Simon blinked at Joss, his dark face reflecting surprise. “What you mean?”
Joss snorted, irritated with himself for spilling his thought. “We pass Ol’ Zeke’s grave every day, walking from the vines to the dinner barn. Never’ve seen you stop there, or even look over at it.” If he were in White Cloud, he’d be at Mary’s grave. A lot. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. “So if you miss him so much, who don’t you . . . visit him?”
Simon stared into Joss’s face. His dark eyes, all moist with unshed tears, seemed to glow with a compassion Joss didn’t understand. “I don’t visit ’cause he ain’t there.”
“Ain’t there?” Joss barked out a harsh laugh. “Why’d you put that cross up if he’s not there?”
Slowly, Simon shook his head, meeting Joss’s gaze the whole time. Simon had a way of looking at a man that made it seem like he could see under the skin. “His body’s there, fo’ sure. We done buried his shell. But his soul, it be in heaven with his Lawd an’ Savior, Jesus Christ.” His eyes glimmered. Partly from moisture, but partly from something else. Something within. Something Joss interpreted as joy.
Envy twined through Joss’s middle, erupting in an angry outburst. “And it’s fine with you that he’s dead and gone? That you’ll never see him again?”
“Oh, I’ll be seein’ him again.” Simon placed his hand on Joss’s shoulder, his grip warm and firm. “On the day I leaves my shell behind, I’ll be goin’ on up to heaven, too. I’ll have eternity with Pappy. An’ with my ma an’ all the saints who’ve gone before me. When I get to missin’ Pappy too much, I think on that, an’ it perks me right up. You see”—he squeezed Joss’s shoulder, then let his hand drop away—“what time we got down here? It’s just a tiny little drop in the mighty ocean compared to eternity. In no time at all, I’ll be seein’ Pappy again. Until then, well, I just carries him right here.” He placed his palm on the center of his chest.
Joss wanted to hold his own chest. It ached like a bad tooth. Instead, he stomped toward the wagon. “We’re done here. Let’s get back.”
He didn’t utter a single word on the drive to Simon’s house. When they pulled into the yard, Simon’s two boys and Emmy came running.
“Papa,” Emmy called, a bright smile lighting her face, “Miss Ruth made ’lasses cookies, an’ I saved you one. Come eat it.”
He held tight to the reins. “Get Nathaniel an’ Tarsie an’ let’s get.”
Emmy’s face fell. “You don’t want your cookie?”
“Just come on!”
Tears welled, and Emmy hung her head.
Joss turned away from her dejected pose, images from his own childhood rising up to strangle him. Why’d he speak so rough? He hated hearing his pa’s voice come out of his own mouth. Hated himself for using it. But he still did it over and over.
Simon climbed down from the seat and hitched the few feet needed to reach Emmy. Joss watched out of the corner of his eye as the black man rested his hand on Emmy’s tangled hair. “Come inside with me, little’un. We’ll fetch yo’ brother an’ Miz Tarsie like yo’ papa wants, an’ we’ll ask Miz Ruth to wrap up that cookie in some paper so’s you can take it with you.” Simon’s voice, so gentle, stung Joss.
“Papa don’t want it.”
“Aw, now, honey, yo’ papa’s just too tired from hard workin’ to chew right now.”
Emmy flicked a resentful look in Joss’s direction. “He’s not tired. He’s just mean.” She turned and raced into the house. E.Z. and Malachi followed her, their apprehensive gazes pinned on Joss.
Simon stared after the children for a moment, rubbing his hand up and down on his pant leg as if trying to convince his legs to work. Then he crossed to stand by the wagon and curled his leathery fingers over the edge of the seat. “Joss, I ain’t yo’ pa, or even yo’ preachuh. Right now we’s just two men, all sweaty from labor, ’stead of a foreman an’ one o’ his workers. . . .”
Joss bristled, narrowing his gaze.
Simon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “But I gots to tell you, you’s gon’ do a heap o’ damage if you keep barkin’ at your chillun ’stead o’ lovin’ ’em. The Good Book tells fathers not to provoke their chillun to wrath but to bring ’em up in the love an’ admonition o’ the Lawd Hisself.” He leaned in, his eyes blazing with conviction. “If chillun don’t feel love from their pappies, they go lookin’ for love in places that ain’t so healthy for ’em. I don’t reckon you wanna send yo’ sweet little Emmy into the arms o’ some man who ain’t worthy of her, now, would you?”
Joss set his jaw to hold back words of indignant fury. That Simon—so sure of himself. So righteous. So right. But how could Simon know how Mary’s pa had beat her nearly every day in drunken rages, then pushed her out the door to fend for herself? She’d married Joss out of desperation. Oh, she’d come to love him. He never doubted that. Why else would she have stayed with him after that street preacher convinced her to give her heart to Jesus and all those feelings of unworthiness and shame from her upbringing melted away? Mary had been too good for Joss, and Joss knew it.
Simon leaned in, his eyes nearly sparking. “Would you?”
At the insistent question, Joss whirled on the man. “’Course I want more for Emmy. But if you’re so all-fired smart, how come you haven’t figured out I don’t know how to give her more? Not like fellas go to school to learn daddyin’, now, do they? A man does what he knows, an’ that’s all he can do.” He straightened in his seat and faced forward. “Go get my woman an’ young’uns. It’s time we got outta here.”
Simon lay wide awake, staring at the shadowy ceiling beams overhead. Ruth, nestled close with her head on his shoulder, breathed slow and steady. Sleeping soundly. Her hair tickled his cheek, but he made no effort to pull away. He needed her closeness tonight. It comforted him after his argument with Joss.
Maybe he shouldn’t call it an argument. Mostly he’d talked and Joss hadn’t listened. But at least he thought he now understood why Joss had such closed ears, such a sour face, and so much anger burning in him. “A man does what he knows, an’ that’s all he can do.” Being raised with anger, of course Joss would be full of it himself. Only made sense.
Ruth shifted slightly, burrowing, and Simon moved his arm to pull her closer. As his fingers closed on her rib cage, her eyes popped open, settling on his. “Why ain’t you sleepin’?” She smacked her lips, the scent of spices from the rich molasses cookies wafting on her breath. “Been a long day between workin’ at Tollison’s an’ then cuttin’ them saplings with Joss. You gotta be plumb wore out.”
“I am. But I cain’t shut down my thinkin’.”
Ruth pushed herself up on one elbow and used her other hand to rub circles on Simon’s chest. “Thinkin’ ’bout what?”
“What you tol’ me ’bout Joss bein’ a drinkin’ man. An’ what Joss tol’ me ’bout just doin’ what he knows when it comes to bein’ a papa to his chillun. It’s all tied together somehow, an’ he’s a man in need o’ fixin’, but I cain’t wrap my mind around how to fix ’im.”
Ruth’s low chuckle rumbled. She gave him a little pinch, then went back to making lazy circles with her palm. The touch felt good. Comforting. “Simon Foster, if there’s one thing you learned from yo’ pappy more’n anything else, it’s that God’s the only fixer. We’s just helpless people. We got no power to change nobody. Leastways, not on our own.”
“But Joss, he ain’t gon’ look to God for fixin’. You oughta see him get all prickled up when we talk o’ God or Jesus. Ooo-wee, his hair just almost stand out like the tail on an angry cat. Nope, he ain’t gon’ look where he needs to, an’ those chillun o’ his, they’s gon’ be the ones to carry all that anger onward ’cause they ain’t gon’ know no bettuh.”
Ruth settled back into the curve of his neck, draping her arm across his torso. “They’s learnin’ bettuh from Tarsie. She’s lovin’ to ’em, an’ she knows the Lawd.”
“Gon’ take more’n Tarsie. They needs a man to lead �
�em.” Simon toyed with a loose thread on Ruth’s nightgown, his thoughts tumbling onward. “An’ Joss needs a man to lead him . . .”
A soft snore told him Ruth had drifted off again. He kissed her forehead, then rested his cheek against her hair, falling silent. On the other side of the house, his children slept, peaceful and content. Beneath his arm, Ruth slumbered. Outside, wind teased a lullaby from the trees, and a lonely coyote sang a mournful song. And still Simon couldn’t sleep.
He sighed, aiming his gaze at the square windowpane that offered a view of the dark night sky sprinkled with stars. Behind those stars was the One who never slept, whose ears were always open to His children, and who held the answer to any question Simon might ask.
“Lawd,” he whispered, “don’t make no sense for me to stew ovuh a man like Joss Brubacher who don’t care nothin’ ’bout me. An’ ’cause it don’t make no sense, onliest thing I can figger is You planted that carin’ in me. Ruth’s right—I cain’t be fixin’ that man. But I learned good from my pappy how to be patient an’ lovin’ with my chillun. I learned good to teach ’em to love an’ serve You. An’ it just seems to me, since Joss didn’t nevuh learn it when he was a young’un from his own pa, he needs to learn it now, from somebody else. Somebody who knows.”
Simon jolted, and Ruth released a little moan of complaint. She rolled over, pushing her backside against his hip. He gave it a few pats, hardly aware of the action, his focus inward. He licked his lips, swallowed, then braved a query. “Lawd, do You be layin’ on me the task o’ showin’ Joss how to be a lovin’ daddy to his chillun? An’ if You is givin’ me that task, how’m I gon’ do it if Mistuh Tollison’s vineyard gets shut down an’ we all lose our jobs?” He lay, tense and waiting, for some response. But nothing came.
Simon sighed, shifting to curl his body around the form of his slumbering wife. “Awright, Lawd, ’nough pesterin’ for one night. You can be tellin’ me in the mornin’.”
25
Tarsie set a plate of fried eggs, fried mush dripping with butter, and toasted bread in front of Joss for breakfast Saturday morning. She smiled when his eyes widened in surprise. “Sneaked them past you, didn’t I?” She patted her apron’s flat pocket. “Carried eggs home from Ruth and Simon’s last night. So we have a treat for breakfast today.”
Joss didn’t reply, but he picked up his fork and dug in, licking his lips. The gesture of eager anticipation stirred a flutter of pleasure in Tarsie’s middle. She poured coffee for him and then puttered around the small space while he ate, waiting for him to finish so she could ask the question that had kept her restless much of the night. Why hadn’t Joss mentioned the upcoming vote concerning prohibition in Kansas? She didn’t know a great deal about marriage, but it seemed as though a man should share his worries with his wife.
A man and wife should share lots of things—none of which had entered her relationship with Joss. Would they forever be man and wife in name only? Would she never know the true meaning of being joined with a man? Heat rushed into her face. Such a brazen thought . . . But after witnessing Ruth and Simon’s ease with each other—gentle teasing, simple touches, tender glances—she realized anew how much she wanted, maybe even needed, such a relationship with the man to whom she’d pledged herself.
She couldn’t honestly say she loved Joss. Not yet. But all of her prayers asking God to help her honor her promise to Mary had resulted in a softening toward him. An acceptance. Maybe even an affection. And that was a start.
“Got any more eggs? Those were real good.” Joss’s hopeful query startled Tarsie from her reverie. She turned toward the table. He must’ve used his bread to mop the plate clean. It didn’t even look used.
She lifted the remaining eggs from a little bowl on the back of the stove. “I’ve got these. Did you want me to fry them for you?”
He gazed at the pair of creamy eggs cradled in Tarsie’s palm. “That’s it? Just two more?”
Tarsie nodded.
Joss sighed. “Then . . . nah. Feed ’em to the young’uns.”
Tarsie’s heart gave a little flip at his unselfishness. “I’ve got plenty more mush. I can fry up some more slices for you, if you’d like.”
“That’ll do.”
Tarsie reached for his plate, and he handed it over. Her fingertips brushed his, and fire ignited in her face. She whirled away from him before he could witness roses bloom in her cheeks, thankful the stove sat in the corner so she could keep her back to him while she browned the slices of cold mush in lard. By the time the slices were crisp, brown, and hot, she felt as though she’d gathered her senses about her, so she slid onto the bench opposite him while he ate. “Ruth told me there’s a vote coming up soon. If it passes, Kansas won’t allow liquor to be made or sold in the state.”
“I heard about it.” Joss chopped free a hearty bite with his fork and carried it to his mouth, his head low.
“I’m surprised you haven’t said anything. It’s got to be worrying you, knowing you could be losing your job if the vote passes.”
“Fellas at work say if it passes, change won’t come ’til January of next year. So . . .” He shoved the final bite into his mouth, then pushed the plate toward her.
Tarsie fiddled with the edge of the plate, watching him up-end his coffee cup and drain it dry. “But this is August already. Won’t be long to January of 1881. Knowin’ it’s comin’ so quick, that doesn’t . . . bother you?”
He lowered the cup, sending her a puzzled frown. “Why should it?”
They’d enjoyed a pleasant morning. She didn’t want to spoil it, but she had to know. “Only a few more months and maybe no more job. And for sure, no more liquor. Never a chance to . . . drink.” She almost whispered the final word, so much meaning being placed within the confines of five letters.
For long seconds Joss gazed at her, his unsmiling expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. Then he shrugged. “Don’t matter.”
Joy exploded through Tarsie’s middle. Had Drayton Valley worked its magic? Had his thirst for alcohol been washed away beneath the wide open skies? “It . . . it doesn’t?”
“Nope.” He pushed away from the table. “Gotta get to work.” He grabbed his hat from its nail, plopped it over his thick, unruly waves, then reached for the door. Before stepping through, he glanced back. “I get paid today. I’ll see about buyin’ some chicks. Put up a little pen out back. Be good to have eggs every day.”
Tarsie darted to the door, linking her fingers together to keep from adjusting his hat at a rakish angle over those thick, dark waves. “That’d be fine.”
“All right, then. Bye.”
“Let me get your lunch!”
He hovered in the doorway while she dashed to the stove and snatched up the little pail that held his sandwiches and the molasses cookie Emmy had brought back from Ruth’s. She pressed the handle into his waiting hand, experiencing an urge to rise up on tiptoe and deliver a kiss on his cheek the way the neighbors’ wives did when sending their husbands out for the day. But of course, she didn’t do it.
“Have a good day, Joss.”
He bobbed his head in a quick farewell, then headed down the hill toward town. Tarsie stood in the doorway and watched him stride away, his shoulders square and arms swinging, as if ready to take on the world. Words of thankfulness winged their way from her heart to the heavens. “He’s changin’, Mary. Your prayers an’ mine, they’re bein’ answered.”
Joss swung onto the horse’s back, acknowledging the animal’s snort of protest with a pat on its neck. “I know you’re tired of totin’ me back and forth every day, but don’t worry. Won’t be long and I’ll be hightailin’ it outta here. You won’t have to tote me again.” The statement, one intended to offer encouragement, weighed heavy on Joss’s mind as he aimed the horse for the road leading to the Tollison Vineyard.
The elation he’d seen on Tarsie’s face that morning haunted him. He knew what she’d been thinking—she couldn’t hide anything with those big green eyes of
hers. She thought it didn’t bother him that he’d have no access to liquor if prohibition came to Kansas. She couldn’t know it didn’t matter because he wouldn’t be here.
He sucked in a big breath of humid morning air. Early yet, but already hot with mosquitoes buzzing thick in the brush that lined the roadway. The pests dove at his head and whirred in his ears, as annoying as the guilt that plagued him. Tarsie turned more wifely every day, fixing up that little house, caring for his youngsters, preparing his meals and keeping his clothes clean and mended. And he’d come to like having her see to his needs. Liked knowing she’d be there at the end of a day, a smile ready no matter his mood. He even liked when she got saucy with him. He would never have thought it possible to find her penchant for standing up to him amusing, but it added a little spice to his life.
He slapped at a mosquito that had the audacity to bite him on the back of the hand. The sharp sting served as a reminder that Tarsie wasn’t “his” woman. “I oughta tell her,” he muttered. But he knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until he had all the furniture finished, a few chickens pecking in a pen, the summer’s garden harvested, and enough money set aside to cover her rent for at least three months. He wouldn’t tell her until he could assure her that she and the youngsters’d be fine without him.
A question—one so unexpected his body jerked as if he’d been struck with a tree limb—roared through his mind: Would he be fine without them? An aching emptiness followed the thought. The question pestered Joss all day while he worked.
Over the past weeks, the vines had grown into a sea of green, bearing leaves almost as big as a man’s hand, leaves that shaded clusters of tiny deep-purple and pale-green grapes. He’d learned the purple grapes were turned into red wine, the green ones into a pale Chardonnay that they seasoned in oak barrels to give the wine a rich flavor. Simon said it’d be another month at least before they harvested, giving the grapes time to fully plump and sweeten, but already the scent when the sun beamed down was heady. Almost intoxicating. But oddly, up until now, it hadn’t stimulated any desire for drink. For the first time in years, Joss had a clear head, and a part of him gloried in it. Today, though, with the uncomfortable question niggling in the back of his mind, he discovered a strong desire to lose himself in a bottle. To forget, just for a while.
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 19