Page 86 of In These Hills

“More like had to trim it.” He rubbed his jaw. “Bethie and I had a little food fight this morning over who got the last of the molasses. I think you could say I won?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Details, please.”

“She spooned the last of it from the jar when I challenged her. We went back and forth, and then . . .” He mimicked the flicking of a spoon. “She . . . finally let me have it.”

She laughed. “Right in your beard?”

“She got me good.” His grin deepened. “But I slathered her face pretty well too, so I guess we’re even. Ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

The ends of his hair were still damp, curling at the collar. But it was the intensity in his blue eyes that seemed to pull her in and tempt her to forget the wounds on her face. What she couldn’t forget was what he’d said about truth—that it was only a matter of time before it made itself known.

Tick tick tick.

He paused on the porch. “Between you and me, I can guess how excited you are about seeing how we make Old No. 7. So once Uncle Jack heads to Tullahoma, we’ll cut the tour short.”

“And you won’t tell him?”

He pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key. “Not a word.”

“So how’s Bethie’s calf?”

“So far, so good. She’s named her Honey. Because, as Bethie says, she’s sweet like Maple was.”

They joined Mr. Daniel and conversation came easily as they approached the first outbuilding. Dodge slipped into what was clearly a well-rehearsed tour—buildings, uses, dates. And while a distillery tour held no interest for Josephine, she enjoyed the chance to walk with him more than she should have.

“Our whiskey starts with a sour mash of corn and rye mixed with spring water from Cave Spring Hollow,” Dodge continued. “The limestone naturally filters out iron.”

“And that matters why?” she asked.

“Why?” Mr. Daniel threw her a look. “Because iron ruins whiskey. The flavor, the look—everything! That spring is one of our secrets.”

“And the others?” she teased.

“Nothing we’re discussing today,” Dodge said to Mr. Daniel’s delight.

“One thing Dodge won’t tell you”—Mr. Daniel’s eyes narrowed—“is that feeding the cattle the spent sour mash was his idea several years back. It tenderizes the meat something wonderful, and increases the value, to boot.”

Dodge shook his head. “I only got the notion because the cows started licking the slop off my shirt. After I read some of Doc Salmon’s books, it confirmed it.”

Josephine slowed. “Wait. The books at Miss Mary’s? In the library?”

“The very ones.” Dodge nodded. “Doc Salmon let me read anything I wanted. Opened the world to me.”

“So those notes in the margins . . . Those are yours?” Her disbelief slipped out before she could temper it.

Mr. Daniel chuckled. Dodge raised a brow as if to say he’d heard it, too.

Her face warmed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Dodge has left his mark on every shelf in that library, Mrs. Dunham. I’d come see Doc Salmon and find Dodge—young boy he was—soaking up knowledge.”

“But first I had to learn to read,” Dodge said, winking.

Mr. Daniel motioned. “Let’s get moving. I’ve got a train to catch.”

Even before stepping into the stillhouse, Josephine smelled the warm sourness of yeast—earthy and tangy, not altogether unpleasant. But once inside, the scent thickened and burned the back of her throat. She coughed much as she had when she mistakenly drank Calla’s tea.