A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Simon shook his head, reeling. “So somebody done stole away with yo’ money?”

  Tollison nodded, his expression hard. “Cook said Brubacher wasn’t in the summer kitchen when she went in this morning. She said he left for town after supper last night, saying he had personal business to attend to. Do you know anything about it?”

  Simon squinted at his boss. “You ain’t thinkin’ Joss Brubacher stole that safe.”

  “Did he know it was there?”

  Simon chewed over his boss’s inquiry. Joss had helped him put away the table that one time, watched him open the closet and the safe. Uncertainty wiggled through Simon’s chest. Would Joss do such a thing? When he’d first come, he was all-fired eager to stash away cash money and skedaddle on out of Kansas. But over the past weeks, Simon had seen a change in the man. He couldn’t believe Joss would steal from Mr. Tollison.

  Still, he had to answer honestly. “He seen me open that closet an’ put things away once. But—”

  “So him needing today off after being gone all night seems very suspect. I’m riding into town and alerting the sheriff.” Tollison held his chest, his breathing coming in short puffs. “Go tell Todd and Fenn to ready my buggy. I want the top up, and I’ll want Fenn to drive me.”

  Simon hesitated. He wanted to tell his boss about Joss’s queries about God. Surely it would alter Mr. Tollison’s suspicions. But who else knew that safe was there? And Joss, he was a big man. A strong man. He could pick up that safe and carry it a good distance just in his arms. Simon hated himself for keeping silent, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “Go!” Tollison swung his hand toward the dinner barn, then broke into a fit of coughing.

  Simon trotted off as quickly as his bum foot would allow, with his boss’s wheezing breaths echoing in his ears.

  Late in the afternoon, hunger drove Joss to Drayton Valley and the little house he rented for Tarsie and the children. Sweaty, tired, and discouraged from his fruitless search, he needed to eat something. As soon as he’d filled his belly, he intended to set out again. He reined in the horse next to the house where it could munch grass, and he aimed his feet for the front door. But frantic cheeping captured his attention—the chickens. They needed to be fed and watered.

  Groaning, he trotted around to the backyard. The bag of feed, now half empty, sat in the outhouse where he’d directed the man who delivered the chicks and the wire for their pen to leave it. He scooped out a tin cupful of feed and scattered it on the ground inside the pen. The half-grown chicks began pecking wildly. While they were occupied, he snagged their watering dish and filled it. With the chicks’ needs met, he headed for the house.

  He stepped inside and moved directly toward the shelf where the food stores were kept. But he came to a stop in the middle of the floor as an uneasy feeling gripped him. He turned a slow circle, examining the room by increments, and when his gaze fell on the washstand, a tingle attacked his scalp. The pan, bowls, and spoons he’d left stacked and dirty in the basin weren’t there. He zinged his attention to the shelf. There they were, washed and put away. Tarsie had been here!

  His heart thudding, he stumbled around the room, seeking other evidence. The trunk of clothing had been riffled through, and her dresses and other items of clothing were missing. Her sewing box and the pouch of medicinal cures she’d carried from New York were also gone. He spun toward the door and his gaze fell on a folded piece of paper, tacked to the doorjamb. He stumbled across the floor and yanked it loose. Hands trembling, he unfolded the paper and stared at the neat lines of flowing script. He scowled at the message. A full page of words, but his limited reading ability stymied him. However, he understood one of the words in the last line: Good-bye.

  Holding the paper tight in his fingers, he crossed back to the trunk and sank down, defeated. Tarsie hadn’t met with an accident or gotten lost. She’d chosen to go. He slapped the note onto the trunk beside him and placed his head in his hands. Regret and sadness claimed him. How would he tell Emmy and Nathaniel they’d lost yet another mother?

  “She’s gone and it’s my fault. Again, it’s my fault.” He’d kept Mary from seeing a doctor who might have been able to cure her cancer. He’d held himself aloof from Tarsie. Lied to her. Taken advantage of her. She was as gone to him as Mary was. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  Emptiness, all encompassing and dark, drove him from the trunk to his knees. He raised his face to the ceiling and groaned out in anguish, “My selfishness has cost so much. How do I change it, God? What do I do?”

  In the far fringes of his mind, he recalled Tarsie’s advice. “When you let Him pluck out all that pain, Joss . . . it’ll leave an opening for Him to slip in an’ change you from the inside out.”

  “God . . . God . . .” The name croaked out from a throat so tight it ached. “I’m broken. I’m nothing. But, please, help me . . .”

  Simon’s voice now eased through his memory, replacing Tarsie’s gentle instruction. “The good Lawd done come to this earth fo’ one thing, Joss—to save us from ourselves. All we gots to do is tell Him we wants Him, an’ Jesus, He washes all the ugliness away an’ makes us clean as fresh-fallen snow in His eyes. Then ever’thing’s new.”

  Clasped hands held up like an offering, Joss begged, “I want You, Jesus. Fill me. Change me. Make me new.”

  Slowly, like a flower unfurling beneath the warmth of the morning sun, something within Joss opened and allowed the touch of God to whisper through his being. A tenderness moved from the top of his head and inched its way to the soles of his feet. His body trembled with its gentle force. Tears flooded his eyes and rolled down his cheeks in warm rivulets.

  Eyes wide open and fixed on the beamed ceiling, he shook his head in wonder as the long-held emptiness in his soul became a basin overflowing with a love so intense he could hardly bear it. He began to sob in joy, knowing no other way to respond to a fullness of rapture beyond understanding.

  Still on his knees, he threw his hands wide. “Thank You, Lord! Thank You!” For long minutes, he continued to praise the God Mary, Tarsie, and Simon called Father. The same God he could now call Father. Then his prayer changed. “Dear God, I’ve made so many mistakes with Tarsie. I need to ask her forgiveness. But first, I have to find her. Will You please guide me to her? Give me a chance to fix things.” Uncertain what else to say, he finished simply, “Amen.”

  He pulled himself onto the trunk, completely spent yet utterly filled. No longer hungry, he rose, prepared to go once more in search of Tarsie. Grabbing up her note, he folded it and jammed it into his pocket. As he turned toward the door, a fierce pounding came from the other side. His heart leaped in hope. Had she returned? He bounded to the door in two big strides and flung it wide. But instead of Tarsie, he found the scowling sheriff on the stoop.

  The man grabbed Joss by the arm. “Brubacher, you need to come with me.”

  37

  An unpleasant sight greeted Simon as he pulled his cart into the yard. Myrtle Mae Ulsh faced off with Ruth. Emmy and Nathaniel clung to Ruth’s skirts, hiding their faces. He nearly groaned aloud. He’d feared something like this would happen if they kept those youngsters.

  Simon limped up behind Ruth as she spouted, “Myrtle Mae, if I wasn’t a good Christian, I’d poke you right in the nose for bein’ so hateful. These two chillun ain’t hurtin’ a thing by bein’ here. They’s just young’uns. Cain’t you have a li’l compassion?”

  Naomi’s wail carried from inside the house. The child was probably part scared, part jealous. She’d been fussy ever since Emmy and Nathaniel had come to stay, wanting her mama’s attention to her own self. Truth be known, Simon was feeling the walls close in on him, too, having two extra ones underfoot at night, but what else could they do? With Tarsie heaven only knew where and Joss sitting in a jail cell, somebody had to keep track of those two little ones.

  But those little white faces sure stuck out in the community. After seeing his neighbors’ scowls at the pair of yellow-haired
children sitting between him and Ruth on their bench at Sunday services yesterday, he’d suspected they’d get a visit soon.

  Simon gave Ruth a little nudge. “Take ’em inside. I’ll deal with Myrtle Mae.”

  With a hmmph, Ruth bustled the children into the house. That little orange cat they’d brought with them scampered along behind. Simon turned to Myrtle Mae, who’d been joined by a handful of neighbors. All of them glared in Simon’s direction. Lawd, I could sho’ use Your help right about now.

  Myrtle Mae balled her fists on her beefy hips. “Simon Fostuh, you’s gon’ bring ruination down on all o’ us if you don’t get them chillun out o’ yo’ house.”

  Len Troxell moved in behind Myrtle Mae. “We’s all worryin’, Simon. It ain’t that we’s hardhearted—Lawd knows them young’uns cain’t take care o’ theirselves—but ain’t there a white family in town who can take ’em in?”

  The soft-spoken man with snow-white hair rarely complained about anything. To have him voice concern let Simon know how much the children’s presence affected his neighbors. “Won’t be long an’ their pappy’ll be back to get ’em.” Simon spoke with confidence, but inside he wondered if he was telling a lie. Sheriff Bradley seemed convinced if he let Joss sit and stew long enough he’d finally confess where he’d hidden Mr. Tollison’s safe. Joss kept claiming he didn’t take it, but so far nobody’d been inclined to look in any other direction.

  “Gon’ be too long if folks in Drayton Valley get wind we’s got white chillun out here.” Myrtle Mae’s comment rose an answering murmur of agreement. Fueled by their support, she leaned in like a rooster ready for battle. “We all kep’ quiet when yo’ wife took up with that white woman. ‘I just learnin’ to read,’ she says. ‘I gon’ teach all o’ yo’ chillun to read, too,’ she says. An’ we all close our lips, thinkin’ good’s comin’. But now that white woman takes off an’ leaves these yellow-haired chillun on your doorstep. No amount o’ readin’ is worth the trouble it could bring.”

  The murmurs increased, more neighbors inching up to voice their thoughts on the situation. From the back of the crowd, Preacher Wolfley called out, “Lemme through here. Lemme through.”

  The people parted, allowing the man to work his way to the front.

  Myrtle Mae whirled on the reverend. “You tell him to get those chillun out o’ here, Preachuh. He won’t listen to nobody else.”

  Preacher Wolfley put his arm around Myrtle Mae’s shoulders and gave a pat. “Settle yourself down here, Myrtle Mae. Between your temper an’ the blazin’ hot temp’atures, you’re gon’ give yourself apoplexy.”

  A ripple of laughter rolled through the small crowd. The reverend faced Simon, and his expression turned serious. “Simon, I’m right proud of you for wantin’ to take care of those little ones. Jesus Himself said whatsoever ye do to the least of these, you also do fo’ Me.”

  The people crowded near began to hang their heads, some of them toeing the ground in embarrassment. All but Myrtle Mae, who stood beneath the reverend’s arm as stiff and unsmiling as ever.

  Preacher Wolfley went on. “But I do wonder at the wisdom of keepin’ ’em.” Myrtle Mae opened her mouth to speak, but the reverend gave her shoulder a pat, and she snapped her mouth closed. “They’re white chillun. I know in God’s eyes, chillun is chillun, but most folk don’t bother to look through God’s eyes. Times bein’ what they are, it might be bettuh fo’ those two young’uns—as well as fo’ you an’ yo’ family—to give ’em over to a white family.”

  Myrtle Mae beamed in triumph. Some others nodded in agreement or said, “Uh-huh. Tha’s right.”

  The reverend went on. “How ’bout this, Simon? I can go into town an’ talk with one of the ministers there. Ask him to help us find a family willin’ to provide for them two chillun. Then you’ll know they’s cared fo’ by a good family. What you say?”

  The crowd leaned in, all eyes pinned on Simon. It got so quiet he could hear a bee buzzing in the bushes nearby. Simon searched his heart for an appropriate response. It’d be mighty easy to pass off those children on someone else. They weren’t his responsibility, and he had plenty of his own children already.

  Lawd, what would You have me be doin’? He tipped his head, listening for a response. And he felt a smile building. He aimed it at the reverend.

  “As ya’ll know, my Ruth’s been learnin’ to read. Ever’ night she practices her readin’ by openin’ up my pappy’s Bible an’ sharin’ somethin’ with us. Last night she read from the Book o’ Mark. ’Member the story? Jesus’ disciples, they was fussin’ at folks fo’ bringin’ their chillun to Jesus an’ askin’ Him to bless ’em. But Jesus, He tells His disciples to let them chillun come. He said”—Simon lifted his head and spoke Jesus’s words boldly—“‘fo’bid them not.’ So I says to you now, fo’bid them not. God done brung them chillun to my doorstep, an’ I cain’t tell the Lawd no.”

  The crowd mumbled, but nobody hurled angry words at Simon. Not even Myrtle Mae. One by one, they turned and ambled back to their own houses until only Simon and Preacher Wolfley remained.

  The reverend put his bony hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Simon, I ain’t gonna fight you on this. You got to follow what God lays on you to be doin’.” His fingers tightened. “But I’ll be in prayer fo’ you. Fo’ all of us. Fo’ protection. ’Cause I’ve sho’ ’nough seen plenty of ugliness in my life. An’ I don’t want to see more of it brought right here.”

  Simon gritted his teeth as he bobbed his head in reply. He’d be praying, too.

  Sunlight slanted through the small window above Joss’s head, painting a gold square high on the opposite wall. He leaned against the rough rock wall, his heels caught on the edge of the lumpy cot that served as the only piece of furniture in the small cell tucked at the back of the sheriff’s office. Elbows draped over his raised knees, he sighed. This town was so small it only had one cell . . . and he was moving into his fourth day of calling it home.

  When would they finally believe he had nothing to do with the theft at Tollison’s and let him go? He’d heard Simon out in the office twice, arguing on his behalf, but nobody wanted to listen to him. In years past, Joss would’ve discounted anything a black man said, too. The realization shamed him. What a fool he’d been to let himself make judgments based on the color of a man’s skin. He’d never had a better friend than Simon Foster.

  Despite Simon’s fervent pleas, the sheriff had refused to let Simon see Joss. Then he’d chased Simon out of the office, claiming they had enough circumstantial evidence to hold Joss over for trial. Joss understood enough about prejudice to see why the sheriff wouldn’t listen to Simon, but he didn’t understand how they could call his spending the day away from work evidence that he’d stolen. He also didn’t understand how Mr. Tollison could accuse him when Joss’d worked faithfully. Mostly, he didn’t understand why God let this happen. He’d no more than handed God his life, and trouble descended. Was this how God showed love to His children?

  He let his feet slide off the mattress, the thump of his bootheels on the rock floor sending a shock up his calves. But the sting in his legs was mild compared to the ache in his heart. Flinging an accusing gaze upward, he said, “I asked You to let me find Tarsie. How’m I supposed to do that from in here?”

  The iron door clanked and then swung open. The deputy stepped through, holding a tray with a tin cup of coffee and a plate with a red-checked napkin draped over it. “Breakfast.” He flicked the napkin aside, revealing a mound of corned beef hash and two dry biscuits. The same thing he’d brought for every meal so far, morning, noon, and evening. Whoever cooked for the prisoners could learn a thing or two from the cook out at Tollison’s. Or from Tarsie.

  Joss’s stomach clenched. “When’m I gonna get out of here?”

  The deputy placed the tray on the edge of Joss’s cot, then backed up. “Sheriff already told you. Not ’til the district judge makes his rounds out here and we can hold trial.”

  Joss lifted a rock-hard biscuit and
tapped the edge of the plate with it. Crumbs broke off and danced across the tray. “When’ll that be?”

  “’Nother week. Maybe two.”

  Joss flung the biscuit onto the hash and leaped up. “I can’t wait that long!”

  The deputy darted out the door and gave it a slam. Holding to the bars with both fists, he peered in at Joss. “You got no choice.”

  Joss paced the length of the small space twice, growling under his breath. His prayers to God were going unheeded. He couldn’t get out and find Tarsie himself . . . What else could he do? He whirled on the deputy, who remained holding tight to the bars as if prepared to use them as a weapon if need be. “Can I have visitors?”

  The man shrugged. “Depends.”

  Sinking back onto the cot, Joss said, “Fetch a minister. An’ make it quick.”

  The rumble of wagon wheels captured Tarsie’s attention and her heart gave a leap of hope. Her journey had taken longer than she’d expected after twisting her ankle on the first day. A good soaking in the river brought down the swelling, and wrapping it with the skirt from her apron allowed her to walk. Even so, an unceasing ache forced her to stop frequently and let the ankle rest. A ride would be a blessing.

  She brushed at her skirt with her hands, scowling at the rumpled fabric and clinging bits of leaves. Without any kind of shelter, she’d slept beneath the trees, staving off her hunger with berries and watercress she found along the way. She must certainly appear bedraggled after her days of walking, but maybe the people in the wagon would take pity on her and let her ride the remaining distance. Poised at the side of the road, she watched as a pair of horses emerged from around the bend and clopped toward her. She raised one hand, waving as the wagon approached.

  A rough-looking man with scraggly whiskers and a low-tugged, misshapen hat held the reins. Tarsie quickly lowered her hand, scuttling backward. Even so, the man drew the team to a stop and scowled down at her. Tarsie licked her lips, apprehension weaseling its way through her middle. She’d hoped for a farm family or perhaps a delivery wagon. She should have hidden in the bushes until she knew for sure who drove the wagon.