A Home in Drayton Valley (8 page)

The wagon rocked again, forcing another groan from her mouth. Then Joss's terse voice barked, “Get out of my way, girl!”

Scuffles let Mary know that Tarsie was scrambling to obey. Firm arms slipped beneath Mary's shoulders and knees, lifting her from the makeshift bed, and moments later a cool morning breeze heavily scented with dew caressed her hot face. She gulped the moist air, letting it wash away the foul taste that flooded her tongue.

Joss paced with her, the movements causing further queasiness but also distracting her from the intense pain that radiated from her chest all the way to her hip. She lacked the strength to cling to him, but she trusted him to hold her securely. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her arms lying limp across her middle and her legs dangling over his bent elbow. Such pain. Such weakness. Would she die right here in Joss's arms? Part of her wished she could so she'd be released from the pain, but the greater part of her longed for life.

The children's wails calmed to hiccupping sobs, and Mary
realized a murmur followed her and Joss—Tarsie addressing God in prayer.
Yes, pray, Tarsie. Remind God I've not yet reached Kansas. I want to see it before I cross to glory.
Just as she trusted Joss to hold her body, she trusted Tarsie to lift her soul. Slowly, although the pain continued to pound like stormy waves against a shore, the nausea eased.

Eventually Joss's frantic march around the campsite slowed, too, and she opened her eyes to meet his worried gaze. She wanted to smile, but the pain turned her smile into a grimace. Even so, she forced her thick tongue to say what he needed to hear. “You can put me down. It's . . . it's passed.”

Joss sank onto a barrel and settled her in his lap. He cupped her face between his palms and looked deeply into her eyes. “You scared me, hollering out like you did.”

“I'm sorry.”

The children scrambled to their father's side, holding hands and staring at her as if afraid to come too close. She reached out and smoothed Emmy's tousled curls, then tweaked the end of Nathaniel's nose. The three-year-old giggled, hunching his shoulders. The sound was music to Mary's mother-heart. She prayed her children would always have reasons to laugh.

Tarsie crossed behind the pair, curling her hands over their shoulders. “Come, you two. Let's wash the sleep from your faces and give your hair a brushing. Then we'll fix our breakfast, hmm? You can stir the cornmeal mush.” She led them away, her troubled face angled to peer at Mary over her shoulder.

Mary drooped against Joss's frame, tucking her head beneath his chin. His arms circled her. She pressed one palm to his firm chest, listening to the steady
thump-thump
of his heart in her ear. Would his heart shatter when she left him? “Joss?”

His fingers twined through her tangled hair, cupping the back of her head. “Hmm?”

“How much longer . . . 'til we reach Kansas?”

“Murphy said last night, three more days.” His hand crept around to lift her chin. The concern in his eyes spoke love to Mary. “Can you last three more days bumping around in the back of the wagon?”

Oh, how she prayed so! With effort, she bobbed her head in a nod.

He kissed her forehead and drew her close again. “I'll try to find the smoothest spots in the road. Make it as easy on you as I can.”

“Thank you,” Mary whispered.
And when my time comes to slip away, I pray I find a way to make it as easy on you as I can.

 8 

J
oss couldn't eat breakfast—his stomach held a boulder of dread. For the first time in his adult life, he ignored food. Instead of eating, he strode determinedly to Murphy's camp, passing the wagons where families sat in small circles, enjoying their morning meal. Black faces lifted, watching him. Some nodded a silent greeting. Others only watched with wary eyes. He ignored them all, even the man who'd brought that chunk of salted ham to Tarsie after she'd spent the night seeing to his wife. He had nothing to say to any of the travelers. He needed the leader.

He finally found Murphy saddling his horse on the far side of the circled wagons. He trotted the final distance, calling, “You. Murphy.”

Murphy kept a grip on the horse's reins with one hand, stroking the animal's glossy nose with the other. “G'mornin'.”

Joss didn't have time for pleasantries. “My wife, she's not feeling good. The bumps in the road hurt her stomach.” Recalling the tormented wail that had jolted him awake less than an hour ago, he grimaced. Mary hadn't hollered during childbirth, which was supposed to cause women great pain. Whatever troubled her now, it was bad. “Wondered what we had ahead—whether it's gonna be as rough as what we crossed the last couple days.”

Murphy rubbed his forehead, pushing his hat askew. “Hard to say. Wasn't so bad the last time I came through, but if they've had a lot of rain, or if heavier wagons've passed since then, it might've changed the trail.” He quirked his lips to the side. “We can take it slower if we need to—don't reckon the folks'd mind accommodatin' you an' your missus.”

Something ugly welled in Joss's chest. Even though Murphy's tone was congenial—even though he was willing to offer assistance—it grated that Joss had to ask a favor of a colored man. He balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his thighs. “Nah. Don't bother. Quicker we get to Drayton Valley, the better.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Murphy settled his hat back into place above his brows. “All right, then.” He scanned the sky, the blue hidden behind a shield of thick gray clouds. “Might end up movin' slower'n usual anyway if the wind don't blow them clouds away. Looks like a rainstorm's brewin' up there.” He swung into the saddle and gave a nod. “Be pullin' out in 'bout half an hour.”

“We'll be ready.”

The rainstorm Murphy predicted hit midmorning. Big drops, cold and carried on a gusting northern wind, pelted the ground and soaked through Joss's jacket and wool hat. He wished he'd spent money on a leather broad-brimmed hat like the one Murphy wore—least his head would stay dry. Raindrops ran down his face in rivulets. Miserable, he shivered on the seat and encouraged his team to continue plodding over the muddy pathway.

The horses' hooves sank into the muck, slowing their passage. Without the guiding cloud of dust ahead, Joss couldn't be sure he was still trailing Murphy's train. He searched for fresh ruts in the road, signs of recent passage by other wagons, but the heavy rainfall distorted his vision. He faced forward
and brought down the reins with a mighty crack. The horses strained against their rigging, then broke into a clumsy trot.

The wagon rocked from side to side, and once Joss thought he heard Mary groan. His heart twisted in his chest—he didn't want to cause her undue pain—but what good would it do her if he got them all lost? Disregarding the horses' slipping hooves, he flailed the pair of tawny hides with the reins and hollered “Yah!” again and again. He needed to reach Drayton Valley soon, needed to find his wife a doctor. Mary needed more help than the Irish girl could offer.

Mary lay on her pile of quilts atop the trunks with her face to the wagon's side. She pressed her fist to her mouth to hold back agonized moans. On the floor behind her, Tarsie sang hymns and ballads to the children. The sweet Irish lilt combined with the
rat-a-tat-tat
of plump raindrops against the canvas cover offered a comforting harmony. If only the stabbing pain would allow her to enjoy the gentle lullaby.

Joss had said he'd drive carefully, but he seemed to be setting a reckless pace. The wagon rocked, the old wood creaking. Mary feared she'd be tossed from her perch. Tucking her knees toward her chest, she curled one hand over the edge of the trunk and held tight. Eyes closed, she focused on listening to Tarsie's song.

“‘'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone . . .'”

Tears stung behind Mary's closed lids. Tears of pain, yes—she could scarcely bear the tormenting shards of agony piercing her middle—but mostly tears of sorrow. Why did the sickness that stole her mother have to rob her of life, as well? She didn't want to leave her children alone, motherless, to bloom into adulthood without her watchful gaze and petitions to God on their behalf.

Tarsie's voice lifted, rising above the patter of rain. “‘When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone?'”

The melody faded, and Tarsie began singing a silly nonsense song. But the final words of the tender ballad reverberated through Mary's mind. A strange peace flooded her frame. The pain still pounded, but beneath the pain a recognition dawned. Her children wouldn't be left to inhabit the bleak world alone. They'd have their father, and Tarsie, and they'd always have God. Didn't God promise He would never leave nor forsake His children? Perhaps in moments of weakness the illness made her feel forsaken, but being taken to Him—to bask in the promise of residing forever with Him where no pain would ever again touch her body—was glory.

Thank You, my dear heavenly Father, that this pain is only for now. Thank You that soon . . . very soon . . . You'll take it away. Just please let me see Kansas first.

For two days, the sky “leaked,” as little Emmy described it. Dousing rain delivered sideways on a stout wind, drizzling rain that hung like a mist, gentle rain falling straight down to patter softly on the canvas cover. Rain both day and night slowed the wagons' progress and made everyone miserable with the constant dampness. The gray gloom dampened their spirits, as well, bringing out crankiness in the children and an increased surliness from Joss. But on the third morning, when Tarsie stretched awake, her eyes were assaulted by brightness. Sun!

She bolted to the back of the wagon and threw aside the flap. Blue skies, dotted with a few wispy clouds, hung overhead. Tarsie released a cry of exultation and spun to shake the children awake. “Emmy! Nathaniel! Come look—the rain's stopped!”

The children sat up, rubbing their eyes with their fists, then crawled to the opening and peered out. Delight lit both faces. Tarsie laughed, watching them. They acted as though they'd never seen sunshine before. But after their long days of being trapped inside the wagon, she understood their elation.

Joss stepped to the opening. His clothes were caked with mud from sleeping beneath the wagon, but his usually dour face wore a relieved grin. “Glad all that rain didn't put out the sun.” He held his hands to Emmy. “C'mon out.”

With a huge smile, the little girl catapulted into Joss's arms—an action Tarsie had never witnessed before. She marveled not only at the glistening sunshine sending fingers of light across the brightening sky, but at the change in the man. Perhaps he did harbor some kindness beneath his gruff exterior.

Joss swung Nathaniel out, then looked at Tarsie. “Can't get a cookfire going—too wet out here—but maybe scout around for a spot we can throw out a quilt and eat the last of the hard bread and some dried apples. I'll take the bucket and get milk for the young'uns.”

Each day, he'd shoved the bucket into her hands and sent her after the milk, unwilling to spend time with their fellow travelers. Tarsie gawked at him in amazement. “You—
you're
fetching the milk today?”

He rubbed his whiskered cheek. “Yeah. Gotta talk to Murphy anyway.” He turned and clomped off.

Tarsie started to climb out, eager to stand in the morning sun, but she checked on Mary first. Her face, even in sleep, bore a furrowed brow and firmly pressed lips. She'd eaten nothing during the rainy days, claiming it would be a waste of food, since it would only come up again, and her pale skin stretched over her cheekbones, making her seem even more fragile. Reluctant to disturb her friend, Tarsie gathered the last portion of hard bread and a few handfuls of dried
apples. With the food items bundled in a checked napkin, she inched toward the opening, moving slowly to avoid rocking the wagon.

But as her weight left the bed, the wagon shifted, and Mary stirred. She peered around in confusion, blinking. “J-Joss?”

Tarsie leaned in and touched Mary's foot. “He's gone to fetch milk. Were you needin' something?”

“Are we there? Is this Kansas?”

The weak quaver set Tarsie's pulse pounding. “Not yet. But we're close. Very close, Mary.”

Mary licked her dry lips, her eyelashes fluttering as if her lids were too heavy to hold open. “Am I imagining . . . sunlight?”

Tarsie let her gaze drift from east to west, admiring the emerald green of leaves on scraggly brush, the radiant pink of wildflowers dotting the countryside, and the robin's-egg blue directly overhead. Such beauty. “The sun's shining as bright as a new penny.”

A soft sigh escaped Mary's throat. “A blessing.”

“Would you like to come out and be seeing it for yourself?” Hope coursed through Tarsie's chest. The sun had brought a smile to Joss's face. Might it bring a touch of healing to Mary?

“I want to rest.”

Tarsie's hope plummeted.

“But the moment we reach Kansas, wake me. I want to see Kansas.” Mary once again coiled into a ball.

A weight pressed so hard on Tarsie's chest it hindered her breathing. She turned away from the wagon into a splash of sunlight so bold she had to squint. But Tarsie's pleasure in the sun had dimmed.