A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Giggles carried from the sleeping room, followed by Mary’s soft reprimand. She sounded tired. Would she last through another damp New York spring? Tarsie’s heart caught.

  The apartment door banged open, and Mary’s husband stepped into the room. Tall and raw-boned, Joss Brubacher filled the doorway. Whipping off his hat, he sent water droplets across the clean floor. In two wide strides, he reached the stove and peered into the pot. Then he sent a scowl in Tarsie’s direction. “No lunch ready? Where’s Mary?” He started toward the sleeping room, but Tarsie darted across the floor and blocked his progress.

  Although he frowned at her, silently demanding she move aside, she held her ground. Looking into his sunburnt, irritated face, she said, “Sit down, Joss. I have need of talkin’ to you.”

  2

  Joss balled his hands into fists and planted them on his hips. Just what did this little Irish snip think she was doing, delivering orders? He followed demands at the dock—he had to if he wanted to keep his job—but this was his home. Here, he was in command.

  “Lemme by.”

  Mary’s friend lifted her chin. “I’ll not be budgin’.”

  “You can move or I’ll move you.” An idle threat. In his thirty years of life, Joss had never raised his hand to a woman, and he wouldn’t now. But she didn’t know that.

  “Not ’til you’ve listened to me.”

  Men quaked beneath Joss’s scowl. The girl’s refusal to kowtow earned a grudging admiration, but he didn’t have time to argue with her. Thirty minutes—that’s all he got for a midday break. If Mary didn’t fetch his dinner soon, he’d have to return to the docks hungry. And Joss had vowed a long time ago he’d never face hunger again.

  He tried to step around her, but quick as a cat she blocked his passage. He tried the other way. With a nimble leap, she waylaid him again. He released a grunt. Had he ever met a more stubborn female? “Girl, I—”

  “My name is Tarsie, as you well know, Joss Brubacher. I’ll be thanking you to make use of it. Now . . . if I fix you some sandwiches, will you hush your bluster and hear what I have to say?”

  His stomach rumbled. If it meant getting fed, he could listen. He stomped to the trestle table in the corner and plopped onto a bench. “Hurry, then. I don’t have time to yammer.”

  Tarsie gathered items from the little cupboard in the corner and set her hands to work slathering butter on halved biscuits. She layered the biscuits with cheese and slices of meat leftover from last night’s beef tongue, then carried a tin plate stacked with the biscuit sandwiches to the table. Plunking the plate before him, she sat on the opposite bench and folded her hands.

  Joss reached for a biscuit, but Tarsie began to pray, freezing his hand mid-reach.

  “Our lovin’ Father in heaven, we thank Thee for giving us our daily bread. Bless this food that it might bring nourishment. Please grant listening ears and a sensible spirit”—she peeked at him through one squinted eye. He snapped his eyes closed—“so we might do what’s most pleasin’ to You. Amen.”

  He opened his eyes and quirked a brow at her. Was she finished?

  She pointed to the plate. “Eat now.”

  He needed no further prompting.

  “Your Mary is sick again.”

  The dry biscuit tried to stick in Joss’s gullet. His Mary was always sick. Hadn’t he worried having children would bring ruination? Day after day, his own father had told him kids were the scourge of a man’s life, but Mary had insisted on birthing five of them. Three hadn’t lived past the suckling age, and the two who’d managed to survive drained her of energy. His chest constricted. If only she’d listened to him . . .

  He jammed another biscuit in his mouth and spoke around the lump. “So doctor her.”

  “I’ve given her my herbal medicine, just as I’ve been doing these past months. But she’s in need of more.”

  Defensiveness raised the fine hairs on the back of Joss’s neck. He did his best by Mary. “You think I can afford a real sawbones on my measly wage? It’s all I can do to pay for our apartment, food, and shoes for those kids.” He yanked up another biscuit and took a mighty chomp.

  Tarsie’s fine eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Didn’t I ask you to listen? Hush now.”

  With his mouth full, Joss couldn’t snarl. But he could scowl. So he did. Fiercely.

  But Tarsie didn’t cringe. To his consternation, she didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t speakin’ of calling in a doctor. When I say she’s needing more, I’m meaning she needs clean air, a bed free of vermin, a home away from the crowded city. You’ve already buried three wee ones, Joss Brubacher, an’ if you don’t get your Mary to a better place, you’ll be burying her, as well. Is that what you want?”

  The biscuit turned to sawdust in Joss’s mouth. Although two more sandwiches remained on the plate, he pushed it aside. In a lifetime of disappointment and misfortune, Joss had found only one good: Mary. The thought of putting her in the ground sickened him. How dare this girl—this self-possessed stranger—try to frighten him? He jolted to his feet, the bench legs screeching against the planked floor, and pointed his finger at her face. “I’m done listening.”

  She leaped up as well. “But—”

  “No more!” He thundered the words, and finally the girl ceased her blather. With firm stomps against the floorboards, he charged into the sleeping room. He swept his arm, silently commanding the youngsters to leave the room. They skittered out the door. Dropping to one knee beside the bed, he took his wife’s hand. As always, the difference between his wide, thick palm and her fragile, slender fingers gave him pause. Such a delicate, lovely woman, his Mary. He didn’t deserve her.

  He looked into her pale face, and Tarsie’s statement swirled through his mind. “You’ll be burying her, as well.” Anger rose in his chest, pushing the fear away. “Sick again?” Worry tangled his tonsils into a knot, and the words came out harsh. An imitation of his father’s voice.

  She nodded, her little hand quivering within his grasp. “I’m sorry, Joss.”

  “That Irish friend of yours demands I take you out of the city.” Releasing a derisive grunt, he shook his head. “Where does she think we’d go?”

  Mary’s free hand slipped from beneath the rumpled bedcovers. She held out a small book, its cover stained and torn. She pushed the book open with her thumb, revealing one dog-eared page. “To a place called Drayton Valley. In Kansas.” Her expression turned dreamy.

  Joss stared at the page where tiny lines and squiggles marched in straight rows. His inability to make sense of the marks reminded him of his insignificance. Another wave of anger rolled through his gut. He snatched the book from Mary’s hand. “Why does she plant ideas in your head?”

  He started to fling the book across the room, but Mary’s fingers curled around his wrist. “Joss, please—” A coughing spell cut her words short. Joss gritted his teeth, watching helplessly as she struggled to bring the cough to an end. Finally she flopped back on the pillow, spent. Tears swam in her eyes as she begged, “Please think about it. The town has active docks where you could work. But we’d be away from the . . .” Her voice dropped to a rasping whisper. “Saloons.” Her fingers tightened on his wrist, her strength surprising him. “You aren’t your pa, Joss. You don’t need the drink. Or the gambling. But as long as we stay here, it will always pull at you.”

  Of course it would. What else did he know? He had no other securities. Except Mary.

  She went on, her voice dropping so low he had to strain to hear her. “Promise me you’ll think about it. Please?”

  Pa’s voice echoed from the past. “Never make a promise, boy. Who keeps ’em? Nobody. Promises disappoint.” Joss made promises, but only to people who didn’t matter to him. He pulled his arm free of her grip and set his jaw.

  The hopeful light in her eyes dimmed, and Joss looked away to avoid witnessing a flood of tears. His gaze landed on the elaborately carved clock on the dresser. He hissed through his teeth. Late! Ignoring Mary’s soft s
niffles, his children’s wistful farewells, and the Irish girl’s disapproving frown, he charged out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. Not until he neared the dock did he realize he still held the Kansas book in his fist.

  With a muffled oath, he gave the book a toss. No sense keeping something that would only encourage Mary to dream about what could never be.

  The six o’clock whistle signaled the end of the working day. Joss plopped the fifty-pound burlap bag of seed corn from his shoulder onto the stack and brushed his palms together, dispelling dust. He fell in line with the other jostling men, listening but not adding to their ribald comments. He hoped Tarsie’s cures had worked well enough to get Mary out of that bed. Worried him to see her laid so low. And he needed a good meal.

  “Brubacher!” His boss’s voice blasted over the other noises. “Wait up.”

  Joss shifted out of the flow and turned to face the man, holding back an annoyed grunt.

  “You still owe fifteen minutes.”

  Joss frowned.

  Marsden raised one eyebrow. “Thought I didn’t see you creep in late after the dinner break, huh? Well, if you wanna draw a full day’s wage, you hafta give a full day’s work. So head back up there and finish unloading that corn.”

  Joss bristled, but he couldn’t argue. Not with the boss man. But he let his bootheels show his aggravation, thumping them good and hard as he returned to the end of the pier and yanked up a bag by its tied corners. Thirteen years on this job—thirteen years of showing up day after day, no matter the weather, even headachy and sick from too much drink the night before—and they couldn’t allow him one time of showing up late?

  Marsden stood watching, boots widespread, a timepiece pinched between his fingers. Joss gritted his teeth and held his grumbles inside as he hauled the remaining bags of corn from their spot on the pier’s end to the waiting wagon. Finally Marsden barked, “Good enough. You can go.”

  Joss let the final bag slide from his fingers and drop beside the wagon. Without even a glance in his boss’s direction, he aimed his feet for home. But Marsden’s hand bolted out and captured Joss’s shirtsleeve.

  “Got a message for you from Lanker.”

  Joss’s mouth went dry, but he held his shoulders erect and set his face in a disinterested sneer. “That so?”

  “Uh-huh. Said he’ll be here on payday, an’ he expects every penny. No more delays.”

  With a little shake of his arm, Joss freed himself from Marsden’s grip. If only he could rid himself of the gambler’s hold as easily. He forced a wry chuckle. “If you’re servin’ as one of Lanker’s errand boys, you must owe him, too.”

  Marsden blanched. “You know as well as I do nobody crosses Lanker—not if they wanna see tomorrow.” He glanced around as if seeking listening ears. “How much you in for?”

  Joss clamped his teeth together. Too much. More than he could possibly repay. What had compelled him to join that game last month? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Enough.”

  Marsden clicked his tongue on his teeth. “I don’t envy you, Brubacher. Come next Friday, you best be ready to hand over your wages.” His gaze whisked from Joss’s scuffed boot toes to his little wool cap. “Even a fella as big as you won’t be standing when his gang is finished with you. Lanker gets his due one way or another.”

  Joss didn’t need the reminder. “Can I go now?”

  Marsden waved his hand in dismissal. “See you tomorrow. On time.”

  Spinning on his worn heel, Joss took his leave. Damp air scented with fish and salt chilled him, and he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. His fingertips encountered a few coins. As if of their own accord, his feet slowed. An idea filled the back of his mind. One lucky roll. That’s all he needed to turn those cents into dollars. If he had to hand Lanker his entire pay envelope on Friday, he’d need something to carry his family through the next weeks. Even though his stomach rumbled, he changed direction and entered the closest saloon. One he rarely frequented. Safer to go where he wasn’t known, just in case some of Lanker’s men loitered about. They’d rid him of his meager coins if they caught sight of him.

  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

  The 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. Someh
ow, 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.