Page 11 of In These Hills

When she stepped inside, familiar scents of oiled leather, woodsmoke, and sawdust met her. Thankfully, the shop was empty. Voices drifted toward her from the back room, one female, the other clearly male.

“Your husband does fine work,” the man said.

“Yes, sir, he does. This is crafted of the finest leather, as you requested, and should last her for years to come. She’s a very lucky girl.”

“She’s a very special girl,” the man responded. “And I want her to know that . . . what with all she’s been through.” His voice dropped so low the rest of what he said was lost to her.

Josephine stepped behind a display of saddles and kept watch for Mr. Poyner through the front window. People hurried past—men in suits and bowler hats, women in woolen coats tugging children along—racing to keep pace with life while a razor-edged loneliness widened inside her.

If she didn’t find a way out of this town . . .

Her gaze snagged on her reflection in the window—pale, bruised, unfamiliar. She pulled out her hairpins and tucked wayward curls back into place before letting one fall forward to hide the tender flesh on her cheek. No tears came this time. Only anger.

She could still feel Clay Darden’s weight on her, see the hatred in his eyes as he straddled her and reached for his belt. Her strength had been nothing against his. Even as she was grateful for what hadn’t happened, rage filled her. What possessed a man to think he had the right to lay hold of a woman in such a manner? In any manner. The law should protect her. But it wouldn’t. Not in Atlanta anyway. Not when the attacker was the mayor’s son.

Was the mayor’s son.

A shudder ran through her. She had killed a man. Not intentionally, of course. In self-defense. But would that matter? Perhaps the other suffragists were right: most men were so insecure in their own standing that they had to cow every woman around them, even with violence. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now . . .

A familiar figure outside caught her eye. Mr. Poyner hurried from the station, scanning the street.

Josephine grabbed the suitcase and stepped just outside the door of the tack shop. The instant he saw her, relief flooded his expression. He motioned for her to join him at the corner.

“I’m sorry it took me so long, ma’am. All this hoopla and so many people. Here, let me take that.” He relieved her of the case. “Come with me. We don’t have much time.”

No sooner had he said the words than a train whistle blasted.

She followed him inside the livery where he briefly spoke to a couple of workers. They passed rows of stables and finally paused by the large open doors.

He looked around and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunham. I was hoping to find a delivery wagon headed out of town. A handful per day service the surrounding communities and—”

Just then a loaded freight wagon drawn by mules rounded the corner. The driver, mostly hidden beneath a heavy beard and dark Stetson, wore a leather rain cape. A compact, muscular dog with a mottled blue-gray coat with black speckling crouched beside him on the seat, mirroring the man’s disgruntled expression.

“Wait right here, ma’am.” Mr. Poyner waved as he approached the wagon. “Dodge! Good to see you again, my friend.”

The driver tugged the reins. “Same to you, Slim. But got no time to spare today. I’m doing my best to beat the weather.”

“Who said I wanted anything?”

“Charlie totes that same grin every time he comes asking for something.”

Mr. Poyner chuckled. “How is my young nephew? Still working hard, I hope. Doing a good job for the man?”

“Last I heard, Uncle Jack was pleased.”

“Well that’s good to know. Listen, Dodge—”

“Again, Slim, I can’t be hauling anything back for you today. I’m full up with a heavy load. And it’s weathering up good and fast. If these skies make good on their threat, it’ll be rough going.”

“No, no, I don’t have any freight to haul. But I do have a favor to ask.” Mr. Poyner stepped closer to the wagon, shifting the suitcase in his grip, and though Josephine could no longer hear what he was saying, his glance back in her direction said enough. But should she join him now—or wait?

Just then, the driver shot a skeptical look in her direction and his dark expression kept her rooted in place.

“I wish I could offer some help to you, Slim. But like I said, I’m full up. Besides, she’s got no business going up there. And what am I supposed to do with her once we get—”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Dodge. You know that.”

His scowl deepened, and his quick once-over told Josephine he was about to refuse—ending any chance she had. His Southern drawl carried an Appalachian lilt, rustic yet dignified, its music roughened by displeasure.