A Home in Drayton Valley (10 page)

“Take care of my loved ones.” Mary's clammy fingers tightened, surprisingly strong for a woman whose very life was ebbing away minute by minute. “See to my children . . . and to my Joss. Minister to them, Tarsie, just as you've ministered to me. They'll need your love.”

Tarsie swallowed. Loving Emmy and little Nathaniel would come easy. But Joss? How could she love Joss?

“Yes, Joss.”

Tarsie blinked in surprise. Had she spoken aloud? But no, Mary knew her so well. She'd never had a closer friend. Oh, how she would miss this woman.

Mary's lips trembled into a tender half smile. “I know you think he's hard and unfeeling, but you're wrong. He feels deeply. He's just afraid to let it show—afraid it isn't manly to let it show. His pa . . . the man tried to whip the tender out of Joss. But underneath his bluster, Joss is a good man.”

“Is he?” Tarsie heard the sarcasm in her tone, and she flinched. She shouldn't be hurtful. Not while Mary lay dying.

But Mary—either unwilling or unable to read Tarsie's cynicism—released a gentle sigh. “He is.” Her eyelids drooped, her blinks so slow Tarsie could count to three during one up-and-down sweep of her brittle lashes. “Tarsie, when our heavenly Father looks at us, He loves us enough to see . . . what we were meant to be. I've prayed for the Father to let me view Joss through His eyes instead of my own, to let me love my husband unconditionally, the same way God loves us, hoping my love would one day awaken Joss's heart to the love of God. But now . . .”

She took a hollow, shuddering breath that reminded Tarsie of stones rattling in the bottom of a can. “Now I'll be gone.” The fingers held in Tarsie's grip trembled, their grasp weakening. “You're my dearest friend, Tarsie, and I . . . I know I'm placing a tremendous burden on your shoulders, but who else can I ask? My children need a godly father. Someone must show Joss the way. Will . . . will you be God's love on earth . . . to my precious children . . . and to Joss?”

Tarsie bit back sobs. Although it would tax her to the height of her abilities, she would honor her dear friend's request. “Yes, Mary. I will.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Mary's hand fell away from Tarsie's wrist. Her face relaxed as her eyes slipped close. “Thank you.” Air escaped Mary's lips, a whisper-soft sigh of satisfaction. And then silence fell.

Tarsie stared into Mary's sweet face, holding her own breath as she waited for her friend to pull another life-giving breath into her lungs. But Mary lay still. Tarsie's chest burned with the effort of withholding her own breath—
Breathe, Mary! Breathe!—
but eventually the air whooshed from Tarsie's lungs on a tormented moan of sorrow. Sobbing, she threw herself across Mary's lifeless body, willing the warmth and life she possessed to somehow transfer to her friend. Emmy, Nathaniel, Joss—they needed Mary so badly. How could God take her?

Over her heartbroken sobs, the echo of Mary's voice reverberated through her memory.
“Will you be God's love on earth to my precious children and to Joss?”
With stiff, painful movements, Tarsie forced herself upright. She'd made a promise, and with God's help, she would honor it. Her first task would be finding a way to tell Emmy, Nathaniel, and Joss that Mary's spirit had slipped away.

Swallowing her tears, she gently covered Mary's face with her apron. Then she turned toward the wagon's opening and borrowed a prayer she'd heard Mary whisper many times.

Strength, Father.

 10 

H
is Mary would never know if Kansas grass tickled her feet, but at least she'd been put to rest in Kansas soil. Joss swallowed the massive lump that filled his throat and hoped his wife would be satisfied with the simple grave on the far fringes of White Cloud, Kansas.

Strangers surrounded the mound of dirt that covered Mary's body—all of the black travelers from Murphy's train, Murphy himself with his hat in his hands, the doctor Joss had summoned but who'd arrived too late, and a solemn-looking preacher the doctor had dragged out to perform a simple ceremony. Joss reckoned he should appreciate their presence, but resentment churned through his gut. These people didn't know Mary. They didn't belong here. But a weariness heavier than anything he'd ever known held him captive, and he couldn't dredge up enough energy to send them away.

The preacher's voice rose with conviction as he read from the Bible. “‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'” The Bible's pages fluttered in the wind, and the man smoothed them back into place. His head low, he closed his eyes and offered a prayer.

Joss shut his ears to the petitions, the same way God
must've shut His ears to Tarsie's prayers and the prayers Murphy said his people sent up to the heavens for Mary. A God who'd take a woman like Mary before her time wasn't worth beans in Joss's estimation.

The preacher concluded his prayer with a deeply intoned “amen,” and the folks gathered behind Joss echoed it before they ambled away. Tarsie stretched out her hand to the minister and thanked him for coming, but Joss kept his hands clamped over Emmy's and Nathaniel's small shoulders. He wouldn't offer a thank-you he didn't mean.

The moment Tarsie stepped back from the preacher, Joss pushed the youngsters in her direction. “Take 'em to the wagon and stay put. I got me some business in town. I'll meet up with you later.”

Tarsie's eyebrows crunched. “What kind of business might you be having in town?” She tugged the children snug to her sides, her eyes widening. “You aren't fixin' to”—her voice dropped to a raspy whisper—“drown your sorrows?”

Joss snorted. “A man's got a right to pickle his insides after layin' his wife to rest.”

Tarsie tipped her head. A strand of red-brown hair, loosened from her braid, danced in the breeze. “And would that be what Mary would have you do on her buryin' day?”

Pain stabbed Joss's stomach, as fierce as the ache that must have tormented Mary these past weeks. The doctor who'd come had said she'd probably died of a cancer—the kind of sickness no doctor could cure. He'd told Joss, “It would've taken a miracle to restore your wife's health, Mr. Brubacher.” Well, the Miracle-Maker hadn't seen fit to heal his Mary, so why shouldn't Joss dull his pain in the only way he knew how?

“I don't reckon Mary'll know one way or the other,” Joss growled. “Just do as you're told.” He smacked his hat onto his head and stomped away.

In his dash through White Cloud yesterday afternoon in
search of a doctor, he'd spotted a billiard hall. A place for men. If he didn't miss his guess, there'd be spirits served there. He patted his pocket, noting the clink of coins. He'd drink till his pocket was empty or his brain was numb, whichever happened first.

The hinges on the screen door creaked when Joss threw it open. Four men, each with a long pole in his hands, surrounded a green-flocked table. They turned from the table as Joss stepped over the threshold. The one closest to the door said, “Howdy, mister. You come for a game?”

Joss shook his head. “Came for a drink. Whatcha got?”

The man looked Joss up and down, smirking. “From the looks of you, you need a bath more'n a drink. You been rolling in a pigsty?” His cohorts guffawed.

Joss glanced down his length. He hadn't paid much attention to the dark stains that blotched his pants and shirt. The nights of sleeping under the wagon on soggy ground, even with a protective strip of canvas around him, had left him disheveled and filthy. Then digging Mary's grave had added more dirt to his hands and clothes. But what difference should that make? His money was clean.

Ignoring the sniggering bunch, Joss clomped to the long counter that ran along the south wall and slapped his hand on the sleek wood top. “I'll drink anything. Beer. Whiskey. Rum.” He glowered toward the men who remained like guards on duty around the table. “Make it quick.”

One of the men—the one with brown hair so coarse and curly it resembled coiled springs shooting from his head—separated himself from the others and scooted behind the counter. He grabbed a white cobbler apron from a hook and tied it over his shirt and trousers. “Whiskey's two bits a shot.”

Joss tossed a few coins onto the counter. They rolled across the polished wood, circled, then settled. “Pour.”

The curly-haired man removed a bottle from a shelf and
slid a short glass toward Joss. He glugged the first shot into Joss's glass, then extracted two dimes and a nickel from the coins scattered on the counter.

Joss lifted the glass, licking his lips in anticipation of the first taste of liquor. He'd need at least four shots before he'd start feeling good, but the first one always tasted the best, before his tongue lost track of flavor. Just as he touched the glass's rim to his lower lip, a voice whispered through his memory.

“You aren't your pa, Joss. You don't need the drink.”

Sweet. Beseeching. Mary's voice.

His hand trembled. Liquid dribbled over the rim onto his thumb and finger. For long moments he stared at the little glass and its contents, a war waging inside of him. Desire to lose himself in numbness battled against desire to please his wife. Which was more important to him—the drink or Mary?

He plunked down the glass, sending up a spray of gold-colored liquid that doused his hand and puddled on the wooden counter. Wiping his wet hand on his shirtfront as he went, he aimed himself for the door.

“Hey, mister—your money!”

Joss ignored the call and careened into the street. So he'd left a good six bits behind. It was a small price to pay for—just once—putting Mary first.

Tarsie tucked the children beneath the quilt Mary had used every day during their journey. Perhaps the scent of their mother caught in the fabric would help them sleep. Little Nathaniel was too young to understand what had happened, but he'd cried all afternoon because Emmy cried. The little girl's inconsolable sorrow and Nathaniel's repeated demand to go back to the cemetery and “dig Mama up” nearly broke Tarsie's heart.

She leaned forward and kissed their foreheads, then whispered, “Get a good rest now. God's angels'll be holding you tight all through the night.”

“Like they're holdin' Mama tight?” Emmy's voice quavered.

“Holdin' Mama?” Nathaniel mimicked.

Tarsie forced her lips into a smile and brushed Emmy's curls away from her tear-moistened cheeks. “Your mama doesn't need angels to hold her anymore because she's with Jesus.”

Emmy blinked, her blue eyes so like Mary's. “And she's not sick no more?”

“She'll never be sick again,” Tarsie said. As much as she missed Mary, she couldn't help but send up a silent prayer of gratitude that her dear friend's pain was forever gone.

Emmy snuggled closer to Nathaniel, who appeared to have already drifted off to sleep. “I wish I could go to Jesus, too.” She sniffed. “I wanna be with Mama.”

“I know, darlin'.” Tarsie adjusted the quilt beneath Emmy's chin. “And you will be someday. But you have to wait 'til God calls you. He has a perfect time for you to go be with Him, and you mustn't want to go ahead of His plan. All right?”

Emmy yawned, her eyes crunching closed. “All right, Tarsie. G'night.”

Tarsie remained on her knees beside the children's pallet, alternately singing and praying, until Emmy's deep, even breathing matched her brother's. Then she carefully climbed out of the wagon into a starlit night. The fire she'd started earlier to cook their supper no longer snapped, but coals glowed. She added a few twigs, stirring the fire to life again. When Joss finally stumbled back into their camp, he might need the coffee she'd left in the pot.

A few yards downriver, the canvas covers of the Murphy wagons hunkered like a circle of ghosts in the muted light. Campfires glimmered, and mumbled voices drifted to Tarsie's
ears, a comforting reminder of someone's presence. But here, in her silent camp, she felt alone. Tate Murphy had come over after supper to tell her that he and the others would head on come morning. She'd thanked him for staying long enough to see Mary buried. Even if Joss didn't appreciate their attendance at the graveside, Tarsie did. And Mary would have, too.

She glanced toward the town, searching the shadows for Joss's return. She shivered despite the warmth from the fire. What if he didn't come back? What if he decided to abandon his children now that Mary was gone? What would she do if—

She refused to continue pondering what-ifs. He'd come back. Everything he owned was in the wagon. He had to come back. But the fire had died to smoldering coals a second time and the other camps had fallen silent before the sound of footsteps alerted Tarsie to someone's approach.

Straightening from her hunkered position beside the soft orange glow, she aimed her face toward the deep shadows. “Joss?”

“It's me.”

He stepped fully into the camp. As he passed her, a telltale odor tickled her nose, and she resisted pinching her nostrils shut. She watched Joss cross to the opposite side of the rock circle she'd built to contain their fire. He crouched, resting his elbows on his bent knees, and stared at the glimmering coals. His face, lit from beneath by the feeble glow, appeared harsh, his thick mustache a slash of black above his firmly set lips.

Tarsie shivered again. Hugging herself, she jolted to her feet. “Now that you're back and can keep a watch over your children, I'll be taking myself to sleep.” Accusation colored her tone.

He lifted his head sharply, pinning her with a stern frown. “Nobody told you to wait up for me. I'm no boy in need of tending.”

Tarsie angled her chin high and peered down her nose at him. “For sure you aren't a boy, but in need of tending? I'd be arguing that with you. The way you smell, you could stumble and roll yourself into the water and be drowned before anybody knew you were gone. And then what would wee Emmy and Nathaniel do?”

He rose in one smooth, menacing motion and towered over her. “Not that I have to answer to you, but I ain't been drinking. Got some spilled on me—that I won't deny. But not one drop made it past my lips to my throat. So you can just climb down off your high horse.”

He'd been gone for hours and the smell following him spoke of time tipping a bottle. Yet his movements were sure rather than clumsy, his eyes clear rather than red-rimmed. Could he be telling the truth?