“Good.” Mary yawned, wriggling into the corner of the bench. Even before the view outside the window indicated they’d left the city behind, she was sound asleep.
Tarsie watched Mary, noting her white, firmly set lips. She’d crossed her arms over her middle and her thin hands gripped folds of her loose dress. Her brow remained puckered, as if unpleasant dreams held her captive. Even in sleep, Mary didn’t relax.
Tarsie’s stomach twisted in worry. She faced an arduous task, nursing Mary back to health, but her herb packets were tucked safely in the carpetbag at her feet. Now she’d be with Mary every day, not just once a week, giving her better opportunity to minister to her friend. During their journey, she’d ply Mary with slippery elm or perhaps cardamom to increase her appetite, ginger and garlic to improve her constitution, and goldenseal to prevent further illnesses from taking hold.
The train rocked, an occasional whistle blast drifting through the crack in the window. Tarsie settled more comfortably in the seat, her plans lifting the burden of worry. By the time they reached Kansas, Mary would be hale and hearty. She’d see to it.
Mary leaned over the spittoon provided by the conductor and retched until what little she’d eaten for supper found its way up again. Even if Joss begged, she would refuse food until they’d left the train. Hunger would be far easier to bear than the nausea the train’s rocking created in her belly. Completely spent, she collapsed into the seat.
Tarsie pressed a handkerchief into Emmy’s hands. “Go dip this in the water bucket, darlin’, and bring it back for your mama.” Emmy scampered up the aisle, and Tarsie leaned in close to Mary, touching her forehead with the backs of her fingers.
Even through her watery gaze, Mary read the deep concern on her friend’s face. She forced herself to smile. “You needn’t look so guilty. My sickness isn’t due to your cooking.”
Tarsie didn’t laugh. “The sandwiches we’ve purchased from the conductor haven’t been the freshest, but they’ve not made the rest of us sick.” She shook her head, her brow furrowing. “My ginger tea should be settling your stomach, but you’ve not kept down a bite since we left New York. Three days of heaving!” She leaned closer, her gaze briefly flicking toward Joss, who leaned toward the opposite corner of the bench as if afraid of contracting whatever illness plagued his wife. “Could you be with child?”
Joss sat bolt upright, his horrified gaze landing on Mary’s face. Mary started to reply, but Emmy bounded over and shoved the dripping handkerchief into Tarsie’s hands.
“Thank you, darlin’. You’re a big help, you are.” Tarsie began dabbing at Mary’s cheeks and mouth with the moist cloth.
Emmy climbed back into the seat next to Nathaniel and engaged her brother in a finger game. While Tarsie ministered to her, Mary watched the children, an anguished lump in her throat. As much as she’d longed for a large, boisterous family, God hadn’t seen fit to grant her desire. And He’d made the right choice. He’d known her time on earth would be short and that Joss wouldn’t be able to handle the burden of more than two children on his own. Yes, God always knew best.
Tarsie finished wiping Mary’s face and sat back, placing the limp handkerchief over the armrest to dry. Then she opened the bag that rested between her feet and began pawing through the contents.
Joss nudged Mary lightly. “You’re not expectin’ another one . . . are you?”
Despite the pain that throbbed through her midsection, she winged upward a short prayer of gratitude. When she left this earth, at least she wouldn’t be taking a second life with her. “No, Joss. I’m not expecting.”
He heaved out a mighty breath, and his obvious relief pierced her heart. As much as she knew he loved her, he’d never seen the children as the blessing she believed them to be. Oh, how she prayed he’d find comfort when her time came, knowing a piece of her still lived in the forms of Emmy and Nathaniel.
Tarsie held up a small bag and bounced from the bench. “I’ll be begging some hot water from the conductor and brew you up a cup of chamomile tea. Maybe it’ll settle your stomach better than the ginger.”
Mary wanted to tell Tarsie not to bother, but the young woman shot up the aisle before Mary could form a word of protest. She leaned sideways, her shoulder connecting with Joss’s arm. He lifted his arm, and she tucked herself against his side, the warmth of his body familiar and comforting. His elbow curved around her, his big hand cupping her waist. She pressed her face to his chest and closed her eyes against the pain that throbbed fiercely from her breast all the way to her hip. If only the pain would abate. She didn’t want to wake the others another night by crying in her sleep.
Strength, Father. The simple plea left her heart without conscious thought. Nestled in Joss’s arms, she focused her pain-fuzzy brain and offered another request. A selfish one, perhaps, but she needed to cling to an element of hope. I know this sickness will have its victory, Lord, and I accept Your will. But could You let me live long enough to reach Kansas—to see with my eyes the place where my children will grow to adulthood? Give me a glimpse of their home, Lord, before You take me to Your home.
5
Des Moines, though not as big and bustling as Chicago or New York, still offered a city view. And city smells. Tarsie wrinkled her nose as she scanned the clusters of tall buildings, some of which bore smokestacks belching gray puffs into the pale blue sky. She hoped the Kansas landscape near Drayton Valley proved more pleasing to the eye and fresher to the nose.
She pulled a restless Nathaniel against her skirts lest he become lost amongst the travelers rushing to and fro on the planked boardwalk. Her days of sharing the single bench seat with both Emmy and Nathaniel had bonded her to the children in ways a year of weekly visits had not. The little boy tipped back his head and grinned up at her, his endearing dimples flashing in his apple cheeks.
“Do you suppose Joss will find a train of wagons leaving yet today?”
Idly smoothing Nathaniel’s tousled hair away from his face, Tarsie turned to Mary, who slouched beside Emmy on a slatted bench pressed against the depot wall. The tiredness in Mary’s voice matched her drawn face. Tarsie prayed wagon travel would prove easier on her friend than the train’s rocking motion—poor Mary appeared to have aged ten years in the past few days.
“Mr. Driscoll told me wagons travel every week toward the western states, so I’d be thinking there’s a good chance we’ll soon be on our way to Drayton Valley.” As eager as she was to reach Kansas, Tarsie secretly hoped they might have a day or two of rest before climbing into a wagon and heading out. Mary would benefit from a comfortable bed in a warm hotel, if Joss were willing to spend the money.
Mary draped her arm over their pile of belongings—two trunks and three carpetbags—and then rested her cheek on her bent elbow. She looked as worn out and sad as Tarsie’s crumpled bag, stirring Tarsie’s sympathy. Might the depotmaster be willing to share a tin cup and hot water so Tarsie could mix a potion to improve Mary’s constitution? Now that they sat on steady ground rather than in a rocking train car, surely her stomach would hold it down.
Tarsie pressed Nathaniel into Emmy’s arms. “You children stay here with your mama. I’m going to—”
“Mary!” Joss’s booming voice carried over the discordant melody of hissing steam, whistle blasts, and conversation. Tarsie searched the crowd and spotted his hat-covered head. He emerged from the flow of people and stood before them, his hands on his hips. “Sorry it took so long. Had to walk near a mile to reach a livery, but I found us a wagon. It’s a sorry-looking thing, but the livery owner insists it’ll get us to Kansas without breaking down.” He swept off his hat and ran his hand through his thick, unruly waves. “I’m not as certain about the pair of nags he convinced me to buy to pull it, but I couldn’t afford any of the other horses in the corral.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s waiting on the other side of the block. Couldn’t get it closer with all the fancy carriages cluttering up the street.”
Mary wearily pus
hed to her feet, reaching her hand toward the children. “Well, then, let’s each take a bag and—”
Tarsie pressed forward. “You sit back down with Emmy and Nathaniel. Joss’n me will cart our belongings to the wagon and then come fetch you.” She sent Joss a stern look, daring him to argue with her. Her gaze on Joss’s unsmiling face, she added, “After these past days of turning your belly inside out, you’re in no shape to be lifting anything heavier than a bird’s feather.”
Silent communication passed between Tarsie and Joss, and although he hesitated for several seconds, he offered a brusque nod. “I’ll take the trunks. Tarsie can take the bags. You stay here with the young’uns until we’re loaded.” Bending forward, he pushed the bags from the trunks’ tops and lifted the biggest one. He sent a quick glance at Tarsie. “Follow me.”
By filling their arms to overflowing, Tarsie and Joss transported all of their possessions from the depot to the wagon in three trips. Tarsie agreed with Joss about the wagon being sorry looking. With unpainted, weathered wood held together by rusty hardware and bent nails, the wagon appeared ready to rattle apart. But the boards supported the trunks and bags, and Tarsie had to trust that the human cargo wouldn’t fall through the bed, either.
Tarsie remained with the wagon while Joss fetched Mary and the children. Her heart gave a funny flip when she saw them approach. Joss held Mary in his arms, the children scuttling along beside him, each holding to his jacket tails. What a picture they presented—a groom carrying his bride, attended by cherubs in homespun. Tears pricked her eyes, and she knew the image would be forever burned in her memory.
Joss placed Mary gently into the bed of the wagon, then swung the children over the warped sides. He turned to Tarsie and offered his hands. She’d always viewed his broad hands—callused from years of toil—as hard and stern. But having seen them hold Mary with such tenderness, they seemed vessels of kindness. Of caring. Of love. Suddenly shy in his presence—but uncertain why—she allowed him to assist her into the wagon.
The wagon creaked and complained as Joss coaxed the team into the cobblestone street. He called over his shoulder, “The livery owner told me where to buy provisions for the trail. He said wagonmasters gather at the store. We should meet up with others heading toward Kansas.”
Mary’s head bobbed as if her neck were too weak to hold her head steady. “Then we’ll leave today?”
Joss’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, stretching his jacket taut across his back. “Don’t know. If we can’t leave today, we’ll just bed down at the livery—the liveryman said he wouldn’t mind. Not fancy, but a pile of straw makes a good enough bed for a day or two.”
Tarsie wanted to suggest getting Mary and the children a hotel room. Hotels dotted the streets, varying from fancy to plain. But her tongue refused to cooperate. She held to the side of the wagon and sat in silence until Joss pulled up in front of a large, false-fronted store with a painted sign boasting Franklin’s Emporium. On the outskirts of town, with wood siding nearly as worn as that on the wagon, it hardly resembled an emporium. But Joss set the brake and hopped down.
He strode to the back and reached for Mary. “Come help me buy supplies. Tarsie can stay in the wagon with the young’uns. No sense in having them underfoot while we shop.”
Being spoken about as if she weren’t there chased away the fanciful feelings that had held Tarsie captive for the past minutes. She gave Joss a meaningful look. “The children and I are tired of having to sit. With another long ride ahead of us, we’ll be getting down and running about in that cleared area beside the store.”
Ignoring his low-browed scowl, she scooted to the end of the wagon and climbed over the edge without assistance. “Come along, children. There’s a nice shady spot over here just perfect for a game of tag.”
Joss slipped his arm around Mary’s waist and guided her onto the planked floorboards of the emporium’s porch. He sent a glowering look over his shoulder to Tarsie, but she was already engaging the children in a chasing game and missed his silent reprimand. With a huff, he gave the glower to his wife instead. “That Irish friend of yours has a sassy tongue in her head.”
Mary glanced in Tarsie’s direction. Affection rather than indignation glowed in her eyes. “She’s a good friend. The best I’ve ever had.” She shifted to look up at him. “Don’t begrudge her presence, Joss. Be thankful for her. She’s . . . a gift.”
Something in her gaze made Joss’s mouth go dry. He’d never backed away in fear from anything, but he discovered he was afraid to pursue the meaning behind her words. So he gave a little nudge with his hand, urging her forward. “We need supplies enough for a month, but no extravagance. It’ll take a fair amount of money to rent a place and set up a household when we reach Drayton Valley.”
They stepped from the midmorning sunshine into the shadowy depths of the store. A husky voice called out a welcome. Joss blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, and he finally spotted an apron-clad man behind a tall, warped counter.
The man waved a beefy hand. “Howdy. Welcome to Franklin’s. You homesteaders?”
“That’s right. Need to buy provisions.” Joss nudged Mary forward. Dust coated the floor, stirring as they walked. Joss glanced around, noting the livery owner told the truth about the place being well stocked. The wood shelves bowed beneath the weight of their bounty. They should be able to find everything they needed for the journey.
Mary’s steps dragged, her movements so jerky it seemed her joints were rusty. Joss frowned as worry gripped him. She’d never survive several trips up and down the aisles. He spotted a barrel near the counter, and he ushered Mary to it. “Sit here. Tell me what we’ll need, and I’ll fetch it.”
She sank onto the barrel with a sigh. Her weary smile thanked him.
The jovial man behind the counter held up a tattered sheet of paper. “This here might help you. It’s a list o’ what most folks buy before settin’ out with one o’ the trains. Wanna make use of it?”
Joss shrugged. “Why not? Give it to my wife.” Mary would have to read it—Joss didn’t possess the ability. But the emporium owner didn’t need to know that.
The man ambled around the counter. His shape reminded Joss of the Humpty-Dumpty character in Emmy’s storybook. He was bald as an egg, too. “Tell you what. Stay here with your missus an’ I’ll do the fetchin’.”
“You charge extra for doing the gathering?”
The man laughed, apparently unaffected by Joss’s blunt question. “Nah. I know where everything’s at anyways, so why not save you the trouble o’ huntin’? By the way, folks call me Fat Frank.” He patted his ample belly and laughed again.
“We’re Joss and Mary Brubacher,” Mary said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Frank.”
The man’s jowls flushed pink. “Oh, now, Miz Brubacher, no need for mister. Just Frank’ll do. So . . . want me to fill that list for ya?”
Joss flipped his hand outward, giving Frank permission, then leaned against the counter. He fidgeted in place, discovering it difficult to stand idle while someone else did the work.
While Frank shuffled between aisles, carting back bushel baskets or plump bags, he kept up a steady flow of talk. “Where you folks plannin’ to settle?”
Mary answered, “A place called Drayton Valley. Have you heard of it?”
“Yup. Drayton Valley’s in Doniphan County, right on the Missouri River. Good cropland in those parts.” Frank plopped a bag marked FLOUR onto the counter. White dust rose, and he snuffled. “You plan on farmin’?”
Joss snorted. “Not me. I was a dockworker in New York. Hope to find the same work in Drayton Valley.”
“Ahh.” Frank shuffled off again, his throaty voice drifting over the shelves. “Heard tell the busiest docks in the whole state are right there in Doniphan County—an’ they might be gettin’ the railroad, too. Promisin’ community, to my way o’ thinkin’.”
Mary smiled up at him, and Joss nodded at her.
; Frank dragged a bushel basket containing dried apples across the floor, raising a small cloud of dust. “Quite a few folks headin’ for Kansas these days—whole groups of ’em.” He turned a clumsy circle and set off again. “But most o’ them aim to snatch up some o’ that free farmland in the middle o’ the state.”
He added another bushel basket—this one half full of navy beans—to their growing pile of goods. “’Course, that won’t matter none to the wagonmasters. They’ll still guide you where you want to go. Reckon they’ll just leave you off an’ mosey farther on west.” Hands on hips, he surveyed the gathered items. “Let’s see now, you got a hunnerd fifty pounds o’ flour, twenny-five pounds bacon, ten pounds rice, fifteen pounds coffee, half bushel o’ apples an’ half bushel o’ beans, ten pounds salt, fifty pounds cornmeal, two pounds saleratus . . . Still need a jug o’ vinegar, twenny-five pounds o’ sugar, an’ a big tin o’ pepper. Smart to take a few loaves of hard bread, too, for the days cookin’ just ain’t an option. This bein’ spring, there’ll be some rainy ones, most likely.”
Joss fingered the wad of bills in his pouch, envisioning how it would shrink after paying this tab. “Throw in the bread,” he said, “but we can do without the pepper.”
Mary sat up, angling her head to peer at Frank. “What about canned milk? The children will need milk.”
Frank gave a hearty laugh. “You don’t need to worry about that none. Ever’ one o’ these trains, somebody’s got a cow. You’ll be able to barter milk without no trouble at all. How many young’uns you got?”
Pain crumpled Mary’s chin. Joss knew she’d say five. She always counted the three they’d buried. Then they’d have to explain why only two were in the wagon. He blurted, “Two.”
“Well, then . . .” Frank popped open a round glass jar and withdrew a pair of fat, sugarcoated gumdrops. He plunked the candy into Mary’s hand. “A treat for your little ones.”
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 4