Page 121 of In These Hills

Until Gideon Cartwright.

And who was the tyrant in this situation? Whiskey, was her first thought. Mr. Daniel her next. But Jack Daniel was anything but a tyrant. She thought of what he’d said about the men and women who worked for him, along with their families. How he cared about them. Then there was Dodge . . .

What would he think of her? There could never be anything more than friendship between them, but—be it foolish or wise—his friendship, his opinion of her, meant more than she cared to admit. And far more than striking a blow for the suffrage movement.

Tears slid from the corners of her eyes.

She looked across the room at Calla’s sleeping form. Calla’s hurts, and their remedy, went far deeper than temporarily halting the making of whiskey here in Lynchburg.

Josephine tossed and turned into the night, unable to find rest, Gideon Cartwright and the question of what seeds she was sowing with her life pounding her conscience.

She rose before the sun, having slept fitfully, and hurried to the main house to catch Mr. Prince on his way in to breakfast to casually inquire how the inspection at the distillery was going. To see if he’d reviewed the gauger’s ledger yet.

But Miss Mary informed her that Mr. Prince had left early to meet with Dodge and Mr. Daniel. Desperate to get her hands on that ledger before he did, she hurried through her breakfast duties, then ran the entire way to the distillery.

46

BY THE TIME JOSEPHINE REACHED THE DISTILLERY, her side ached and her lungs burned. She paused by the office to catch her breath, then went from building to building, but couldn’t find Dodge, Mr. Daniel, or Mr. Prince. Everyone she spoke with said she’d either just missed them or that they hadn’t seen them.

Finally, she headed back to the office, knowing that whatever came was by her own hand. But she would not allow Gideon Cartwright to pay for what she’d done. Or attempted to do.

Mr. Daniel had left her a note about the distillery’s first gathering of vendors soon to meet in Lynchburg. Only last week, he’d reminded her about his plans to host them for dinner and dancing at his home one evening. And again, she’d kindly but firmly declined, making it clear that while she would work on anything behind the scenes, attending the ball lay far outside her official duties.

His note continued with a list of tasks to be completed, and she read through it, trying to focus, but couldn’t. When Bart delivered the mail earlier than usual, her unease only deepened.

She scanned the pile of envelopes, one of them horribly wrinkled and torn on one edge, the ink on the front smeared by what appeared to be water stains. But her first priority was always the newspaper.

Nerves taut, she flipped through the pages, readying herself for the worst. But . . . nothing about Atlanta. She stared. Was it possible that The Chattanooga Times had chosen not to report the story? That seemed highly unlikely, given the climate surrounding suffrage and prohibition. But whatever the reason, she was grateful.

After sorting through the envelopes, she looked more closely at the one so damaged. Part of the address the sender had written had been marked through. She could make out the name Jack Daniel’s Distillery well enough, but the address itself was—

She exhaled. The sender had mistakenly written Lynchburg, Virginia, instead of Lynchburg, Tennessee. No wonder the envelope had gone astray. What a sloppy mistake to make, such lack of attention to detail. Then she read the return address—Department of Agriculture, Washington, DC—and bolted from the chair.

Dodge grabbed the last hay bale from the wagon bed and walked alongside Jake toward the horse barn. Not watching where he was going, Jake stepped into a pile of manure and nearly went down. He mumbled a choice word.

“Careful there,” Dodge warned. “If Bethie hears you, she’ll make you put another penny in the jar.”

Jake laughed. “That niece of yours keeps us all on our toes, that’s for sure. I sure am glad y’all are staying around, sir.”

“Thanks, Jake. I appreciate that.” And he meant it, even if he still hadn’t found a way to move past the closed door of Wyoming.

“Want me to take the wagon back, sir?”

“No, I’ll get it. I need to pick up Uncle Jack and Mr. Prince. Go ahead and get started in here. I’ll send somebody in to help.”

“You got it, boss.”

Dodge made his way back to the wagon, hoping Mr. Prince’s tour of the barrel house was going well. Uncle Jack had insisted on taking him, despite a broken big toe and a slight limp, thanks to the confrontation with the safe. He’d said he wanted to give Prince the full dog and pony show this time, impress upon him how rapidly the distillery was growing.

Dodge wondered if it was because Uncle Jack truly was getting ready to step back and hand control of things over to his nephews. The man didn’t seem quite himself these days. Then again, he wasn’t the only one.

Dodge climbed up into the wagon, thinking of the ring still buried deep in his pocket. He’d been so busy with Mr. Prince yesterday, and earlier in the week, there’d been no time to talk to Josephine. No, that wasn’t true. He could have made the time, sought her out. And he determined to. It was foolish, he knew, but he dreaded sharing with her that he’d found her ring because he feared the discovery would be taken as a sign—a sign that she should go back to her husband.

It didn’t help that Bethie had told him all she’d learned about her the other night. About her twin brother and parents dying not too long ago. Perhaps she’d married in haste, and hadn’t known the man’s true character until it was too late.

Jessie nuzzled close on the driver’s seat. Dodge rubbed her ears then released the brake and prodded the mules forward. Whatever the situation with Josephine, he had to give her back the ring.

He’d barely made it a few yards when he heard someone calling his name. He turned on the bench seat and looked behind him to see Josephine running full out toward him. He set the brake and jumped down, wondering if this was God’s way of saying, Do it now.