heaven wants that gift.”

“Probably not.” He laughed. “Uncle Jack tastes barrels nearly every day to know when they’re ready. Then we have a team of tasters who gather on Fridays.”

She paused. “And are you one of them?”

“If I say yes, will you think less of me?”

“Only if you say you enjoy it.”

He held her gaze. “Then I’ll pass on answering.” Humor layered his tone, then faded. “I know it likely pains you to see how the distillery is growing.”

“It does,” she admitted, and he didn’t push. “Because I’ve seen what alcohol does to families.” She offered a truce smile. “And don’t worry, I’m not giving you another speech. But I would like to ask you something.”

He nodded, patient.

“The other night you said suffrage ideas had cost you dearly. What did you mean?”

He hesitated as though weighing how much to share. “I’m a little surprised you haven’t already heard. This town’s rumor mill has a long memory, and seems to take pleasure in a person’s downfall.”

“Nothing I’d know about personally,” she said, looking up.

His gaze softened. “My sister Kathleen, Bethie’s mother, was younger than me. When our parents were dying, I promised I’d keep watch over her. I was seventeen. She was about Bethie’s age. A spitfire. Wanted to see the world.” He looked away. “When she was sixteen, a traveling salesman came through. Turned women’s heads—especially hers. He fed her every line she wanted to hear. I should’ve seen it coming.” His voice roughened. “One morning I woke to find a note. She’d run off to marry him and see the world.” A bitter laugh escaped. “He showed her the world all right.”

Josephine winced. “Did you know where they went?”

“No. And no one remembered him saying where he was from. I went to Tullahoma, talked to ticket clerks, porters, shop owners—anyone who might have seen them. It’s like they’d just disappeared.”

“How did you find her?”

“I didn’t.” His jaw went rigid. “She wrote me four months later. Said she was with child. He’d left her in Nashville a month earlier. She’d lived on the streets until a widows-and-orphans home took her in.” He swallowed. “She said she was too ashamed to come home. But she was scared. And she had nowhere else.”

“Oh, Dodge . . .” Her voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. Still.” He stared at the vat as if he could will the past into order. “I was working sunup to sundown, trying to prove myself to Uncle Jack and anyone else looking. If I’d been paying attention, if my focus had been where it should’ve been, Kathleen wouldn’t have slipped away. I would’ve stopped her.” He exhaled. “Don’t misunderstand me. I would never wish Bethie away. I cannot imagine my world without her.”

“No, of course not.” Josephine’s throat tightened. “You only wish you could’ve spared your sister that pain.”

He nodded, eyes lowered.