Page 120 of In These Hills

Josephine didn’t shy away from his gaze. “And what happens to women like Margaret Watson?”

Sighing, Mr. Daniel stood and moved toward the window, his brow knit tight, his gait hindered. “I don’t have all the answers, Mrs. Dunham. Never have claimed to.” His next words seemed to come hard. “I have overindulged myself, on occasion. And while I have never raised my hand to a woman, intoxicated or sober, I recognize the dangers, I assure you. I only know that whiskey making was running through my veins before I was even born. My grandmother, Elizabeth Callaway Daniel, God bless her, made Scotch-Irish whiskey that people say was the best around.” He turned back. “You do know that whiskey making originated with women, right? It wasn’t men who thought it up first.”

Josephine had known that, but somewhere along the way that tidbit of history had fallen by the wayside for her.

“One last question for you, if I might, Mrs. Dunham.”

She nodded.

“Do you really believe that prohibition, banning whiskey . . . Do you think it will really stop men from drinking?”

Quiet for a beat, Josephine finally shook her head. “No. But I do think it will stop some men. And women,” she added, thinking of Calla and the struggle she might have avoided if whiskey were, indeed, illegal.

“What it comes down to, Mrs. Dunham, is I believe people are responsible for their own actions.” He laughed softly. “Take our dear, though slightly odd, Mr. Prince who overindulges on Calla’s delicious cooking. You wouldn’t want to ban her fudge pie, now would you? Or her buttermilk biscuits with sausage gravy?”

“Again, that’s a—”

“False equivalence,” he filled in for her. “Yes, yes. But there’s truth lingering in there all the same. While I was in Nashville last weekend, I heard a street preacher say that we’ll have to give account for everything we do and say in this life. That we all reap what we sow. That’s a mighty sobering thought, don’t you think?”

Josephine managed a nod, more sobered by that thought than Mr. Daniel could know in that moment.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Dunham, I believe I need to catch up with Dodge and Mr. Prince. Shall we continue this lively discussion at a later time?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“As will I.” He gave her a last look as he left.

A while later, reticule in hand, Josephine was readying to leave when a mountain of a man walked in. One she would have remembered meeting.

“May I help you, sir?”

He removed his slouch hat and dipped his head, suddenly looking more boy than man. “Uncle Jack around?”

“He’s on the grounds. But he’s meeting with someone right now.”

“Reckon that’d be Mr. Prince, one of them revenuers. About time for that meetin’.”

Not knowing him, Josephine was hesitant to agree.

“It’s all right, ma’am. I work here. Or I did.” He shifted his weight. “’Till I went and did something fool-headed and got myself sent home for a spell. No pay’s been awful hard. But I’ve had time to think on it, and I’m regretful of what I done. Pa says Mr. Coburn was in his rights to fire me straight out.” His eyes shone. “But he didn’t. And I aim to do better. No more trouble and that’s the honest truth.”

The man’s innocence and guileless sincerity tugged at her. “And you are . . . ?”

“Cartwright.” His chest lifted. “Gideon Cartwright. I work the charcoal vats. Drawing off the whiskey, barreling it up. Uncle Jack says that’s a right important job.”

“Yes, it is. I’m sure Mr. Daniel appreciates your work—”

The words died on her tongue as the pieces slid into place. Gideon Cartwright. GC. She swallowed hard. No wonder the initials in the ledger had meant nothing to her. He hadn’t been on payroll since she arrived.

“Well, good day to you, ma’am.” He replaced his hat. “I’ll be back bright and early come morning.”

Later that night, unable to sleep, Josephine kept seeing Gideon Cartwright’s face. He would most certainly lose his job over this. It was one thing when she thought GC no longer worked there. But to meet Gideon Cartwright in person . . . Today. The timing felt almost predetermined.

What Mr. Daniel had said about a person reaping what they sowed returned a hundredfold. As did what Nannie Burroughs had said in her sermon. What we do with our lives matters. Not only for us, but for generations to come. The seeds we sow will one day manifest themselves in either a harvest of righteousness or a crop of weeds. Which shall it be? It’s a question we must ask ourselves every day, and every day we must answer it with honesty and clarity.

She’d known fellow suffragists determined to force change through any means, whether that meant defacing property or even physically harming someone else. Newspapers reported their outrageous behavior on the front page. And from the start, she had drawn that very hard line in the sand, wanting to follow in the footsteps of Miss Anthony.

Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God, Miss Anthony often said, while encouraging women to break unjust laws and participate in civil disobedience with the goal of furthering the cause for women’s rights. That’s what she’d been doing by altering the gauger book. It had been like a peaceful protest . . .