Page 9 of In These Hills

Josephine pictured the woman from earlier and was beholden to her, whoever she was.

“And the other reason?” the porter added softly, his gaze sweeping her face. “I know what it’s like to get beaten with a strap.”

Fresh tears came, stinging the wound on her cheek, and Josephine reached out a hand.

He gently clasped hers and gave a soft laugh. “First time for everything, I guess.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“Shaking hands with a white woman.” He rose and walked back up the aisle.

Josephine lay still, clutching the cushioned bench, as the train lurched forward and began to gain steam. The emotion she managed to stem earlier spilled over, and she let it. She attempted to remain alert, but the rhythmic rocking and steady hum of the rails kept coaxing her eyelids shut, despite the chill in the air.

She awakened with a start some time later and sensed the train slowing. Staying down as promised, she worked to stretch sore muscles, the wounds on her hands and face aching. The car gradually came to a stop as the station came into view. A clapboard building with a tin roof, far more modest than Atlanta’s or Chattanooga’s Union Stations. But modest boded well for the size of the town and her circumstances.

Somewhere off the beaten path. A place to hide, at least until she could prove her innocence. If given that opportunity. Because one fact she couldn’t escape: Men would be her sole judge and jury. So was a fair trial even possible?

As the other passengers disembarked, noises drifted in from outside—voices mingling with the shuffle of heavy foot traffic and the squeak of luggage carts. A delicious aroma prodded her hunger, something sweet with a trace of cinnamon, and her mouth watered. Curiosity nudged her to take a peek, but she stayed hidden—until a brass band started playing a rousing rendition of “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy” which drew enthusiastic applause.

Curiosity finally winning out, she cautiously peered out the window.

People everywhere. From her vantage point at the back of the train, the platform appeared to be standing room only, and above the station entryway hung an enormous banner—Welcome Municipalities of Tennessee to Bottle Spring Spas—complete with colorful streamers and ribbons. Panic tightened her chest and she quickly lay back down.

So much for Tullahoma being off the beaten path. What if the authorities here had also been alerted? And were waiting for her?

Struggling to keep the barrage of “what ifs” from careening out of control, she listened for the porter to return, beginning to fear he’d forgotten about her. Or worse, that he’d decided to turn her in. Where would she go and what would—

The door to the passenger car opened and footsteps hastened down the aisle.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The porter knelt. “I had to help unload and transfer trunks. We picked up a slew of passengers in Chattanooga and every car was full up. Everybody seems to be getting off here for some kind of celebration.”

“I know. I heard the commotion outside and took a quick look.” Seeing his frown, she hurried to continue. “But I don’t think anyone saw me.”

The look he gave her said he hoped not. “I wish I had a better story to tell you, ma’am. But either way, we don’t have much time. They’re looking for you here, same as before. Asking for you by name.”

Dread coiled inside her.

“But the good news,” he continued, “is that this town’s so small it’s only got one sheriff and two deputies.”

“But if they’re looking for me and know who I am, how can I stay in Tullahoma?”

“Oh, you can’t. But you can’t stay on the train either. Deputies are checking all the cars right now, which is why we’ve got to hurry. They started looking up front first, so I figure we’ve got a little time yet. But the sheriff is somewhere close too, so we’ll have to keep watch.”

We. The fact he’d spoken in the plural made her feel as though she wasn’t completely on her own. “But even if I make it past the station, where do I go?”

“I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Dunham. But sometimes all we have is the choice staring straight at us. And the only one you’ve got right now . . . Choose to get off this train, or choose to stay on and get found.”

“I definitely choose the former.”

“All right then.” He nodded. “Stay close once we’re outside. Don’t get separated.”

He headed down the aisle toward the very back of the train, and she hurried to catch up, her lower back stiff. He paused briefly on the outside platform, and she trailed his gaze to see the two deputies entering the fifth passenger car. Only three cars separated them. They were moving fast.

“Let’s go,” the porter whispered back.

“Wait . . . What is your name, sir?”

He looked back, a faint smile coming. “Slim Poyner, ma’am.”