Page 45 of In These Hills

“Doc Wyatt thinks it’s Texas fever.”

Her eyes searched his. “That sounds bad.”

“Straight shooter?” he asked softly, thinking of the fourteen steers following the same course as the two from yesterday—all formerly headed for market.

She nodded without hesitation. “Straight shooter.”

“It’s bad, Bethie. Doc’s written a man he knows in Washington, DC, who works for the Department of Agriculture. We’re hoping for answers. But right now, there’s no cure we know of.”

She turned back toward the fields. “Will they hurt before they die?”

Her question took him straight back to Kathleen’s bedside, Bethie there with him toward the end, Kathleen’s breath labored and raspy. He tightened his grip around Bethie’s shoulders, and this time she leaned into him. And something deep inside, like a cord anchored fast, tugged hard.

“I promise,” he said softly. “I’ll do everything I can to keep them from suffering.”

She nodded.

In the silence following, he recognized the moment he’d both been waiting for—and dreading. “Bethie, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about—”

“I decided I want Mama’s clothes back,” she blurted. “The ones that woman was wearing yesterday. I been thinking hard on it, and I want them back!”

Dodge hesitated, intent to stay the course but knowing this mattered too. “You know your mama gave those clothes to Miss Mary before she died. The two of them were close, and your mama wanted her to have them, knowing how Miss Mary always admired them.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Bethie scoffed. “Mama wanted Miss Mary to have them. Not some hoople-headed—”

She must have read the warning in his eyes.

“—some . . . level-landed nobody we don’t even know. And who didn’t know Mama at all.” Her voice cracked, and she bowed her head.

The image of Josephine Dunham wearing his sister’s skirt and blouse had unsettled him, too. But the woman’s remorse had been genuine. He couldn’t say how he knew—only that he did.

Bethie lifted her chin. “I’m gonna ask Miss Mary if I can have them back. For safekeeping.”

Dodge knelt. “Tell you what . . . I want you to think on it for a few days first. Will you do that for me?”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“All I’m asking . . . is you ask the Almighty what he thinks about that first, and listen to what he says. Then we’ll talk again. If you still want them, we’ll go together. Deal?”

He held out his hand, waiting. Prayer hadn’t always come easy to him, but lately he found himself leaning on it more. Especially in moments like this. And hoped she would, too.

Her handshake felt firm as a pledge.

“Is Uncle Jack mad at you?” she asked. “With all the cows sick and us leaving?”

“No, he understands. But that’s part of what I need to talk to you about, honey. And it’s not an easy thing to—”

“Mornin’, boss!” a couple of farmhands called out as they passed the cabin. “Mornin’, Miss Bethie!”

“Morning, Hank,” she called back, waving. “You too, Duffy! It’s Friday, best mind the barrel check today. Make sure those bungs are holding tight. That’s part of fine whiskey making!”

The farmhands laughed. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Bethie!”

Dodge nodded a greeting, vaguely unsettled by the exchange. Bethie knew the rhythms of this place as well as Kathleen had. And while Wyoming was no longer an option, raising a young girl around a distillery carried its own weight. She had that same independent streak as her mama—You tell me I can’t, and I’ll show you I can. The thought dug in, and grew talons.

“Come on, Bethie girl,” he said. “Let’s walk. Don’t want you late for school.”

He took the porch steps in twos and whistled for Jessie. The dog bounded down as Bethie grabbed her pack off the rocker and fell into step beside them.