Page 53 of In These Hills

“Good girl.”

Dodge reached above the doorframe, took down the .45 caliber Remington, and headed for the lower barn, hoping Doc Wyatt might still be there.

21

THE COOL EVENING BREEZE carried the sweetness of honeysuckle countered by a whiff of musk from a hopefully distant skunk, and Dodge decided to walk for a bit instead of going straight to the barn. Maybe he was only putting off a job he dreaded, but it felt good to stretch his legs—and his thoughts.

Bethie’s words replayed, over and over, and he wondered if he could have handled things better. But despite feeling bad about it all, he knew the truth. Nothing he’d said, or how he’d said it, would have changed her reaction.

At least it was done. No more circling the matter. They could get back to focusing on life here, as much as the prospect of spending future years in Lynchburg still left him hollow. That feeling would ease with time, he trusted. And Bethie had good friends here. That would help her in coming days.

He passed the darkened distillery office and thought again of Josephine Dunham standing behind Uncle Jack’s desk. He didn’t often feel as though he’d had the rug pulled out from under him, but that had done it. Clearly, she’d been just as surprised to see him, and more than a little ashamed, if he’d read her right. She’d been so adamant about refusing the job. But desperate people did desperate things.

And while he knew her situation was dire—alone, no money, nowhere to stay long-term—the last place he would have expected her to land was at the distillery.

Running from an abusive husband.

That’s what she claimed. But the phrase snagged, refusing to fit, and her behavior in the office sharpened in his mind. What she’d said . . . I can’t imagine how I’ve survived this long without a man telling me how to think. A husband who would raise his hand to his wife wouldn’t think twice about giving her what for. Then there was the way she’d looked at him. And the moment she’d blanked on his name.

He was no Jack Daniel with women, nor did he aspire to be. But he knew when a woman looked at him in that way. And she had. It had surprised him then. Now it felt downright revealing. Josephine Dunham struck him as a woman of intellect and conviction. Well-spoken, articulate, a formidable sparring partner. Her remorse over Kathleen’s clothes had been genuine. So had her passion for her beliefs. He’d seen her tell the truth. And the story she told about having a husband didn’t quite measure up.

She was running from something, that much he didn’t doubt. The wounds on her face said as much. But his gut said she wasn’t married. His gut also told him she found him attractive, which made for a tricky situation. Because truth was, he was drawn to her as well. A suffragist . . . The irony brought a reluctant smile.

Suffragists were nothing if not passionate. Some pursued change with discipline and restraint. Others with fire and fury. Newspapers reported women suffragists chaining themselves to posts, picketing saloons, smashing windows. All of it justified, they claimed, in the war against liquor.

He couldn’t tell yet which kind of suffragist Josephine Dunham was. But if first impressions counted—she was a fighter. He smiled again, remembering how she’d picked up that rock before climbing into his wagon, thinking he hadn’t noticed. Then his smile faded. A woman that afraid of a man didn’t take chances without reason.

George’s mention of the rumors circling town didn’t help matters. Outsiders were always suspect—especially those from the city. He’d meant to speak to Bethie about her part in fueling those whispers, but supper had derailed that plan entirely.

Reaching the far side of the square, he caught sight of Miss Mary’s house and turned back. Whatever Josephine Dunham’s truth was, she was lying about something. And she was scared. Although word about the distillery was spreading, she was likely safe enough. At least for a while. Lynchburg wasn’t a place a person just stumbled into. You had to mean to find it.

The thought that the rumor about her might be true—that she was unmarried and in the family way—tightened his chest. And no guess as to why. But if she’d come here seeking refuge for herself and a child, Lynchburg would not be kind. Better she’d never gotten off that train in Tullahoma.

As he neared the barn, the cattle’s ragged breathing reached him. Their low moans, the crush of hay as they struggled to stand before weakened legs gave way. The sickness was spreading fast. Lantern light glowed from the second stall on the left.

“Hey Doc,” Dodge said, not wishing to startle him. “How we doing?”

Doc Wyatt looked up from where he knelt beside a pregnant heifer. “Nine more have come down with it. Including this one.”

“Nine counting earlier today?”

“In addition to.”

Dodge exhaled and set aside his rifle. “Did you get my note? About what I ordered?”

“I did. And while I don’t think copper sulfate will cure it, it may help slow the spread. That’ll help. Least until we hear back from Washington.” Doc removed his gloves and spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess . . . You couldn’t sleep last night and went digging through Doc Salmon’s old handwritten notes again.”

Dodge shook his head. “His old farming periodicals. Some he gave me years ago.”

Doc laughed beneath his breath. “Ezekiel Salmon always said you could’ve filled his boots if you’d had a hankering to.”

“Dr. Salmon was a kind man, and generous toward me. I appreciate all he taught me. Giving me free rein to that library of his . . . That was such a gift to this eight-year-old boy at the time.” Dodge treasured the hours he’d spent reading there, back when the house served as Dr. Salmon’s home, medical office, and Grand Central Hotel—years before the Bobos turned it into a boarding house. “Those books opened up so many worlds to me. Not only the medical volumes, but the books on history and science and Greek philosophy. The novels, too. I’m grateful to him. But even if I had wanted to be a doctor, I didn’t have the training or medical degree.”

“You learned more there than most doctors learn in school. Training only gets you so far. Experience is the best teacher. After all, there’s a reason we still call it practicing medicine.”

Dodge pulled on gloves and stroked the heifer’s neck. She was already struggling for air, and he remembered his promise to Bethie, difficult though it would be. “I’m good doing what I’m doing, Doc,” he said quietly. “Besides, God already had a doctor in mind to replace Ezekiel Salmon when that time came. And the Almighty chose well.”

Doc Wyatt’s gaze conveyed gratitude. “As I told Lucille every day of our lives together, doctoring the people and animals in these hills has been the joy of my life. And to get to do what ‘feeds your soul,’ as she used to say . . . That’s far better than this ol’ coot deserves.”