A Home in Drayton Valley (3 page)

An hour later, raucous laughter chased Joss from the saloon. One of the revelers staggered to the doorway after him, his foul breath wafting to Joss's nostrils. “You need to find a differ'nt game if you can't toss dice any better'n that.”

Joss whirled, his fists clenched. “Leave me be.”

The man's eyes widened in mock innocence. “Just givin' you some advice, friend.” He offered a taunting grin. “You sure could use it.”

Joss raised his fists. “I'm not your friend, and I don't want your advice.”

The drunken man took a stumbling step in reverse, holding up both palms. “Awright, awright.” He raised his bony shoulders in a shrug. “Don't gotta get sore, fella. Shee, some people can't take help when it's bein' offered.” He turned a clumsy half circle and reentered the saloon, muttering.

Shoulders hunched and fists tucked in his empty pockets, Joss scuffed his way along the docks. He was in no hurry to get home. Mary would take one look at him and know where he'd been. The hurt in her eyes always stung more than his pa's belt ever had. His stomach churned. Partly from hunger, partly from worry. So far he'd managed to hold Lanker at bay by handing over a portion of his pay and promising more the next week. But next Friday, his time was up. He owed Lanker. He owed the tenement owner. And Mary would need money to buy food. Could he sell something? The only thing left of value was the mantel clock Mary's grandfather had brought over from England. Mary wouldn't part with it—and even if she did, no pawnshop owner would give him what he needed to pay his debt to Lanker.

Mary'd done her best over the years to convince Joss that God would meet their needs. But no God—not even if He was as loving and giving as his wife proclaimed—would help a man who'd done as many wrongs as Joss Brubacher.

With a strangled moan, Joss kicked at a clump of papers lying along the filthy boardwalk. He expected them to separate and scatter in the wind, but instead the entire clump rolled over twice and then settled with a stained, worn, brown cover facing up. Joss sucked in a breath—Mary's book about Kansas.

He bent over and yanked it up. His cold fingers trembled as he clung to the book. Maybe there was an answer to his problem.

 3 

T
he pain that never left Mary's side stabbed as she bent over the children's sleeping mats and tucked a soft quilt beneath their chins.
Strength, Father
, her heart begged as she forced a smile to her lips. “Sleep well now.”

Emmy and Nathaniel murmured a sleepy response, and their eyes slipped closed, thick lashes casting shadows on their rounded cheeks. Mary's heart swelled as a lump filled her throat. Such beautiful children. Such blessings.

Mary struggled upright. The pain intensified with the movement. She ground her teeth together to hold back a moan. Each day the burden of pain, which had begun in her right breast more than a year ago and trailed beneath her arm and into her ribs over the ensuing months, became harder to bear. Having watched her own mother travel this pathway—although the pain had found Mary years earlier than it had gripped Mama—she knew what awaited.

Strength, Father
.

Clutching her threadbare robe around her shoulders, she scuffed to the main room of the apartment and sank down at the trestle table. She rested her elbows on the scrubbed, scarred surface and let her face drop into her hands. How much time did she have? Weeks? Months, maybe? She hadn't yet told Tarsie about the pain that held her captive. Her friend
would try her best to cure her, but Mary knew far too well there was no cure for this illness. It would take her soon enough. No need to leave Tarsie feeling guilty for something over which she had no control.

Tarsie had called Kansas the place where happiness dwelled. Mary's gaze drifted to the doorway of the sleeping room. She envisioned Emmy and Nathaniel, snuggled together on their mat, blond, curly heads tipped close. The children deserved a place of joy. Somehow, she had to get them out of this tenement before her time to leave the earth came. Her head low, she began to pray, asking God to protect her children, to move in her husband's heart, to make it possible for the ones she loved more than life itself to find joy together when she could no longer be with them.

Lost in her prayer, she gave a start when someone viciously wrenched the doorknob. Then a voice called, “Mary? Unlock the door.”
Joss.
Releasing an involuntary groan, she pushed herself off the bench and shuffled to open the door. She searched Joss's face as he entered the apartment, seeking signs that he'd been imbibing liquor. Seeing none, she nearly sagged in relief.

“You missed your supper. Sit down. I'll get you a plate.”

Joss's heels dragged on the floor as he crossed to the table and eased himself onto the waiting bench. She sensed his eyes following her as she scooped beans seasoned with pork fat onto a speckled plate. One biscuit from yesterday's baking remained in the tin, so she tucked it next to the beans. Such a sad offering for a man who'd spent his day laboring.

She planted a kiss on his temple, inhaling his unique aroma of sweat, sea, and musky skin as she placed the plate in front of him. He picked up the fork, but then sat with it in his fist, staring at the beans.

“Aren't you hungry?” She ran her fingers through his thick hair. She'd always loved Joss's hair—thick and dark and laden
with natural waves that rolled away from his forehead like the ocean rolled toward shore. But also soft. Surprisingly so, considering how gruff he could be. But she understood his crustiness was a mask—a barrier he used to protect himself. Although at times she longed for tenderness, she loved him anyway, because she knew he loved her the best way he knew how. What would he do when she was gone? Her fingers coiled around the silken strands and clung.

He dropped the fork and reached up to grasp one of her exploring hands. With a tug, he drew her onto the bench beside him. “Mary, tell me . . . about Kansas.” He slapped the little book onto the table.

Although his tone sounded more weary than eager, her heart leaped with hope. She sought the section Tarsie had pointed out about Drayton Valley and read slowly, emphasizing the points she thought Joss would find the most interesting. While she read, she couldn't help imagining her children running along a grassy riverbank or ambling toward a little schoolhouse, slates tucked in the bends of their arms. She pictured Joss coming home at the end of the day, tired but smiling, satisfied with the toil of his hands, his eyes clear and his face tanned from the sun. But she didn't put herself in the fanciful imaginings.

She finished reading every detail, then told Joss about the man at the railroad who could help them purchase tickets. Placing her hand over his, she sighed. “Doesn't it sound like a fine place, Joss? A place for a family to prosper.” Slipping her eyes closed, she allowed one more picture to form in her mind—of Joss leading the children up the steps of a clapboard chapel. Tears stung behind her closed lids.
It could happen, Lord, couldn't it?

“It's far away from here, this Kansas?” Joss's low, serious tone drew Mary's focus.

“Yes, Joss. Far away.”

His jaw jutted. “This, then, is what you want?”

Mary held her breath, afraid she might still be caught in her wistful dreaming. Her vocal cords seemed tangled in knots, unable to deliver words, so she gave a nod.

Joss's head sagged. “But money for tickets . . . I don't have it.”

As much as Mary wished she could refuse Tarsie's offer to give over her saved earnings, she wouldn't be taking it for herself. This was for her children. For Joss. For a better, richer, more joyful life. She could swallow her pride for the sake of her loved ones. She only prayed Joss's pride, which was much larger than hers, could be overcome.

In a mere whisper, she said, “I do.”

His head shot up, one wavy strand of dark hair flopping across his forehead. “You have money?”

The glimmer in his eyes frightened her. Desperation tinged with fury. But she couldn't retreat now. “Y-yes.”

“How much?”

Tarsie hadn't mentioned an amount, but she had indicated she'd spoken to the railroad man and knew her funds were adequate for the journey. Mary chose a simple reply. “Enough.”

“Fetch it for me.”

“I . . . can't. It isn't here.”

“Where is it?”

Mary swallowed. “Tarsie has it.” Should she tell him it was Tarsie's money, not hers? But Tarsie was willing to give it to her, which made it hers, didn't it? Her pain-muddled brain tried to reason, but rational thought wouldn't form.

Joss chewed his lower lip, his gaze aimed somewhere behind Mary's shoulder. She'd learned over their years together that it was best to let Joss ruminate. If she pushed him, his defenses would rise. While he thought, she prayed, and after several silent minutes he blew out a mighty breath.

Face still averted, he said, “Pack, then. We'll go.”

With a joyous cry, Mary threw herself into Joss's arms. The sudden movement brought a new, excruciating crush of pain. She muffled her gasp with his shoulder. He'd change his mind if he knew how sick she was. And she couldn't let him turn back now. Struggling against waves of nausea, she forced herself to speak. “I can be ready by Monday if need be.”

“Monday, then.”

Joss's arms held her tight, the pressure painful but still welcome. He so rarely cradled her, seemingly afraid of gentleness being misconstrued as weakness. She relished the feel of his firm, sturdy arms encircling her frame, and although the pain continued to stab with a ferocity that brought tears to her eyes, she refused to wriggle loose of his snug embrace. Mary sighed in contentment as Joss ran his big, warm hands up and down her spine.

With a final pat on her back, he disengaged himself from her hold. He picked up his fork, scooped a bite, and swallowed. “I'll go to Tarsie's after I finish work tomorrow and get the money so I can purchase tickets.”

“That's a fine idea.” Mary drew in a slow breath, gathering courage. Her next request would surely be met with resistance, but somehow she had to convince him. “And . . . would you tell her to pack, too?”

The fork clattered to the tabletop as Joss spun to face her. “Why?”

Tarsie had no family, nothing to hold her here. And Tarsie loved Mary. Tarsie would do anything to honor her friend—Mary knew this from the depth of her soul. Did Joss love Mary enough to honor her desire? She tested his love with a simple statement. “Tarsie must come with us. I won't go without her. I . . . I need her, Joss.”

And you and the children will need her soon, too.

Tarsie snipped the thread with her teeth and let the heavy velvet skirt flop across her lap. She'd finished with hours to spare before the Saturday-morning deadline. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude then balled her hands into fists and stretched, releasing the tense muscles in her shoulders.

In a chair across the table, one of her roommates, Agnes, lifted her gaze from the camisole in her hands and sent Tarsie a narrow-eyed scowl. “All done? I wish I could sew as quickly as you. Mr. Garvey always berates me for being behind quota.”

Their boss was a stern taskmaster, and often Tarsie's heart lurched in sympathy for workers forced to endure the sharp side of his tongue. But sometimes, Tarsie had to admit, Agnes deserved it. Of the six young women who shared the little apartment and worked as seamstresses for August Garvey, Agnes was the only one to fall below expectations. Mostly because she piddled rather than used her time wisely, claiming the work “boring.” But Tarsie's Bible admonished her to work as unto the Lord rather than men. Her conscience wouldn't allow her to shirk, no matter how uninteresting the task.

Tarsie rose and shook out the skirt, admiring the glint of deep purple in the lantern light. “Speed comes with practice, Agnes. You'll be catchin' on soon enough, I'm sure.”

Agnes sniffed and leaned back over the camisole.

Tarsie folded the skirt and laid it carefully on her chair. Massaging her lower back, she moved to the stove. A peek in the tall enamel pot revealed at least a cupful of brackish liquid. She poured it into a tin mug and raised it to her lips, grimacing as the bitter brew hit her tongue. The coffee had sat on the back of the stove all day, gaining strength, and the taste turned her stomach, but she drank it anyway. Her empty stomach needed filling. After draining the mug, she carried it and the pot to the dry sink where more dirty mugs, plates, and silverware waited in a basin.

When Mr. Garvey had assigned the girls to this apartment in his building, he'd instructed them to take turns with housekeeping, each pulling an equal share. But she'd discovered the other girls could ignore piles of dirty dishes, crumb-scattered floors, and dust-covered furniture. So frequently, Tarsie—the eldest of the girls at twenty-four—performed the others' tasks rather than live in a messy apartment. She couldn't prevent rodents and vermin from creeping in under the door or from holes in the walls, but she could at least make it harder for them to hide by keeping things tidy.

She picked up the water bucket and headed for the door, intending to venture to the pump in the alley. When she opened the door she discovered a large man, fist upraised, on the opposite side of the threshold. She let out a squawk of surprise and nearly threw the bucket at him. But then lantern light from the apartment reached his face, and she blew out a breath of relief.