A Home in Drayton Valley (14 page)

While he continued to chew, he examined the shelves, where new kitchen supplies now rested in an orderly row. Just to the right of the shelves, the stove gleamed beneath a fresh scrubbing and a coat of oil. A soggy blanket hid the broken window from view and held back most of the moisture. The other windows each sported squares of yellow calico suspended by string—the simplest of curtains, but offering privacy and a bit of color to the bland backdrop of unpainted wood.

Tarsie might not have gathered fuel, but she got plenty accomplished. Perhaps she'd worked as hard as he had. He finished the food on his plate and picked up the last two pieces of cheese. A small movement caught his eye—Nathaniel, licking his lips. The simple gesture transported Joss backward in time so quickly he dropped the yellow wedges. In that moment he was four years old, hunkered on his louse-ridden bed, holding his empty, aching belly and crying without a sound so Pa wouldn't hear him and come give him a different reason to cry.

With a jerk of his arm, Joss yanked up the cheese and thrust both chunks at Nathaniel. “Here, then. Eat it.”

Nathaniel's face lit with joy. He snatched the pieces and started to shove them into his mouth. But then he paused. With his lower lip caught between his teeth, he offered one hardening wedge to Joss. “Share?”

Emotion roared through Joss's middle. Anger, humiliation, or overwhelming love—he couldn't determine what propelled the wave, but it hit with such force he feared his chest would turn inside out. He bolted to his feet. “Just eat it, boy.” He tossed aside the quilt he'd used to warm himself and charged toward the door.

Tarsie dropped the little dress onto the crate and scampered after him. “Where're you goin'?”

He held to the crossbar, every muscle quivering. “To the wagon. I'll sleep out there.”

Her cheeks flooded with pink and something akin to relief broke across her face. Then she scuttled forward and thrust a paper at him. “B-before you go, I'd be asking to speak with you. There are some additional things we need, and—”

He glanced at the sheet, all covered with words. Although he couldn't read the page, he understood. She'd made a list of items to purchase. A long list. A list that would require a tidy sum. He clenched his fists, forcing down a frustrated groan.

Why did so many things come down to money? He'd had to leave New York because of his poor use of money. If he hadn't wasted his wages in the gambling hall, he could've taken Mary to a doctor months ago, before the illness got so bad it couldn't be cured. Now he was stuck here in Drayton Valley—maybe for months—with a pair of towheaded kids who made him yearn for his sweet wife and a woman who wanted to act like a wife . . . all because of money.

He wrenched the door handle. “Not now.”

Tarsie held out the list. “Will you take it and look at it tomorrow? I've marked the most important things with a little star. Surely you'd be agreeing the children need milk each day.
And I'm needing food stores as well as fuel so I can use the stove for cooking.” She bobbed the paper, encouraging him to take it from her. “It'd be nice, eventually, to have a table and chairs where we can sit together and eat our meals. I can make do without furniture and such for now, but food . . . We have to have food and a way to prepare it.”

Her reasonable tone—not begging but simply stating a truth as she saw it—should have calmed Joss. But it didn't. It added to his guilt. If she'd get feisty, if she'd rail and screech at him, then he'd have a reason to charge out the door and ignore her. But her calm sensibility only made his aggravation appear more irrational. From the blanket on the floor, Emmy and Nathaniel began to whimper, apparently frightened. He should comfort them, assure them, but he couldn't. His frustration with himself—and with Tarsie—was too high for sensible behavior.

He spun from the door and jammed his finger in Tarsie's direction. “I said I don't wanna talk about this right now. You'll do well to keep your tongue in your head and not goad me.”

Finally, an answering spark ignited her eyes. She angled her chin and shot him a flinty glare. “Fine.” She folded the paper and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Maybe after tomorrow's breakfast, which will be dry bread and more cheese, you'll be ready to open your purse.” She reached past him and yanked open the door. Fat drops fell steadily from the dark sky. “Sleep well, Joss Brubacher.”

Tugging his wet cap over his nearly dry hair, Joss gritted his teeth and stepped into the cold rain shower.

 14 

L
ong after the children had fallen asleep, Tarsie lay awake listening to the rain's patter on the roof and repeating her conversation with Joss in her mind. She'd failed. She'd failed Mary, and—even worse—she'd failed her heavenly Father. Why had she lost her temper with Joss?

She shifted to her knees, tugging the quilt with her to stave off the nighttime chill. With her fists holding the quilt tight beneath her chin, she raised her face to the shadowed ceiling overhead and addressed God in a soft whisper.

“He's the most confusing man, God. Did You see him at suppertime, giving the last bites of cheese to wee Nathaniel? A kind gesture, but then he used a blustery voice and spoiled the tenderness. He works hard—I could see the weariness in him when he came in tonight—but he doesn't seem to appreciate anyone else's hard work. I want to find the good in him, as I promised Mary I would, but I'm going to be needing Your help. My eyes only find the bad. Give me
Your
eyes, Lord.”

Closing her eyes tight, she searched for images of what Mary must have seen in Joss. Mary was the dearest, kindest soul Tarsie had ever met. And she'd loved Joss with her whole heart, which meant there must be good in him. Slowly, memories crept to the surface—Joss cradling Mary in his arms on the train; carrying her around their camp the morning
her pain drove her to wails of agony; his big hands gently smoothing the tangled hair from Mary's wan cheeks; those same hands lifting Emmy high in the air, making the child squeal in delight; and finally the tortured anguish in his eyes the day he ran for a doctor.

Tears stung behind Tarsie's closed lids.
Lord, thank You for these reminders. A good man does indeed lurk beneath the prickly exterior he chooses to show to the world.
Popping her eyes open, she gasped as realization dawned in her spirit. “He needs examples, Father, doesn't he? I recall Mary telling me he was raised without a mother's tender care, by a father who was gruff and even cruel. He means to do right, but how can he when he hasn't been shown the way? This is why Mary begged me to be You to Joss—so he'll learn how to show Nathaniel the kind of man You mean him to grow to be. So little Emmy will learn what to seek as a husband someday.”

Considering her own failings, Tarsie knew she was inadequate to the task Mary had given her. Although she'd pledged her troth to Joss, she didn't love him. Sometimes she didn't even like him. But she also knew God gave strength when human strength was gone. Drawing in a deep breath, she made one more request. “Help me, my dear Lord and Savior, to be a holy example before Joss. But don't leave the full responsibility to me. I fall short far too often. Joss needs other examples—men who serve You—to show him how to be a man of God. Bring godly examples into his pathway, Lord. Show Joss the way.”

She continued to pray until her eyelids grew too heavy to hold open. Curling back onto her pallet, she finally succumbed to blissful slumber.

Show Joss the way
.

Tarsie kept up this constant prayer in the back of her heart.
She begged it of God, and she admonished herself with the statement. She uttered it as relentlessly as the rain that continued to fall daily. The prayer winged upward while she gathered wet branches to dry in the house and then break into kindling for the stove, while drawing water from the well, while caring for Joss's children, washing his clothes, and cleaning the little house he only entered to consume the meals she prepared.

The final Friday in May, Joss entered the house shortly after dawn, as had become his custom, for breakfast. Emmy and Nathaniel still slept peacefully on their pallet, and Joss sent a brief glance in their direction before plopping onto a crate. Tarsie placed thick slices of fried mush swimming in sorghum on a plate and handed the plate to him along with a cheery smile. He balanced it on his knee with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

As Tarsie had come to expect, he didn't bow his head to pray—he never asked God's blessing for his food. He forked up a dripping bite and ate in silence. She went about her morning duties—wrapping two sandwiches in paper for him to take along for lunch, heating water in which to wash the dishes, straightening her bed, adding wood to the stove to keep the fire hot. She longed for conversation—for companionship from her husband—but she'd learned over their weeks together that Joss didn't speak until he'd filled his belly and downed a cup or two of coffee. So she hummed, puttering about as quietly as possibly to avoid disturbing the children, and waited until he'd finished.

He used one finger to blot up the last few drops of sorghum and licked it clean, then rose. Placing the plate on the corner of the stove, he turned to her. “Not raining today.” He made a face. “Yet.” He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, but cynicism colored his tone. “Be nice if it'd stay clear for a few days.”

Tarsie released a wistful sigh. She'd grown weary of the
constant damp, as well. “I wouldn't be opposed to seeing the sun peek through the clouds.”

Joss went on as if she hadn't spoken. “Need to put a garden in. There's a plot of ground out back pretty much cleared—looks like the people who lived here before planted there. Do you know how to grow vegetables?”

When she was a girl, still in Ireland, she'd helped her great-aunt keep a garden. After they'd come to New York, she'd purchased her vegetables from street vendors, since they had no spot of ground to cultivate. But she didn't think she would have trouble putting seeds in the soil and coaxing them to grow. This was Kansas, after all—hadn't she assured Mary this was a growing place? “I can grow vegetables.”

“I'll buy seeds, then.” He stood next to the door, one hand on the warped crossbar and the other tucked in the pocket of his trousers. His little plaid hat sat snugly on his head and his thick hair curled up around his ears. Were it not for his hardened features and rakish slash of dark hair above his lips, the untamed hair and casual pose would give him a boyish air that Tarsie felt certain most women found appealing.

Realizing where her thoughts had taken her, Tarsie experienced a rush of heat in her face. She waved her apron skirt, stirring the air. “That's fine. As soon as the ground's dry enough, I'll see to the planting.” She ducked her chin, suddenly shy. “I-I'm partial to tomatoes and parsnips, if you'd be so kind.”

“Parsnips.” He snorted softly. “I'd sooner eat bark.”

Her face shot up, a sharp retort forming on her tongue. But she thought she glimpsed a teasing glint in his eye. Uncertain, she decided to test it. “And if you keep up your complaining, I can fill your supper dish with boiled bark instead of good, fresh vegetables from my garden.”

His mustache twitched. No smile creased his chiseled cheeks, but the barely discernible twitch meant his lips had
curved just a bit—a small sign of humor that made Tarsie's heart leap in her chest. She held her breath, wondering what he would say next.

He cleared his throat and lifted the crossbar. “Better get to work. Today's payday, so get out that list of things you need. We'll shop tomorrow.”

“All right.”

He started out the door.

“Oh! Wait!” At Tarsie's insistent whisper, he paused. She tiptoed to the stove and retrieved the cheese sandwiches she'd wrapped for him. Another rush of heat filled her cheeks as she placed the package in his outstretched hand. “There you are. H-have a good day now, Joss.”

He bobbed his head in reply and stepped out the door. Tarsie closed it, then leaned against the cool wood, eyes closed, heart pounding. They'd had a conversation. A real conversation. With a bit of teasing. And no sharp words. She'd prayed for a glimmer of hope, and God had provided.

With a little giggle, she pushed away from the door and spun a happy circle. Her feet came to a stop when she realized both Emmy and Nathaniel had awakened. They sat up on their pallet, curious faces turned in her direction.

She plunked her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “And at what are you two gawking? Have you never seen a morning jig before?”

In unison, they shook their blond heads.

Tarsie held out her hands. “Well, then, come. The clouds have passed, the sun is showing its face, and it's time you learned to greet the day in the happiest of ways.”

The pair dashed across the brief expanse of floor and caught Tarsie's hands. She led them in a merry dance that sent their nightshirts flying around their knees. Then they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and melodious giggles. Tarsie hugged the two tight, tears stinging her
eyes, and planted a kiss on each tousled head. Good things were coming. She just knew.
Good
was coming.

The jumbled confusion of voices reached Joss's ears long before he turned the final corner to reach the dock. Fear struck—an almost feral reaction—and without conscious thought he broke into a run. Mud spattered his pants and coated his boots, but he ignored the slop beneath his feet and pounded the final distance.

On the shore, men milled in a mob, those at the back of the crowd straining to see over the shoulders of those in front. Had a steamship sunk? Had someone drowned? Joss puffed to a halt at the rear of the group and jabbed the closest man on the shoulder. “What's going on?”

The man turned a dumbfounded face in Joss's direction. “Dock's gone. It plumb tore loose and floated downriver last night. Steamship's out on the water, wantin' to leave its load, but there's no way for us to reach it. Boss says it's gonna have to go on to White Cloud an' unload there.”

Joss jolted. If the steamships couldn't dock, they wouldn't have work to do. And no work meant no pay. He shouldered his way through the muttering crowd to the front, searching for the dock manager, John Stevens. He located the man at the edge of the shore where the jagged ground showed where the dock had once stood. Joss rushed toward him.

“You can't send the ships on to White Cloud.” Joss waved his hand toward the group of men who lingered uncertainly several yards upshore. “What're we all s'posed to do about drawing a wage if the ships pass by Drayton Valley?”