A Home in Drayton Valley (20 page)

He swallowed a flavorful bite of roast, swished his hand over his mouth, and looked across the trunk to Emmy. “So . . . what'd you young'uns do today?”

Emmy wriggled in place. “We had a fine time, Papa! E.Z. an' Malachi an' Naomi came to play, an' we builded a fort an' made cowboys an' Indians outta little sticks! Tarsie gave us scraps to put clothes on 'em, an' we—”

Joss held up a hand, confused. He'd learned the names of their nearest neighbors, but he didn't recognize those Emmy had mentioned. “Who're you talking about?”

“Miss Ruth's chillun.” Emmy's childish voice took on a distinct twang.

Joss put down his fork and frowned at the little girl. “An' who's Miss Ruth?”

Emmy hesitated, and Tarsie cleared her throat. She gestured to Emmy's plate. “Finish up your supper, Emmy. You, too, Nathaniel.” She waited for a moment, watching the children until they moved to obey. Then she shifted to look Joss full in the face. “Miss Ruth is Simon Foster's wife. E.Z., Malachi, and Naomi are their children. We met in the mercantile on Monday, and today they came by the house to pay us a visit.”

“An' guess what, Papa?” Emmy bounced on her knees. “Tarsie's gonna teach Miss Ruth how to read an' write!”

 20 

Y
ou's gon' do
what
?” Simon stared at Ruth. He must've heard wrong—Ruth had more sense than to take up lessons with a white woman. Especially Joss Brubacher's woman.

Ruth set her lips in that way of hers that let Simon know she didn't intend to say another word. At least not until they were alone. Deciding it best not to argue in front of the boys and little Naomi, he held the rest of his protests inside. They went on eating their supper in silence, the youngsters finishing first and dashing outside to play away the remaining hours before sundown. Clouds building in the east warned of another storm coming—might as well let the children enjoy the sun for as long as it lasted.

Simon stayed at the table, sipping a final cup of sassafras-root tea, while Ruth cleared the pans, plates, battered silverware, and cups. But before she filled the tub for washing, he said, “All right, woman. Set yo'self down ovuh here an' 'splain this thing to me.”

Ruth came at him in a rush, settling her bulk in his lap rather than taking her own chair. She toyed with his earlobe—something she always did when she was trying to wheedle him into her way of thinking—and spilled out the whole plan for Joss Brubacher's woman to teach Ruth how to read, write, and cipher.

“When I gots the lessons down real good myself, then I can be teachin' our chillun. Maybe even all the colored chillun from Drayton Valley. Don'tcha see, Simon? Our prayers've done been answered.”

“How you gon' be able to do all that?”

Ruth gave him a sour look. “You sayin' I ain't smart enough to learn what needs learnin'?”

“That ain't what I'm sayin' at all, an' you knows it.” Simon shifted, his foot aching from supporting her weight. But he didn't push her from his lap. He'd never minded sharing a chair with Ruth. “I's just saying learnin' takes time—a heap o' time. What's gon' happen when that husband o' hers says he don't want her spendin' so much time with the likes o' you?”

Ruth pinched his earlobe. Hard. “You sayin' the good Lawd'd take away His gift right aftuh He done give it to me? Where's your faith, Simon Foster? Your pappy'd have your hide to hear you talkin' thataway.”

Simon couldn't hold back a chuckle. He rubbed his ear. “Reckon you're right. But Pappy nevuh got the chance to meet Joss Brubacher. Matter o' fact, Joss wouldn't even be hired on if Pappy hadn't died.” He sighed ruefully. “That Joss, he be a good workuh, I'll give him that. But he sho' ain't got Pappy's easy way o' livin' a life.” Simon pictured Brubacher, tall and sturdy, with lips that never smiled. “That man, he carries a grudge. A mighty big grudge. And it seems to be aimed at peoples like you an' me.”

Simon burrowed his face against Ruth's cheek, seeking to soften the impact his words could have on her hopeful heart. “Don't wantcha gettin' all worked up, thinkin' you's gon' get somethin' that don't nevuh come.” Lord knew she'd had enough disappointments in life between losing her mama and pap when she was but a girl, burying two babies before her twenty-first year, and marrying up with a man with a crippled foot. She'd already borne more than a body should.
Simon would have a hard time staying pleasant with Joss if the man did anything to hurt his Ruth.

Ruth smacked a kiss on Simon's lips and pushed up from his lap, her smile wide. “Don't you be worryin', Simon Foster. I gots faith in Tarsie. She be a good woman with a good heart—I can see it in her. The Lawd done tol' her to teach me, an' she's a gal who does what the Lawd say, so she's gon' teach me. You just wait. Uh-huh, you just wait an' see.”

Joss paced beside the wagon, listening to the distant rumble of thunder and waiting for the windows to go dark. As soon as Tarsie put out the lamp, he'd know the young'uns were sleeping. And then he and Tarsie would have themselves a talk.

He couldn't let her make a commitment to that Negro woman. Soon—another month, maybe a little more—he'd have enough set aside to hightail it out of here. With him gone, she'd need to find herself a job. And if she took up with a colored woman, nobody in town would hire her. Prejudices ran deep. He'd have to make Tarsie understand how she was hurting herself to make friends with a Negro family.

The sky's grumble increased in volume, flashes of sheet lightning turning the clouds into Chinese lanterns. Wind gusted, rocking the wagon. Josh shoved his hands into his pockets, stifling the desire to let loose a string of curses. It was mid-June already. When would these storms leave for good? They'd gotten so much rain the ground was too soft to support a new dock, leaving the dockworkers without a means of caring for their families.

Talk around the vineyard had it a railroad was thinking of bringing a line through Drayton Valley, which would take the place of the dock. Men hoped it would happen—there'd be jobs laying the lines, and the railroad always brought more businesses and people to a town. But unless the rain stopped,
removing the threat of flooding, nobody'd take a chance on running rails through town.

More flashes illuminated the sky, the bursts of light bouncing from east to south and back again. The thunder rolled with such intensity Joss's chest tightened. He needed to get inside the wagon before the storm let loose. Would Tarsie ever turn out that light so he'd know it was safe to talk to her?

After another twenty minutes of pacing, during which time the wind rose to a howl that raised the hairs on the back of Joss's neck, the glow behind the windows finally died. Blowing out a breath of relief, Joss trotted to the front door and tapped. “Tarsie? Open the door. It's me, Joss.”

Moments later she cracked the door a scant six inches. A burst of lightning illuminated her figure, her disheveled braid tumbling across the bodice of a belted robe.

Joss gulped. “Didn't know you'd already dressed for bed.” He aimed his gaze at the murky sky where clouds hid the stars from view. “Need to talk to you.”

“Can it not be waitin' until tomorrow? The children'n me will be risin' early to prepare for service in the mornin'.”

Her thick Irish brogue let him know it unsettled her to be caught in her nightclothes. If he possessed an Irish brogue, he'd be using it himself, considering how flustered he felt seeing her with her hair all billowy around her face and her bare toes peeping from beneath the hem of her robe.

He took a backward step. “M-maybe that'd be best.”

She creaked the door open a bit more—wide enough to poke her head out. “Would you be goin' with us? Emmy an' wee Nathaniel, they'd find such pleasure in goin' to Sunday service with their papa.”

“No,” Joss barked over a roll of thunder. “I'll talk to you tomorrow when you get back.” He charged around the house to his waiting wagon without giving her a chance to speak again. He climbed into the wagon, tying the canvas cover
closed at both ends just before the clouds opened and rain pelted the earth. Carried on a gusting wind, raindrops found their way between cracks, spattering Joss. He hunkered as low as he could and pulled the blanket clean over his head. He found it stifling underneath the heavy wool, but it blocked the water and also muffled the howl of wind, crashes of thunder, and
rat-a-tat-tat
of raindrops on the canvas.

The wagon rocked in the wind, and soon Joss fell into a fitful sleep, wrapped in his blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He dreamed he sat high on a wagon seat, driving through a gray, gloomy countryside. The road was rough, the wheels bouncing over rocks, nearly jarring him from the seat. But in the distance he caught sight of a slight figure. Shining blond hair blew in the wind, and deep blue eyes beseeched him to come nearer, nearer. His heart pounding in eagerness, Joss encouraged the horses to hurry, which increased the jolts and bumps of the wagon. But no matter how much distance the wagon covered, the woman remained far away. Heart thudding, breath coming in heaves, Joss leaned forward and forced the horses faster. The wheels hit a boulder, and the wagon tipped, tumbling end over end.

Joss jolted awake, gasping as he realized the tip of the wagon was reality, not a dream after all. He reached for some kind of handhold but found none. Curling into a ball to protect himself as best he could, he rolled with the pitch of the wooden box, jarring his knees and elbows and banging his head as he went. The wagon came to a rest on its side, the canvas cover torn and flapping in the wind that continued to blow. Rain pelted him, dripping into his eyes and drenching his clothes.

He lay for a moment, trying to gather his senses. His forehead throbbed, and he gently fingered the area. Already a lump was forming. He'd have a goose egg for sure. His pants were torn at the knee, and it hurt to bend his right arm. Rain
lashed him, the drops stinging his flesh. He needed shelter. But the only place to go was the house. Would Tarsie let him in?

Using flashes of lightning to guide him, he limped his way around the house to the front, his feet slipping in the mud. His first knock went unacknowledged, but the second—harder and more insistent—brought a rasping query. “Who's out there?”

“Lemme in, Tarsie.” Joss hugged himself, shivering from the rain and the shock of the past minutes.

“Joss?” She sounded dumbfounded. He heard the scrabble of the cross-latch, and then the door swung wide. She held a lantern high in one hand and clutched her robe at her throat with the other, gawking at him. “What happened to you?”

He stumbled over the threshold and sank onto the closest surface—the trunk where they ate their meals. Keeping his voice at a whisper to avoid waking the children, he said, “Wind blew the wagon clean over. The cover's all torn. I'm gonna have to stay in here.”

She stared at him, her lips pressed tightly together, as if struggling against a mighty argument. Then she let out a whoosh of breath. “Well, then, I guess there's no choice in the matter, is there?” She set her shoulders square, peering down her nose at him. “No one can be looking askance at us, considering we were joined by a clergyman. It's not unseemly, is it, for a man and his wife to reside together under the same roof.” She spoke as though convincing herself.

Joss, listening, wished he could crawl inside his own soggy shirt and disappear. If she knew the truth, she wouldn't be so stalwart.

“I'll just climb in with the wee ones,” she went on in that same no-nonsense tone. “You . . .” Under the glow of the lantern, her face bloomed bold pink. “Be changin' into dry clothes and take m-my sleeping spot. Good night, Joss.” She leaned forward and deposited the lantern next to his hip,
taking care that her fingers avoided contact with his wet trousers. Then she scurried to the corner, slipping beneath the quilt with Emmy and Nathaniel.

Joss started to unbutton his shirt, then he flicked a glance at the corner. Tarsie's eyes were shut, but her eyelids quivered. He drew in a deep breath, then used the air to extinguish the lantern. Fumbling through the dark, he located the trunk that held his clean clothes. He changed, flicking furtive glances toward the corner, then left his wet clothing in a pile on the floor.