Page 62 of In These Hills

“Bethie, take your mama’s clothes and go wait in the wagon.”

“But Uncle Dodge, I haven’t picked out a—”

“Now.” His tone allowed no debate. “And stop by the kitchen. Calla saved you some pound cake.”

With a sharp exhale, Bethie took the clothes and marched out, the slam of the screen door on the back deck punctuating the moment.

Mr. Coburn stepped closer. “Mrs. Dunham, I’d be much obliged if you’d tell me honestly . . . Was my niece disrespectful to you just now?”

“No,” Josephine answered, considering the situation. If Bethie had heard something in town though, certainly he had as well. “She’s still hurt. Understandably so. But she wasn’t disrespectful.”

“Good, because I’ve—”

“But I would like to know . . . What exactly are people in town saying about me?”

Surprise crossed his face, followed by caution. “Ma’am, you know how people like to talk. Especially about folks new to town. I wouldn’t put much stock in anything they—”

“I’d be much obliged if you’d tell me honestly . . . Mr. Coburn.” Her hands started to shake, and she clasped them tightly.

He exhaled. “What did she tell you?”

A knot formed hard and cold in the pit of Josephine’s stomach. “That people think I’m . . . not being truthful. That I’m a fake. And I’m fairly certain she was about to expound on that when you came in.”

He briefly looked away. “Rumor’s going around—and mind you, I did not participate in its origin or spread. But some folks are saying they don’t think you’re really married. That you’re running from . . . some other situation.”

“And just what other situation would that be?” She braced herself, wondering who could have found out so quickly. And if authorities were already on their way to arrest her.

“They’re saying that—” He fingered his thick beard, looking anywhere but at her. “You’re . . . in a delicate way. And that your father raised his hand to you when he found out, which explains the marks on your face.”

Josephine could only stare, both shocked—and overwhelmingly relieved. Perhaps she should be insulted that people would think her so unscrupulous as to be unmarried and expecting. Instead, relief flooded her that they didn’t know the truth.

She steadied herself. “That’s quite a fiction, Mr. Coburn. But it is not true. I can assure you . . . I am not unmarried and with child.”

“I never said you were. I just stated the rumor. Frankly, a person’s business is their own. Leastwise, until it brings trouble to someone else’s doorstep. Or . . . proves to be false.”

“Do I hear doubt in your voice, Mr. Coburn? Do you believe what’s being said?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t dismiss it either.”

He studied her. “My gut tells me you’re hiding something. I don’t know what. And I could be wrong.” His eyes sharpened. “But I don’t think I am.”

25

THE THROB OF HER OWN PULSE pounded in her ears, and Josephine regretted pressing him for an answer. If meeting Dodge Coburn’s gaze had been difficult before—and it had—it now took every ounce of her resolve. How did she extract herself from this conversation without digging an even deeper hole?

“Well then . . .” she said carefully. “Where does such an assessment leave us?”

A slow smile tipped one corner of his mouth. “Right where we were when I walked in, ma’am. Only maybe a little less cloudy. Good night to you, Mrs. Dunham.”

He turned to leave.

“Oh, please take this with you.” She drew Black Beauty from the shelf and held it out. “Bethie was eyeing it earlier. Only, don’t tell her I asked you to take it, or it may end up in the kindling box.”

He studied the cover.

“It’s a novel told from the perspective of a horse,” Josephine continued. “Black Beauty is his name, and he narrates the story himself. It’s a wonderful book, especially if you’re an animal lover. I’ve recommended it to my students for years.”