A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  As much as he’d like to visit that little shack by the river, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t waste his money that way. Not again. For a moment, he halfway hoped Simon might invite him over for the evening just so he wouldn’t be all by himself. Crazy idea. “Nah. Turnin’ in early. Been a long week.” A long, lonely week.

  “So you’s headin’ to the summer kitchen, then?”

  Something in Simon’s tone and the innocent way he held his eyes wide open, as if he’d forgotten how to blink, raised a prickle of awareness across Joss’s scalp. He answered slowly. “That’s where I’m stayin’ now, so . . . yup.”

  Simon gave a quick nod, then flashed a smile. “Sounds fine, Joss. Mighty fine. You have a good evenin’ now.” He turned to the door and inserted the key in the lock, once again humming.

  Joss left the house and strode across the quiet grounds toward the summer kitchen. He let his arms swing, trying to give the appearance of having not a care in the world. But underneath, his stomach churned. That Simon was up to something. He just knew it.

  30

  Tarsie held to the edge of Simon’s cart as it bounced across the ground between buildings at the Tollison vineyards. She’d been amazed at the size of the Tollison house—she’d never imagined someone in a riverside town like Drayton Valley owning such a fine home. For a moment, she felt sorry for Mr. Tollison. Prohibition would certainly rob him of this mansion. Would a wealthy man like him be satisfied with less?

  Simon drew the cart to a stop behind the big house, then pointed ahead to a square, wood-sided building with two stove pipes poking skyward from its red slate roof. Simon pointed. “That there’s the summuh kitchen, Miz Tarsie. Joss, he’ll be inside.”

  The summer kitchen’s door, centered on the wall facing the house, yawned wide open. The aromas of onions, roasted meat, bread, and something sweet drifted on the breeze. Apparently the cook had prepared quite a feast for Mr. Tollison’s supper. Had the cook fed Joss, too?

  Tarsie’s stomach fluttered. As much as she’d wished for an opportunity to see Joss, to apologize and set things right, now that the moment was upon her, she hesitated. How would he react when she stepped through the doorway? Oh, how she longed to see his usually stern face light with joy that she’d come.

  Simon cleared his throat. “You want me to stick aroun’?”

  Tarsie considered asking Simon to come in with her. The thought of facing Joss alone suddenly seemed overwhelming. But a wife—and she was his wife!—should have no fear in confronting her husband. “I’ll walk to your place when we’ve finished talking. But I’d appreciate it if you’d be praying I can convince that stubborn man to go home with me.”

  Simon grinned. “Sho’ thing, Miz Tarsie.”

  Tarsie clambered off the cart, holding her skirts to keep from catching the fabric on the wheel. She waited until Simon rolled past, then shook the dust from her dress, smoothed stray wisps of hair into place with her fingers, and sent up a quick prayer for strength. She marched forward, her chin high even though a million butterflies flitted wildly in her tummy.

  She paused on the little concrete slab that served as a porch, uncertain if she should knock or simply call out, since the door stood open. Peering inside, she searched for Joss. Sunlight slanted through the windows, creating shafts of yellow that broke through the gloom of the small space. She finally spotted him in the corner between a shiny black stove with six cook lids and a tall pie safe. He lay on his side on a pile of folded blankets with one elbow propping him up. An open booklet of some kind lay in front of him, and he appeared to be studying the pages.

  She watched him, hoping he might sense her presence and look up. Head low, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunlight dancing on his tousled dark hair, he seemed much younger. He flicked a page, and his finger traced a line. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  Tarsie linked her hands and drew a fortifying breath. “Joss?”

  His head jerked up, his eyes wide. In an instant, he’d shoved the booklet aside and leaped to his feet. He ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead, then stood glowering at her. “What’re you doing here?”

  That was not the welcome she’d hoped for. She swallowed a lump of disappointment. “May I be comin’ in?”

  He didn’t move. Not even a muscle. He simply stood there, feet set wide, hands balled at his sides, unsmiling face aimed in her direction. Then, as if stretching awake after a long hibernation, he poked out his foot and kicked the booklet into the shadowy place beneath the stove. “Ain’t my house. I’m just staying here. You can do what you want, I reckon.”

  What she wanted was to run into his embrace. To feel him hold her close the way he’d held Nathaniel. And Mary. The desire took her by surprise. Her breath releasing in nervous little puffs, she stepped into the kitchen. The strong odor of onions assaulted her, making her eyes burn. How did Joss sleep in here? She blinked rapidly against the moisture distorting her vision.

  He took one step forward, his shoulders stiff and his lips set in a firm line. “Why’re you here?”

  Tarsie licked her lips. Maybe she should have asked Simon to stay. Here, alone with an angry Joss in this half-dark room with the awful odor clinging to every surface, unease gripped her. “The young’uns . . . and me . . . we were worried.” The moisture in her eyes increased, but these were tears of remorse. “I didn’t mean to send you away, Joss. I only wanted you to . . . to not change back to the way you were before. I wanted you to keep being kind, because that’s what the wee ones are needin’ from you, but I said it all the wrong way. I’m sorry.”

  He looked past her, his jaw muscles twitching.

  A long, scarred trestle table stood between them. She inched around it, her gaze fixed on his stoic face. “I know you’re upset with me. But don’t be punishing Emmy and Nathaniel for my errant tongue.”

  “That’s what you think? I’m punishing them?” He blasted a laugh—the most cynical laugh she’d ever heard. Shaking his head, he stared at the floor. “Try to do right for the first time ever, an’ this is how it’s seen. As punishment . . .” The ugly laugh barked out again.

  Tarsie darted forward and caught the front of his shirt. She gave the plaid fabric a good shake, wishing she had the strength and courage to shake him instead. “What else would it be but a punishment?”

  “I’d call it a . . . gift.”

  Tarsie’s ire raised. “It’s a gift? The best you can offer . . . to abandon your wife and children?” She shook his shirt again. One button popped loose and flew across the room. “What kind of a man are you, Joss Brubacher?”

  He grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand aside. Storming to the other side of the table, he spun and faced her. “You know what kind of man I am. I’m a man who drinks. A man who gambles. A man who lacks patience.” He pressed his palms to the sturdy wood surface, assuming a menacing pose. “Selfish. Spiteful. Prone to fits of rage.” He spat the words, fire sparking in his eyes. Suddenly the bluster went out of him. His shoulders collapsed, and his chin dropped low. “I’m exactly like my pa and his pa before him. That’s the kind of man I am.”

  Understanding bloomed through Tarsie’s heart. She held one hand toward him. “Joss—”

  “And I’m a liar, too. But it’s time to set that straight.”

  Tarsie’s hand froze in midair. “W-what do you mean?”

  “We ain’t married.” He lifted his face just enough to peer at her through the heavy hank of hair falling across his forehead. “That man who led us in sayin’ ‘I do’ . . . he wasn’t no preacher. Just a bartender.”

  A bartender? Dizziness assailed her. Gooseflesh broke out across her arms and back. Her knees felt weak. She stumbled forward, gripping the table for support. “You mean . . . all this time . . . ?”

  He gave a grim nod. “Only did it ’cause Mary’s kids—”

  She bolted upright. “Your children!”

  “—needed somebody to raise ’em right. Mary said you were honorable. A good fr
iend. The best kind of friend.” He grimaced as if something pained him. “So I did what I had to do to make sure those kids had somebody lookin’ after ’em.” He snorted. “I sure can’t do it. Never could. Never will.” The last words rasped out on a note of regret.

  “You’re wrong, Joss.” Tarsie inched around the table, fearful of approaching him yet unable to remain distant. “You can be carin’ toward them. I’ve seen it. The way you were the other night with Nathaniel, holding him close and givin’ him comfort—”

  “One time.” He jammed a finger upward, fury and something else—something Tarsie recognized as despair—glimmering in his eyes. “That don’t mean it’s gonna be a habit. My habits are set. Don’t you understand that? Even Simon knows—he told me my young’uns are gonna grow up to be angry, Emmy searching for a man to love her and probably finding the wrong kind, because I’m such a lousy papa.”

  Tarsie couldn’t believe kind, gentle Simon would say such a hurtful thing. Joss must have misunderstood. But before she could offer her thoughts, he rushed on.

  “If I stay in their lives, they’ll learn nothin’ but wrong. It’s better for me to leave ’em. You keep ’em, Tarsie. Raise ’em. Teach ’em to be decent people. Mary said I could trust you, so I trust you with Emmy and Nathaniel. You takin’ ’em? That’ll be giftin’ Mary.”

  Tarsie knew what Mary wanted. And she’d promised. Her heart ached, knowing how she’d been fooled. For weeks she’d seen to Joss’s needs, envisioning them as a family, opening her heart to him . . . falling in love. But he’d never felt a thing for her. Her pride urged her to walk out the door and pretend Joss Brubacher didn’t exist—that her time with him was all a bad dream. But her love for Mary nailed her feet to the floor.

  Forcing her mind back to the day of Mary’s death—a painful place—Tarsie offered a silent prayer for God to guide her words and to open Joss’s stubborn heart to understanding. “Joss, I told you Mary’s final wish was for me to care for your children. But . . . but I lied, too.”

  His eyebrows crunched downward.

  “I was too embarrassed to tell you her real last words. Maybe I was afraid, too. Afraid they’d anger you or . . . hurt your pride. I know you’re a proud man, Joss.”

  In response, his chin rose a notch.

  “But I need you to be knowin’ what your Mary was thinkin’ as she lay in that wagon with life slipping away from her. She was thinkin’ of you.”

  Joss’s chin trembled. He set his jaw, stilling the movement.

  “She knew how poorly you thought of yourself . . . and why. And she knew what needed to be done to change it.” Tarsie spoke softly, soothingly, the way one might comfort a colicky babe or a frightened horse. “So she asked me to love you . . . the way she’d tried to love you.” She gulped, her pulse leaping into a gallop. “She’d tried to love you the way God loves you. Because she wanted you to be seein’ yourself as someone worthy of receiving love.”

  Joss spun around, showing Tarsie his back. The muscles of his shoulders bunched and released under his shirt. When he spoke, his voice came out harsh and strangled, as if a fist squeezed his vocal cords. “Ain’t no way God could love me. Not the way I am.”

  Tarsie darted to Joss’s side. She reached to touch him, but then she clutched her hands together and pressed them to her rib cage instead, unwilling to have him push her aside again. “He can, Joss! And He does! But . . .” She gathered her courage and placed her fingertips gently on his taut arm. “He loves you too much to leave you as you are, because He knows you can’t be happy wallowin’ in sinful behavior.”

  He stepped away from her touch. “And just how does He change a man, Tarsie?”

  An image flooded Tarsie’s memory. She scuttled after him. “Joss, do you remember the morning on the trail when Mary’s moans woke us?”

  He cringed. He remembered.

  “Remember what you did? You picked her up. You picked her up in your arms and you carried her all around the camp.” She tipped her head, looking into his stormy eyes. “Why’d you do that, Joss?”

  Joss clamped his jaw so tight the muscles bulged. For a moment, Tarsie thought he’d refuse to answer, but then he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and said, “I wanted to take her pain away.”

  Tarsie nodded, a smile lifting her lips as tears filled her eyes. “And don’tcha see, Joss, that’s exactly what God wants to do for you. He wants to pick you up, hold you so close you can be hearin’ His heartbeat in your ear, easin’ away the pain you’ve carried from being mistreated by your pa. When you let Him pluck out all that pain, Joss—the pain you’ve tried to numb by pouring whiskey down your throat, it’ll leave an opening for Him to slip in an’ change you from the inside out.”

  Joss’s stern expression didn’t change.

  Tarsie dared to move in again, lifting her hand to place it softly, tenderly, deliberately over his heart. The force of his pounding pulse beat against her palm. “Let Him in, Joss. Let Him change you into the kind of papa”—she withheld the words and husband—“He’d have you be. He’ll help you, Joss, if you’ll just lean into His arms.”

  They stood in silence, her hand pressed to his chest, his hands deep in his pockets. She gazed into his sternly set face, praying for him to soften, while he stared past her head to some unknown point behind her. His lips parted and she held her breath, anticipating the sweet moment when he’d finally acknowledge his need for God in his life and pledge to change.

  “Get on out o’ here now.”

  Tarsie stumbled backward, tears spurting into her eyes. Although his words were soft—gentle even—he couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d slapped her.

  “Go see to Mary’s children. Don’t be stewin’ over me.” He pressed his lips together as if a deep pain stabbed him. “No matter what you say, I ain’t worth stewin’ over.” He stomped to the corner and flung himself down on the blankets with his face to the wall.

  Tarsie stared at him for a moment, hardly able to breathe her chest ached so badly. Strength, Father . . . Gathering the tattered edges of her dignity about her, she did as he’d commanded.

  31

  Joss was awakened Sunday morning by someone kicking the soles of his feet. Even without looking, he knew who’d done it. He grunted in response, then sat up, groggy and grumpy. “I know, I know. I’m leavin’.”

  Tollison’s cook, a rotund woman with a bulbous nose and three chins, waved a rolling pin. “And be quick about it. I need wood chopped—enough to last through tomorrow’s baking.”

  Joss tugged on his boots, then squinted upward. “Got coffee goin’ yet?”

  “You’ll get your coffee with your breakfast. Now scat—don’t want you underfoot while I’m cooking.”

  Muttering under his breath, Joss scuffed into the soft glow of predawn. One lone bird chirped from a treetop. A sharp, scolding chirp that reminded Joss of the cook’s harpy voice. He’d wondered a time or two over the past week whether three meals and a place to sleep was worth putting up with her crotchety attitude. She acted too much like—

  He stopped in his tracks. She acted like Pa. And like him.

  Tarsie’s words—the same words that had haunted him far into the night—returned. “When you let Him pluck out all that pain, Joss—the pain you’ve tried to numb by pouring whiskey down your throat, it’ll leave an opening for Him to slip in an’ change you from the inside out.”

  Joss had grown up hating his father, yet he’d become his father. Deep down, he wanted to change. For Mary. For Emmy and Nathaniel. Even for Tarsie, who’d had every right to rant and rave and throw pots at his head for his trickery. He’d come so close to asking her how to let God fill that place inside of him that always felt empty, but pride—and guilt over fooling her into thinking they were married—rose up and stopped him. He’d sent her away instead. And she’d stay away. Not even a promise to Mary would let her come back after all he’d said and done.

  “You!”

  A familiar voice blasted from behind
him, scaring him half out of his wits. The bird shot off with a raucous chirping as Joss turned around. The cook stood outside the summer kitchen, red-faced and glowering. “Why aren’t you chopping wood? You want any breakfast today, you better get busy!”

  Joss swallowed a sharp retort and took off at a trot toward the woodshed, where a chopping block, axe, and pile of tree trunk sections waited his attention. He worked up a sweat turning round chunks into splintery wedges that would fit the cookstove’s belly. The cook rewarded him with coffee, three fried eggs, a big scoop of grits with gravy, and two biscuits. He might complain about her prickliness, but he couldn’t fault her cooking.

  He ate outside, seated on the stoop with the plate balanced on his knees, as the sun crept from its sleeping place behind the horizon and crawled skyward to peek at him from behind tree branches. When he’d finished, he returned the plate and fork to the kitchen but held on to his cup.

  “Can I have more coffee?”

  The cook scowled, but she sloshed the strong brew into his cup. As Joss raised the cup to his lips, she said, “You ought to mosey to the creek this morning and give yourself a dunking.” She yanked up the bar of soap that sat next to the washbasin and dropped it into Joss’s shirt pocket. “You’re starting to stink up this place with your sweat odor.”

  Joss raised one brow, resisting a snide comment. His sweat couldn’t smell worse than the onions she fried for every meal and even in between. Who ate onions six times a day? But as much as her statement irritated him, he couldn’t deny a dip in the creek—and a good all-over wash—would feel mighty good. He drained his cup, dropped it in the basin without a word, and aimed himself outside.

  Little Beaver Creek, which fed into the Missouri River, wove its way all along the northwest edge of the Tollison land. The colored workers lived along Little Beaver Creek between Tollison’s place and town, but the creek ran enough distance that Joss could avoid the cluster of houses. He intended to give his clothes a good scrubbing when he went in for his bath, which might take a while, and he had no desire for someone to come along and spot him, stark naked, rubbing his britches on a rock. It being Sunday, the colored folks would be gathering for a service. He’d just make sure to be done before they let out and maybe decided to cool their toes in the creek.