Page 27 of In These Hills

And still—not a single recipe anywhere.

She’d hoped Calla or some former cook had left a clipped newspaper recipe, notes scribbled on the back of an envelope. Something. How many “women’s columns” had she skimmed past to reach the local, national, and international news? What she wouldn’t give now for one of those simple lists of ingredients and measurements.

She set the skillet on the massive stove, which now resembled a fiery, red-eyed beast ready to devour her. She could almost feel her teeth rattling as Dodge Coburn’s wagon carried her over rain-rutted roads back to Tullahoma—and to certain arrest. Or worse.

She bowed her head, wanting to pray but unsure God was listening—or even cared anymore. A whisper, steely and insistent, threaded her thoughts. Perhaps he truly had written her off, and she really was on her own.

“Oh, don’t you go getting scaredy now, Josephine.” Calla came up behind her, working an apron over her head. “Miss Mary’s a hard judge, but she’s fair. Just give her your best.”

Josephine looked at her. “What if my best isn’t good enough?”

“Don’t you worry about that. You’ll do fine.”

“Thank you again for tending to my face last night. Whatever you put on it helped.”

Calla’s gaze moved over Josephine’s countenance. “You keep slathering on that liniment at night and those places should heal up right good.” Tenderness moved into her eyes. “You might come away with a scar or two, but that’s not the worst thing.”

Josephine forced a smile.

Calla finished tying her apron. “Use whatever you want from the larder. We keep the dried fruit toward the back. Peaches and apples, maybe some apricots. Miss Mary likes them all, but favors apple most,” she whispered. “Or if you’re thinking biscuits and sausage gravy, the sausage is in the springhouse I showed you out back last night. Same for the buttermilk.”

“Buttermilk?”

“For the biscuits.” Calla paused. “You still ain’t decided which one to make?”

Josephine hesitated, an idea forming. “Which one would you do? If you were me.”

“I’d do the one I’m best at.”

“Which is?”

“Now there you go trying to make me boast. And me a God-fearing woman.” Calla grinned. “But I do make about the best fried apple pies you ever put in your mouth.”

“Then I’m definitely making biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“All right then. Best get to it.”

Calla reached for the teakettle, and Josephine noticed a tremor in her hand.

“Are you all right, Calla? You’re shaking.”

Calla laughed, clasping her hands. “Oh, I’m fine. Just getting older is all. My hands shake, my hair’s thinning, and my eyes don’t work like they once did. But at least I still got my mind. Or what’s left of it.”

Josephine smiled, her plan moving into clearer focus. She only hoped her tone wouldn’t betray her. “I guess I’ll head out back then and get the sausage and buttermilk. Anything else I should grab?”

“Nope. But mind your step in the springhouse. Those stairs can be slick.”

Satisfied those were the only items needed from cold storage, Josephine counted that as one solved piece of the puzzle.

The springhouse door was heavy, but a hard shove opened it. Calla had been right about the steps, and Josephine tread carefully. After a quick search, she found a package labeled sausage and a bottle of buttermilk.

As she returned to the kitchen, the teakettle whistled. Calla was pouring something from a small blue bottle into a mug.

“I found the sausage and buttermilk.”

Calla jumped and quickly screwed the lid back on. “Good for you. And you minded the steps?”

“Yes, thanks for the warning. They were slick.”