A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Tears winked in Mary’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”

  “Oh, now, it ain’t much.” Frank grinned and backed away, wiping his hands on his stained apron front. He waddled behind the counter and retrieved a small tin box. Its hinges creaked when he lifted the lid. “Let’s get you all tallied up here. Then we can load your wagon.”

  Joss paid the bill—to his relief, a lesser amount than he’d expected. Then, with Frank puffing along beside him, he carted everything to the waiting wagon. Mary stood beside the wagon while Tarsie climbed inside and organized the sacks, boxes, and bushel baskets, leaving space in the center of the bed for the children and her to sit.

  Frank frowned at the wagon. “Don’t you got a cover for this thing? Bound to hit rain on the trail. You’ll need a cover.” He slapped Joss on the back. “Tell you what, I got a canvas big enough, and there’s a broken-down wagon out back. Been tearin’ it up and usin’ the wood in my cookstove, but the ribs’re just lyin’ there. No use for ’em. You can have ’em if you buy the canvas.”

  Tarsie’s face lit. “What a generous offer! We’ll be thanking you kindly.”

  Joss harrumphed. Friend of Mary’s or not, this girl would have to learn her place. He was in charge, not her. “Go check on the kids,” he told her. She frowned, but she climbed out of the wagon and bustled away. Turning to the store owner, Joss squared his shoulders. “’Preciate the offer. But I wouldn’t know how to fit the wagon with ribs.”

  “Why, that’s no problem at all, mister!” Frank beamed. “Any o’ the wagonmasters’ll be able to attach the ribs an’ stretch a canvas over to keep the sun an’ rain off your family. Most of ’em are right good wainwrights—have to be to take care o’ those they’re leadin’. ’Sides, you get rain on them sacks, that cornmeal, sugar, an’ flour’ll be ruined. Gotta have a cover.”

  Swallowing an irritated grunt, Joss surrendered. If the wagon had a cover, they could use it as a temporary shelter tonight instead of paying to sleep in the liveryman’s barn. “All right, then. Where’ll I find one of the wagonmasters so we can get a cover on this thing?”

  Frank’s deep chortle shook his belly. “You’re in luck, mister. Right there’s Tate Murphy, one o’ the most reliable wagonmasters I’ve ever known.” Lifting his thick arm, he waved. “Tate! Over here! Got some folks—Joss an’ Mary Brubacher an’ their young’uns—wantin’ to join up with your train!”

  Joss squinted up the road and spotted a man on horseback. His dusty plaid shirt and brown trousers spoke of days in the saddle. Leather gloves covered his hands, a bandana circled his neck, and a battered hat tugged low hid everything but his thick black beard. Except for the bandana and cowboy-styled hat, he might have been one of the dockworkers from New York.

  The man reined in the horse next to the emporium’s hitching rail and swung down. With a deft flick of his wrist, he wrapped the reins around the rail, then aimed the toes of his scuffed boots in Frank’s direction. His head low, he batted at his britches while he walked, and not until he reached Frank’s side did he lift his head. He smiled, his teeth a slash of white against his walnut-husk-colored skin.

  Tate Murphy stuck out his gloved right hand to Joss. “Pleased to have you join my train, Mr. Brubacher.”

  Joss kept his arms stiffly at his side. He glowered at Frank. “Just what do you take me for? I won’t travel with”—he raked a derisive glare from the brim of Murphy’s well-worn hat to his boot-covered feet—“the likes of him.”

  6

  Joss!” Mary sent an apologetic look to Frank and Mr. Murphy. Both men aimed their gazes downward, hiding their expressions, but Frank’s slumped back and wringing hands denoted worry. In contrast, Mr. Murphy communicated controlled fury with his clenched fists and tense shoulders.

  Joss whirled on her, waving his hand toward Frank. “He’s wanting us to trust our passage to a—”

  Mary pressed her shaking fingertips to her husband’s mouth.

  He jerked away from her touch but kept his lips clenched together. With a growl, he marched from the wagon to the shaded area beside the store where the children continued to run and play, their bright laughter an ignominious pairing for the tension emanating from the men.

  Mary clasped her hands to her ribs. Now the deep hurt throbbing through her middle was more than a physical pain. “Mr. Murphy, please forgive my husband’s outburst. He . . . he isn’t an evil man. But his father . . . he . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the statement. Such ugliness should never be spoken aloud.

  Slowly, Mr. Murphy raised his head. Although he held his jaw at a stern angle, understanding glowed in his soft brown eyes. “It’s all right, ma’am. Children don’t come into the world hatin’. It’s taught.” He looked toward Emmy and Nathaniel, who scampered uninhibitedly in a splash of sunshine, their sweaty faces alive with joy and innocence. A smile quivered on his lips, making his thick beard twitch. “I’ll be prayin’ the lessons for those little’uns are more in keepin’ with the Good Book than what your man was fed.”

  Mary’s heart leaped. “Are you a believer, Mr. Murphy?”

  He swept his hat from his head, revealing a bald pate. “Yes’m. Learned about Jesus an’ His sacrifice for men—all men—from my granny when I was still a young’un. The Lord’s seen me through some mighty troubled times. Wouldn’t wanna walk this world without Him.”

  “Nor would I.” Mary nibbled her lower lip. Given Joss’s behavior, Mr. Murphy could refuse to allow her family to join his train. Yet she believed God had brought this man into her pathway for a purpose. She wanted him to be the one to lead them to Kansas. Breathing a prayer for God’s will to be done, she skittered forward a few inches and looked directly into Mr. Murphy’s dark face. “My family needs to reach Drayton Valley, Kansas. Will . . . will you guide us to our new home?”

  Mr. Murphy’s expression didn’t change. For several seconds he stood so still and unmoving, he gave the appearance of a statue. She waited, her breath caught in her lungs, her hands twined together in hope. Please, please, God. Let him say yes.

  At last the man drew his shoulders back, his chest filling his shirt and straining against his striped suspenders. He seemed to examine Joss’s stiff figure across the yard as he spoke. “I got a group camped east o’ town—eight families in all. We’re leavin’ first thing tomorrow for Kansas. Easy thing for you to join up. But, ma’am . . .” He faced Mary. His gaze bore into hers. “They’s all colored families. Not a white face among us. Is your man gonna be willin’ to be part o’ a train full o’ . . . ?”

  The unspoken word stung her heart. Mary winced. Joss would certainly fuss. His father’d had no use for men of color, whether black, yellow, or red. Mary never understood her father-in-law’s vile opinions, and she’d prayed when he died that his offensive ideas would be buried with him. But they lived on, through Joss. How often had she begged God for the means to rid Joss of his unfounded prejudice? Now it seemed the answer to her prayer stood before her dressed in a patched plaid shirt and dusty brown trousers.

  Her legs trembled from standing so long under the sun. A decision had to be made. She didn’t know this man, but he loved the Lord. That made him her brother in Christ. She drew in a sharp breath as a fresh stab of pain, seeming to sear her insides, stirred nausea. They had to reach Drayton Valley. Soon.

  She fixed Mr. Murphy with a determined look. “If you’ll have us, my husband and I will join your wagon train. And”—she shifted to peer at Joss, who leaned against the corner of the store with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head low—“I promise Joss will give you no trouble.”

  Mr. Murphy whipped off his glove and extended his hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, Mary placed her hand in his leathery palm. He gave a firm shake, his grip warm and solid. “Welcome aboard, Miz Brubacher.”

  Mary lifted her chin, swallowing the moan of pain that strained for release. “Please, call me Mary.”

  “Thank you, Miz Mary. An’ you call me Tate.”
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  “Very well, Tate.”

  A smile creased his face, relaxing the worry lines that created furrows in his forehead.

  Frank gave Tate’s shoulder a clap, his jovial nature restored. “Well, now, since that’s all settled, can you help these folks afix some ribs to their wagon so we can put a cover on it? Then they oughta be set to go.”

  Tate slapped his hat into place and tugged his gloves over his fingers. “Let’s get to it.”

  Joss held the reins and watched the puff of dust rising from the scrub brush on either side of the road a quarter mile ahead. For three days he’d followed the wagon train’s silent signal, keeping his family on course. For three days, he’d sat silent on this warped, creaky seat, teeth aching from being ground together. Another ten days of travel awaited. He’d surely explode before they reached Kansas.

  Not once in all their years together had Mary defied him. Until now. Everything inside him wanted to rail at his wife. But something held his tongue.

  In his mind’s eye, her fervent expression rose again. She hadn’t begged. Just outright stated, “We have to get to Drayton Valley. Mr. Tate is willing and able to guide us. We’re going, Joss.” Yet something akin to desperation had tinged her tone and glimmered in her blue eyes. And that very desperation had made him swallow his pride and agree to follow Murphy’s train. But he wouldn’t be a part of it. Not even Mary’s begging could make him camp with that bunch.

  He glanced skyward, noting the descent of the sun. They’d be stopping soon. Each of the previous nights, Murphy’d led them to a clearing with a nearby water source—creek, lake, or hand-dug well—where they could circle their wagons. Joss couldn’t deny the man seemed to know what he was doing. But he also couldn’t deny relief that none of his dock buddies could see him now, mindlessly following a former slave like a lamb follows its shepherd.

  He’d taken to parking his wagon on the opposite side of the water source, in sight of the train’s glowing campfires and within hearing of their voices, but separate. Mary and Tarsie seemed to enjoy listening to the nightly singing that came from the camp. The whole lot of them from youngest to oldest gathered together before bedtime and delivered song after song in low-toned, husky voices. It was haunting. Joss shivered despite the early evening warmth.

  From behind him in the wagon bed, beneath the stained canvas covering, one of the children began singing, “Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt-land . . .” Joss jerked upright and barked out his first words since they’d left Des Moines. “You hush that up right now!” The song ceased, followed by a childish whimper and Tarsie’s soothing voice. Joss didn’t turn around to determine which child he’d wounded with his harsh command. Didn’t matter, as long as he was obeyed. He’d never laid a hand on Emmy or Nathaniel—he wasn’t like his pa when it came to using a strap—but if either one of his young’uns picked up any habits from those people in the wagon train, he’d cut a switch and chase it right out of them again.

  The dust cloud ahead settled. Murphy must’ve brought them all to a halt. Joss squinted at the sun, then frowned. Stopping early tonight. He preferred pressing onward till dusk. Sooner they reached Kansas, sooner he could be shed of their company.

  As Joss had come to expect, Murphy’d led the wagons off the road a piece. The wagons formed a rough circle with children darting here and there between the wheels, braids bobbing and squeals ringing. Women with kerchiefed heads gathered twigs and buffalo chips for fires. The men unhitched mules or oxen from wagons and led them to a trickling stream. Murphy separated himself from the group and jogged to meet Joss’s wagon. Although he didn’t smile, neither did he avoid Joss’s eyes. Joss’s fiercest glares hadn’t managed to intimidate the wagonmaster. Another reason Joss resented the man.

  “Hold up a minute,” Murphy called, jamming his palm in the air.

  With a grunt, Joss drew his wagon to a halt. Tarsie leaned over the back of the seat, her shoulder brushing against Joss. “What is it, Mr. Murphy?”

  Murphy removed his hat when addressing Tarsie. “Wanted to let you folks know, might be delayed in startin’ out tomorruh mornin’. One of the women—Minnie Jenkins—is near her time. Wanna give her at least a few hours’ rest before jostlin’ her around in a wagon aftuh her babe is born.”

  Joss let out a mighty huff. The woman better drop her whelp soon. He didn’t have the patience to sit around waiting.

  Tarsie clicked her teeth with her tongue, a sympathetic sound. “Are you needin’ a midwife? My great-aunt did midwifery and taught me what she knew. I’d be pleased to see to the mother.”

  Murphy shook his bald head. “Appreciate the offer, Miss Tarsie, but Minnie’s mama is travelin’ with her, and she’ll see to the birthin’.”

  “All right, then. If something changes and she has need of some extra hands, please tell her—”

  “Yah!” Joss brought down the reins on the horses’ rumps, and the beasts lurched forward, sending Tarsie into the wagon bed. She let out a disgruntled squawk, but Joss ignored her and guided the team upstream of the circled wagons. He brought the horses to a stop and set the brake, then turned and scowled into the back of the wagon. “You won’t be going to that camp.”

  Tarsie folded her arms over her chest and matched his glower with one of her own. “Joss Brubacher, the good Lord gave me an ability and He expects me to use it. I brought my medicinal cures, and if someone in the Murphy wagon train has need of tending, I’ll be tending ’em and that’s that!” With her nose in the air, she flounced to the back of the wagon and climbed out. “Come along, Emmy and Nathaniel. You can help me gather fuel for our cooking fire.” The children scrambled after her.

  Joss clutched the hair at his temples, stifling a snarl. That woman! He couldn’t wait to be rid of her and her sassy, argumentative tongue. He glared at Mary, who lay on a pile of quilts draped across the trunks. Three days’ worth of frustration rose up, ready to spew from his mouth. But one look at his wife’s white, drawn face, and his fury flickered and died.

  Crawling into the back, he touched her cheek. “That Tarsie and her talk of medicinal cures . . .” His words growled out. “That’s all it is, is talk. She’s done you no good.”

  Mary’s face puckered as if discomfort gripped her, but a weak laugh left her throat. “She’s done me much good, Joss, just being here.” She clutched his hand, pressing his palm more firmly to her face. “Don’t torment her. It grieves me to hear you two fussing at one another. Can’t you be friends?”

  Joss had no desire to grieve Mary, but he couldn’t admit to any hankering to befriend the Irish girl, either. “I need to unhitch the team. Do you want to stay here and rest, or would you like to get out?”

  “I’d like to get out and enjoy the evening breeze.” She tried to push herself upright. Her face contorted, and she dropped back onto the rumpled quilts with a strangled moan.

  Joss reached for her. So much effort just to sit up. No matter what Mary said, Tarsie’s cures were useless. He scooped her into his arms and eased her over the edge of the wagon. He followed with the quilts and laid them out in the shade of the wagon. When she’d settled herself, he crouched before her. “You all right there?”

  She offered a gentle smile. “I’m fine, Joss. Go about your business.”

  His legs stiff from hours on the wagon seat, he scuffed to the horses and released them from their rigging. He tethered the pair within reach of the creek and left them contentedly munching tender shoots of green along the bank. By the time he returned to the wagon, Tarsie had already started a fire. A coffeepot sat on one side of the crackling flames, a covered kettle on the other. She held a bowl between her skirt-draped knees and stirred cornmeal into a mushy mess with a wooden spoon.

  Joss stifled a snort. Beans and johnnycakes for supper. Again. The aroma of roasted meat drifting from the campfires of the wagon train made Joss salivate. He paused, lifting his face to inhale the scent and let it flavor his tongue. Then, without warning, something else drifted from the camp. A scream.<
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  Tarsie leaped up. The bowl tumbled from her lap and its contents splattered across the ground. A second scream rent the air, this one even more piercing than the first. Nathaniel and Emmy raced from their playing spot nearby. Tarsie held out her arms, and the children clung to her.

  Mary struggled to her feet and staggered to Joss’s side. She clutched his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “W-what do you suppose is happening?”

  Joss shook his head. “Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

  Tarsie separated herself from the children and scuttled to Mary. “It must be the woman straining to deliver her babe. I should fetch my pouch and go over. Maybe—”

  “You stay here,” Joss ordered.

  A third scream, long and anguished, carried to their ears. The hair on Joss’s neck prickled. He curled his arm around Mary’s waist and turned her toward the quilts. “Sit and rest. No matter what’s going on over there, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Tarsie let out a little huff. “There’s somethin’ I can be doing!” She grabbed up her skirts, darted to the wagon, and clambered into the bed. Moments later she emerged with her pouch tucked under her arm. “I’m going over to see if I can help.”

  “I told you—”

  Mary grabbed Joss’s arm. “Let her go, Joss.”

  Joss ground his teeth as Tarsie dashed toward the circle of wagons.

  7

  Tarsie stood with the other solemn travelers, watching as Mr. Murphy emptied shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto the blanket-wrapped forms of Minnie Jenkins and her newborn son. A mighty lump filled her throat. It shouldn’t be, Lord. Birthings should be times of celebration, not times of mourning. But sounds of sorrow filled her ears—low moans, soft sobs, whispered prayers seeking comfort, and the skritch-skritch of a shovel’s blade digging into dirt, followed by soft plops of earth falling.