He gave a gentle pull, and her stiff body stumbled forward in response, her chin colliding with his firm chest. His arm snaked around her middle, sealing her in place, and the hand holding her wrist rose, propping it on his shoulder. Then he buried his face in the curve of her neck and clung, his hands curving her spine to fit her frame snugly against his arched body.
Tarsie’s breath whooshed out. Her hands coiled around his neck, clinging, and she turned her face to his cheek. His sharp whiskers pricked her skin, but what did she care? Could a few pricks distract from the wonder of being held in Joss’s arms? She was disheveled, sweaty, with days of grime caking her skin . . . and still he held her. Held her the way a dying man held to life. The way a lover held his beloved. Her fingers tightened on his taut neck, glory filling her so completely tears spurted.
A clearing throat intruded. “You two’ll have to scat.” The sheriff’s droll command broke through the sweet moment of reckoning. “I need to bring the prisoners in.”
Joss released her by increments, his fingers sliding from her spine to her waist and then away. A shiver shook her frame as he took a backward step, putting a good two feet of distance between them. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze darting around the room as if uncertain where to land.
Tarsie clutched her fingers together, watching him. Would he touch her again? Place his hand upon her back and escort her from the jail? She waited, yearning and hopeful, and his hand lifted. Her heart skipped a beat.
The old Joss—the distant Joss—returned in the blink of an eye. He gestured to the open doorway. “Let’s go, then.”
Fresh tears gathered in Tarsie’s eyes. Tears of disappointment. Whatever had compelled him to draw her close had slipped away. Defeated, she hugged herself and scuffed out the door, her shattered heart aching within her chest.
39
Joss followed Tarsie through the sheriff’s office, careful to keep several inches of distance between them. What had he been thinking to grab hold of her that way? Varying emotions—relief that she was safe, gratitude to God for answering his prayer, appreciation at being released—had propelled him forward. But he shouldn’t have embraced her. It was selfish of him to seek comfort in her arms, and he’d determined to give up selfish actions. From now on, he’d keep his hands to himself.
They stepped onto the boardwalk, and Joss drew in several lungfuls of air. After breathing the stale air of the jail cell, the hot Kansas wind tasted wonderful. He might sleep outside tonight, just to enjoy the openness afforded by that vast sky. But first, he needed to go see his children. They’d be thrilled to have him and Tarsie back again.
Tarsie moved stiffly to the wagon and reached for the woven basket Ruth had crafted for her. Joss darted forward and snatched it off the seat. His gaze connected with the two men in the wagon who waited under the evening sun for someone to release them. To his surprise, a tiny coil of compassion wiggled through him at the sight of their grim faces framed by iron bars. They’d done him a mighty disservice, stealing that safe, but he knew how it felt to be locked up. He wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Did that mean God was already softening him, the way the preacher’d said would happen? Oddly, he didn’t mind the idea of being a little tender. The compassion sat comfortably within his chest.
Tarsie reached for the basket. “I’ll be takin’ that now.”
Her sweet Irish lilt carried a hint of sadness. Joss wanted to cup her cheek with his palm and ask why she looked so bereft. Common sense claimed his fingers, and he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Now that I’m free”—what a wonderful word!—“I need to ride out to Simon’s and fetch the young’uns. Will you meet me at the house?”
She stared at him, alarm widening her eyes. “W-why?”
For a moment, aggravation captured him. Didn’t she realize she owed the children a proper good-bye? He started to tell her so, but something held his tongue. Reverend Mann had told him to ask God to give him words when his own failed, so he sent up a silent plea for help.
“Because Emmy an’ Nathaniel’ll want to see you.” He sounded gruff. He swallowed and tried again, more kindly. “Don’t you want to see them?”
Longing broke across her face. She ducked her head. “For sure I’m wantin’ to see them. They’re . . . they’re so very dear to me.”
“Then go to the house. I’ll bring ’em to you.”
Sheriff Bradley and Deputy Pierce charged out of the office, forcing Joss and Tarsie to step aside. Joss had no desire to see the men with their chained ankles paraded past. He took several shuffling steps toward the livery. “Meet us there, Tarsie.” Then he paused, his heart pattering. “Please?”
The gently worded entreaty—“Please?”—proved to be Tarsie’s undoing. She could resist a harsh, demanding Joss. But this tender, pleading one? She surrendered.
“I’ll be there when you bring the wee ones.”
A smile burst across his face, and he turned and trotted off.
A crowd had gathered to stare at the prisoners, so Tarsie crossed to the opposite side of the street before aiming herself toward the little house that had been her home for the past months. The closer she got, the more anticipation built within. How could she have left this place? The dirt street beneath her feet, the flower-dotted yards, the towering trees, the gently rolling hills leading to the river—she loved every inch of this town.
She waved at neighbors as she passed, noting their bobbing heads or waves in reply. Although she hadn’t formed close friendship with any of them yet, she still discovered a sense of belonging as she passed their yards, recalling moments of fellowship that now held a sweet essence in her memories. Coming back to the familiar house, with its Joss-made table and benches and simple self-sewn curtains in the window, elated her. She didn’t want to leave again.
But she would. To preserve what was left of her tattered heart, she would go.
When she reached the house, she headed for the well and drew a bucket of water for a much-needed wash. But once inside, she stood unmoving in the middle of the room, simply absorbing. Remembering. Reliving. She allowed herself several minutes of reflection before she carried the bucket behind the dividing wall—letting her palm drift down the length of rough wood as she passed—and discarded her filthy dress. The cold water refreshed her, and she even dipped her hair, relishing the feel of droplets trailing down her back from her soaked tresses.
Her wet hair hanging loose and a clean dress in place, she returned to the main room and started a fire in the stove. Neither she nor Joss had eaten supper. She could prepare something. And after they’d eaten, she’d say her good-byes and take her things to the hotel on Main Street to await the trial. A knot of sorrow filled her throat. Strength, Lord.
Joss arrived with the children just as she removed a pan of corn bread from the oven. The aroma filled the room, increasing the feeling of home. Tears stung when the children charged across the floor to her, their voices chorusing her name. She dropped to her knees and held them tight to her breast, kissing first one tousled head and then the other again and again until they finally pulled loose.
Emmy wadded her fists on her hips. “You left us. You went away.” Hurt mingled with accusation in her tone.
Nathaniel cupped Tarsie’s face between his little hands and gave her a stern look. “Tarsie no go ’way. Yes?”
Tarsie looked over Nathaniel’s head to Joss, who stood with Marmalade lying upside down on his arm as Joss stroked his stomach. If the children’s father voiced the same request, she’d agree. She waited, hoping.
He cleared his throat, setting the cat on the floor. “You can’t go.”
She listened, ready to leap into his arms.
“Not ’til after the trial.”
She struggled to her feet and turned her back on him. Once again he needed her. He’d needed her to care for his children. He’d needed her to keep his house. Now he needed her to clear his name. But he didn’t need her. He only needed what she could do for him. It woul
d never be enough.
Moving to the stove, she lifted a knife to cut the corn bread into wedges. “Yes, I have to testify. And when the trial is over . . .” A sob found its way from her throat. She pressed her fist to her lips, holding back any others that might try to escape.
Hands descended on her shoulders. Strong hands that turned her around. Fingers gripped her trembling chin, lifting her face. Joss gazed down at her. He spoke, his deep voice growly yet somehow tender. “When the trial is over . . . what then?”
She stared into the face of the man she’d grown to love. There was something different about him. The same dark hair fell across his forehead in unruly waves. The same mustache slashed across his upper lip. The same dark eyes peered at her from beneath heavy brows. But a flicker of something new—something wholly appealing—also existed. She wished she could recognize it.
“And then I must go.”
“But why?”
Once again, his tenderness took her by surprise. If only the demanding Joss would return, she could remain firm. But the kindness she’d seen bestowed on the children was now aimed at her, and she was defenseless against it. Tears stung her eyes. She pulled away from his gentle grip.
“The corn bread’s getting cold.” She scooped a wedge onto a tin plate and handed it to him.
He took the plate but didn’t step away. Rooted in place, he gazed at her, his expression unreadable. She busied herself carving out a wedge of the mealy yellow bread for herself, pretending not to notice his scrutiny but nearly dying beneath it.
Finally he sighed. “All right, Tarsie. We’ll eat.” He started to step away, but then he leaned in, his breath caressing her ear. “By the way, you’re beautiful with your hair down.”
Tarsie sat at the table with a plate in front of her, but she couldn’t eat a bite. Joss’s sweet words filled her so completely, she didn’t have room for anything else. What had come over him? Part of her wanted to ask, and part of her was afraid of the answer. So she picked at her food, chopping the wedge into pieces without carrying a bite to her mouth.
Joss ate three pieces, however, and when he finished he washed the dishes and put them away, encouraging Tarsie to spend time with the children instead. She read them their favorite storybooks and then tucked them into their beds. When she returned to the main room, she carried her basket with her.
Joss rose from the table and glanced at the basket, a frown creasing his brow. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t stay here.” Tarsie injected defensiveness in her tone. She had to protect herself somehow. “We aren’t married. It isn’t appropriate.”
He bowed his head. “I know. I’m sorry I lied to you. It was wrong of me.”
She nodded. “Yes, it was. It was hurtful, Joss.”
He met her gaze. “God’s forgiven me for lying to you.”
She gasped, the importance of his statement smacking with such force her knees buckled.
His gaze never wavered, his eyes smoldering. “Will you forgive me?”
Stunned by his proclamation of finding forgiveness from God, she couldn’t answer. Joss remained on the other side of the table, but he might have been inches in front of her. Her skin tingled with awareness.
“When I realized you’d left—that I’d run you off—I did some deep thinking. I knew I had to change before I lost everyone I cared about. So I asked God to help me, and . . . He answered, Tarsie. He met me, right here.”
He pointed to a spot on the floor near the trunk, and tears shimmered in his eyes. He stared at the spot for long moments, as if reliving something precious, and then he looked at her again. “I wanted to go find you and bring you back, but I got arrested. They stuck me in that cell and I couldn’t go after you.” A grin tugged his lips. “But guess what? God didn’t want me to find you. He knew where you’d be, and what you’d hear, and that your testimony would set me free. So He let me wait and see how He had things worked out. It was a good lesson.”
Tarsie wished she could speak, but she’d gone mute. This was Joss speaking of God? Joss proclaiming he wanted to change? And what might he say next?
“When I picked up the young’uns from Simon’s, he told me Tollison said the vote had come in. Prohibition passed. So the vineyard’ll be closing—or at least they’ll be getting rid of most of the workers.” Joss heaved a sigh. “It worries me, but I’m gonna try trusting instead of worrying. God fixed things for me to get out of that jail cell. I reckon that means He can fix things for us men who’ve been earning our keep at Tollison’s to find another way to make a living.” He paused, tipping his head boyishly. “Right?”
Tarsie found her voice. “R-right.” Then she fell silent again, her mind moving backward through everything he’d said. He’d indicated he cared for her. He’d bemoaned losing her. He questioned where she would go next. But the thing she most needed to hear remained unspoken. He hadn’t asked her to stay.
She turned toward the door, her heart heavy. “I better go now.”
He dashed around the table, his hand extended but not touching her. “No. You stay here tonight. I’ll walk to the livery, bed down there.” A teasing smile curved his lips and brightened his eyes. “You’ve done enough wandering the hillsides for a while.”
“But—”
“Tarsie, please. Stay with the young’uns. You have to stay somewhere until the trial’s over. Why not here? I’ll stay out of the way so there’s no question about propriety. Stay . . . please?”
He’d finally asked, but not for himself. For the children. Even so, when he asked so sweetly, she had no ability to refuse. She gave a weak nod.
“Thank you.” He moved to the door and grabbed the crosshatch. Then he looked back at her, his expression contrite. “And, Tarsie? About me grabbing on to you like I did in the jail . . .”
Heat rushed to her face. She gulped.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I was just . . . so relieved.” He drew a deep breath, his chest expanding with the indrawn air. “You don’t need to worry. It won’t happen again.” He slipped out the door.
Tarsie held to the door’s edge, staring after his tall form moving down the hill. What would he do if she told him her greatest fear was that he’d never hold her again?
40
The circuit judge wired that he’d be in Drayton Valley the second Friday in September to preside over the trial of the two accused thieves. With no courthouse, court would be held in the community church. Simon drove his boss to town for the trial. Mr. Tollison usually had Thurman Fenn drive him, but he’d said he needed to talk to Simon and the drive would give them privacy. Simon, never one to disregard an instruction, readied the buggy and pulled up in front of the big house to retrieve his boss.
Instead of climbing into the back of the four-seat buggy, the way he usually did, Mr. Tollison sat next to Simon on the driver’s seat. Dust from the horses’ hooves flew in their faces as Simon headed down the lane, and Mr. Tollison held a white handkerchief over his nose.
Simon cast a worried glance at his boss. “You sho’ you don’t wanna get in the back? Less dusty back there.”
Mr. Tollison shook his head, coughing a bit behind the hankie. “If I sit back there, I’ll need to raise my voice to be heard, and yelling is harder on my lungs than breathing a little dust.”
Simon pulled the reins, slowing the big pair of roans. Maybe a slower pace would mean less dust. “You do lots o’ coughin’.” He hoped he hadn’t insulted the man, but he cared. “You seen a doctor ’bout that?”
Mr. Tollison chuckled, bringing on another bout of coughing. “I’ve seen several doctors, Simon, and they all tell me the same thing: I need to live in a dry, warm climate. So far I’ve managed to survive Kansas by using more onion poultices than I can count, but with that vote . . .”
Sorrow weighted Simon’s shoulders. He’d known Mr. Tollison his whole life. He’d never heard the man sound defeated. But he did now. “Gon’ hafta shut things down, ain’tcha?”
“I am.”<
br />
They rolled on in silence for several minutes. Simon wiggled his nose against droplets of sweat that rolled from his forehead while the horses clip-clopped a steady beat.
Finally Mr. Tollison shifted in the seat to half face Simon. “I don’t want to leave you and your people without a means of providing for yourselves. My father brought you here. I won’t sell the land out from under you. I’ve already drawn up papers to make sure the property where your houses are built transfers to your names.”
Simon heaved a sigh of relief. He admitted to some worry about what might happen. “That’s right good o’ you, suh.”
“And I intend to sign over the orchards to you, Simon.”
Simon jerked, yanking the reins. The horses neighed in protest. He chirped to them, giving them an apology, then gawked at his boss. “Sign ovuh? You mean so’s I be ownin’ all them trees an’ such?”
“That’s right.”
“But . . . but . . .” Simon shook his head, unable to conceive what he was hearing.
“I know it’s a huge responsibility,” Mr. Tollison went on, his voice muffled by the protective square of white. “But you know how to operate the orchard. The grapes will be plowed under—the governor’s edict stipulated that had to happen before the year’s end—but there’s no reason to destroy the apple, peach, or pecan trees. More than half of my income has come from the wine. A fine income, allowing me to live well and set a goodly portion of money aside. I have enough that I don’t need to sell the orchards, and the trees will continue to provide an income for you, your family, and your friends.”
Simon marveled at the man’s generosity. He bit down on his lip for a moment, but he had to ask a question. “What about the white men workin’ fo’ you? You gon’ provide for them, too?”
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 30