A Home in Drayton Valley (36 page)

Joss kept one hand wrapped around Nathaniel's middle and the other on the reins. Emmy's small hands clutched his waist, her little knees snug against his hips. He'd nearly held his breath the entire distance from town to the little community of colored folks' shacks, afraid one of the youngsters would bounce off the horse's back before they reached their destination. Or that Marmalade would wiggle loose of Nathaniel's arms and disappear in the brush. But there was the group of houses ahead, and no mishaps involving children or kitties thus far. A thank-you hovered on his heart, and he came close to saying it out loud, surprising himself. Because he knew Who he wanted to thank.

As soon as he dropped off the youngsters with Ruth, he'd gallop on to Tollison's and tell the boss he wouldn't be able to work today. He'd best steer clear of the summer kitchen. The cook had gotten used to him seeing to morning chores—she'd be put out with him for spending the night away, but it couldn't be helped. He wouldn't have left his children untended.

A wave of protectiveness swept over him, his hand automatically tightening on Nathaniel's round belly while his elbow pressed down on Emmy's little hand. These kids came first. Then Tarsie. Then Tollison. He just hoped his boss would understand.

Black faces watched him warily, whispered voices reaching his ears, as he rode through the center of their little community. He bobbed his head in a silent hello to anyone who met his gaze, hoping his casual behavior would give them no cause for apprehension. He didn't want them taking out their fear on Emmy and Nathaniel when he wasn't looking.

The door to Ruth and Simon's place stood wide open, and Joss glimpsed the three Foster youngsters seated around the table. He drew the horse to a stop, then caught Emmy's arm and swung her to the ground. “Go fetch Miz Ruth,” he said.

Nathaniel leaned to hop down when Emmy scampered into the house, but Joss held on to him. “Just wait a minute, son.” Nathaniel leaned into Joss's arms and poked a finger in his mouth.

Moments later, Ruth followed Emmy into the morning sunlight. She peered up at Joss, her mouth set in an uneasy smile. “G'mornin'. Emmy here ask if she'n Nattie can spend the day.”

“That's what I was hoping. Tarsie's . . .” He whisked a glance at Emmy's innocent face. He didn't want to worry her. “Not around today. An' I gotta . . .” He shook his head. He couldn't go into details with the youngsters listening in. “Can they stay with you? I . . . I don't know anybody else.”

Ruth's gaze landed on the cat. “That thing stayin' too?”

Emmy gasped. “That's Marmalade! He's ours!”

Ruth
tsk-tsk
ed, but she reached for Nathaniel. The boy, cradling the kitten, slid into her arms. She set them both on the ground. Emmy immediately took Marmalade from Nathaniel, who set up a howl. “Here now, 'nough o' that,” Ruth said. The boy quieted, and Ruth cast a smile across both children. “You'uns go on in. We's eatin' flapjacks. I'll fry you up some in a minute.”

Emmy, with Marmalade dangling under one arm, caught Nathaniel's hand and the pair darted into Ruth's house without a backward glance at their papa.

The horse pranced in place, and Joss pulled back on the reins to settle the animal. “Thanks. Can't say for sure when I'll be back. Tarsie took off last night. I've told the sheriff and he said he'd look around town.” Sheriff Bradley's lack of concern still irritated Joss. The man didn't care about Tarsie's well-being. Not the way Joss did. Somebody needed to hunt
hard
. Like it mattered. Hunt until they found her. And that's exactly what he intended to do. “I'll come fetch the young'uns quick as I can, but it might be after dark.”

He waited for Ruth to ask why he thought Tarsie might've run off, but she didn't. Instead, an odd expression bloomed across her face. Joss couldn't be sure, but he thought she looked guilty. Apprehension gripped him. “Ruth?”

“Well, now, don't you worry none 'bout Emmy an' Nattie. I'll take right good care of 'em.” Her promise chased away the niggling disquiet. She flapped her pink palms at him, backing up. “Go on about yo' business an' don't give us'ns a thought.”

Joss decided that asking questions would only delay his leave-taking. He nodded, then dug in his heels, urging the horse into a trot. The sooner he reached Tollison's place, the sooner he could ask permission to take the day off so he could search for Tarsie.

What if he couldn't find her? Releasing a huff of aggravation, he pushed the errant thought aside. He
would
find her. He had to.

 36 

T
arsie watched out Old Zeke's dusty window until Joss rode away. By pressing her ear to a crack in the window frame, she'd managed to hear most of what'd been said. Ruth hadn't given away her hiding place, but Joss hadn't asked about her, either. Disappointment weighed heavily in her heart. Why hadn't he asked?

She gave herself a little shake. Isn't this what she'd wanted? For Joss to take responsibility for his children and not rely on her? So why did it hurt so much that he hadn't seemed interested in her whereabouts?

Before she left for good, she'd pen a letter to the children—something they could keep that would let them know how much she loved them. Her heart ached, thinking about leaving them forever, but she knew she was doing the right thing.

She waited until she was certain Joss was far enough away he wouldn't look back and catch a glimpse of her. Then she sneaked out the front door, inching her way around the far side of the house in case Emmy or Nathaniel looked out a window and spotted her. She needed her things from the house in town—her clothes, her sewing items, and her Bible. She had few belongings. Ruth's basket should hold them all. Once she'd collected her things, she'd head down the river toward White Cloud. The ferry could take her across to the
Missouri side. She'd surely find work in the big cities over there. And she'd still be close to Kansas and the people she loved.

Behind Old Zeke's house, she made a quick dash for the brush at the far edge of the property. And then, with a silent prayer for God to let her move swiftly, she took off at a brisk pace for town.

Simon nodded as Mr. Tollison explained that Joss would be gone for the day. He'd suspected as much when he'd seen Joss come barreling in on that horse and jump up on the porch to pound on the door. His stomach whirled, wondering if Joss would seek him out and ask him about Tarsie, but after talking to their boss, he'd just swung himself up on the horse's back and taken off again.

“Get Stillman to take Joss's place in the vineyard today,” Mr. Tollison finished. He pressed his hand to his chest and coughed. Long and hard.

Simon gazed at his boss in concern. The man's face turned bright red with all the coughing. “You all right, suh?”

Without answering, Mr. Tollison turned and made his way back to the house, bent forward as if drawing a breath pained him. Simon waited until his boss was safely inside, then went in search of Stillman. He whistled under his breath. Stillman wouldn't be happy to be pulled from his usual duties in the packing house to standing out in the sun, flicking bugs from leaves and checking for rotting fruit. But what Mr. Tollison said, Simon would do, for as long as he had this job.

As he'd suspected, Stillman crunched his face into a fierce scowl. “Why me? Why not Rouse or Maher or Russell? They ain't been here any longer'n I have.”

Simon held out his hands, hoping to appease the aggravated worker. “I's just tellin' you what Mistuh Tollison tol'
me. You gots trouble with it, you can go up to the house an' talk to him yo'self.”

The man released a disgruntled snarl, but he yanked his straw hat low on his forehead and strode out of the packing house. Other workers watched him go, a murmur rolling through the wood building. Simon sealed his ears against the mutters—wasn't like he hadn't heard them before—and hitched his way back into the sunshine.

Simon went about his duties, the job so familiar he could perform the tasks in his sleep. He checked on the men in the vineyard, instructed Todd to watch the burn pile closely—things had dried out in the harsh heat of August and he didn't want any sparks igniting more than the snipped vines—and carted a few bushels of harvested grapes to the winery for pressing. The morning passed quickly, and he was startled when Cook clanged the noon bell, calling men in for dinner.

He drove his cart, careful to stay behind the workers who walked in from the field. Watching the men clomp along on two sturdy legs always raised a longing in his chest, but he'd learned long ago to be thankful for two good hands, a cart to tote him wherever he needed to go, and a boss who didn't hold his crippled leg against him. He might not have legs and feet that matched, but he had a lot for which to be thankful. He sent up a quick prayer of gratitude as he pulled his cart in next to the dinner barn and reached for his lunch bucket.

Just as his hand curled around the handle, someone behind him barked out one word: “Simon!”

Simon spun around, tipping his bucket and nearly losing his balance. Mr. Tollison strode toward him, fury contorting his face into a scowl. Simon scuttled to meet him, aware of the workers' eyes following him. Tollison grabbed Simon's arm. His boss had never been forceful with him before. Fear rose in Simon's belly, creating a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Yessuh? What is it?” Simon maintained a respectful tone
he hoped would calm the angry man, who held tight to his arm.

“Have you been in the back room today?”

He never entered the back room except on payday, to put away the cash box. “No, suh, I ain't.”

Tollison's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

Drawing a steadying breath, Simon posed his own question. “Have I evuh been known to lie to you, suh?”

At once, Tollison's fingers fell away from Simon's arm. He heaved a sigh. “Of course you haven't, Simon. I . . . I apologize for my behavior. But . . .” He peered toward the dinner barn's opening. Simon followed his gaze. A dozen men peered out, curiosity on their faces.

Catching Simon's sleeve again, he drew Simon to the porch of the big house, out of sight and hearing of the men. “Simon, I went to the back room to retrieve some larger bills to take to the bank and exchange to fill tomorrow's pay envelopes. I discovered someone had tampered with the lock on the door. When I opened the closet, I saw that the safe was gone.”

Simon's legs went weak. He staggered to the side, catching the edge of the house with his hand to steady himself. “The whole safe? But that thing's gotta weigh . . . what? Two hunnerd pounds?”

“One fifty empty,” Tollison confirmed. “I chose a lightweight Whitfield's safe to make it easier for me to transport.”

Simon shook his head, reeling. “So somebody done stole away with yo' money?”

Tollison nodded, his expression hard. “Cook said Brubacher wasn't in the summer kitchen when she went in this morning. She said he left for town after supper last night, saying he had personal business to attend to. Do you know anything about it?”

Simon squinted at his boss. “You ain't thinkin' Joss Brubacher stole that safe.”

“Did he know it was there?”

Simon chewed over his boss's inquiry. Joss had helped him put away the table that one time, watched him open the closet and the safe. Uncertainty wiggled through Simon's chest. Would Joss do such a thing? When he'd first come, he was all-fired eager to stash away cash money and skedaddle on out of Kansas. But over the past weeks, Simon had seen a change in the man. He couldn't believe Joss would steal from Mr. Tollison.

Still, he had to answer honestly. “He seen me open that closet an' put things away once. But—”

“So him needing today off after being gone all night seems very suspect. I'm riding into town and alerting the sheriff.” Tollison held his chest, his breathing coming in short puffs. “Go tell Todd and Fenn to ready my buggy. I want the top up, and I'll want Fenn to drive me.”

Simon hesitated. He wanted to tell his boss about Joss's queries about God. Surely it would alter Mr. Tollison's suspicions. But who else knew that safe was there? And Joss, he was a big man. A strong man. He could pick up that safe and carry it a good distance just in his arms. Simon hated himself for keeping silent, but he didn't know what to say.

“Go!” Tollison swung his hand toward the dinner barn, then broke into a fit of coughing.

Simon trotted off as quickly as his bum foot would allow, with his boss's wheezing breaths echoing in his ears.

Late in the afternoon, hunger drove Joss to Drayton Valley and the little house he rented for Tarsie and the children. Sweaty, tired, and discouraged from his fruitless search, he needed to eat something. As soon as he'd filled his belly, he intended to set out again. He reined in the horse next to the house where it could munch grass, and he aimed his feet for
the front door. But frantic cheeping captured his attention—the chickens. They needed to be fed and watered.

Groaning, he trotted around to the backyard. The bag of feed, now half empty, sat in the outhouse where he'd directed the man who delivered the chicks and the wire for their pen to leave it. He scooped out a tin cupful of feed and scattered it on the ground inside the pen. The half-grown chicks began pecking wildly. While they were occupied, he snagged their watering dish and filled it. With the chicks' needs met, he headed for the house.

He stepped inside and moved directly toward the shelf where the food stores were kept. But he came to a stop in the middle of the floor as an uneasy feeling gripped him. He turned a slow circle, examining the room by increments, and when his gaze fell on the washstand, a tingle attacked his scalp. The pan, bowls, and spoons he'd left stacked and dirty in the basin weren't there. He zinged his attention to the shelf. There they were, washed and put away. Tarsie had been here!

His heart thudding, he stumbled around the room, seeking other evidence. The trunk of clothing had been riffled through, and her dresses and other items of clothing were missing. Her sewing box and the pouch of medicinal cures she'd carried from New York were also gone. He spun toward the door and his gaze fell on a folded piece of paper, tacked to the doorjamb. He stumbled across the floor and yanked it loose. Hands trembling, he unfolded the paper and stared at the neat lines of flowing script. He scowled at the message. A full page of words, but his limited reading ability stymied him. However, he understood one of the words in the last line:
Good-bye
.

Holding the paper tight in his fingers, he crossed back to the trunk and sank down, defeated. Tarsie hadn't met with an accident or gotten lost. She'd chosen to go. He slapped
the note onto the trunk beside him and placed his head in his hands. Regret and sadness claimed him. How would he tell Emmy and Nathaniel they'd lost yet another mother?