Page 46 of In These Hills

“You remember how your mama and I talked about how we were going west to—”

“Wyoming,” she filled in, smiling up at him. “Mama said it was her dream. And a gift for me.”

His gut knotted. “Life out there is hard, Bethie. Harder than you think. And—”

“Hey, Bethie!” a high-pitched voice called out. “Hey, Mr. Dodge!”

They turned to see little Moriah Green racing up the road, her smile big as ever.

The girl skidded to a stop, panting. “Wanna walk the rest of the way together, Bethie? But we gonna have to hightail it. Else we’ll be late and have to write sentences after.”

Bethie peered up. “Can I, Uncle Dodge?”

“May I,” Dodge corrected, then seeing the moment gone, kissed Bethie on the crown of her head. “Run on. We’ll talk more at supper. And no stopping at the Carvers.”

As the girls raced down the road, he wondered, as he sometimes did, if the veil of heaven ever lifted, even a little, allowing what happened here to be glimpsed from there. Not that everything on this side was worth seeing. Not hardly. But this life shaped the next, so it figured that some who’d gone on might take a gander back.

“Our girls are like two peas in a pod.”

Dodge turned to see George Green, Moriah’s father, approaching. “Morning, George. I’d say two very silly peas.” They shook hands and fell into comfortable stride together, Jessie sticking close.

“You should’ve come to Uncle Jack’s last night, Dodge. Mmmm . . . That fancy pineapple cake was some kind of good.”

“I appreciate you and your family coming by for Bethie. She enjoyed it. She needed some time away from me, I think, and I needed to tend the stock.”

“Sorry about the cattle, Dodge. Word’s traveling fast.”

“Good. Folks need warning. Doc’s hoping to know something more next week.”

George hesitated. “Bethie was in rare form last night. She told everybody about the woman wearing Kathleen’s clothes. She said you thumped her a good one for telling the woman off.”

“I didn’t thump her a—”

George laughed. “We know. That Miss Bethie . . . she’s her mama made over. Fit for the stage, both of them. But you’re doing good with her, Dodge. Lottie says the same.”

Dodge shook his head. “Some days I wonder.”

“Being a papa is hard. ’Specially the way you came about it. And on your lonesome.”

“But that’s just it, I’m not her papa. I’m her uncle. But this . . .”

“Just know you’re doing fine by her. Kathleen would be proud.”

“Thanks, my friend.”

They walked on, silence a part of their friendship as much as conversation. He’d worked with George and several members of his family at the distillery for years, and though George was a few years older, they’d shared a bond from the beginning.

Dodge fondly remembered Nearest Green, George’s father and Uncle Jack’s first head distiller. Enslaved at the time, Nearest—along with the late Lutheran preacher Dan Call—had taught young Jack the craft of whiskey making. The business of it, however, Jack had taken to on his own. Natural-born entrepreneur if ever there was one.

They passed a field thick with wildflowers—black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, wild bergamot, and his late mother’s favorite, purple coneflowers—and Dodge remembered Kathleen’s habit of keeping a pitcher of wildflowers on the kitchen table. How had that slipped his mind? He hadn’t seen that blue metal pitcher in months.

As they neared the distillery, its distinctive smell—a pungent, yeasty tang with a sour edge, an acquired appreciation—wafted toward them. And while part of him knew he’d carry a yearning for Wyoming until his dying day, he would have missed all of this, too. It was in his blood.

“You know this place won’t be the same without you two, Dodge. Uncle Jack won’t be either. What’s he gonna do without you?”

Dodge slowed. “Keep a secret for me? Just until I’ve told Bethie?”

George frowned.