A Home in Drayton Valley (2 page)

Tarsie scooted to the edge of the bed and pressed the mug
into Mary's hands. “Drink.” She waited until Mary took a hesitant sip of the steaming liquid, hiding a smile at her friend's grimace. The tea tasted dreadful, but it worked, and that was what mattered. Retrieving the booklet from the rumpled bed cover, Tarsie held it tight between her fingers. “After I found this book lying in an alley last week, the pages wavin' in the wind as if beckonin' to me, I did some checking at the railroad station. A man there told me groups leave New York on the iron horse every week to join up with wagon trains headin' for Kansas towns. I wrote his name in the back of the book, see?” She indicated the back cover, where her pencil smudgings spelled the name
Charles Driscoll
. “He can tell Joss everything that needs knowin' about joinin' one of the wagon trains that'd take you to Drayton Valley.”

“It'll cost so dear,” Mary whispered.

Tarsie swallowed. She'd done little else but think of how to help Mary since she'd found the book. She prayed her friend would be able to set aside her fierce pride and accept Tarsie's help. Slipping to her knees beside the bed, she cradled the booklet beneath her chin and offered her most imploring look. “I've been savin' up the money from my sewing. I want you to take it, to use it to help pay for—”

Mary's eyes flew wide. “No!”

Tarsie ignored the fierce objection. “—whatever your family needs to get established in a better place. I'm all alone. I have no need for more'n what I already have.”

Images of the filthy street, the leering men, the hopelessness that permeated the tenements flooded Tarsie's mind, but she pushed them resolutely aside. Mary had offered friendship when no one else extended so much as a kind glance in her direction. As much as Tarsie longed for escape, Mary
needed
escape. The city would kill Mary one day.

Tarsie gulped down her own desire to flee this vile place
and gazed fervently into her friend's tear-filled eyes. “Don't rob me of the blessin' of helping one who's so dear to me.” Behind her, the patter of little feet signaled that Emmy and Nathaniel had tired of being left alone. They charged into the room and flung themselves onto the foot of the bed, giggling and wrestling like a pair of puppies. Tarsie flicked a smile in their direction before looking at Mary again. “Let me help send you an' these precious wee ones to a place where happiness dwells.”

Mary's warm gaze embraced her children. The stubborn lines around her mouth softened, and she released a deep sigh. “Oh, Tarsie, how would I have managed this past year without you?” She stretched out one hand and cupped Tarsie's jaw. “My angel . . . that's what you've been.” Her hand fell away. “I feel a tug toward Drayton Valley, I won't deny it. But I can't take your hard-earned money.”

“But—”

Mary shook her head, her forehead pinching. “There's no use hoping, Tarsie. Joss . . .” She sighed. “He'll never leave New York City.”

Tarsie pushed to her feet and strode stiffly from the room, leaving Mary and the children alone. She crossed to the window and stood before the rain-speckled glass, peering into the narrow alleyway between the buildings. A sad view. An empty view. So different from the green fields and wide, sunshiny sky of her native Ireland. So many years had passed, she barely remembered the place of her birth or the ones who had birthed her. She'd planned to save enough money to get her and Great-Aunt Vangie back to Ireland one day, but for what purpose?

Ma and Da had passed when Tarsie was but a small child. Aunt Vangie now lay in a pauper's grave. No whitewashed cottage with thatched roof awaited her return no matter how many times Tarsie tried to imagine it. Her life was here now.
She was young and strong and could make the most of it. But Mary needed more.

Giggles carried from the sleeping room, followed by Mary's soft reprimand. She sounded tired. Would she last through another damp New York spring? Tarsie's heart caught.

The apartment door banged open, and Mary's husband stepped into the room. Tall and raw-boned, Joss Brubacher filled the doorway. Whipping off his hat, he sent water droplets across the clean floor. In two wide strides, he reached the stove and peered into the pot. Then he sent a scowl in Tarsie's direction. “No lunch ready? Where's Mary?” He started toward the sleeping room, but Tarsie darted across the floor and blocked his progress.

Although he frowned at her, silently demanding she move aside, she held her ground. Looking into his sunburnt, irritated face, she said, “Sit down, Joss. I have need of talkin' to you.”

 2 

J
oss balled his hands into fists and planted them on his hips. Just what did this little Irish snip think she was doing, delivering orders? He followed demands at the dock—he had to if he wanted to keep his job—but this was his home. Here, he was in command.

“Lemme by.”

Mary's friend lifted her chin. “I'll not be budgin'.”

“You can move or I'll move you.” An idle threat. In his thirty years of life, Joss had never raised his hand to a woman, and he wouldn't now. But she didn't know that.

“Not 'til you've listened to me.”

Men quaked beneath Joss's scowl. The girl's refusal to kowtow earned a grudging admiration, but he didn't have time to argue with her. Thirty minutes—that's all he got for a midday break. If Mary didn't fetch his dinner soon, he'd have to return to the docks hungry. And Joss had vowed a long time ago he'd never face hunger again.

He tried to step around her, but quick as a cat she blocked his passage. He tried the other way. With a nimble leap, she waylaid him again. He released a grunt. Had he ever met a more stubborn female? “Girl, I—”

“My name is Tarsie, as you well know, Joss Brubacher. I'll be thanking you to make use of it. Now . . . if I fix you
some sandwiches, will you hush your bluster and hear what I have to say?”

His stomach rumbled. If it meant getting fed, he could listen. He stomped to the trestle table in the corner and plopped onto a bench. “Hurry, then. I don't have time to yammer.”

Tarsie gathered items from the little cupboard in the corner and set her hands to work slathering butter on halved biscuits. She layered the biscuits with cheese and slices of meat leftover from last night's beef tongue, then carried a tin plate stacked with the biscuit sandwiches to the table. Plunking the plate before him, she sat on the opposite bench and folded her hands.

Joss reached for a biscuit, but Tarsie began to pray, freezing his hand mid-reach.

“Our lovin' Father in heaven, we thank Thee for giving us our daily bread. Bless this food that it might bring nourishment. Please grant listening ears and a sensible spirit”—she peeked at him through one squinted eye. He snapped his eyes closed—“so we might do what's most pleasin' to You. Amen.”

He opened his eyes and quirked a brow at her. Was she finished?

She pointed to the plate. “Eat now.”

He needed no further prompting.

“Your Mary is sick again.”

The dry biscuit tried to stick in Joss's gullet. His Mary was always sick. Hadn't he worried having children would bring ruination? Day after day, his own father had told him kids were the scourge of a man's life, but Mary had insisted on birthing five of them. Three hadn't lived past the suckling age, and the two who'd managed to survive drained her of energy. His chest constricted. If only she'd listened to him . . .

He jammed another biscuit in his mouth and spoke around the lump. “So doctor her.”

“I've given her my herbal medicine, just as I've been doing these past months. But she's in need of more.”

Defensiveness raised the fine hairs on the back of Joss's neck. He did his best by Mary. “You think I can afford a real sawbones on my measly wage? It's all I can do to pay for our apartment, food, and shoes for those kids.” He yanked up another biscuit and took a mighty chomp.

Tarsie's fine eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Didn't I ask you to listen? Hush now.”

With his mouth full, Joss couldn't snarl. But he could scowl. So he did. Fiercely.

But Tarsie didn't cringe. To his consternation, she didn't even blink. “I wasn't speakin' of calling in a doctor. When I say she's needing more, I'm meaning she needs clean air, a bed free of vermin, a home away from the crowded city. You've already buried three wee ones, Joss Brubacher, an' if you don't get your Mary to a better place, you'll be burying her, as well. Is that what you want?”

The biscuit turned to sawdust in Joss's mouth. Although two more sandwiches remained on the plate, he pushed it aside. In a lifetime of disappointment and misfortune, Joss had found only one good: Mary. The thought of putting her in the ground sickened him. How dare this girl—this self-possessed stranger—try to frighten him? He jolted to his feet, the bench legs screeching against the planked floor, and pointed his finger at her face. “I'm done listening.”

She leaped up as well. “But—”

“No more!” He thundered the words, and finally the girl ceased her blather. With firm stomps against the floorboards, he charged into the sleeping room. He swept his arm, silently commanding the youngsters to leave the room. They skittered out the door. Dropping to one knee beside the bed, he took his wife's hand. As always, the difference between his wide, thick palm and her fragile, slender fingers gave him
pause. Such a delicate, lovely woman, his Mary. He didn't deserve her.

He looked into her pale face, and Tarsie's statement swirled through his mind.
“You'll be burying her, as well.”
Anger rose in his chest, pushing the fear away. “Sick again?” Worry tangled his tonsils into a knot, and the words came out harsh. An imitation of his father's voice.

She nodded, her little hand quivering within his grasp. “I'm sorry, Joss.”

“That Irish friend of yours demands I take you out of the city.” Releasing a derisive grunt, he shook his head. “Where does she think we'd go?”

Mary's free hand slipped from beneath the rumpled bedcovers. She held out a small book, its cover stained and torn. She pushed the book open with her thumb, revealing one dog-eared page. “To a place called Drayton Valley. In Kansas.” Her expression turned dreamy.

Joss stared at the page where tiny lines and squiggles marched in straight rows. His inability to make sense of the marks reminded him of his insignificance. Another wave of anger rolled through his gut. He snatched the book from Mary's hand. “Why does she plant ideas in your head?”

He started to fling the book across the room, but Mary's fingers curled around his wrist. “Joss, please—” A coughing spell cut her words short. Joss gritted his teeth, watching helplessly as she struggled to bring the cough to an end. Finally she flopped back on the pillow, spent. Tears swam in her eyes as she begged, “Please think about it. The town has active docks where you could work. But we'd be away from the . . .” Her voice dropped to a rasping whisper. “Saloons.” Her fingers tightened on his wrist, her strength surprising him. “You aren't your pa, Joss. You don't need the drink. Or the gambling. But as long as we stay here, it will always pull at you.”

Of course it would. What else did he know? He had no other securities. Except Mary.

She went on, her voice dropping so low he had to strain to hear her. “Promise me you'll think about it. Please?”

Pa's voice echoed from the past.
“Never make a promise, boy. Who keeps 'em? Nobody. Promises disappoint.”
Joss made promises, but only to people who didn't matter to him. He pulled his arm free of her grip and set his jaw.

The hopeful light in her eyes dimmed, and Joss looked away to avoid witnessing a flood of tears. His gaze landed on the elaborately carved clock on the dresser. He hissed through his teeth. Late! Ignoring Mary's soft sniffles, his children's wistful farewells, and the Irish girl's disapproving frown, he charged out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. Not until he neared the dock did he realize he still held the Kansas book in his fist.

With a muffled oath, he gave the book a toss. No sense keeping something that would only encourage Mary to dream about what could never be.

The six o'clock whistle signaled the end of the working day. Joss plopped the fifty-pound burlap bag of seed corn from his shoulder onto the stack and brushed his palms together, dispelling dust. He fell in line with the other jostling men, listening but not adding to their ribald comments. He hoped Tarsie's cures had worked well enough to get Mary out of that bed. Worried him to see her laid so low. And he needed a good meal.

“Brubacher!” His boss's voice blasted over the other noises. “Wait up.”

Joss shifted out of the flow and turned to face the man, holding back an annoyed grunt.

“You still owe fifteen minutes.”

Joss frowned.

Marsden raised one eyebrow. “Thought I didn't see you creep in late after the dinner break, huh? Well, if you wanna draw a full day's wage, you hafta give a full day's work. So head back up there and finish unloading that corn.”

Joss bristled, but he couldn't argue. Not with the boss man. But he let his bootheels show his aggravation, thumping them good and hard as he returned to the end of the pier and yanked up a bag by its tied corners. Thirteen years on this job—thirteen years of showing up day after day, no matter the weather, even headachy and sick from too much drink the night before—and they couldn't allow him one time of showing up late?

Marsden stood watching, boots widespread, a timepiece pinched between his fingers. Joss gritted his teeth and held his grumbles inside as he hauled the remaining bags of corn from their spot on the pier's end to the waiting wagon. Finally Marsden barked, “Good enough. You can go.”

Joss let the final bag slide from his fingers and drop beside the wagon. Without even a glance in his boss's direction, he aimed his feet for home. But Marsden's hand bolted out and captured Joss's shirtsleeve.

“Got a message for you from Lanker.”

Joss's mouth went dry, but he held his shoulders erect and set his face in a disinterested sneer. “That so?”

“Uh-huh. Said he'll be here on payday, an' he expects every penny. No more delays.”

With a little shake of his arm, Joss freed himself from Marsden's grip. If only he could rid himself of the gambler's hold as easily. He forced a wry chuckle. “If you're servin' as one of Lanker's errand boys, you must owe him, too.”

Marsden blanched. “You know as well as I do nobody crosses Lanker—not if they wanna see tomorrow.” He glanced around as if seeking listening ears. “How much you in for?”

Joss clamped his teeth together. Too much. More than he could possibly repay. What had compelled him to join that game last month? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Enough.”

Marsden clicked his tongue on his teeth. “I don't envy you, Brubacher. Come next Friday, you best be ready to hand over your wages.” His gaze whisked from Joss's scuffed boot toes to his little wool cap. “Even a fella as big as you won't be standing when his gang is finished with you. Lanker gets his due one way or another.”

Joss didn't need the reminder. “Can I go now?”

Marsden waved his hand in dismissal. “See you tomorrow. On time.”

Spinning on his worn heel, Joss took his leave. Damp air scented with fish and salt chilled him, and he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. His fingertips encountered a few coins. As if of their own accord, his feet slowed. An idea filled the back of his mind. One lucky roll. That's all he needed to turn those cents into dollars. If he had to hand Lanker his entire pay envelope on Friday, he'd need something to carry his family through the next weeks. Even though his stomach rumbled, he changed direction and entered the closest saloon. One he rarely frequented. Safer to go where he wasn't known, just in case some of Lanker's men loitered about. They'd rid him of his meager coins if they caught sight of him.