Page 37 of In These Hills

Josephine stared. “But how that can be? You run a distillery.”

“Do you know the definition of temperance, ma’am?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Of course, I do, Mr. Daniel. Abstinence from alcohol.”

“No, no.” He raised a forefinger. “That’s the definition taken on by the American Woman Suffrage Association, or the like. Let’s consult Merriam Webster.” He retrieved a thick volume from a lower bookshelf and made a show of blowing off the dust, smiling as he did. He flipped through the pages. “Ah, here we are. Temperance . . .” He cleared his throat. “Moderation in action, thought, or feeling. An avoidance of extremes. Restraint.” He emphasized the last word then closed the dictionary with a thud. “My whiskey can be safely enjoyed in moderation. Yes, it demands restraint. As do many culinary pleasures. All of that lies within individual choice.”

Meeting his self-satisfied stare, Josephine grabbed the dictionary and thumbed through the pages. Then looked pointedly at him before reading. “Preposterous: Contrary to nature, reason, or common sense. Absurd.” She closed the volume with a similar thud and tossed it on the desk.

A gleam slid into his eyes. “Mrs. Josephine Dunham, you must absolutely accept this job. Think of the discussions we would have! And I give you my word, you won’t have to fend off unwanted advances from me. No doubt you’ve heard, or soon will, about my reputation . . .” He shrugged. “I do enjoy the company of women, and I freely admit to having several . . . female friends.”

Josephine had no trouble believing that.

“But to put it delicately, ma’am, you’re not really the type of woman I’m attracted to. No offense. You’re just a mite tall for my liking.” He winked. “And even if you weren’t already married, I’m quite sure I’m not what you’d be looking for.”

“Good day, Mr. Daniel.” Josephine headed for the door, his laughter following.

“You won’t find another job in this town that suits you as well. Or comes close to paying what I will.”

She paused on the threshold. “While that may be true, I prefer to hold to my convictions.”

He grinned. “Your rule book, you mean.”

Josephine gestured. “Door open or closed, sir?”

He bowed slightly. “For you, Mrs. Dunham, I’ll keep it open.”

She closed the door firmly behind her.

16

NO SOONER HAD JOSEPHINE LEFT the distillery office than she collided with Dodge Coburn barreling around the corner, his expression a tangle of concern and frustration. He stopped short and caught her arm to steady her.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am.” He stepped back, granting quick release, and removed his Stetson.

His gaze swept the length of her again—appraising, yes, but not for any untoward reason, she knew now. Still uncomfortable and eager to change from these clothes, she forced herself to look up. “Mr. Coburn, please accept my apologies again for—”

“It’s not your fault, Mrs. Dunham.” He held up a hand. “And I’m sorry for the way Bethie spoke to you. That wasn’t right. I talked with her and—”

“Your niece had every reason to react as she did. To see a complete stranger wearing her mother’s clothes?” Josephine winced. “I venture to say I would have reacted much the same way at her age.”

“Your allowance is kindly taken, ma’am. It was a hard thing for her.” His jaw tightened. “But Bethie shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked like that. And certainly not to someone her senior. My niece, she’s a passionate thing, just like her mama, God rest her.” He exhaled. “Still, she’s got to learn you can’t just go around saying whatever comes to mind.”

Touched by his affection for the child, she glanced toward the office. “That’s a difficult lesson. One even some adults have yet to master.”

A slow smile tugged one side of his mouth. “Jack Daniel always speaks his mind. You never have to guess where you stand with him. He lets you know straight up.”

“Much like Miss Mary.”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re akin that way.”

It struck Josephine then how familiar Dodge Coburn had been with Mr. Daniel, how he’d walked in as if the place belonged to him. And she’d heard the telltale tink of glass in the wagon bed on the way from Tullahoma. A distillery needed bottles. Perhaps Mr. Coburn was a supplier, a partner in crime, and probably getting rich by association—while also worsening the situation for untold women and children in this town and far beyond the reach of Lynchburg, too, if what Mr. Daniel had said was true about his distillery’s growth. Gold medal for World’s Best Whiskey, indeed.

A breeze rustled the branches overhead, sunlight sluicing through, and Josephine looked away, painfully aware of the wounds on her face—and of those discerning blue eyes.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Coburn, I’d best be on my way.”

“You could do a lot worse than working for Jack Daniel, you know. Folks in this town would crawl over cut glass for the offer you just got. If they had the know-how to do the job, which they don’t.”