A Home in Drayton Valley (13 page)

Joss stood beside her, his hands on his hips and his unsmiling gaze pinned to her hands as if ascertaining she performed the task correctly. When Tarsie straightened with the two little pairs of shoes in hand, he gestured to the open doorway. “Gotta find a place to tether the horses, and then I'll just sleep in the wagon.” He glanced around. “Won't be room to set up beds until everything gets put away. Where're you gonna sleep?”

She blinked rapidly, her pulse skipping into double-beats of worry. Although they'd entered their third day as husband and wife and spent two nights on the trail, he'd continued to sleep under the wagon while she stayed beneath the canvas cover with the children. Now that they'd reached their destination, would he expect her to lie with him?

Clutching the shoes to her trembling tummy, she lifted her
shoulders in a nervous shrug. “I, um, thought to throw out a few quilts on the floor and—”

“Fine.” Joss turned and clomped toward the doorway, his bootheels stirring dust. “Soon as the sun's up, I'll come knocking at the door for breakfast. Need to meet the dock manager first thing to get started working.” He paused in the doorway, sending a dubious look around the cluttered, dirty, water-splotched room. “You'll have plenty to do, too.”

Tarsie released a nervous titter. “Oh, yes. The children and I will be busy tomorrow, putting our house in order.” Her face flooded with heat at the word
our.
She drew in a ragged breath and held it.

Joss grabbed a quilt from the tumbling stack near the door—the very one Mary had favored when she lay so ill—and wadded it in his hands. “Tomorrow, then.” He stepped out.

Tarsie eased the door closed behind him. She leaned against the solid wood, allowing the air to whoosh from her lungs. When she had the items organized and everything neat, would Joss sleep in the house with her and the children?

 13 

A
fter Tarsie served a simple breakfast from the last of the dried apples and a lump of cornmeal mush directly from the pan, Joss pressed a few crumpled bills into her hand and said, “There's a mercantile 'bout a quarter mile down the street—only buy what you can't do without but”—he glanced around the filthy, cluttered space—“get some cleaning supplies.” He grabbed the packet containing the final portion of jerked beef, informed her not to expect him for lunch, and headed out.

Tarsie woke the children, washed the sleep from their eyes, and fed them. Then they set off through a dew-kissed morning for the mercantile. Tall trees lined the winding pathway, holding back all but slivers of sunlight and making the air seem chilly, but the children's high spirits warmed her. Nathaniel hopped like a little toad from one dappled splash of sunshine to another. Emmy sang an Irish ballad, her childish tremolo hauntingly sweet.

They reached the back edge of Drayton Valley's business district, and just as Joss had indicated, a mercantile with a cheerfully painted porch sat on the first corner. Tarsie ushered the children inside, and a thin man with several missing teeth scurried over.

“Good mornin', good mornin'. Out bright an' early, aren't
ya? Haven't seen ya before, but it'th good to have y'all here. I'm alwayth fair in my prithin'. Uh-huh, alwayth fair.”

Although both Emmy and Nathaniel stared at the man in openmouthed amazement, to Tarsie's relief neither snickered. She listened attentively as the man continued speaking.

“Lemme tell ya 'bout thith week'th thpecial itemth.”

Tarsie had no interest in a whistling teakettle or French perfume, no matter how “thweet” its “thmell,” but she eagerly claimed two of the sturdy straw brooms—“Only thirteen thenth today!”—so she could have one for inside and one for outside use. The house only had a small stoop rather than a porch, but she would keep it swept clean. She also purchased a bucket, soap, and a few groceries, including two loaves of bread that seemed fresh and a good-sized round of cheese so she could send sandwiches with Joss the rest of the week. She stacked all of their items except the brooms inside the bucket, gave one broom to each child, and waved good-bye to the owner, who followed them onto the porch and hollered out, “Y'all come back thoon!”

Emmy and Nathaniel carried the brooms like fishing poles over their shoulders, whacking Tarsie with the prickly straw bristles more than once on the way back to their little house. She didn't complain, but she did hurry them, noting gray clouds building once more over the river. By running the last few yards, they reached the house before raindrops began pelting the ground.

After covering the broken window with their most tattered wool blanket—an inept barrier but better than nothing—Tarsie set the children to work scrubbing the shelves, and she put one of the bargain-priced brooms to use. She couldn't dispose of the ridiculously large accumulation of dirt until the rain stopped—if she opened the door to sweep out the pile, the spattering raindrops would turn the dust into a mud puddle—so she built a mountain beside the door and then turned to other tasks.

By noon, with the children's assistance, Tarsie had put away their belongings either on the shelves or inside the trunks, lined the trunks and crates neatly against one wall, and made their bed pallets in opposite corners on one side of the room. Satisfied with the morning's accomplishments, she turned her attention to lunch. She'd used the few twigs left by the previous occupants in the stove at breakfast, so she couldn't prepare a hot meal, but the children seemed satisfied with cheese sandwiches. They complained, however, about drinking cold leftover coffee. Tarsie couldn't blame them. Growing children needed milk. She'd need it, too, for baking. Now that she had a stove, she didn't intend to continue to purchase bread.

With their tummies full, the children stretched out on their pallet and looked at the few picture books they'd brought from New York. They especially enjoyed
The House That Jack Built
—Tarsie thought it clever that Emmy could already recite most of it from memory. While the children entertained themselves, Tarsie located a scrap of paper and a pencil stub to make a list of the things she needed so she'd remember to share them with Joss. She wrote in her careful penmanship:
Arrange milk delivery or buy cow; purchase icebox; arrange ice delivery . . .

Within half an hour, she'd filled both sides of the slip of paper. She stared at the list, aghast at its length. But when she tried to eliminate items, she discovered each was important to establishing a comfortable household. Nibbling the end of the pencil, she examined the list again. Perhaps if she were to prioritize the items and suggest they be gathered two or three at a time rather than in one fell swoop, he would be more agreeable.

Bending forward, she flattened the paper against her knee and began organizing the listed items in order of importance.

Joss trudged through the rain, his boots sticking in the muck and slowing his pace. Had there ever been a longer day than this one? The rain that started before nine o'clock continued to fall in a solid curtain, even though the supper hour had passed. Two ships had arrived at the Drayton Valley dock despite the rain, and he'd kept up stride for stride with the other workers, transferring the cut lumber from the first one and the boxed fine furniture from the second to a holding warehouse near the dock. How many times had the dock manager hollered, “Keep those deliveries dry”? Joss had lost count. But he'd thought it a foolish demand. How could a body keep anything dry in weather like this?

After working all day, wet and weary, he'd gone to the livery where he'd boarded the horses to ask the liveryman to purchase the team, since he had no further use for the beasts. Over the roll of thunder and steady thrum of raindrops hitting rooftops, Joss could still hear the man's uproarious laughter.

“Mister, you are a caution, that's for sure. What would I do with tired old nags like these?”

Joss had shrugged. “Sell 'em to somebody else. They can pull a plow or something.”

The liveryman snorted. “They should've been put out to pasture years ago, an' that's a fact.” Then, apparently seeing Joss was ready to blow, he'd slapped Joss on the back. “Tell you what, I'll keep 'em here an' post a notice that they're available for sale. Might be somebody'll want a horse to pull a youngster's cart or something. Check back next week.”

So Joss had no extra money in his pocket as he'd hoped. He'd wanted to give the money to Tarsie. If he could get back what he'd paid for the team, the amount would be enough to see to her and the young'uns' needs for a couple of months at least. He needed what remained in his money pouch to get himself to Chicago.

Groaning under his breath, he hunched into his jacket and tried to speed his feet. Drenched to the bone, all he wanted to do was get someplace dry, sit back with his boots off, and warm his feet in front of a roaring fire. But all he had waiting for him was a wagon with a leaky canvas top. At least Tarsie'd have supper ready for him. His stomach growled in anticipation. Maybe he could dry out by the stove before bedding down in the wagon for the night.

He reached the boxy little house, identical to all the others huddling on the sloping landscape—except for its broken window—and hopped onto the stoop. Rain poured from the wood-shaked roof, dousing him anew, but he paused long enough to stomp his feet a bit to knock off at least some of the accumulated mud. Then he reached for the string that would lift the crossbar on the other side. Before he could touch it, though, the door swung open.

Tarsie stood in the doorway. Her green eyes flew wide. “Oh, be looking at you, wet as a drowned rat!” She caught his coat sleeve and tugged him over the threshold. Giving the door a slam, she flapped her hands at Emmy and Nathaniel, who stood staring up at Joss. “Quick, fetch your papa a quilt so he can bundle himself.”

Emmy dashed to the corner and returned with the quilt from her bed. She thrust it at Joss. “Here, Papa.”

Joss shook his head. “I'll just soil it. Lemme sit by the stove awhile. I'll dry.”

Tarsie grimaced. “A cold stove'll do you no good.”

Joss frowned at her.

She shrugged. “I have no fuel for a fire. You better take the quilt.”

Stifling a growl, Joss complied. While he wrapped the colorful patchwork quilt around his shoulders, he glanced toward the center of the room. A blanket lay on the clean-swept floor, dotted with plates holding what appeared to be
slices of bread and cheese and the contents of a tin of peaches. His frown deepened. “Is that supper?”

“And how can I be cooking if I cannot start a fire?”

Joss caught a hint of defensiveness in Tarsie's tone. It raised an answering irritability in his own voice. “And how can I chop wood or fetch coal when I have to work? You've been here all day. Why didn't you ask one of the neighbors where to get fuel?”

She squinted, and he waited for a verbal assault. But then, to his surprise, she drew in a breath, held it for a few seconds, and released it slowly. She tipped her head in a sign of meekness. “I should've thought to seek out a neighbor's advice. I'll be seeing to that first thing tomorrow.” She lifted her face to meet his gaze. “But for now, I can't be offering you a hot cup of tea or even a hot supper.” A halfhearted smile quivered on her lips. “But I suppose a cold supper'll fill your stomach just as well as a hot one. Come. Sit.”

She gestured to the blanket, and Joss scuffed forward and plopped down. The children scurried after him, perching at the opposite side of the blanket and smiling at him. Emmy said, “We had a picnic for supper.”

“Picnic,” Nathaniel echoed. He reached for a slice of cheese.

Tarsie leaned in and caught his hand. “You've already had plenty. You let your father eat. When he's finished, if anything remains, then you may have the leftovers.”

Nathaniel pouted, but he sat back on his heels and placed his hands in his lap. The little boy's eyes followed Joss's every move as he dumped the peaches onto a plate and then stacked bread and cheese over the mound of yellow fruit. Joss lifted a folded slice of bread to his mouth.

Emmy pointed her finger at him. “Papa! You need to pray first.”

Once again, Tarsie intervened with a gentle hand on Emmy's head. “We blessed the food already, Emmy. Hush now.”

Embarrassed, but uncertain why, Joss took his first bite. The food, although simple, tasted good after his long day of work. He ate ravenously, his empty stomach eager for filling. The children continued to watch him and, uncomfortable beneath their scrutiny, he angled his attention away from their matching pairs of blue eyes that reminded him too much of their mother.

His gaze encountered Tarsie, who sat on a crate with one of Emmy's dresses in her lap. A silver needle flashed in and out of the blue-checked cloth, repairing a small tear in the skirt. Tarsie's busy hands—sturdy and sure, accustomed to working—reminded him of Mary's hands before the illness took hold and weight dropped from her bones. Thinking of Mary brought a stab of pain, so he quickly turned his attention elsewhere.