Page 50 of In These Hills

Using the dusty stack of file folders Mr. Daniel had located for her in a cabinet from the back room, she labeled each one in turn, the simple act of setting things aright bringing a quiet satisfaction. She had always valued order and neatness. Everything in its place.

Which stood in stark contrast to her life at present.

How she wished she could go back to that suffragist rally only two days ago. As satisfying as it had been to put Clay Darden in his place in that moment, the cost had been too great. To her. And far more to him.

The image of him lying sprawled on the ground, blood pooling, the brick still in her hand, rushed forward. She had killed a man. In self-defense, yes. But the truth remained unchanged, and no amount of washing had fully erased the stain of his blood from her blouse.

Part of her wished she could apologize again to young Bethie about the clothing. The greater part, however, dreaded their paths crossing at all. She didn’t want to cause the girl any further pain. And the thought of facing Dodge Coburn again filled her with a dread she could scarcely name.

Turning back to her work, she quickly found a rhythm, recognizing repeat names on bills and receipts, the stacks growing more orderly by the minute—until her gaze snagged on a document bearing the words United States Bureau of Tax Revenue across the top.

Immediately, Mr. Prince, the revenuer staying at Miss Mary’s, came to mind.

She paused, leaning against the desk, and read through the lengthy verbiage of the official-looking document. From her work with the suffrage movement, she knew whiskey production was heavily taxed and tightly regulated by the federal government, and that strict compliance was a top priority for distillery owners. Failure to comply carried serious consequences. A distillery could be shut down for weeks—if not months, or longer.

As the implications settled, something else began to stir. Possibilities.

She pulled a fresh file folder from the stack and wrote Tax Revenue on the outer edge, retribution wrestling with remorse. But the shutdown would only be temporary. Nothing permanent. If she could even manage it. Because as of yet, she had no idea what steps would be required. It wasn’t like she would be burning down a building or taking an ax to the stills in a fit of—

Boot steps sounded on the porch.

Pulse jumping, she hastily tucked the tax documents into the folder and slid it onto a side table, guilt quickening her movements. As the door opened, she straightened and schooled her features into calm—then froze.

Dodge Coburn paused on the threshold, doorknob still in hand. “Mrs. Dunham?”

20

REACTING TO THE SHOCK in Mr. Coburn’s expression, Josephine squared her shoulders, standing as tall as she could. Her conscience alone was punishment enough, but seeing herself reflected in his eyes stung. Her convictions—so fiercely declared only yesterday—now chafed like an ill-worn robe of self-righteousness. If only she hadn’t been so forceful with him, so absolute. I would never take such a job. And yet here she stood.

She gave a crisp nod. “Mr. Coburn. Good morning. How may I help you?”

The slight narrowing of his gaze told her that greeting alone would not suffice.

Already self-conscious about the slow-healing marks on her face, she was doubly aware of them in his presence, but refused to show it. “I realize this must come as a surprise.”

He let out a measured breath. “Ah . . . yes, ma’am. That’s one way to put it.” He removed his hat and closed the door behind him, his gaze never leaving hers. “I was under the impression you turned this job down. In fact, I’m quite certain you told me as much yesterday.”

“That is true.” She clasped her hands. “I did refuse Mr. Daniel’s offer. At first. But after giving it more careful thought, I realized it was hasty of me to cast aside such an opportunity, given my current circumstances.” She hesitated, then pressed on. “And since Miss Mary was the one who sent me to speak with Mr. Daniel, and since I am staying under her roof . . . Well, refusing him felt increasingly untenable. I did not wish to offend her.”

The explanation felt thin even to her own ears. And his expression confirmed it.

“So,” he said quietly. “A female suffragist working in a distillery. What about the convictions you spoke of yesterday? With such certainty.”

Tempted to look away, she resisted, not wanting to appear weak to this man. “You said yourself, Mr. Coburn, that many people would welcome such an opportunity.”

“Yes, ma’am. I—”

“Would crawl over cut glass is, I believe, the phrase you used,” she continued, lifting her chin, knowing her anger was partially fueled by her own guilt and disappointment in herself.

His stare held. “That’s exactly what I said. It just never occurred to me you were the type of woman who would listen.”

Heat flared in her chest. She knew when she was being baited. “I can’t imagine how I’ve survived this long without a man telling me how to think, especially one as humble as yourself. How fortunate our paths crossed.” The brittleness of her smile matched her tone. “I am quite busy, Mr. Coburn. So I will ask again . . . What is it you need?”

He didn’t say anything. And didn’t have to. The suspicion in his eyes said it all. He didn’t believe her. Which parts, she didn’t know. But she hadn’t counted on this. She hadn’t counted on him.

“Mr. Coburn—” Fighting desperation, she lowered her head, a courtroom tactic coming to mind. One she’d learned from watching her father practice his masterful closing arguments. She and Todd had swiftly adopted the gesture when debating issues in front of their parents. Todd had nicknamed it “the humble, deliberating pause” and had mastered it far better than she ever had.

But she needed it now.