A Home in Drayton Valley (15 page)

Stevens balled his hands on his hips and glowered at Joss. “You think I'm addlepated? I know what it means to send that ship on, but how'm I supposed to get to the goods with no dock? You got the means of walking on water?” He huffed derisively. “Get back with the others, Brubacher.”

Joss bristled, but he returned to the gathered men, listening to their complaints and worried remarks but keeping his lips tightly sealed. A few minutes later, steam coughed from the ship's stack and the paddlewheel heaved into motion. The men groaned as the ship continued upriver.

Stevens slowly crossed the ground and faced the workers. He held up both hands, waiting until everyone quieted. “We're gonna hafta get a crew in here to rebuild the dock before we can bring in any more steamers. 'Til it's built, there won't be any work for you fellows, so—”

Someone yelled out, “What're we s'posed to do about feedin' our families?” An angry murmur rose from the crowd. Joss leaned forward, eager to hear the boss's response.

The man sent a sympathetic scowl in the direction of the question asker. “I don't like it any better than you do, Caudel. I won't be earnin' any wage until the dock's up again, either.”

His statement calmed the men a bit, but Joss gritted his teeth. He had to make money. He called out, “What about rebuilding the dock? Can't we help?”

“Not unless you've got construction experience. Takes special skill.”

One of the men pushed to the front. “I've done lots of buildin'. Helped build two hotels in St. Joseph.”

Stevens nodded at the man. “We'll talk.”

Joss kicked at the muddy ground. He'd never built so much as a chicken crate. They wouldn't put him on the construction crew.

“Head up to the warehouse office, men,” Stevens instructed, “and I'll divvy out your wages for the days you worked. Sorry I can't do more for you.”

Joss followed the others to the warehouse, holding back his irritation, even though those around him voiced their concerns and aggravation. Anger smoldered inside his chest,
but what would fussing do? Wouldn't put that dock back, so why bother?

He accepted his six dollars from Stevens and jammed it into his pocket without a word of thanks. With nothing to do, he angled his feet toward the rental house. He'd told Tarsie to get out her list for the mercantile. She'd have to do a lot of trimming, though. They'd need to make this six dollars stretch, since he didn't know when he'd work again. His head low, he dragged his heels, reluctant to return to the house.

Someone plodded up alongside him. “Hey, Brubacher. Tough break, huh?”

Joss glanced at the short, stocky, redheaded man. “You Wells?”

The man grinned. “That's right. Dick Wells. Came here a year ago from White Cloud.” He made a face. “Thinkin' now I should've stayed. I'd still be workin' if I had.”

Joss didn't answer.

“Got a brand-new baby at home. Colicky. Been buyin' that Soothing Baby Syrup every week. My wife's not gonna be too happy when I tell her we can't afford it 'til I start earnin' again.” He shook his head, whistling through his teeth. “Don't reckon either of us'll be gettin' much sleep without that bottle.”

Joss wished he could buy a bottle, too—but not of Soothing Baby Syrup.

They reached the corner and paused, Wells looking left and right. No wagons in sight, so they stepped into the muddy street. Wells continued. “Wonder if work's to be had at the vineyard. Scrabblin' in the dirt ain't my idea of the way to spend a day, but it'd be better'n nothin'.”

Interested, Joss shot the man a look. “Vineyard?”

Wells nodded, his hair flopping on his forehead. “South o' town. Big operation. Grapes for wine, as well as some fruit trees. Ship all over the country.” He shrugged. “This time o'
year might not be much to do out there, but I plan to ride out and ask around anyway.” He snickered. “Beats sittin' at home listenin' to my baby howl an' my wife complain.”

Joss forced a short laugh. “Reckon you're right.”

The man inched sideways, heading east. “Good luck to you, Brubacher.” He lifted his hand in a wave and trotted off.

Joss watched him go, his mind ticking. A vineyard . . . where they made wine. A familiar hunger rolled through his belly. Maybe that dock breaking free wasn't such a bad thing after all. There'd be certain benefits to working at a vineyard. Anxiety pricked. If the other dockworkers knew about the vineyard, they'd certainly hightail it out there and snatch up any jobs before Joss had a chance. He shouldn't waste time.

Turning on his heel, he reversed his steps and trotted toward the livery stable. His horses hadn't sold yet. He'd take one and ride out to the vineyard. Anticipation sped his pulse. If anybody was going to grab an available job out there, it would be him.

 15 

Y
ou's in luck, mistuh.” The worker at the edge of the vineyard leaned on the handle of the pitchfork he'd been using to arrange dry straw beneath some twisted-looking short trunks. His dark face showed a sheen of sweat despite the morning hour and cool nip in the damp air. “The boss man was plannin' to go into town this aftuhnoon an' put up a notice at the post office for another hand since ol' Zeke passed on. We buried him yesterday under the trees yonder, just like he wanted.” The man pointed, releasing a heavy sigh. “Ol' Zeke, he was a good man.”

Almost against his will, Joss's eyes drifted to the cleared spot where a crude cross marked a grave. For a moment, he questioned the wisdom of working at a vineyard and winery. Mary wouldn't approve. And from the looks of things, many of the workers here were colored. Gave him a twitchy feeling to think of working side by side with them.

He rubbed his jaw. Maybe he should move Tarsie and the young'uns to White Cloud, where he could work the dock there and be close to Mary's resting spot. But then he shook his head. He didn't intend to stay in Kansas, and he needed money before he could leave. He'd better grab the quickest means of adding to his coffer.

The horse shifted beneath Joss, and he gave the animal a
few pats as he faced the worker again. “So where do I find the boss?”

The man pointed to a big house at the end of the lane. Tall trees blocked most of it from view, but even from the distance and with the shielding trees, Joss could see it stood two stories high and sported a railed balcony above the porch. He blew out a little breath. The owners must be doing well to afford a house like that.

Without thanking the man for the information, Joss tapped the horse's sides with his heels and urged the animal up the lane. At the porch, he swung down and tied the reins to the ring imbedded in a limestone post near the porch. He gave the tired horse another quick pat before stepping onto the porch.

He glanced down his length, cringing at his stained trouser legs and mud-caked boots. Would the owner take one look at his slovenly appearance and send him packing? But he wasn't asking to be a house servant—only a worker in the field. He'd get plenty filthy out there, and his clothes would let the owner know he wasn't afraid of dirtying himself up when he worked. Raising his fist, he drew in a breath and then gave the door several good thumps.

Moments later it swung open, and a fine-dressed man with white hair and a lined black face peered out at Joss. “Mornin', suh. Can I help you?”

Joss looked past the man at a sizable foyer where wood floors gleamed, a spindled stairway curved upward, and a brass lamp with more than a dozen glowing candles lit the room. The candlelight bounced off little crystals hanging from the brass arms. Wouldn't Mary love to see something like that lamp? She'd always loved shiny things. Not that he'd been able to buy many for her. But she'd admired them in store windows. Joss swallowed a lump of longing.

“Suh?”

The man's simple query brought Joss back to the present.
He peered down his nose at the well-dressed servant. “I need to talk to the owner.”

“Can I tell Mistuh Tollison what it is you're wantin'?”

“A job.”

The white head bobbed in acknowledgment. He gestured Joss inside and closed the door. “Wait here, suh. I'll fetch Mr. Tollison for you.” The man disappeared through a wide doorway draped with heavy curtains.

The faint aroma of onions reached Joss's nose, and his nostrils twitched in response. He fidgeted in place until he realized every shift of his boots left dirty marks on the polished floor. He forced himself to stand perfectly still, determined not to sneeze, while he waited for the owner—Tollison—to join him.

The sound of footsteps reached Joss's ears, and then a tall man in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up breezed around the corner. He came at Joss with his hand outstretched. The scent of onions clung to him. “Hello. I'm Edgar Tollison. And you are . . . ?”

Joss whipped off his cap and gave the man a firm handshake. “Joss Brubacher.”

“Brubacher . . . Brubacher . . .” Tollison frowned, as if searching his memory. “I haven't heard the name before.”

“Just moved here from New York. Came to work the dock in Drayton Valley.” Joss briefly explained the morning's calamity, then said, “No guarantee when they'll be able to receive steamers, and I need a way to take care of my family. So I came out here to see if you might need another hand.”

Tollison hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked Joss up and down. “As it stands, I lost a worker yesterday, Zeke Foster. Good man—experienced. So I could use another worker. But I don't want to hire someone for just a week or two. I want someone permanent. You planning to return to dock work in Drayton Valley when they've got things rebuilt?”

Joss rubbed his dry lips together. He hoped to return to dock work, but not in Drayton Valley. “Not if I don't have to, sir.” Guilt pricked. He hadn't spoken the full truth and he knew it, but if he told this man he'd be skedaddling to Chicago as soon as he had enough money set aside, he wouldn't get the job. So he held further explanation inside and waited for Tollison to decide whether or not to put him to work.

“Well, then, Mr. Brubacher, I'm willing to give you a try. Can't start you out with the wage I'd been paying Zeke, since you don't have experience, but does two dollars a day sound fair?”

Fifty cents more a day than he'd drawn in town! He'd have the money he needed in no time. Joss turned his cap into a wad, reining in his elation. “Yes, sir. That sounds just fine.”

Tollison smiled, showing even white teeth. “Good.” He turned to the servant, who stood in the doorway behind the men. “Wilson, take Mr. Brubacher out to the field and introduce him to Simon.” He looked at Joss. “Simon is my vineyard manager. You'll follow his directions. He'll be the one to pay you, too. Simon reports to me, and if there's any trouble, he'll let me know.”

What kind of trouble could there be? Joss nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, then.” Tollison extended his hand again. “Welcome to Tollison Vineyard.”

Tarsie stepped out onto the tiny stoop and looked up the street. Still no Joss. Where was he? During the morning, the other dockworkers had returned to their houses, and she'd overheard the frustrated murmurings about the dock breaking free and the men being sent home. But even though she'd asked, none of them seemed to know what had happened to Joss.

Here it was, noon already, and no sign of him. Tarsie nibbled her lower lip. In the past, Joss had tried to drown his disappointments. Had he found a place in town that served liquor? She wanted to ask one of her neighbors about such an establishment but was fearful they'd surmise she was seeking refreshment for herself.

Behind her, Emmy and Nathaniel chased around the small space, their loud voices echoing from the wood walls. She whirled and snapped her fingers at them. “You're behaving worse'n a pair of hooligans. Stop that running at once.”

At her sharp tone, they came to a startled halt and stared at her. Tears welled in both sets of blue yes. Nathaniel's chin quivered.

Emmy wrapped her arms around her brother. “It's all right, Nattie,” she whispered, her gaze pinned on Tarsie's face. “I won't let Tarsie yell at you no more.”

Remorse smote Tarsie. For weeks, the children had been cooped up. First in a wagon and then in this small house. Until the ground dried, they wouldn't be able to run outdoors. She needed to be more patient.

Crouching down, she held out her arms. “Come here, wee ones.” They scuffed their feet, clearly reluctant, but they came. She drew them close, kissing first Emmy's cheek and then Nathaniel's sweaty head. “'Tis sorry I am that I hollered. I took out my worry on you, and it was wrong of me. Will you be forgiving me?”

Nathaniel wove his skinny arms around Tarsie's neck and planted a moist kiss on her cheek. Emmy hesitated but then offered a small nod.

Tarsie sighed. Mothering was much harder than she'd imagined. “Thank you, wee ones.” She pushed to her feet.

Emmy caught her apron and gave a tug. “Why are you worried?”

Tarsie didn't care to discuss her fears with the little girl. To
distract the children, she made a suggestion. “There's enough flour and sugar in the bags to stir up a batch of cookies. If you two will break some twigs for me and choose the driest ones, we'll feed the stove 'til it's good and hot and then do some baking. Does that sound good?”

Both children let out squeals and darted to the corner where Tarsie had piled their wood supply. Relieved, she turned to the shelf and began removing the needed items for sugar cookies. The recipe would take most of what remained of their flour and sugar, but Joss had indicated they'd go to the mercantile tomorrow to purchase supplies. Her hands stilled mid-task, worry returning. If Joss had crept away to lose himself in a bottle, would there be money remaining for food?

“Tarsie? The wood's ready!”

Tarsie forced a smile in response to Emmy's excited voice. “You're such fine helpers. We'll make the best cookies ever tasted in Drayton Valley.” The pair beamed at her, all former hurt forgotten. Tarsie began layering wood in the stove, humming to cover the fear that rolled in her belly.

Dear Father, please put Your protective hands on Joss and hold him back from doing something foolish.

Joss wrapped the pale green vine—which Simon had called a cordon—carefully around the wire strung along the row of plants. In early spring, with only a few buds forming, the empty trunks of the grapevines reminded Joss of a forest fire's remains. Simon had said these were Cynthiana vines, which would bear purple grapes to make red wine. Joss tried to envision a full, leafy plant with clusters of purple grapes hanging beneath thick greenery, but the picture wouldn't set in his head.

“That's good, that's good. Treat them li'l vines just like you'd cradle a newborn babe 'cause they's fragile as a
newborn.” Simon's slow drawl drifted on the breeze to Joss's ears. “Now use the cutters I gib you to trim back them two shoots unduhneath. They's dead—no sense in leavin' 'em where they do no good.”