Page 67 of In These Hills

“Reason I’m asking,” Calla continued quickly, “is people in town been talking. Said your papa beat you when he found out you were—”

“My father did not beat me, Calla. And I am not with child.”

Relief crossed her face. “I’m so glad to hear it. Not that children ain’t a blessing from the Lord. They are. Or that running from a no-good man ain’t a hard thing. It is. But being with child and running . . . That’s a whole kind of harder.”

Seconds passed, and Calla chuckled.

Josephine eyed her. “What’s so funny?”

Calla shook her head. “First I hear that rumor, then next morning I see you rubbing your belly out back. Then my pickled beets come up missing. I just let my thoughts run wild.” She chuckled. “Done made a fool of myself.”

“Not at all. I probably would have thought the same thing.”

The squeak of door hinges drew their attention.

Mr. Prince, the revenuer, peered into the kitchen. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Evening, Mr. Prince.” Calla pushed aside her teacup. “Something we can do for you, sir?”

He stepped inside, looking faintly uncomfortable. “I was wondering, Miss Calla, if you have some bicarbonate of soda? I may’ve had a little too much supper.”

Calla smiled. “Maybe it was that second piece of buttermilk pie?”

His expression turned sheepish. “It was actually three. I ate Miss Livvy’s too. That pie’s about the best thing I’ve ever eaten. That, and your fudge one. You know we revenuers fight over who gets sent to Lynchburg. And it’s not for the distilleries. It’s Miss Mary’s hospitality and your fine cooking.”

“Well that does my heart good to hear.” She headed toward the foyer. “Give me a minute and I’ll fix you right up. Be right back.”

“Mrs. Dunham.” He bobbed his head. “How are you, ma’am?”

“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Prince. And you? Besides the unsettled stomach.”

“Doing fine. I visited several of the smaller distilleries today, so that was good.”

Josephine frowned. “There are other distilleries besides Jack Daniel’s in this area?”

He chuckled. “Oh yes, ma’am. None as large or as fast growing, but close to twenty other family-run distilleries operate in these hills.”

“Twenty?” Josephine let that sink in. The fight for prohibition suddenly loomed larger—and farther from reach—than she’d ever imagined.

“That’s right,” he continued. “And we check them all. Make certain they’re complying with the law and paying what’s due.”

She leaned forward. “What exactly do you check for?”

His expression sobered. “Everything. An internal revenue agent has very specific and important duties. We examine stills, worm tubs, fermenters, mash tubs, hidden pipes, secret stills. Any way a distiller might siphon off whiskey without reporting it. Every piece of equipment has to be registered. It’s the law!” He withdrew a badge from his coat pocket and held it out with a flourish.

“That’s quite impressive, Mr. Prince.” Josephine schooled a smile, while recognizing the opportunity for what it was. “I imagine there’s considerable paperwork involved.”

“Oh, yes. We audit ledger books, production logs, payments. We interview employees. Then file our reports with the Treasury.”

Josephine glanced behind him, watching for Calla. “And . . . if irregularities are found?”

He straightened to his full height, all but coming to attention. “Immediate fines and seizures of equipment. Or the whiskey itself.” He tapped his badge. “The Treasury doesn’t take kindly to tampering.”

“Oh, I imagine not. And woe to any distiller who thinks they can.” Feeling both guilty and justified, Josephine tucked all that information away, realizing the line between a distillery’s lawful operation and ruin was a narrow one.

Calla returned with a glass near full to the brim, and he slipped his badge back into his pocket.

“Here you go, Mr. Prince. Drink this and you’ll feel better in no time.”