Page 72 of In These Hills

“I do not. And I’m rather proud of it.”

He chuckled. “Gauger’s books record daily production—how much whiskey is made, stored, and barreled. Every barrel is measured, sealed, then stamped with a tax strip.”

“I do know tax strips. My father always enjoyed a cigar in the evenings, and those boxes came sealed with tax strips.”

“Enjoyed?” he asked, his voice softening.

Only then did she realize what she’d said. A bit more of her personal life revealed. She had to keep up her guard. “Yes . . . My father passed away almost two years ago.”

Compassion lined his features. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dunham.”

His sincerity landed a solid blow to her conscience. “Thank you, Mr. Daniel. Now . . . where were we?”

“I believe we were discussing how revenuers stamp anything a man might start enjoying too much.”

She smiled. “Let’s just hope that doesn’t include Calla’s fudge pie.”

He winced. “Did she make it while I was gone?”

She nodded. “And you weren’t there, so I ate your piece.”

“You are a cruel woman, Mrs. Josephine Dunham.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“No, but I’m betting I’d like to. If you were my type,” he quickly added. “Which, of course, we’ve already established you’re not.”

She glanced over, half expecting a flirtatious look. But he wasn’t looking at her at all. Then again, why would he? What man would be attracted to this?

“You know, it just occurred to me,” he continued, “you haven’t had your tour yet. The warehouses, the distillery, the charcoal works. We’ll remedy that immediately and—”

“No, thank you, sir. I don’t require a tour. If you’ll just confirm these invoices, I’ll get them paid then you can go on about your day.”

“Mrs. Dunham, everyone who works here gets the tour. And the story.”

She paused. “The story?”

“It’s something I started after returning from the St. Louis World’s Fair with the—”

“Gold Medal for World’s Best Whiskey,” she finished for him. “Yes. I’m well aware.”

He gave her a slow grin and glanced at the framed award. “It’s growing on you, isn’t it? Sitting there, beholding it day after day? I daresay it’s nearly speaking to you!”

“My world would no longer be complete without it, sir.”

He laughed. “Mark my words . . . little by little, ma’am. And you should start calling me Uncle Jack. Everyone else does.”

“I’ll take that under advisement . . . Mr. Daniel.”

A minute passed then she remembered. “The sheriff stopped by while you were gone.”

He looked over. “What did he want?”

“He claimed he was jesting, but said he was checking to make sure you were still abiding by the law. But I believe he mainly wanted me to know that he knows I’m here.”

He shook his head. “That’s Sheriff Rigby. He makes it his business to know everybody coming and going, whether it’s his business or not.”

That comment eased her concern more than she cared to admit.