A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The rosy pink of a new dawn highlighted the scene, and birds chirped a cheerful song from nearby brush. The sweet promise of the blossoming day seemed a bitter insult to the too-soon ending of two lives. Tarsie hugged herself, blinking hard against tears.

  Mr. Murphy used the back of the shovel to smooth the dark mound of dirt, then stepped aside. Minnie’s husband, his steps slow and plodding, separated himself from the throng. He gripped a crude cross fashioned from two thick twigs bound together by a rawhide strip. Using a rock as a hammer, he dropped to one knee and pounded the cross into the newly turned dirt. Each strike of the rock on the wood sent a shaft of pain through Tarsie’s heart. Oh, why couldn’t she have saved them?

  The cross secure, the man rose and stood silently, staring down at the cross with his wide shoulders slumped and tears swimming in his brown eyes. A woman—Minnie’s mother—broke from the crowd and staggered forward. She held out her arms to her son-in-law. The rock fell from his hand as they clung to each other. In unison, cries wrenched from their mouths. From their souls. And then the others joined in, giving vent to their sorrow in a grief-laden melody that rose from the earth all the way to the heavens, where, Tarsie prayed, God would hear and rain down blessed comfort.

  Tarsie wanted to cry, too. But she realized her tears were as much out of guilt as sadness. She’d failed Minnie Jenkins and her baby. She had no place in this circle of mourners. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She stayed until the song of sorrow died to sniffles and muted moans. The people shuffled away one by one until only Minnie’s husband and mother, still locked in a tight embrace, and Tarsie remained on opposite sides of the fresh mound.

  Mr. Murphy propped the shovel on his shoulder and inched to Tarsie’s side. He spoke in a near whisper. “Gonna let Harp an’ Judith take a little more time here, then we’ll pull out.”

  Tarsie nodded, her throat so tight no words could escape.

  Mr. Murphy’s thick hand descended onto Tarsie’s shoulder. “Don’t be blamin’ yourself now. Minnie’s mama tol’ me that babe was fixed to come out wrong-side first. Nothin’ you coulda done. Your bein’ here, your carin’, was a blessin’. You think on that, you hear, Miss Tarsie?”

  Tarsie offered another miserable nod, then scuffed her way back to Mary and the waiting wagon, cradling her bag of herbs in her arms. Mary greeted her with a warm hug, then pulled back, her hands clamped over Tarsie’s shoulders as her empathetic gaze searched Tarsie’s face.

  “We heard the wailing. Did she lose the baby?”

  “The babe died. And his mother did, too.” Tarsie separated herself from Mary’s tender grasp. “I need to put my medicine pouch in the wagon.”

  Mary grabbed Tarsie’s arm, holding her in place. “It wasn’t your fault, Tarsie.”

  Tarsie looked away, unwilling to accept the tenderness in her friend’s eyes. She didn’t deserve kindness. Not when she’d failed so miserably.

  “Death . . . happens. Babies die. Mothers die. And we simply have to trust both life and death to our loving heavenly Father’s hands.” Mary’s tone changed from compassionate to contemplative, sending an uneasy chill across Tarsie’s scalp.

  Tarsie gently removed her arm from Mary’s light grasp. “Let me put away my pouch, and then I’ll be seein’ to breakfast.”

  She scurried off, eager to put her hands to work. If she were busy, she wouldn’t have to think. When she’d finished frying cornmeal cakes in bacon grease, she tossed a quilt on the ground to serve as their table and called everyone to breakfast.

  Joss, who’d kept himself occupied with the horses while Tarsie prepared their morning meal, ambled over after Mary had prayed and served the children. He crouched at the edge of the quilt, selecting one of the remaining crisp cornmeal cakes in the skillet. He sent Tarsie a low-browed look while he chewed. “You were out all night.”

  Tarsie poked at the browned cake on her tin plate. She couldn’t bring herself to swallow. “Yes. It was a hard birthing.” She flicked a glance at the children, hoping Joss would read the warning in her expression. Why subject the little ones to unpleasantness? “And it ended in the worst possible way.”

  He nodded, popping the final piece of cake into his mouth. “Figured as much from all the caterwauling.” He glanced toward the other camp, a flicker of something unreadable squinting his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and rubbed his palms on the thighs of his britches, leaving streaks of grease on the heavy duck fabric. “Since the new mama won’t need time to rest up, guess we’ll be pulling out early. Glad I hitched the team.” He pushed himself upright.

  Tarsie bit down on the end of her tongue to prevent herself from unleashing a torrent of fury at the man. How could he be so unfeeling? He himself had lost three babies. His wife sat now, pale and with barely enough strength to lift a fork. Didn’t he possess even an ounce of charity?

  She spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Murphy intends to give Minnie Jenkins’s husband and mother a proper time of mourning before we set out again.”

  Joss looked again toward the gathered wagons, as if seeking evidence that contradicted Tarsie’s statement. Finally he nodded and hunkered down again. “Well, then, reckon I’ll have another cup of coffee.” He held out his tin cup.

  Tarsie rose with a rustle of skirts. “Pour it yourself.” She stomped away, her hands clenched into fists and her teeth clamped so tightly her jaw ached. Mary called after her, but she ignored her friend and continued to the creek, where she plopped down on the bank. She tore loose a few sprouts of green and gave them a vicious toss into the sunshine-speckled water, watching as the slow-moving stream carried the scraps out of sight. If only her own feelings of inadequacy could be so easily discarded.

  “I’d also like to be sending Joss downstream, the insensitive oaf!” She muttered the words to the passing breeze. It replied by tossing loose strands of hair across her cheek. With a grunt, she anchored the strands behind her ear and folded her arms over her chest. She sat stiffly until Joss hollered they were pulling out.

  After thanking Mary and Emmy for seeing to the breakfast cleanup—something she should have done instead of skulking off in a cloud of anger—she huddled in the corner of the wagon bed and fell silent. She wanted to sleep, as she’d gotten no rest the night before, but the jouncing progress over stones and ruts in the road jarred her from sleep every time exhaustion coaxed her eyes closed.

  Mary, seemingly oblivious to the jolts and bumps, napped off and on. The children entertained themselves with some rocks they’d picked up along the way that left whitish marks on surfaces. By the end of the day, they’d decorated every exposed inch of the wagon’s planked sides, earning a scolding from their father. Tarsie bristled at his harsh words. The wagon was old and battered. The simple drawings and attempts at the ABCs did no harm. But she held her tongue and spoke not a word to Joss, fearful she’d say things that would distress Mary and displease her Lord. That man ruffled her feathers worse than anyone else she’d ever known.

  At suppertime, a rustle in the brush near their wagon stilled everyone’s forks above bean-filled plates. Tarsie instinctively reached for the children, but Mary had already tugged them snug to her sides, so she hugged herself instead.

  Joss snatched out the pistol he wore in the waistband of his britches and aimed it at the shadowy patch. “Who’s there? Make yourself known before I lose my patience and pull the trigger!”

  A hatless form in dark trousers with ragged holes where the knees used to be stepped from the shadows into the flickering firelight. “No need to shoot, mistuh. It’s just me, Harp Jenkins—from the Murphy train.” He inched closer, bringing his face into view, but stopped well away from the quilt that served as their table. “I ain’t armed. Just brung somethin’ for Miss Tarsie. A payment for her service to . . . to my wife. Can I give it to her?” He held out a bandana-wrapped packet with both hands.

  Joss shoved the gun back into its hiding spot. He bobbed his head at Tarsie. “Go ahead.” Bending over his plate,
he resumed eating but kept his wary gaze pinned on the other man.

  Tarsie skittered across the short distance to Harp, her heart twisting in her chest. “You shouldn’t be giving me anything, Harp. I’m not deserving of payment.”

  He shook his head, his expression serious. “Yes’m, you are. You done us a favor, spendin’ the night easin’ Minnie’s pain an’ bein’ a comfort to her mama. This ain’t much . . .” He pressed the packet into Tarsie’s hands. “But I hope it’ll serve as a thank-you. You’s a nice lady, an’ we’s honored to know you.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a throaty whisper. “It weren’t your fault, Miss Tarsie, that Minnie an’ our baby boy died. So don’t be blamin’ yourself now.” With a respectful bow of his head, he turned and slipped away into the shadows.

  Tarsie stood, clutching the lumpy packet—she didn’t have the courage to open it yet—and stared at the spot where Harp had disappeared. He’d told her not to blame herself. Both Mr. Murphy and Mary had told her the same thing. She sighed, lifting her gaze to the sky where a few bright stars winked white against the pale gray expanse. Lord, how many times will I need to be told it wasn’t my fault before I finally believe it?

  The morning of their eighth day of wagon travel, Mary awakened in such intense pain she couldn’t hold back a cry of anguish.

  Tarsie, lying in the narrow gap between crates, bolted to her knees and gripped Mary’s shoulders. “What is it?”

  The flap of canvas serving as a curtain at the back opening whisked aside and Joss peered in. His dark hair drooped across his thick brows. “Mary?”

  Mary wanted to reassure both of them, but when she opened her mouth only a groan spilled out. Nausea—the worst ever—rolled through her belly. Panic-stricken, she gasped, “I . . . I’m going to be sick.”

  Joss unhooked the back hatch and let it drop open with such force it rocked the wagon. Tarsie’s arm slid behind Mary’s back and urged her upright. The moment Mary raised her head, the earth spun, throwing her back again.

  “Joss, be helping me!”

  At Tarsie’s shrill cry, both children, who’d been put to bed in the space under the wagon last night, began to cry. The sounds of their distress carried through the floorboards and stung Mary’s heart. How she wanted to comfort her babies, but she could only hold her stomach and hope the bile filling her mouth wouldn’t spew across their belongings. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength.

  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

  Joss 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 t
hem 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.