All three faces turned to him, three pairs of dark eyes lighting at the sound of their pappy’s voice. Hoes fell in the mud with soft plops and they all came running on healthy legs, hands extended, smiles beaming. Simon braced himself for their hugs, laughing as their sturdy bodies plowed against his.
Ah, Lawd, such blessin’s, such blessin’s—more’n I deserve. Thank You, dear Lawd.
Joss entered the house without knocking. Before he could close the door behind him, Emmy and Nathaniel dashed across the floor and wrapped their arms around his legs, crying in shrill unison, “Papa! Papa!” The force of their greetings nearly toppled him. Grunting in aggravation, he caught hold of their shoulders and peeled them loose. He steeled himself against their hurt expressions and looked across the room at Tarsie, who stood with a skillet in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Her face pursed in disapproval.
He grunted again. “You just now putting supper out?” He glanced at Mary’s clock, which stood proudly on a warped shelf alongside a few sparse grocery items. “It’s near seven o’clock.”
Her faded skirts swirling around her ankles, Tarsie charged to a trunk she must’ve pulled to the center of the room during the day and plopped the skillet onto the wooden top. Hands on hips, the wooden spoon still wrapped in one fist, she glowered at him. “’Tis near seven o’clock, an’ ever since noon I’ve been worryin’ an’ wonderin’ where you’ve been keepin’ y’rself.”
Her Irish brogue thickened with ire. She was in full temper right now. Despite himself, a grin tickled Joss’s lips. He drew his hand over his mustache to hide any sign of humor, thumped his way to the wash bucket beside the stove, and dunked his hands in the tepid water. He angled a glance over his shoulder and noted she’d followed, wielding the spoon like a weapon.
“All the other dockworkers came wanderin’ back midmornin’, fussin’ about how the dock washed away an’ no work was to be had. I watched an’ watched for you . . .”
Straightening, he plucked a length of toweling from a nail and dried his hands, his eyebrows high. “Don’t s’pose it occurred to you I’d be looking for another job, seein’ as how my first one went floating downriver?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Now, come Monday morning, he’d have to explain why he didn’t keep the new job.
Tarsie squinted. “You went job seekin’? You weren’t . . . ?”
Her disbelieving tone stirred Joss’s irritation to life. What gave her the right to throw accusations at him? She wasn’t anything more than his children’s nanny and his maid. He smacked the towel onto the nail and marched to the trunk, where four tin plates formed a circle around the skillet. “We gonna eat or not?”
Tarsie drew in a breath, as if preparing to release a torrent of words, but then she waved her hands at the children. “Come. It’s late, and I know you’re all hungry.” Her eyes spit fire at Joss, telling him she wasn’t finished with their conversation.
They had no chairs, so they knelt beside the trunk, except for Nathaniel, who remained on his feet. Tarsie scooped servings of beans and chunks of ham swimming in a thick gravy onto their plates. She sent him a warning glance when he reached for his spoon, and with a disgruntled snort he waited until she offered a brief prayer before yanking up his spoon and digging into the mound on his plate.
His mouth full of the flavorful beans, he mumbled, “No biscuits?”
Tarsie swallowed. “No flour.”
Emmy sent a shy look at him. “We used up the flour makin’ cookies. Tarsie says we’ll have ’em for dessert.”
Nathaniel waved his spoon. “Cookies!”
Tarsie caught the boy’s hand and drew the spoon toward his plate. “But not ’til you’ve eaten all your beans.”
With a grin, Nathaniel jammed the spoon into the mound of beans.
Joss frowned. “You wasted the flour on cookies?”
Tarsie raised one brow. “I didn’t consider it wastin’ when your children were in need of a distraction while wonderin’ where their papa was. Besides . . .” Her expression softened. “Every wee one needs a treat now and then.” She shrugged and took another bite. “We’ll buy more flour at the mercantile, an’ I’ll be sure to fix a batch of biscuits for tomorrow’s supper.”
Joss bent over his plate, thinking. His knees hurt after his day of stooping next to grapevines. He didn’t care to eat every meal kneeling at this crate. They needed chairs. And a decent table. He had the six dollars from his dock work, and after tomorrow he’d have another four dollars for his time at the vineyard. Ten dollars in all—not an insignificant amount, but not enough to buy furnishings. It’d be enough, if they were careful, to keep them in groceries till the dock was rebuilt and he could take up there again. However, he’d fill a purse faster, furnish this little house quicker—and be able to beat it to Chicago sooner—if he continued working at the vineyard.
An image of Simon’s dark, smiling face filled Joss’s memory. Hadn’t he decided he couldn’t work with that man? He clanked his spoon into his empty plate and lurched to his feet.
“Gonna head to the wagon and change my clothes.” He gestured to his mud-stained trousers. “I’ll bring these dirty ones back in for washing.”
Emmy blinked up at him. “Don’tcha want a cookie, Papa?”
“Every wee one needs a treat now and then.” Nobody’d ever treated him when he was a youngster. A band wrapped around his chest, restricting his breathing. “No.” He headed for the door.
“If you’re done eatin’, I’ll be speakin’ with you, Joss Brubacher!”
The command in Tarsie’s voice stopped Joss midstep. He aimed a glower in her direction, which she didn’t acknowledge. She rose and offered quick instructions to the children to finish eating and then they could each have two cookies from the tin. She scurried to his side. “Let’s be steppin’ outside, you an’ me.”
Joss yanked open the door and swept his hand in a grand gesture of invitation for her to precede him. Skirts pinched between her fingers, she flounced past him with her chin set at a determined angle. Stifling a grunt, Joss followed.
On the porch, she whirled on him. The feistiness that had sparked in her eyes earlier had fled, replaced by a glimmer of concern. “Joss, when the other men came back, all a-flutter about the dock being gone and no work to be had, I feared for you. I’ve spent the whole day pacin’ and prayin’ . . . remembering how you’d take to drink when things went wrong.”
Heat filled Joss’s face. Partly shame, partly fury, and partly desire to lift a glass and feel the burn of whiskey draining down his throat followed by blissful numbness.
Tarsie touched his arm, her fingers resting gently on his sleeve. “I’m proud to see you didn’t go searching for a bottle. Mary’d be proud, too.”
The mention of Mary sent a shaft of pain through Joss’s middle. He stepped away from Tarsie’s light touch. “Yeah, well, I found a job, but—”
“Where?”
He shook his head. Couldn’t the yappy woman let him finish his sentence? “At the vineyard south of town. As a field worker. But—”
“A vineyard?” Tarsie’s voice turned shrill. “You didn’t take a job at a vineyard, did you?”
Defensiveness straightened Joss’s spine. “I did.”
“Oh, but, Joss . . .”
The disapproval in her tone raised Joss’s stubborn pride a notch. “And just why shouldn’t I work at a vineyard?”
She fluttered her hands, her lips pursed. “You know why. They’ll be brewing wine at a vineyard. Why be placing yourself in the midst of temptation?”
“We’re makin’ wine out there, not drinkin’ it.” Joss growled the words, determined to put her in her place.
“But it’ll be easily available to you.”
Joss clenched his fists. He leaned close, lowering his voice to a grating growl. “You got no say in this, Tarsie.”
She turned sharply away and sucked in several little breaths, her chest heaving with each intake. Her eyes snapped close
d for several terse seconds, and when she opened them again, she met his fierce gaze with a calm resolve. “As your wife and the caretaker of your children, I should be havin’ a say, Joss. I’m concerned for you, putting yourself in such a place. We came here to Kansas to help you lose your taste for the drink. But if you—”
Joss held up his hand, stilling her words. “I gotta earn a wage. Dock’s gone, so I’m gonna work at the vineyard an’ that’s the way it is. No more talk.”
He ignored her sharp gasp of frustration and stepped off the porch. As he strode around the house to the wagon to fetch another pair of trousers, it occurred to him he’d just trapped himself. He slapped his forehead, inwardly berating himself for letting his pride run ahead of his mouth. With a growl, Joss heaved himself into the wagon and flopped onto his back on the quilt.
He was stuck with that job now, or Tarsie’d think she’d been the one to change his mind. Which would be harder to tolerate—following Simon’s directions, or having Tarsie believe he cared about her opinion? He’d either be kowtowing to a black man or appearing to kowtow to a woman. Both ideas soured his stomach.
“Well, Brubacher,” he muttered to the flapping canvas cover above his head, “you got yourself in a fine pickle now.”
17
That man’s gonna be gettin’ himself pickled every day, workin’ at a place that makes wine,” Tarsie murmured to herself as she followed Emmy and Nathaniel down the mucky roadway toward the mercantile. Joss had given her three dollars and instructed her in his typical dictatorial tone to be careful with it because she wouldn’t be getting more for another week at least.
Gray skies loomed overhead, promising another bout of rain. Tarsie heaved a sigh, already weary, even though the day had just begun. She’d lain awake last night, praying, asking God to give Joss the good sense to quit that job where he’d be tempted to succumb to foolish desires. But Joss had headed off to the vineyard anyway.
Tarsie ushered the children through the mercantile door and offered a quick warning. “Don’t be touching anything. Be good children, an’ when we get home we’ll have a cookie with some milk.” Fortunately, one of her neighbors had agreed to barter a quart of milk a day in exchange for laundry services, so she needn’t purchase canned milk, which was, in her opinion, overpriced.
The patter of footsteps and giggles erupted outside the store. Emmy dashed to the window to peer outside. She spun to Tarsie, her expression beseeching. “There’s some kids on the porch. Can we go out an’ play with ’em?”
Tarsie hesitated. She didn’t know any of the town children. As she considered the request, a woman with a bright red bandana tied over her hair and a round, cheerful face stepped inside the store. She glanced at Emmy, who stood with her fingers and nose pressed to the glass, and released a low chuckle.
“You watchin’ my chillun out there bein’ plumb silly?”
Emmy nodded. “I wanna play, too. But Tarsie didn’t say yes.” Emmy’s lower lip pooched out in a pout.
The woman swung a basket on her arm, her dark eyes twinkling. “An’ they’d be right pleased to have a new playmate or two.” She held out her work-callused hand to Tarsie. “I be Ruth Foster—me ’n’ my fam’ly live out south o’ Drayton Valley. Don’t b’lieve I evuh seen you befo’.”
Tarsie took the woman’s hand and offered a shy smile. Friendliness radiated from this colored woman, drawing Tarsie in. “We’re new in town. My . . . my husband”—fire seared her cheeks, speaking of Joss in such a personal manner—“had been working at the docks ’til the rain washed the dock away. But now he works at a vineyard.”
Ruth’s thick eyebrows shot upward. “Tollison Vineyard?”
Tarsie searched her memory. Joss hadn’t given a name, but he’d told her the location. “The vineyard south of town.”
The woman’s face lit like a Fourth of July firecracker. “Ooh, now you got me all curious. Yo’ husband—he be named Joss?”
It was Tarsie’s turn to raise her brows in surprise. “How did you know?”
A deep, rich chuckle rumbled from the woman’s throat, bringing an answering smile to Tarsie’s lips. “I knows it, girl, ’cause he be workin’ fo’ my husband.”
Tarsie’s mouth dropped open. “W-what?”
Pride lifted Ruth’s chin. “That’s right. Simon Foster—he be manager o’ Tollison Vineyard, an’ aftuh supper last night he tells me he gots a new man on the job. Says his name is Joss, an’ that he’s big as a mountain an’ smart as a whip an’—” She fell abruptly silent, lowering her head to fiddle with the eggs in the basket.
Emmy darted to Tarsie’s side and tugged on her elbow. “Can’t me an’ Nattie go out an’ play with those kids? Pleeeeease?”
Apprehensive, Tarsie glanced at Ruth. The woman still looked down, clearly flustered. To give the other woman time to collect herself, Tarsie took both children by the hand and led them to the porch. Two boys—slightly older than Emmy—and a little girl close to Nathaniel’s age ran back and forth from one spindled porch post to the other, their giggles running the scales. The oldest one caught the post with his palm and whirled around. He spotted Tarsie, Emmy, and Nathaniel and halted, holding out his arm to stop the younger two.
The three dark-faced children stared at Emmy and Nathaniel, who stared back, Nathaniel with one finger in his mouth. Before Tarsie could offer an introduction, Emmy took a step forward.
“I’m Emmy, an’ that’s Nattie.” She jammed her thumb at her little brother.
The oldest boy pulled his brother and sister forward. “This here is Naomi an’ Malachi. I be Ezekiel, but folks call me E.Z.”
Emmy twisted her hands together and rocked from side to side. “Can me an’ Nattie play, too?”
E.Z. broke into a broad grin. “We’s just chasin’, seein’ who can get from one pole to the othuh the fastest.” He shrugged. “If’n yo’ mama don’t care, you can play.”
Joss might object, but Tarsie knew Mary wouldn’t mind Emmy and Nathaniel playing with these little Negro children. She gave the towheaded pair a gentle nudge forward. “Go ahead. I’ll be right inside.”
With a joyful hoot, Emmy grabbed Nathaniel’s hand, and they joined in the fun.
Tarsie watched for a few minutes, smiling at their antics. Satisfied they’d be fine, she reentered the store. Ruth browsed the aisles, her basket now empty of its eggs. Tarsie approached the woman. “Thank you for letting your young’uns play with Emmy and Nathaniel. Poor wee ones, they haven’t met any friends here yet. It’ll do ’em good to play with someone besides each other for a change.”
Ruth’s smile returned, whatever had caused the shyness to surface forgotten. “Oh, those chillun, they do love to run an’ shout. I’s hopin’ they’ll get wore out good so they’ll gib me some peace this aftuhnoon.” She laughed, the sound reminding Tarsie of molasses dripping slowly across a biscuit. “So I know yo’ husband’s name, but I didn’t catch yours.”
Tarsie bobbed her head in greeting. “I’m Tarsie.”
Ruth’s eyebrows rose. “Tarsie? That be a mighty unusual name. Cain’t say I evuh heard of it before.”
“My real name is Treasa, but my da nicknamed me Tarsie when I was just a wee girl.” Tarsie’s chest constricted, loneliness for her parents still strong even after so many years. She shrugged. “I like it.”
Ruth’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “Why, Miz Tarsie, I b’lieve I do too.”
The two fell into step together, Ruth filling her basket and Tarsie filling her apron, which she held outward by the corners to create a pouch. Ruth examined Tarsie’s apron, her full lips quirking into a grin. “You gon’ carry ever’thing home thataway? I reckon it works, but it sho’ look ungainly.”
Tarsie couldn’t resist a chuckle. The teasing twinkle in Ruth’s dark eyes invited gaiety. “I hope the proprietor will have a crate I can use. I might be tearing my apron strings clean off if I load it too much.”
“Need a basket like I got—somethin’ with a handle made for totin’.”<
br />
Tarsie admired Ruth’s basket. Large, tightly woven of creamy bands, and with a thickly wound handle, it seemed capable of carrying nearly everything she’d need. “Yours is very nice, but I couldn’t be affording such a luxury right now. It’s more important to buy food than a vessel for carrying it.”
“Ooh, I didn’t buy this basket. I made it.” Ruth plucked two jars of pickled pig’s feet from the shelf and settled them in her basket.
Tarsie came to a stop in the aisle and stared at Ruth. “You did?”
Ruth sent a twinkly grin in Tarsie’s direction. “Sho’ did. Y’see, durin’ the spring an’ summuh, I collect reeds from down by the rivuh. Then, come wintertime when I cain’t be out workin’ the garden, I takes those reeds an’ I make baskets. All shapes an’ sizes. Gots plenty of ’em sittin’ aroun’ my house. If you like, I can gib you one for shoppin’.”
“Oh, no.” Tarsie shook her head hard, once again admiring the workmanship of Ruth’s basket. “I couldn’t take something that cost you so much time and effort. And I have no money to pay for one.” She bobbed the corners of her apron. “I’ll make do.”
Ruth shrugged. “Suit yo’self.”
They finished their shopping. The lisping proprietor recorded Ruth’s purchases against a credit in an account book, offering a thank-you for her bringing in fresh “eggth.” Then Tarsie laid out the items she’d chosen, praying she’d have enough money to cover it all. To her relief, the money Joss had given her proved more than adequate, but the proprietor didn’t have a crate for her to carry the purchases home. With a sigh, she removed her apron, tied everything into a lumpy bundle, then gathered the bundle in her arms.
Ruth raised one brow at Tarsie’s makeshift package, but she didn’t comment. The women trailed outside where the children sat in a row on the edge of the porch, bouncing their feet on the muddy street below. None of Ruth’s youngsters wore shoes. For some reason, the sight of those dirty, bare feet with broken, dirt-rimmed toenails made Tarsie’s heart hurt.
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 13