Page 93 of In These Hills

Josephine closed the door behind them and motioned to a chair tucked between shelves and boxes. “Sit here. We can talk.”

Dappled sunlight filtered through the small window. Josephine drew the curtains and perched on a wooden crate, instinctively slipping into the calm, steady posture she’d learned at the American Woman Suffrage Association in Atlanta. “You said Mrs. Carver sent you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I went to the mercantile for food, but Mr. Carver says Henry ain’t paid the last bills. No more credit.” Her voice dropped. “We got no food left. We do got cows, and I give my babies some milk ’fore I walked to town. I done nursed all my younguns, but with Pearl . . . my milk ain’t coming in like it did before.”

“Are you eating regularly?”

The pause answered.

Josephine’s gaze moved to the bruises blooming along the young woman’s cheek and jaw, aware the woman was looking at her, too. “My name’s Josephine—”

“I know who you are, Mrs. Dunham. Everybody does.”

Josephine let that pass. “And your name is?”

“Clara.” She bowed her head. “Clara Hackett.”

Recognition clicked, and Josephine pictured the brothers she’d seen at payroll last week. “Your husband works here.”

“For Mr. Coburn. With the livestock.”

Wishing she had iodine and clean cloths, Josephine continued. “What ages are your children, Clara? And are they safe right now?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’s at home. Ruthie’s five and plumb smart as they come. Virgil and Eugene, twins, they’s four. Otis is two. Pearl’ll be one soon. And I’m grateful to have them all.”

Five children, and Clara looked scarcely more than a child herself. “How long have you been married?”

“Six years. Got hitched when I’s fifteen. Babies come easy to me.” Her smile held pride. “You got any, Mrs. Dunham?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Clara frowned. “How old you be, ma’am?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four and no babies?” Clara shook her head. “Mrs. Gibbs got a potion for that kind of thing. Course, with you hiding from your man, baby potion likely ain’t what you hankering for . . .”

Ignoring the question, Josephine rose. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll go to the mercantile and purchase some iodine and clean cloths, as well as food for you and your children. Then I’ll be back shortly.”

Clara nodded, pressing back into the chair as if to make herself as small as possible.

Fifteen minutes later, Josephine piled her items on the counter in the mercantile, and Mrs. Carver tallied her bill. Josephine counted out the money, grateful for the pay her bookkeeping job provided.

“Thank you for sending Clara to see—”

Mrs. Carver gave her a sharp look, then glanced at her husband across the store and gave a shake of her head. “These things,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “we keep amongst the womenfolk. Best for husbands to be kept ignorant.”

Josephine nodded, struck at the dichotomy of the situation. A man created the problem by drinking, then the problem was resolved by women—behind his back. She stared at the money on the counter and saw the irony there, too. Profits from selling whiskey were being used to feed and care for those whose sustenance had been thieved by the same. A cruel irony.

“I understand,” Josephine whispered back.

Her arms aching beneath the weight of the box, Josephine hurried back, trying not to act as conspicuous as she felt. Thankfully, the office was empty. She placed the second bottle of iodine and the cloths on the desk, then entered the back room.

“Clara?” she called softly.

No answer. Had the woman left? Then Clara stepped from the shadows.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come back. Thought maybe you done changed your mind.”