Page 65 of In These Hills

Her heart dropped to her stomach.

“Mrs. Dunham, I presume?” He stepped inside and removed his hat. “Sheriff Rigby. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. See who’s got a hold of Jack’s ear these days.” His gaze swept the office. “He around?”

She had the distinct sense he already knew the answer, and that his cordiality was calculated. “It’s good to meet you, Sheriff Rigby. And no, Mr. Daniel is away. In his absence, may I help you?”

“Oh, I don’t need any help, really.” He walked to the desk and eyed the open ledger and stacks of invoices. “I check in from time to time. Make sure he’s staying on the right side of the law.” A polite smile followed.

Josephine returned it, closing the supply ledger and placing it atop the paperwork. “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

“As sheriff, I make it my business to know what’s going on in my town. And who’s new in it.” He settled on the edge of the desk. “So tell me about yourself, Mrs. Dunham. Where’re you from?”

She laid her pen aside, her hands steady despite the tremor inside. “The Chattanooga area. And before you ask what brought me here, I’d think one look at my face answers that plainly enough.”

He seemed taken aback, but not for long. “You know, the world’s turning upside down these days.” He sighed. “What with women wanting to be treated like men. Taking men’s jobs. Some even wanting the ballot.” His smile held warning beneath the polish. “I say let’s leave those weightier matters to men. That’s only my opinion, of course, but I reckon the Almighty intended it that way from the start.”

Perhaps it was his smug expression or the condescension in his tone, but she recalled something Miss Anthony had shared, and couldn’t resist. “As a dear mentor of mine often says, I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I notice it always coincides with their own desires.”

He laughed. “That’s mighty clever sounding on the surface. But it’s my experience, Mrs. Dunham, that some women just don’t know their place.” He fingered his hat in his hands. “But life has a way of reminding us where we belong. Best we listen when it does.”

Heat surged in her chest, but she held her tongue.

He slipped his hat back on. “You need anything while you’re here, you know where to find me.” His gaze lingered. “And I know where to find you.”

Later that afternoon, Josephine reluctantly returned to the boarding house, half expecting to find Miss Mary waiting for her, newspaper in hand, demanding an explanation for what happened in Atlanta. But when Josephine opened the front door, the lobby was empty and the house quiet, save for sounds of supper preparations drifting from the kitchen. Already, savory aromas filled the air.

Still not confident she was out of the woods, she quietly opened the kitchen door. Calla stood at the stove, pouring a generous amount of honey into a cup of tea.

“I’m back from work,” she finally said when Calla didn’t turn.

Calla sucked in a breath and nearly dropped the cup and saucer. “Gracious, you scared me to death! Next time make some noise when you come in.” She tossed Josephine a smile, but her tone held a trace of irritation.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Calla took a long drink, then another. “No harm done. Just shaved a few years off my life, which ain’t the worst thing.” She gestured toward the table. “Sit yourself down and rest a minute, then we’ll finish supper. Help yourself to the corn bread there if you’re hungry. Miss Mary left newspapers for us. Mr. Bobo always brings them back with him.”

“You’ve already read them?”

“Mostly.” Calla glanced over her shoulder. “One goes on about President Teddy Roosevelt’s niece having married her fifth cousin once removed earlier this month. Line after line given to the bride’s dress and how she looked. Then bad news filled the pages. An explosion at a shoe factory in Massachusetts killed fifty-eight people. Another in a mine in West Virginia took twenty-four more.” She shook her head. “Got enough sorrow right here. Don’t need to borrow it from the rest of the world.”

While Calla turned back to the stove, Josephine quickly scanned each newspaper. They were thinner than The Chattanooga Times—and none mentioned her name. Or Clay Darden’s. Her nerves eased, she helped with supper, then the cleanup afterward.

When the last dish was washed and put away, Calla handed her a slip of paper. “If you’re sure you’re wanting to learn how to cook . . . I wrote out what’s needed.”

Josephine studied the list of ingredients. Simple enough. And she did want to learn. “You’re certain you feel up to it tonight? You seem tired.”

“I’m all right, long as it’s fit to eat when you’re done.” Calla winked.

“You’re going to stay here with me, right? Until it comes out of the oven?”

Calla huffed. “After what you did with those biscuits, you think I’d leave you alone in here? Miss Mary walks in and sees you cradling a mixing bowl, spoon in hand, she’ll faint dead away on that plank floor.”

Josephine laughed. “All right then. Gingerbread with lemon sauce!”

“That’s one of Miss Mary’s favorites. You do this without burning down her house, and it’ll go a long way toward winning her over.”

Josephine gathered the ingredients, then started by measuring the molasses, the thick syrup slow to pour. She glanced at the list again. “Half a cup of sugar. Do you know this recipe by heart?”

“Mmmhmm . . . But I should. Been making these recipes for years. Now mix that good so the sugar blends nice and smooth. Butter’s on the table. I’ll get your water boiling. You want a cup of tea? I’m making me another.”