A Home in Drayton Valley (34 page)

Emmy skittered off to obey.

Joss finally stepped all the way in, pushing the door closed behind him. He swept his hat from his head and pressed it to his chest, sniffing the air. “You been baking?”

Tarsie nodded. “Spice cake. With walnuts and apples.”

“Sounds good.”

She dared examine his face. Not smiling exactly, but neither did he frown. He maintained a pleasant expression. A little apprehensive, yet open. He puzzled her. “Would you like a piece?”

A small smile tipped up the corners of his mouth, lifting the edges of his mustache. “I've never been one to turn down a sweet.”

Flustered by his strange behavior, Tarsie waved both hands at the table. “Well then, sit.” She dashed to the stove, where she'd left the cake on the smooth top, and carved out a good-
sized square for him. When she carried it to the table, she discovered he'd taken his old spot next to Nathaniel. He sat with his arm around the boy's narrow shoulders, alternately smiling at his son, who busily tamped up crumbs with one finger, and at Emmy, who crouched on the floor next to Joss's booted foot and watched the kitten slurp its milk.

They looked so sweet—so
right
—there together that tears spurted into her eyes. She slid the plate and fork on the table, then backed away, unwilling to intrude upon the pleasant family scene.

Joss lifted his head and sent her a startled look. “Aren't you gonna sit, too?”

She wound her hands together. “I . . . I need to be fixin' that button for you.” He still wore the shirt. More heat flooded her face. “Can you . . . give me your shirt?”

He grimaced. “I didn't get a button at the mercantile. I . . . I had to leave.”

Yes, she remembered his abrupt departure. “I have buttons in my sewing box. I'll be finding something.”

After a moment's pause, he shrugged out of the shirt. He wore a long-sleeved undershirt beneath, the ribbed sleeves pushed above his elbows in a bulky wad. Tarsie couldn't help noticing the bulge of his biceps as he handed the shirt to her. She clutched it and scurried to the trunk in the corner where she kept her sewing items. Her stomach fluttered worse than tree leaves in a stout breeze. Why'd the man have to be so attractive? It'd be easier to keep her distance if he were a homely man.

To her great surprise, she realized, on this evening at least, Joss's attractiveness went beneath his pleasing exterior. His kindness to the children, the way he smiled at them when they weren't even looking at him, the way he'd set his gaze on her with admiration and . . . something more . . . ignited a fire within Tarsie. This . . .
this
was the Joss she'd longed to see. Attentive. Tender. Giving.

But how long would it last?

That was a question she dared not explore for fear of being disappointed once again. She selected a spool of white thread and a needle, then dug through her little button box for one identical to those on the shirt. Although she couldn't locate an exact match, she found one similar in color and identical in size. It would do. But instead of sewing it in the second spot, where everyone would notice its difference, she snipped the button from near the tail, where it would be tucked into the waistband of Joss's trousers, and used it to replace the missing one. Then she sewed the mismatched button at the tail.

While she stitched, Joss ate his cake and the children played with the kitten. A delightful feeling of peacefulness coiled through Tarsie's middle. Joss had claimed he didn't know how to be a father, but right now, before her eyes, she watched him step into the role with ease. She heard his low voice instruct Nathaniel not to pull the kitten's tail—firm yet kind. She watched him stroke Emmy's tangled hair from her face. When Nathaniel bounced up and leaned his elbows on his father's knee, Joss leaned forward a bit—stiffly, but purposefully—and placed a kiss on the top of Nathaniel's blond curls.

Somehow in the past weeks, Joss had uncovered a hidden part of himself. And Tarsie witnessed the loving side of him unwrap right before her eyes. A lump filled her throat, a prayer of gratitude building in her heart. Joss
could
care for his children—he possessed the ability.

But he wouldn't as long as there was someone to do it for him.

By the time Tarsie nipped the thread from the second button, she knew what she must do. It wouldn't be easy. Her chest ached just thinking about it. But it would be best. For Emmy, for Nathaniel, and for Joss. And Mary would be so pleased.

Forcing her lips into what she hoped was a bright smile, she crossed the floor and offered the shirt to Joss. “There you
are. Good as new. Well . . .” She giggled, the sound shrill. “Almost new.”

Joss pushed up from the bench and shrugged into the shirt. Deftly, he fastened the buttons, leaving the tail out. He smoothed his hand down the placket, then sent Tarsie a lopsided grin that nearly melted her insides. “Thanks. It looks real fine.” He drew in a big breath, his gaze wandering to the door. “Well, I guess I should—”

“Could you be staying a few more minutes?” Tarsie pressed her palms to her jumping stomach, certain her face must be blazing red. “I . . . I need to use the outhouse, and . . .” She gestured to the children.

Joss's eyebrows flew upward. “Oh! Yes. Sure.” He sank back onto the bench, pink stealing across his whiskered cheeks. “Go ahead. I'll stay with 'em.”

“Thank you, Joss.” Her voice quavered, but he didn't seem to notice. He'd leaned forward with his elbow on his knee, tickling the kitten with his fingertip. The children giggled.

At the doorway, Tarsie peered back for one long moment, memorizing the sight of them. The dark-haired man and the blond-haired children, all playing together with a marmalade-colored cat. She smiled.
It's perfect, Lord—exactly what Mary always wanted.
And then she slipped out into the evening gloaming, knowing she'd never see them again.

 34 

N
athaniel yawned, his face stretching comically. Then he rubbed his eyes. “Tired . . .”

Joss glanced at the clock. Forty after eight? He'd lost track of time, playing with the kitten and listening to his children's chatter and laughter. “Let's put you down for some sleep.” He scooped Nathaniel off the floor, giving him a little swoop that made him shriek.

Emmy bounced up, her hands reaching. “Me too! Swing me, Papa!”

Happiness danced in his chest, hearing the eagerness in her voice. He hitched Nathaniel onto one hip and ruffled Emmy's already bedraggled curls. “Lemme tuck this one in, then I'll getcha.”

He stepped behind the dividing wall and blinked through the shadows. Three beds stood in a row, two smaller ones close together on the left, and a bigger one tucked against the wall on the right. Apparently Tarsie'd found someone—mostly likely Simon—to finish the beds. He felt torn between gratitude and guilt. He should've been the one to do it.

“Which one o' these is yours?” he asked Nathaniel. The little boy pointed, and Joss plopped him onto it, deliberately releasing him a few inches above the folded blankets that served as a mattress. He grinned at Nathaniel's giggles.

Then he spun and grabbed Emmy, who'd trailed behind him in impatience. She squealed in delight, nearly piercing his eardrums, but he laughed. A loud laugh. A real laugh. It felt good to let it come out.

He laid Emmy more gently onto her bed, figuring Emmy wouldn't want too much roughhousing. Simon didn't roughhouse with his little girl the way he did with the boys. Joss'd spent every evening since last Sunday with Simon's family, and he'd learned a lot about daddying just by watching. Simon was a good teacher.

Emmy wriggled into her bed. “I want Tarsie to come tell me good night.”

“Tarsie,” Nathaniel echoed.

“I'll send her in.” Joss drew up their light covers, then brushed a kiss on each sweaty forehead, breathing in their scent. His children . . . his and Mary's. Tears stung behind his eyes as love for the towheaded pair swelled in his chest. He'd wasted an awful lot of time. And he had a lot to make up for. If only Tarsie would let him.

His pulse sped as he thought about everything he wanted to tell her. Starting with how he'd voted. Wouldn't she be happy to know he'd made his
X
in the box for prohibition? He'd seen the damage drinking could do. He'd seen it in himself, and he'd seen it in the people he loved. Nathaniel's bleeding foot and Tarsie's disappointment on top of Mary's sorrow had pretty much destroyed any desire he had to up-end a bottle. Oh, his flesh still wanted it—as Simon said: “The spirit, it's willin', but the flesh sho' be weak.” He'd battle the urge in his flesh probably for the rest of his life. But if liquor wasn't easily available, it'd be a lot easier to let his spirit win out.

He whispered good night to Emmy and Nathaniel, then moved through the main room to the front door. Marmalade pranced at Joss's heels, batting at a loose thread dangling from the hem of his britches. He picked up the cat and tucked
it in the crook of his arm as he went in search of Tarsie. A contented sigh heaved out. He appreciated how she'd left him alone with the youngsters so he'd have a little time with them. He'd sensed her eyes on him, watching as he played. But instead of watching with apprehension, like she was afraid he'd do something hurtful, she'd watched with approval. He'd
felt
it. And he wanted to thank her.

On the stoop, with Marmalade's whiskers tickling his hand, he called, “Tarsie?” Dusk had fallen, the blue sky fading to a washed-out grayish-purple, and long shadows covered the ground. He looked in every direction. Tarsie was nowhere to be seen. He raised his voice a bit and called again. “Tarsie?” He tipped his head, listening. A cricket chirped, and voices drifted from open windows of neighboring houses. But Tarsie didn't answer.

He stepped off the stoop and walked around the house, searching. He remembered how she'd looked inside in the lamplight. Shining hair—its reddish color a shade darker than the orangey-yellow of the cat—pulled up in a loose bun, a few spirals falling along her neck. She'd worn a familiar dress. Cream-colored with sprigs of green. The green matched her eyes. He'd always liked that dress. And the light color should be easy to spot even in the muted light.

He moved past the garden plot, where dark splotches marked the locations of plants in the earth. The outhouse stood well behind the garden, its door with the half-moon cutout pushed inward a good six inches. He stopped, frowning. She wouldn't be in there with the door unlatched. Where was she? Marmalade squirmed in his arm, but he held tight to the little animal and bellowed, “Tarsie?”

The kitten mewled and climbed his arm to his shoulder, where its claws dug into his neck. He waited for a few seconds, holding his breath, but when no answering call came he plucked the cat loose and headed for the house at a trot.
Worry created an unpleasant taste on the back of his tongue. Had something happened to her? He'd put Marmalade inside, grab a lantern, and start searching. But once he stepped inside again, he realized he couldn't traipse off looking for Tarsie. He couldn't leave Emmy and Nathaniel untended. And he didn't want to drag them all over the place in the dark.

Joss sank onto the closest bench. Marmalade wriggled loose of his grasp and dashed under the stove, where he peered out at Joss with round eyes. Joss rubbed his jaw, forcing himself to calm. Silly to worry. Tarsie was a grown woman, not a child. She was familiar with Drayton Valley. She'd probably gone for a walk or to visit a neighbor. How often did she get the chance for a few minutes to herself? He recalled Mary sometimes needing a little time alone.

Yes, surely she'd just taken a walk. Probably wandered farther than she'd intended with no children tagging along. And now, with it being dark, it was taking her a little longer to get back. But she'd be back.

Crossing to the stove, he checked the coffeepot. It was cold, but it contained a good two cups of liquid. He poured some into a cup from the shelf, plucked out a chunk of the cake with his fingers, then sat back at the table to wait. He took a nibble of the cake, watching crumbs bounce down his front. Cinnamon chased the unpleasant tang of worry from his tongue.

She'd be back soon. Sure she would.

Tarsie moved along the uneven ground toward the little cluster of houses where Ruth and Simon lived. Away from town, the total darkness of the landscape with leafy tree branches creating a canopy overhead and the moon hiding behind a milky smudge of clouds made her shiver, even though the night was pleasant.

Twice she'd been startled by rustling in the brush, but both times it had proven to be small animals foraging. Even so, she worried she might encounter something larger than a raccoon, so she picked up her pace, determined to reach Ruth's place and safety.

Perhaps it had been foolhardy to simply walk away. It was certainly irresponsible, but underneath, she believed she'd done the right thing. Emmy and Nathaniel had already lost their mother. They needed their father. And, based on what she'd seen this evening, he needed them. She was just an outsider—Mary's friend, brought along to provide care as it was needed. Well, her services weren't needed any longer. So she would move on. And they'd be fine.

An owl hooted, and then a coyote howled. Tarsie hugged herself and continued walking. The little community of colored folks should be close. She'd left town behind nearly an hour ago. Although she'd never made this journey in the dark, she knew she had the correct roadway. The sweet song of Little Beaver Creek, which ran on the other side of the thick brush, accompanied her. It would guide her to Ruth.

The wide dirt pathway led uphill, and when she topped the rise she spotted the dark shapes of houses below. But no lights burned in any of the windows. Not even at Ruth and Simon's place. She moved slowly along the narrow, uneven pathway that wove between the houses. Should she tap on their door and awaken them? They wouldn't be angry. But they'd certainly have questions, and their talking might awaken others.

Then she remembered Ruth saying Simon's father had lived in the little house beside theirs. Ruth intended to turn it into a school when September rolled around. Tarsie stifled a giggle, recalling how Ruth had fussed,
“But befo' I can make it ready for teachin', Simon's gon' hafta move ever'thing out o' there. Ol' Zeke, he gots that place so cluttered up with stuff there ain't hardly room to turn aroun'!”

As far as she knew, Simon still hadn't gotten around to clearing out the little house. So there'd be a bed available. She doubted Simon kept the house locked. She would spend the night in Ezekiel's house and talk to Ruth in the morning.

The decision made, she moved directly to the door. Dangling from a little hole was the string that would lift the crossbar on the other side. She gave the string a pull. Wood squeaked on the other side as the bar slid upward. But just as she cracked open the door, she heard the
click
of a shotgun hammer being cocked right behind her. Then a voice growled, “Who are you, an' what'choo think you's doin' sneakin' 'round here?”

Simon's knees wobbled as he pointed the barrel of Pappy's shotgun at the stranger. When Ruth had poked him and said she heard somebody wandering around outside, he'd thought she was dreaming. But a peek out the window revealed a ghostlike figure moving toward Pappy's house. So he fetched the gun and made it outside in time to see the person—a female, judging by the clothes—open Pappy's door. He didn't like the idea of pointing a gun at a woman, but nobody had any business in that house.

Bobbing the gun, he made his voice as snarly as he could and repeated his question. “I says, what'choo want 'round here?”

The woman turned very slowly, her hands held away from her body. “Please . . . don't shoot.”

The slanted roof covering the warped porch on Pappy's house put her fully in shadow, but he knew that voice. He squinted through the inky night. “Miz Tarsie, that you?”