A Home in Drayton Valley (21 page)

Dry again, he snuggled into the pile of blankets, still warm from Tarsie's body. An uneasy chill worked its way up his spine. Come tomorrow, there were lots of things he and Tarsie would need to discuss. And she wasn't going to like any of them.

 21 

S
unday morning dawned rosy and calm, the fury of last night's storm chased away by cheerful fingers of light spreading across the horizon like a fine lady's jeweled fan. Tarsie tiptoed, barefooted, over soggy ground strewn with scraps of green leaves to the well and lowered the bucket into the cool depths.

She wore her robe over her nightclothes, just as she had all night. Where would she find the privacy to change into her church dress? If she asked, would Joss step outside and allow her to disrobe without audience? As her husband, he had every right to remain inside. To even observe her, if he desired. The thought of Joss's eyes on her sent tremors through her belly.

She pulled the full bucket upward on its squeaky rope as heat built in her face. “He's never once demanded his rights as husband,” she murmured, trying to reassure herself. “Surely a tipped wagon won't be changin' how we've done things in the past. He'll just set it back to right again an'—”

“Tarsie?”

Tarsie let out a yelp of surprise and released the rope. The bucket plummeted downward and landed with an echoing splash. She whirled around, her mouth open, to find Joss a few feet behind her. His tan trousers and blue untucked shirt
were rumpled. A dark shadow filled his lower face, and his thick hair stood in untidy tufts, signifying a rough night's sleep. For one brief second, Tarsie found herself wanting to smooth his hair into place. Her hand lifted, but she caught herself in time and linked her fingers together, pressing her joined hands to her ribs, where she felt the pound of her heartbeat.

Joss strode toward her, the ties of his boots flopping against the moist grass. He tugged the bucket upward, then sloshed water into her waiting pail. Tossing the empty bucket back into the well, he studied her solemnly. “Did you take a look at the wagon?”

“N-no.”

He pursed his lips, his mustache forming a grim line. “It's ruined. Cover's shredded, front axle broken, box all busted up. It's nothin' more'n scrap lumber now.”

Although he didn't come right out and say so, she knew he'd be residing in the house from now on. She lifted the pail and started for the house, Joss on her heels. His hand curled around her elbow, halting her progress. She looked up at him, her mouth dry. Although they'd exchanged vows nearly two months ago, they'd never stood so close. She could see her own reflection in his pupils.

“Before you go inside and wake the young'uns, let's talk.”

Tarsie swallowed. Her attire and his sleep-tumbled appearance lent too much intimacy to the moment. She didn't think she'd be able to form a coherent sentence. “C-can't it wait . . . 'til later?” After breakfast. After worship service. After she was dressed and had gathered her wits about her.

He scowled. “Puttin' it off won't change anything. Just listen. I don't think you oughta teach that colored woman to read.”

Tarsie drew in a breath, an argument forming on her tongue, but before she could speak he went on.

“Folks won't look kindly on you, taking up with her. An' if you're gonna make your home in this town, you don't want to be branded a Negro sympathizer. It'll cause all kinds of trouble for you.”

She huffed. “I can't be livin' my life worryin' about what pleases or displeases narrow-minded people. In the end, the only opinion that matters is the one held by my Lord, an' He's the One who gave me the idea of teachin' Ruth.”

His lips curled in derision. “Lord oughta have sense enough to know something like that would put you in disgrace with your neighbors.”

She wrenched her arm loose and pointed one finger at him. “Don't you be spewin' insults toward the good Lord Almighty, Joss Brubacher!”

“Just speaking the truth.” Joss balled his hands and plunked them on his hips. With widespread feet and arms held akimbo, he created a formidable figure. “You think your neighbors are gonna trade milk or pork roasts with you once you've tainted yourself? You're walking a dangerous road, woman. And what's worse, you're dragging my young'uns down with you. Your actions'll affect them.”

As much as Tarsie wanted to deny Joss's claims, she feared he could be right. People's prejudices were never rational. Might Emmy and Nathaniel suffer as a result of her reaching out to Ruth Foster? But how could she possibly refuse after making a promise? After seeing Ruth's face light with pleasure—after experiencing the rush of peace that only came when one followed the Lord's prompting—she couldn't retreat from her commitment.

Tarsie drew in a breath and then let it rush out, her shoulders wilting. “You know how much I love those wee ones. I'd never want to bring hurt on their little hearts.”

Joss folded his arms over his chest and peered down at her. “So it's settled, then.”

“Yes, Joss. It's settled.”

“Good.” He took one step toward the house.

“I'll be prayin' for God to wrap His arms of strength and protection around Emmy an' Nathaniel so if anyone flings an arrow of criticism, the wee ones won't be pierced by ugly words.”

He whirled to face her, his gaze narrowing. “What?”

“I've got to do what God asked me to do no matter what it might cost.”

Fury sparked in his eyes. “You mean to say you're gonna teach her even after I said not to?”

Tarsie lifted her chin. “That's what I mean.”

Joss growled low in his throat. He clenched his fists again and leaned toward Tarsie, his pose menacing. But then he spun, presenting his stiff back. “No colored woman oughta be able to do somethin' more'n what I—” His voice stopped so abruptly, it seemed as though someone had ripped his tongue from his mouth.

Tarsie's heart skipped a beat. “More than you . . . ?”

But Joss charged toward the corner of the house, calling over his taut shoulder, “Get inside, get dressed, an' you an' the young'uns skedaddle outta there. I got work to do this morning, and I don't want any of you underfoot.” He stormed from view.

Tarsie stood in the morning sunshine, staring after him, her lip caught between her teeth. She repeated his unfinished sentence in her mind, considering possible completions, and when realization hit, her knees nearly buckled. She stared at the corner of the house where he'd disappeared, remembering his tense shoulders and tightly clenched fists. Anger—and pride—had pulsed from him.

“Joss can't read.” She whispered the words, her stomach churning with both sympathy and embarrassment for him. Little wonder he'd gotten so frustrated with the children
for leaving all those marks on the wall. Little wonder he pressed bills into her hand and sent her to do the shopping. Little wonder he'd never picked up a storybook to read to the children.

She pictured the page in her Bible where she'd filled out the marriage certificate. Heat rose from her middle and seared her all the way to her scalp as she recalled him turning away when she'd asked if he wanted to sign his name on the page. “Just do it,” he'd said, stinging her with his disinterest. But it wasn't disinterest that kept him from writing his name—it was inability.

A proud, independent man like Joss . . . unable to read. Her heart ached for him. Just as God had placed Ruth's plight on her conscience, Joss's need weighed heavily on Tarsie. But Ruth had begged for teaching. Joss would certainly refuse any offer. His fierce pride would hold him back.

Heaving a sigh, Tarsie scuffed toward the house, water pail in hand. She'd do as he said for now—ready the children for service and leave. And when the minister had them all kneel to pray, she'd ask God to reveal a way for Joss to learn to read and write so he needn't hang his head in shame. She'd have a time of it, convincing Joss to bend his pride enough to admit he needed help. But God answered prayers.

Strength, Father . . .

When she and the children returned from church, Tarsie paused in the yard, puzzled by a strange banging coming from inside the house.

Emmy glanced at her, obviously worried. “Is somethin' getting broked? Like Papa's wagon got broked?”

Joss had been so angry with her that morning. Surely he wouldn't destroy their little house out of spite, would he? The peaceful feelings from hearing God's words spoken followed
by a time of prayer and reflection fled. She grabbed Nathaniel's hand and urged Emmy, “Come along, now. Let's go make sure your papa's all right in there.” She stepped over the threshold, the children crowded so close she nearly tripped over them, and she let out a little gasp of surprise.

Joss rose from his haunches beside the most ungainly-looking table Tarsie had ever seen. He bounced a hammer against his thigh and sent her an unsmiling look. “Borrowed a hammer and nails from Bliss next door. Figured I better get as many favors as I can before you turn all the neighbors into enemies with your harebrained scheme.”

The tenderness she'd felt for him when considering his illiterate state washed away on a wave of defensiveness. “I won't be discussin' that with you in front of the wee ones.” She took a step forward, examining his project. Weathered strips of wood, some of which bore pale scuffs left over from a white rock wielded by a child's hand, formed a square with posts stretching upward from each corner. Her gaze bounced to Joss, surprise replacing irritation. “You made a table from the wagon boards.”

Joss plopped the hammer on the floor and turned the table right side up. He pressed both palms to the top. It wobbled some, the legs uneven, but it supported his weight. “Nothing fancy, that's for sure.” His voice held disdain, but his eyes traveled over his handiwork, satisfaction glimmering in the dark depths. “But it beats that trunk. I'll build a couple benches, too, so we can sit instead of kneeling to eat.”

“You did a fine job, Joss. I've been longing for a table. Thank you.”

He barely flicked a glance at her. Scooping up the hammer, he headed for the open door. “I'll work on the benches outside so you can put dinner together. Make it quick. I'm half starved.”

They sat on crates to eat their Sunday dinner—chunks of
leftover pork roast on thick slices of bread with rich gravy poured on top. Joss gulped his food, using a spoon to scoop up every drop of gravy. The moment he finished, he stood and aimed himself for the door again, his arms swinging and chin jutted forward as if marching to war. Tarsie, watching him, couldn't help but think he found pleasure in building. In creating something useful. She filed the thought away to reflect on later, when she needed reminding of his good traits.

The children stretched out on their makeshift bed after filling their tummies, and soon they napped, oblivious to their father banging boards together and hammering nails outside the window. Tarsie washed and dried the dishes, then returned them to their spot on the shelves, humming the morning's hymns and reflecting on the sermon. Reverend Mann had preached from Psalm 138, and snippets from the Scripture played through Tarsie's mind. She liked the reminder that God gave strength when it was requested. When the minister had read “Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me,” she'd shivered with delight. Joss predicted trouble would come from her reaching out to Ruth, but the Scripture assured her God would prevent it from overwhelming her.