Page 102 of In These Hills

“You ain’t seen her when she finds out a tenant been drinking in her home. She takes their belongings and casts it all to the street! Only day she allows a touch of liquor is on Christmas. In the eggnog. But every other day—” She made a slashing gesture in the air with her hand. “You gone in no time.”

Josephine wanted to reassure Calla that Miss Mary wouldn’t cast her out. That she would give her another chance. But she honestly didn’t know. Just like she didn’t know whether Miss Mary would send her packing once she discovered the chapter Josephine hoped no one would ever read.

40

THE COW DIDN’T TRY TO RISE when Dodge stepped into the stall. Her labored breathing, sunken eyes, and fever-twitching body told him all he needed to know. He knelt beside her, Remington in hand.

“It’s not your fault, girl. I’m sorry it’s come to this.” He smoothed a gloved hand over her forehead and down her nose. Though she’d calved twice, there was still youth to her face, as if she hadn’t yet learned the weight of the world. “But you feel it now, don’t you? Down deep.”

She shuddered, and he exhaled, hating this part of the life he’d chosen. But every life carried moments like this—maybe not with a rifle in hand, but with decisions that clawed at a man’s gut. Crossroads you wished had never landed at your door.

He was learning those reckonings weren’t rare interruptions. They were woven clean through a man’s days. Part of the fabric. And it took both joy and pain to make a full life.

Kathleen had been right. The more you care, the more you hurt. No way around it.

“When you give your heart to someone like I’ve given mine to Bethie,” she’d said on her deathbed, “it feels like part of you starts living inside them.” Tears had slipped down her temples. “You want to protect them, but you can’t. Not from everything. And that wanting to shield them from the bad things, without the power to stop the hurt . . . it rips at something inside you.” She’d managed a ghost of that sassy smile she’d given him almost before she could walk. “You’ll do good by her, Dodge. I know you will. But you’re going to have to trust her to God. I wished I’d learned that earlier on. You won’t always be able to be there. But he will. Just like he was for me, even when I did wrong. And just like he still is.” She’d breathed her last a few hours later.

Dodge rose, blinking hard, grateful for the memory and weary of how it still cut so deep.

He looked at the suffering animal and wished—foolishly—for a cure. Some way to stop this. His father’s counsel returned from across the years. Animals are a gift, son. They feed us, work beside us, help us provide for our families, then one day they’ll help carry us to our resting place. Treat them with respect, like God himself placed them in your care. Because he did.

Holding that treasured guidance foremost in his mind, he took careful aim—and a single shot rang out. As he left the barn, farmhands entered, no words exchanged. He’d done his difficult job, now they would do theirs.

As he walked back to the cabin, patches of blue sky peeked through tufts of gray clouds, and he figured rain was coming, probably later rather than sooner. Either way, they’d likely get a good downpour before they got back from shooting this afternoon.

He’d seen Josephine briefly at church—and had done a fairly good job of not staring at her from two rows back. While he wouldn’t say she’d seemed excited about going shooting with them this afternoon, she hadn’t backed out. Which would have saddened Bethie. But only because Bethie wanted to show a citified woman a thing or two about real life, as Bethie had said. Even if the shooting didn’t pan out, the afternoon promised to hold fireworks.

He spotted Bethie seated on the front steps of the cabin, arms wrapped around her knees. Jessie lay close beside her. The cattle dog’s ears perked up when she saw him, but she stayed right by Bethie as he’d commanded a while earlier. At least one female in his life heeded what he said.

As he drew closer, Bethie’s gaze dropped to the rifle in his hand. “Don’t bring that one today.”

Hearing what she wasn’t saying, he shook his head. “I won’t.”

He could tell she’d been crying but knew better than to ask. She, like her mama, would tell him when she was good and ready. Until then, he just laid the rifle on the porch and sat down beside her, like he’d done with his sister so many times through the years. And in this very same spot.

A long moment passed.

Bethie sniffed, sat a little straighter. “You ever think about Mama?”

“All the time.”

“Yeah, me too. But—” Her voice caught. She swallowed hard, her little jaw working hard as she held back the sadness. “Straight shooter?” she whispered.

“Straight shooter,” he answered, loving this girl with a fierceness he couldn’t find words for. He only knew that if anyone ever tried to hurt her, he’d use full force to stop them. Either that, or take her place if it came to it.

“I wish we were still leaving here, Uncle Dodge.”

“Honey, I know you do. And so do I. But I’ve explained why the two of us can’t—”

“No, I’m not saying it because of why you’re thinking. I mean, I still would’ve liked to have seen those mountains you talked about, and the rivers so clear you can see almost to the bottom. What I mean is . . .” She shook her head. Her face scrunched up. “It feels wrong thinking this, much less to give it voice, but . . . I still see Mama everywhere around here. No matter where I look, she’s standing there, or sitting over there in the swing, or washing dishes at the sink, or walking back from the barn. Only . . . she’s not. And she never will be again.”

She bowed her head and—just like her mother, who never liked for people to see her cry—fought to hold it in. And did. Until he reached over and drew her close. She wrapped her arms around him and wept into his chest. He pulled her closer and kissed the crown of her head as he’d done since the day she was born.

She drew a shaky breath and leaned into him even more.

How had he missed that she’d been struggling with this, too? With seeing Kathleen everywhere. He knew she was hurting. She’d lost her mother, after all. But in his own disappointment of not going to Wyoming, it had never occurred to him that part of her grieving the loss of that move was that staying here in Lynchburg meant living with the constant reminders that the most important person in the world to her was never coming back.

Not that moving would have solved everything. Not by any means. But a change of pace would have done her good. Him, too.