A Home in Drayton Valley (25 page)

Simon jolted, and Ruth released a little moan of complaint. She rolled over, pushing her backside against his hip. He gave it a few pats, hardly aware of the action, his focus inward. He licked his lips, swallowed, then braved a query. “Lawd, do You be layin' on me the task o' showin' Joss how to be a lovin' daddy to his chillun? An' if You is givin' me that task, how'm I gon' do it if Mistuh Tollison's vineyard gets shut down an' we all lose our jobs?” He lay, tense and waiting, for some response. But nothing came.

Simon sighed, shifting to curl his body around the form of his slumbering wife. “Awright, Lawd, 'nough pesterin' for one night. You can be tellin' me in the mornin'.”

 25 

T
arsie set a plate of fried eggs, fried mush dripping with butter, and toasted bread in front of Joss for breakfast Saturday morning. She smiled when his eyes widened in surprise. “Sneaked them past you, didn't I?” She patted her apron's flat pocket. “Carried eggs home from Ruth and Simon's last night. So we have a treat for breakfast today.”

Joss didn't reply, but he picked up his fork and dug in, licking his lips. The gesture of eager anticipation stirred a flutter of pleasure in Tarsie's middle. She poured coffee for him and then puttered around the small space while he ate, waiting for him to finish so she could ask the question that had kept her restless much of the night. Why hadn't Joss mentioned the upcoming vote concerning prohibition in Kansas? She didn't know a great deal about marriage, but it seemed as though a man should share his worries with his wife.

A man and wife should share lots of things—none of which had entered her relationship with Joss. Would they forever be man and wife in name only? Would she never know the true meaning of being joined with a man? Heat rushed into her face. Such a brazen thought . . . But after witnessing Ruth and Simon's ease with each other—gentle teasing, simple touches, tender glances—she realized anew how much she
wanted, maybe even needed, such a relationship with the man to whom she'd pledged herself.

She couldn't honestly say she loved Joss. Not yet. But all of her prayers asking God to help her honor her promise to Mary had resulted in a softening toward him. An acceptance. Maybe even an affection. And that was a start.

“Got any more eggs? Those were real good.” Joss's hopeful query startled Tarsie from her reverie. She turned toward the table. He must've used his bread to mop the plate clean. It didn't even look used.

She lifted the remaining eggs from a little bowl on the back of the stove. “I've got these. Did you want me to fry them for you?”

He gazed at the pair of creamy eggs cradled in Tarsie's palm. “That's it? Just two more?”

Tarsie nodded.

Joss sighed. “Then . . . nah. Feed 'em to the young'uns.”

Tarsie's heart gave a little flip at his unselfishness. “I've got plenty more mush. I can fry up some more slices for you, if you'd like.”

“That'll do.”

Tarsie reached for his plate, and he handed it over. Her fingertips brushed his, and fire ignited in her face. She whirled away from him before he could witness roses bloom in her cheeks, thankful the stove sat in the corner so she could keep her back to him while she browned the slices of cold mush in lard. By the time the slices were crisp, brown, and hot, she felt as though she'd gathered her senses about her, so she slid onto the bench opposite him while he ate. “Ruth told me there's a vote coming up soon. If it passes, Kansas won't allow liquor to be made or sold in the state.”

“I heard about it.” Joss chopped free a hearty bite with his fork and carried it to his mouth, his head low.

“I'm surprised you haven't said anything. It's got to be
worrying you, knowing you could be losing your job if the vote passes.”

“Fellas at work say if it passes, change won't come 'til January of next year. So . . .” He shoved the final bite into his mouth, then pushed the plate toward her.

Tarsie fiddled with the edge of the plate, watching him up-end his coffee cup and drain it dry. “But this is August already. Won't be long to January of 1881. Knowin' it's comin' so quick, that doesn't . . . bother you?”

He lowered the cup, sending her a puzzled frown. “Why should it?”

They'd enjoyed a pleasant morning. She didn't want to spoil it, but she had to know. “Only a few more months and maybe no more job. And for sure, no more liquor.
Never
a chance to . . . drink.” She almost whispered the final word, so much meaning being placed within the confines of five letters.

For long seconds Joss gazed at her, his unsmiling expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. Then he shrugged. “Don't matter.”

Joy exploded through Tarsie's middle. Had Drayton Valley worked its magic? Had his thirst for alcohol been washed away beneath the wide open skies? “It . . . it doesn't?”

“Nope.” He pushed away from the table. “Gotta get to work.” He grabbed his hat from its nail, plopped it over his thick, unruly waves, then reached for the door. Before stepping through, he glanced back. “I get paid today. I'll see about buyin' some chicks. Put up a little pen out back. Be good to have eggs every day.”

Tarsie darted to the door, linking her fingers together to keep from adjusting his hat at a rakish angle over those thick, dark waves. “That'd be fine.”

“All right, then. Bye.”

“Let me get your lunch!”

He hovered in the doorway while she dashed to the stove
and snatched up the little pail that held his sandwiches and the molasses cookie Emmy had brought back from Ruth's. She pressed the handle into his waiting hand, experiencing an urge to rise up on tiptoe and deliver a kiss on his cheek the way the neighbors' wives did when sending their husbands out for the day. But of course, she didn't do it.

“Have a good day, Joss.”

He bobbed his head in a quick farewell, then headed down the hill toward town. Tarsie stood in the doorway and watched him stride away, his shoulders square and arms swinging, as if ready to take on the world. Words of thankfulness winged their way from her heart to the heavens. “He's changin', Mary. Your prayers an' mine, they're bein' answered.”

Joss swung onto the horse's back, acknowledging the animal's snort of protest with a pat on its neck. “I know you're tired of totin' me back and forth every day, but don't worry. Won't be long and I'll be hightailin' it outta here. You won't have to tote me again.” The statement, one intended to offer encouragement, weighed heavy on Joss's mind as he aimed the horse for the road leading to the Tollison Vineyard.

The elation he'd seen on Tarsie's face that morning haunted him. He knew what she'd been thinking—she couldn't hide anything with those big green eyes of hers. She thought it didn't bother him that he'd have no access to liquor if prohibition came to Kansas. She couldn't know it didn't matter because he wouldn't be here.

He sucked in a big breath of humid morning air. Early yet, but already hot with mosquitoes buzzing thick in the brush that lined the roadway. The pests dove at his head and whirred in his ears, as annoying as the guilt that plagued him. Tarsie turned more wifely every day, fixing up that little house, caring for his youngsters, preparing his meals and keeping his
clothes clean and mended. And he'd come to like having her see to his needs. Liked knowing she'd be there at the end of a day, a smile ready no matter his mood. He even liked when she got saucy with him. He would never have thought it possible to find her penchant for standing up to him amusing, but it added a little spice to his life.

He slapped at a mosquito that had the audacity to bite him on the back of the hand. The sharp sting served as a reminder that Tarsie wasn't “his” woman. “I oughta tell her,” he muttered. But he knew he wouldn't. Not yet. Not until he had all the furniture finished, a few chickens pecking in a pen, the summer's garden harvested, and enough money set aside to cover her rent for at least three months. He wouldn't tell her until he could assure her that she and the youngsters'd be fine without him.

A question—one so unexpected his body jerked as if he'd been struck with a tree limb—roared through his mind: Would
he
be fine without
them
? An aching emptiness followed the thought. The question pestered Joss all day while he worked.

Over the past weeks, the vines had grown into a sea of green, bearing leaves almost as big as a man's hand, leaves that shaded clusters of tiny deep-purple and pale-green grapes. He'd learned the purple grapes were turned into red wine, the green ones into a pale Chardonnay that they seasoned in oak barrels to give the wine a rich flavor. Simon said it'd be another month at least before they harvested, giving the grapes time to fully plump and sweeten, but already the scent when the sun beamed down was heady. Almost intoxicating. But oddly, up until now, it hadn't stimulated any desire for drink. For the first time in years, Joss had a clear head, and a part of him gloried in it. Today, though, with the uncomfortable question niggling in the back of his mind, he discovered a strong desire to lose himself in a bottle. To forget, just for a while.

Although he hadn't swallowed one drop of liquor since leaving New York, he knew where he could indulge. On the outskirts of town, near the river where the loading dock had once stood, fellows had pointed out a little shack where they gathered from time to time to shoot craps and tip a glass. He'd avoided the place—desire to honor Mary had kept him from venturing there—but all day he battled a fierce temptation to break the alcohol fast. Just once. Get rip-roarin' drunk. Numbing drunk. Didn't he deserve it after working so hard? Sure he did.

At the close of the day, he fell in with the others to collect his wages. He'd taken his time ambling out of the fields, putting him last in line to receive his pay. By the time Simon slipped the brown envelope into his hands, he was twitchy with eagerness to ride into town and spend a bit of his hard-earned money on something that would fill the emptiness he carried inside.

Simon closed a little tin box with a snap and shot him a smile. “An' you be the last'un. Glad you came up last—gives me a chance to talk to you without holdin' up the line.”

Joss slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket without checking inside, the way most men did. He had no reason to suspect Simon of shorting him. He inched backward, his bootheels stirring dust. “Whatcha need with me?”

“You started buildin' them beds an' such yet?”

Foolish question. He'd just carted the saplings to the house last night and he'd been at work all day. When would he have had time to work? “'Course not.”

Simon's smile broadened, apparently unaware of the sarcasm Joss inserted in his tone. “I can come in with Ruth an' the chillun this evenin'—Tarsie's givin' Ruth another lesson. I'll lend you a hand if you's wanting to get started on those beds. Got some sturdy rope good for stringin', an' when I tol' Ruth you's thinkin' on buildin' some chairs, she said she'd
be glad to weave some seats outta reeds. She's right clever when it comes to weavin'. Those chairs'd stand up real fine for you'uns.”

Joss fidgeted in place, two desires warring inside of him. Oh, how he wanted a drink. But he also wanted to get everything finished for the house so he'd be free to leave. Once he was in Chicago, he could drink as much and as often as he took a mind to without it affecting anybody.

“C'mon in with Ruth, then.”

Simon tucked the tin box under his arm and limped around the little table he used for distributing pay envelopes. “We'll head out aftuh we eat. Less'n you'd like us to bring some food ovuh an' all eats togethuh. Prob'ly give us a little more workin' time, were we to share a meal.”