A Home in Drayton Valley (9 page)

 9 

D
ay after tomorrow?” Joss blasted the words, impatience and aggravation puffing his chest until his shirt strained against its buttons. Each added day on the trail meant more discomfort for Mary and a delay in reaching a doctor. Besides that, he needed to get Mary and his kids out of that wagon. It wasn't a fit home.

“That's the soonest, I reckon.”

Joss blew out a mighty breath. “It's too long.”

Murphy shrugged. “Can't change the land, Mr. Brubacher. Them days of rain got things all sloppy. Scouted ahead last night an' seen how the trail's plumb under water on my usual route. Gotta do a little windin' off course or our wagon wheels'll get caught in the goo an' none of us'll get where we're goin'.”

Joss yanked off his hat and whacked himself on the leg. He glowered at Murphy. “But my wife needs a doctor!”

“'Scuse me,” a hesitant voice intruded.

Joss whirled around. The young black man who'd entered his camp and given Tarsie the ham stood a few feet away. Harp, he'd called himself. Joss growled, “Whatever you need, boy, it can wait. I'm talkin' to Murphy right now.”

Harp lowered his head but kept his dark eyes pinned on Joss's face. “I wa'n't needin' to talk to Mr. Murphy, suh. I was wantin' to talk to you.”

Joss squinted at the man, suspicion rising in his chest. “What do you want with me?”

“Heard what you was sayin' . . . 'bout your wife needin' a doctor.” He inched closer and gestured toward the circle of ragtag wagons. “Thought mebbe Mr. Murphy could drive my wagon, an' I'd take his horse an' ride on ahead to one o' the towns 'round here. Fetch you a doc an' bring 'im back to meet up with our train.”

Murphy made a face. “Dunno, Harp. Folks in these parts are used to me comin' an' goin'—they don't give me trouble. But you're a stranger. A
colored
stranger. Might could meet with some unpleasantness.”

Harp gulped, but he squared his shoulders. “If Mr. Brubacher's missus is ailin' bad enough to need a doc, somebody oughta fetch one.” His gaze bounced sideways, as if he knew he'd overstepped boundaries, but he added, “I'd be willin' to risk it to help his missus . . . an' him.”

Joss barked, “Why're you so interested in helping me, boy? What do you want from me?”

The man's head hunkered low again, and he pressed the toe of his scarred boot into the mud. “Don't want nothin', mistuh. Just . . . I know how it feels to see the woman you love hurtin'. Good Book says ‘do unto others,' so I thought to spare another man puttin' his wife in the ground.”

An ugly picture formed in Joss's head. His gut clenched. Balling his hands into fists, he angled his body toward the smaller man. “My Mary ain't gonna die.” She wouldn't. She wouldn't! He stormed away as fast as the rain-soaked ground beneath his feet would allow.

Nineteen days after setting out by wagon from Des Moines, Joss got the promised view of the Missouri River—the final barrier between his family and Kansas. One by one, Murphy's
wagons drew to a stop along the bank. An excited chatter carried on the crisp breeze of the late-spring afternoon. As he pulled back on the reins, halting their wagon at the tail end of the train, Emmy and Nathaniel grabbed the back of the seat and leaned out, their faces eager.

“Is this it, Papa?” Emmy tugged Joss's sleeve. “Are we here?”

“We here?” Nathaniel echoed. The boy reminded Joss of a parrot he'd seen in a saloon one time, always repeating what he heard.

The youngsters had asked the same question at each stop the past two days. Their impatience wore on Joss, but he held back a sharp retort. They were as tired of being in the blasted wagon as he was. “Not yet. Gotta cross the river.” Murphy had indicated he'd make arrangements with the ferry owner to transport the wagons and people to the other side.

“Then we'll be there?” Emmy asked.

Nathaniel rested his temple against his sister's shoulder. “We'll be there?”

“Still got a little ways to go. But we'll be in Kansas. Kansas is on the other side of the river.”

The children squealed in excitement, and Joss's lips twitched into a smile at their reaction. Up ahead, folks spilled out of wagons. The children dashed toward the edge of the water and their mothers ordered them to come back. Emmy pointed at the hustle and bustle. “Papa, can we get out, too?”

“Reckon so.”

“Hurrah!”

Joss grabbed Emmy's arm, keeping the little girl from leaping over the wagon's seat. “But you keep hold of your brother and stay away from the water.” The river moved fast, sloshing high on the bank. Last thing he needed was one of them to drown. Mary couldn't take losing another one.

“Yes, Papa! C'mon, Nattie.”

The two clambered over the seat and used the wagon wheel
as a ladder to reach the ground. They scampered off hand in hand, their yellow hair shining in the sun. Joss watched them for a moment, noting how little his kids resembled him. They had Mary's hair, Mary's eyes, Mary's slight build. But he had no doubt they were his. Unlike his ma, who'd dropped a redheaded drummer's whelp and then died, Mary was faithful.

Twisting to look into the back, he called, “Mary, come on up here. You can see it now—Kansas—on the other side of the river.”

From her makeshift bed, Mary lifted her head. Her pain-dulled eyes flickered with interest. “Kansas?”

Tarsie, kneeling on the floor beside Mary, offered her arm. “Come. I'll be helpin' you so you can get a look.”

Joss bit down on his lower lip, watching Mary rise up and slide her feet to the floor. She reminded him of an old, crippled woman the way she moved so slow and bent over. Tarsie guided her to the opening, and then Joss caught hold of her under the arms and lifted her onto the wagon's seat. It took no effort at all—she'd near wasted away to nothing over the past few weeks.

Swallowing his worry, he pointed to the wide river. “See there? The Missouri. Murphy's hiring the ferry to take us over, and then we'll be in Kansas, just like you wanted.”

Mary sagged against Joss's chest, but her drooping eyes darted everywhere, seeking, seeming to drink in the view of rushing water, the rolling grasslands that held the wagons, and the sharp rise of brush-covered land on the other side. “It's beautiful, Joss, just like I knew it would be.”

Joss tightened his grip on her thin shoulders, wincing at how her bones poked against the cloth of her dress. “Wait 'til we cross over. I'll get you out and let you stick your feet in the grass. Reckon it'll tickle?”

Mary laughed softly, but the tinkling sound ended with a sob. “It will. I know it will.”

Tarsie reached for Mary. “Here. You be lyin' down again. Rest up for the ferry ride.”

Joss scooped Mary into his arms and lifted her over the seat and back into the wagon's bed. He chewed his dry lower lip and watched Tarsie tuck Mary beneath the quilt. Mary's eyes—they'd almost looked yellowish out here in the sun—slipped closed. Her lashes threw a shadow on her waxy cheeks.

Tarsie skittered to the opening and fixed Joss with a worried look. “Just moving from there to here wore her out.” She spoke in a frantic whisper. “She's doing poorly, Joss. More poorly than even she's willing to admit, I'd wager.”

Joss looked past Tarsie to Mary. The worry he'd pushed aside returned, gnawing at his insides. “We'll be across the river soon.”

Tarsie wrung her hands. “Look at all these wagons. It'll take three trips for sure to get us all across. Can you be asking Tate Murphy to let us cross first? I . . . I don't have anything more to offer her. My herbs aren't enough.” True remorse pinched Tarsie's face. “She's needing a
real
doctor, Joss.”

Joss shot one more look into the back. His wife's shoulders rose and fell in shuddering heaves, causing her tumbling hair to stir. He'd always loved Mary's bright hair, but now it was thin and without luster, the color and texture of old straw. If he didn't know better, he might think a much older woman lay there instead of his not-yet-thirty-five-year-old wife. Tarsie was right—Mary needed help
now
.

He wrapped the reins around the brake handle. “I'll talk to Murphy about getting us across. Stay with her.” He leaped out of the wagon and took off at a run.

Tarsie observed Joss's dash through the middle of their fellow travelers. Usually he skirted the colored folks. He might
scowl and talk gruff, but his love for Mary was stronger than his prejudice. The thought gave Tarsie's heart a lift.

“T-Tarsie?”

She scooted to Mary's side, touching her friend's dry, sunken cheek. “Are you wantin' a drink? I can fetch it.”

“No. No, I . . .” Mary's eyes fluttered half open. “Where's Joss?”

“He's gone to talk to Mr. Murphy and get us to the other side of the river so you can be seeing a doctor.”

“There's no need.” She angled her head to peer into Tarsie's face. A weak smile tipped up the corners of her chapped lips. “Tarsie, it's my time. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be . . .'” Her words faded with a grimace of pain.

Tears flooded Tarsie's eyes, distorting her vision. “No, Mary! You have to hold on. Joss, he's going to—”

“There's nothing Joss or a doctor can do. I
know
, Tarsie.”

Tarsie swiped her hand across her lashes, groaning. “But there must be somethin' someone can do. Somethin'
I
can do . . .” Flopping open her leather pouch, she scrambled through the bag of cures.

Mary's arm extended slowly, her hand hovering in the air like a butterfly caught on a slight updraft. The sight of those thin, white, reaching fingers stilled Tarsie's frantic search. She slipped her hand beneath Mary's and clung.

Mary wheezed, “There is something . . . you can do.”

Tarsie leaned forward, peering into Mary's pale, pain-riddled face. “What? Anything, Mary.”