A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Color splashed her cheeks. She slapped a clean bowl onto a towel she’d laid across the corner of the stove. “I’ll be watchin’ his foot for signs of infection. If I see reason for concern, I’ll take him straight to Drayton Valley’s doctor.” She gave him a sour look. “Probably should’ve had a doctor stitch him up, too, but I boiled that thread an’ needle beforehand, just like a doctor would’ve done, so I’m trustin’ all will be well.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d rather have a doctor stitch him up?”

  Eyes on the sudsy water, she spoke through clenched teeth. “And when have I ever known you to be willin’ to fetch a doctor for something like this?”

  Joss’s body jerked reflexively. Guilt rose, followed by a wave of anger. “I can’t change none of that now, Tarsie.”

  “No, you surely can’t.” She yanked her hands from the dishwater and dried them on her apron. Then she faced him, her eyes sparking. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, Joss Brubacher?” Her words came out in a low-toned hiss.

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Bein’ all kindly an’ attentive toward those two wee ones after years of ignoring them. Are you tryin’ to break their little hearts?”

  He stared at her, openmouthed. “Of course not!”

  “Well, it just seems odd to me, how you sneaked out last night an’ got yourself pickled the way you used to do in New York, an’ now you’re bein’ all nicey-nice. . . . Those poor wee ones won’t know what to expect from you tomorrow.” She balled her fists on her hips. “Just what can we be expectin’ tomorrow, Joss? A drunkard or a sober man? A man who holds himself aloof an’ barks orders or one who tugs his child close an’ soothes his hurt? ’Cause truth be known, I’m befuddled myself, an’ I’m a grown woman. I can’t imagine what those children’ll go through if you bounce back the other way after an evenin’ of kindness.”

  Had he really thought he appreciated her sauciness? He snorted and lifted his foot to stomp away.

  She caught his sleeve. “Don’t be misunderstandin’ me, Joss. The way you were tonight with the children, that’s what I’ve prayed for—what Mary hoped for all along. A part of me thrills to see you reachin’ out to them. But it also scares me. ’Cause it needs to be more than a one-time action that stems from you feelin’ guilty about what you did earlier in the day.”

  Joss wanted to pull loose, but he felt as though someone had driven stakes through the toes of his boots. He remained still as a statue as she continued.

  “Those children need you to be a lovin’ father to them every hour of every day. They need to be able to trust you. To depend on you. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Even though Joss had decided on his own he didn’t have what it took to be a good papa to his youngsters, it riled him more than he wanted to admit to have someone else say it. He shoved her hand loose, then took a step away. “I understand what you’re saying. And I already know you’re right. Those kids—they need more’n what I can give ’em. I tried to tell you that when Mary died. Didn’t I try? I wanted to send ’em to an orphans’ home where they’d have a chance of a different life. But you concocted this crazy idea of me marryin’ up with you. Well, now look what we’ve got. Two miserable kids and two miserable adults. It didn’t fix nothin’, did it, Tarsie?”

  His head began to ache again. Clutching his temples, he moaned. “What’m I doin’ here? Should never’ve come.”

  He needed a drink. With a snarl, he whirled toward the door. But just as he grabbed the crossbar and raised it, a little voice trembled behind him.

  “Papa?”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Emmy stood in the gap of the dividing wall. Tears swam in her eyes. “I accidentally bumped Nattie’s foot. It’s bleedin’.” She held out her hand. “Will you come?”

  Joss turned his gaze forward, away from his daughter’s pleading face. “Tarsie’ll see to him.” And he strode out into the night.

  Although Tarsie lay awake well past midnight, Joss didn’t return that night. Or the next morning. On Monday evening, Simon, Ruth, and their children came for Ruth’s lesson—this time on numbers—and Simon strung ropes on the bed frames he and Joss had constructed. When Tarsie asked, he said Joss’d been to work that day and showed no signs of having been drinking, but he didn’t know where he’d gone afterward.

  Tarsie spent most of Monday night praying he’d come back so she could apologize for her outburst. Her anger over his choice to drink had made her harsher than she’d intended. She didn’t feel badly for asking the questions—he needed to understand how his behavior affected his children—but she wished she hadn’t turned the questions into an attack. She’d driven him away, and guilt wore on her as heavily as a necklace of boulders.

  Tuesday morning, she opened the front door to allow in a breeze and found a little drawstring pouch on the stoop. It contained four silver dollars. Her heart leapt as she held it, and she searched the neighborhood, seeking signs of the man who’d left it. But Joss was long gone. Heartsore, she fixed breakfast and avoided the children’s questions about their papa.

  By Wednesday, worry had created a constant ache in the center of her stomach. How long did Joss plan to stay away? His parting words—claiming he should never have come to Kansas—tormented her. How she wanted to set things right with him, but how could she if he didn’t return?

  Thursday afternoon, she and the children went to the mercantile to purchase a few staples. Tarsie carried Nathaniel. Although his foot was healing nicely and he’d learned to tiptoe around the house to avoid stepping on his heel, he couldn’t wear a shoe. She couldn’t expect him to tiptoe barefooted all the way to town and back, so she carried him. With his weight in her arms, she couldn’t hold anything else, which forced her to limit her purchasing, since Emmy had to be the one to tote the items home. But she did buy a half pound of the pungent white cheese Joss preferred. Just in case he came home. Oh, how she prayed he’d come home!

  Friday evening, Ruth arrived for another lesson alone in Simon’s little cart—no husband or children in tow, much to Emmy’s and Nathaniel’s disappointment. She stayed late, waiting until Tarsie tucked Emmy and Nathaniel into their new beds. After the children fell asleep, Ruth said, “Pour me another cup o’ your good coffee, girl. Then let’s you an’ me have us a talk.”

  Tarsie’s heart skittered into nervous double-beats. “Is it . . . is it about Joss?”

  “Yes’m, it is. But coffee first.”

  29

  Tarsie’s hands trembled as she poured the last of the coffee into two tin cups. She settled across from Ruth, both eager and apprehensive about what her friend might say. Drawing in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  Ruth laughed softly, her low chuckle a comforting sound. “Now, it ain’t all bad. Just di’n’t want the chillun listenin’ in. Some things is best left to the grown-ups.” She angled her head, her brows dipping low. “Emmy an’ Nathaniel, they been askin’ for their papa?”

  Tarsie took a sip of her coffee, her head low as sadness struck. “Not since Monday. It’s as if they don’t expect him to be here for them. Breaks my heart, Ruth. It truly does.” She jolted as pain stabbed through her chest. But not for the children’s loss. For her own. Not until that moment did she realize how much she missed Joss. The awareness both frightened and elated her.

  Ruth’s gaze turned knowing. “Mm-hmm.” She cleared her throat. “Well, Simon, he ask me to tell you where Joss is stayin’ so you won’t be worryin’ over him. He’s just fine. Seems he’s been sleepin’ in Mistuh Tollison’s summer kitchen—set hisself up a little pallet in there.” Her forehead crinkled into a series of furrows. “But he tol’ Simon somethin’ that don’t make much sense to us. Maybe it’ll mean somethin’ to you. . . . He say he shouldn’t be sleepin’ over here ’cause you an’ him, you ain’t hitched.”

  Tarsie reared back. “Not . . . not hitched? Of course we are.” Memories of that day at the
riverbank and the simply dressed preacher leading them to state their vows washed over her. Her throat had caught as she’d pledged herself to Joss, but she’d done it for Mary, even while she longed to feel something for the man she would call her husband. She swallowed, her pulse pattering erratically. When had those feelings she’d wanted on that day crept into her heart?

  She bounced up and retrieved her Bible, opening it to the page containing the marriage record as she returned to the table. She held out the Bible. “See?” She read while Ruth frowned at the page. “‘This certifies that Treasa Raines and Joss Brubacher were united in holy matrimony on the 21st day of April in the year of our Lord 1880 in White Cloud, Kansas.’ We’ve been husband and wife for three months now.” Three months laden with living, growing, changing . . . even loving.

  Slapping the Bible closed, Tarsie glared at Ruth. “How can he be saying we aren’t wed?”

  Ruth shrugged. “I dunno. Just know what he tol’ Simon, that’s all. Guess you gon’ have to ask him yo’self.”

  Tarsie hugged the Bible to her breast, her mouth dry. “I need to talk to him.”

  “You sho’ do.” Ruth released a little snort. “But you’s prob’ly gon’ hafta go to him.” She quirked her lips into a disapproving grimace. “Simon, he says Joss has settled hisself in good there at Mistuh Tollison’s, an’ he figgers Joss’ll just . . . stay there. Leastways, until we know how that vote’s gon’ go. If pro’bition comes an’ the vineyard closes, most all the men’ll be findin’ someplace else to be. Simon, he figgers Joss’ll just scoot on outta Drayton Valley if pro’bition comes.”

  Tarsie pushed aside the last part of Ruth’s statement, her focus on now rather than what could happen later. “I can go to him if someone watches the children for me. Could you come in again tomorrow evening so I can go see Joss?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I was plannin’ on spendin’ all day cannin’ my beans an’ tomaters.” She puckered her lips. “You reckon you could come out to my place instead? Chilluns can entertain themselves while I’s workin’.”

  Tarsie sank onto the bench, her spirits plummeting. “Not with Nathaniel’s foot still so sore. It nearly wore me out carrying him to the mercantile an’ back. I’d never make it all the way to your place an’ then home again.”

  “Well, now . . .” Ruth rubbed her chin with her fingers. “How about this? I can ask if Simon would come in here after he finishes tomorruh an’ tote you all to our place. He might even take you on out to Tollison’s in his cart, if’n you like.”

  The thought of riding rather than walking appealed. “Yes, please.”

  “All right, then.” Ruth slurped the final drops of coffee, then rose. “I best be skedaddlin’ home now. Simon knew I’d be stayin’ late, but that Naomi, she won’t lay down no more ’less I read a li’l out o’ that storybook you done give us. Simon’ll have his hands full, keepin’ her quiet ’til I gets there. She’s got flat-out spoiled by my readin’ to her, that one has.” Pride burst across her face.

  Tarsie walked Ruth to the cart and rubbed the mule’s nose while Ruth climbed aboard. “Thank you for telling me about Joss. I’ve been so worried, wondering where he was. And thank you for watching the young’uns tomorrow evening so I can go talk to him.”

  “You’s welcome, Tarsie. I hopes you can get it all figgered out. Sho’ ’nough seems like a jumbled-up mess.” She flicked the reins, and the cart creaked away, moonlight shimmering on the mule’s swayed back.

  Tarsie sat on the stoop and stared into the gray night. She never tired of looking at the stars in the endless Kansas sky. Such a different view than the tiny slice of smoke-smudged black visible between buildings in New York. She loved it here. Loved the wind, the rolling hills, the towering trees, and the openness that made her want to raise her hands in the air and sing praises for God’s glorious creation.

  Ruth had said Simon indicated Joss wanted to leave Kansas. Her chest constricted at the thought of leaving. Would he go back to New York? What else did he know? She had no desire to return to that dirty, crowded, crime-infested city. But as his wife—if she really were his wife—she’d go, too. It would be her duty to follow him wherever he went.

  The ache in her chest increased as she admitted to herself she’d follow him for more reasons than duty. She’d follow him because she loved his children. She’d follow him because, despite what he’d done and despite his faults, he’d become woven into her life’s fabric. She’d unravel without him.

  “Oh, Lord . . .” She buried her face in her hands. “Ruth was right. We’ve got ourselves a jumbled-up mess. How can we make it all right?”

  Joss received his pay envelope at the end of the week from Simon, made his scribbled mark that served as a signature on the paper, then moved aside while the remaining workers stepped up for their wages. He opened the envelope and spilled the money into his hand—two paper five-dollar bills and two silver dollars. He mentally added what this week’s pay needed to cover for both him and Tarsie. Eight dollars for August’s rent at the house in town, fifty cents for the horses’ care at the livery, and maybe two dollars for groceries. That left—he wrinkled his forehead—a dollar and four bits.

  If he ate carefully, as he’d done this week, living on canned beans and leftovers handed over by Tollison’s cook, he could add another dollar to the old sock holding his savings. The sock already held almost ten dollars. He wanted to leave thirty for Tarsie, and he’d need some for traveling. He’d need to save a little more each week to have enough by the end of the year to get out of Drayton Valley for good.

  The last man ambled away from the table, and Simon plopped the ledger and money box inside a little wooden crate. Joss hurried over, the bills from his envelope wadded in his hand.

  “Is Ruth still taking those reading lessons with Tarsie?” He wished he’d picked up a little more of those lessons, listening in. Mary’d always done any reading for him, and then Tarsie, but now that he was on his own, being able to read would sure be helpful.

  Simon balanced the crate against his stomach. “She sho’ is. Figgers on openin’ her school come Septembuh.” Simon fixed Joss with a steady look. “That Tarsie, she be a fine teachuh. She be a fine woman.” His gaze narrowed, and Joss squirmed, imagining what words Simon was holding behind his closed lips.

  He jammed his hand, bills clenched in his fingers, toward Simon. “Wouldja give this to Ruth to give to Tarsie? She’s gotta pay rent next week. There’ll be enough there to cover it.”

  Simon stared at Joss’s hand but made no effort to take the money. “You givin’ all that to Tarsie? To some woman who ain’t even yo’ wife?”

  Joss gritted his teeth. Why’d he admitted such a thing to Simon? He’d gotten far too relaxed around this colored man who spoke softly, walked on a gimpy leg, and still seemed stronger than nearly any other person Joss had ever met. He bounced the money. “Why shouldn’t I give it to her? She’s carin’ for my young’uns, an’ her bartering with the neighbors won’t pay the rent. So will you give it to her or not?”

  Simon chewed his lower lip, his brows crunched as if deep in thought. Finally he huffed out a funny little sound—half sigh, half laugh. “Drop it in my box here. I’ll see she gets it.”

  “Thanks.” Joss tossed the bills into the crate, watching them flutter to the bottom and settle. Assured Simon would be true to his word, Joss started to head to the summer kitchen. But the thought of sitting all by himself in that stuffy room that smelled of onions and sour milk didn’t appeal. So he stood in the patch of shade from the towering maple, watching as Simon shifted the crate to one hip and used his free hand to grasp the lip of the little table.

  He darted forward. “Lemme help.”

  Simon shot him a funny look, but he offered a shrug rather than an argument. Turning toward the house, Simon set off in his foot-dragging way of walking. Joss trailed behind, the table gripped so hard his fingers ached. Watching Simon’s body jerk with every step made him feel guilty for having two good legs.
He’d spent a lot of his lifetime complaining. About the weather, about the price of suspenders, about some men not carrying their fair share of the workload . . . All of it seemed petty in light of the crippled man’s troubles.

  They reached the back door of the house, and Simon opened it without knocking. Joss followed Simon into a small, square room with floor-to-ceiling bead-board paneling painted white. A gaslight with three globes burned overhead, shining on the white paint as bright as sunlight at midday. Two walls bore closed doors, one with a glass pane on its upper half giving Joss a view of a kitchen, and one solid wood with a highly polished brass knob and locking mechanism.

  Simon, humming, crossed to the solid door and shifted the crate to one hip. He removed a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and then glanced at Joss. “You can set that table ovuh there in the cornuh.” He opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, as if bemoaning carrying the door’s weight.

  Joss shoved the table into the corner, as Simon had asked, but he angled his body to peek at what was kept behind that heavy, locked door. It seemed to be a closet with shelves—what folks called a pantry. Brown pay envelopes were scattered across the upper shelf, and the bottom one was empty. The contents of the middle shelf captured Joss’s attention—a black iron box, the kind of box bankers used, only smaller.

  Joss held his breath while Simon spun a little dial and then pushed down on a silver handle. The door on the front of the box opened. Simon slid the little cash box he used to divvy out wages into the open space beside several stacks of bundled bills and a lumpy cloth bag. Joss’s pulse doubled. He’d never seen so much money in one place.

  Simon gave the door a push, and it slammed closed. Joss jumped at the resounding clang. He backed toward the door leading outside as Simon slid the crate onto the bottom shelf. “Guess I’ll be goin’ now.”

  Simon spun around. “Where you goin’?” Then he laughed—an odd kind of laugh. Forced-sounding. “What I mean is, you got plans to head into town or somethin’?”