A Home in Drayton Valley (11 page)

Tarsie tipped closer, examining his face. As she leaned in, he leaned back. “Step back, woman. What ails you?”

The odor was stronger up close to him, but it wasn't coming from his breath. Satisfied, Tarsie retreated a step. “Then where've you been all this time if you haven't been drinking?”

Joss jammed his hands into his pockets and turned away, staring toward the river. “Walkin'. Thinkin'. Figurin' what to do next.”

Tarsie tugged her cloak higher on her shoulders and inched to his side. “What do you mean, figuring what to do next? You're going to Drayton Valley, that's what you're doing next.”

“Why should I?” A derisive snort followed the words. “What's there for me now, Tarsie Raines?”

Tarsie grabbed his sleeve. “The fresh start your wife wanted for you and her children. Making a home in Drayton Valley was Mary's dyin' wish. You'd dishonor her memory by changing your plans now.” Heat rose in her cheeks as she considered Mary's other dying wish. What would Joss say if she blurted out that Mary had begged Tarsie to love Joss?

Joss jerked free of her grasp. “How can I?” He waved his hand toward the wagon. “I got two young'uns in there too small to fend for themselves. If I'm working the docks all day, who's gonna watch 'em?” His voice broke. He drew in a shuddering breath, stalked several feet away, and turned his back on her. “Got to talking to some folks in town. They told me there's an orphans' home in Kansas City. I can put the kids on a steamboat and send 'em.”

Tarsie gaped at his stiff back, unable to believe she'd heard correctly. “Y-you'd give your children away? Your only tie to Mary . . . you'd be sending them away?”

He spun around and glared at her. “I got no choice. Don't you see that? I can't work
and
nursemaid two kids! They'll end up runnin' the streets, gettin' into trouble, probably being hungry and dirty and . . .” Something akin to agony creased his face, but he gritted his teeth and replaced the pained expression with a fierce scowl. “And I got no use for kids anyway. Never did.” His tone turned hard, but Tarsie sensed regret hiding beneath the bitter utterance. “Mary's the one who wanted 'em. Well, she's gone now, and I got no way to take care of 'em. So they're gonna have to go.”

He headed for the wagon, but Tarsie stepped into his pathway and pressed both palms to his shirtfront. She felt his pounding heartbeat beneath his solid bulk. “I don't believe you, Joss Brubacher. I've watched you on the trail, answering their endless questions and even smiling at their antics. You let Mary see to their needs, but you care about those wee ones. I know you do.”

His jaw jutted and his face angled away from her, but he remained frozen in place, as if the light touch of her palms held him prisoner. He swallowed, the sound louder than the crickets chirping from beneath a nearby shrub.

“Do you really want to give them away, Joss?” Tarsie
whispered the question, fearful of his honest reply, yet compelled to make him face his own deepest feelings.

He swallowed again. His lips pressed into a thin, firm line. His body quivered like the lid of a boiling pot. After several seconds of strained silence, he spoke past clenched teeth. “I got no other choice.”

Mary's voice echoed through Tarsie's memory—
“Take care of my loved ones.”
Resolutely, she stepped back, linking her fingers together in supplication. “There is another choice, Joss.”

He sent her a withering look, but she gathered her courage and met his gaze. “You could let me take care o' your wee ones—and you. Marry up with me.”

 11 

J
oss stared at Tarsie. Her skin was so pale it appeared colorless in the moonlight, but she faced him squarely. Her big eyes bored into his, and her unsmiling lips formed a determined line. She wasn't joshing. She really meant he should marry her. Apparently, Mary's death had robbed her of her senses.

He edged around her, heading for the wagon. “You're out of your ever-lovin' mind.”

She dashed after him and caught his sleeve. “Emmy and Nathaniel know me. I know them. I . . . I love them.” She spoke softly but with an intensity that sealed him in place. “I'd be caring for them as if they were my own wee ones. You could keep 'em—keep your tie to Mary. You're not really wanting to cast 'em aside, Joss. I know you're not. You're just scared and uncertain and feeling alone. Let me help you.”

“Fine.” He jiggled his elbow, eager to be shed of her, to lose himself to sleep and forget the happenings of this day. “Instead of sending them to the orphans' home, you can keep 'em.”

She gripped so hard the fabric cut into the opposite side of his arm. “I can't keep 'em on my own. I have no way of supporting them. Besides that, they need a father. They need
you
.”

With a mighty wrench of his arm, he freed himself from
her grip. He jabbed his index finger at her. “I made my decision.” The hardest—and most selfless—decision he'd ever made. He wouldn't turn back now. “If you want 'em, fine, you can have 'em, but I—”

“What I'm suggesting is what Mary wanted. Would you be denying Mary's wishes?”

Her calm utterance took the bluster clean out of him. He stared at her again, his heart pounding hard against his rib cage, his skin tingling. “She—she wanted me to marry up with you?”

For the first time since he'd returned, she lowered her gaze. She toyed with the skirt of her apron, her braid slipping over her shoulder to fall across her bodice. The pose made her seem shy and very, very young. “Before she stepped into glory, Mary asked me to see to her family.
All
of her family.” Slowly, Tarsie lifted her face. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I promised her, Joss. I can't go back on my word. P-please don't make me break my promise to Mary.” One tear broke free to slide down her cheek in a silvery trail.

Joss clenched his fists and growled low in his throat, frustration rising from the depths of his soul. He spun to face away from her, but the image of her begging expression played before his eyes, flashing in and out with an image of Mary's joy-filled face when he'd agreed to take her and the youngsters to Kansas. Saying no to Tarsie was like saying no to Mary. He groaned again.

A hand touched his arm. He glanced at Tarsie, who stood timorously beside him. “What?” he growled.

She didn't cringe at his harsh tone. “Be thinking on it, Joss, and tell me in the morning. The minister who buried Mary could speak the words, and then we could continue on to Drayton Valley. We could do it . . . to honor Mary.” Clutching her shawl at her throat, she turned and scurried to the wagon.

“Tarsie? Tarsie, wake up.”

The voice filtered through Tarsie's dream, chasing away the hazy images. She rubbed her eyes and blinked into the murky morning light sneaking through a crack in the canvas flap at the back of the wagon. She glanced at Emmy and Nathaniel, who continued to sleep soundly, their heads tipped together. Tears stung her eyes as she gazed at the motherless children. Would they soon be fatherless, too?

She wrapped her cloak over her dress, scooted to the back of the wagon, and peeled the flap aside. Joss stood just outside, attired in a fresh pair of trousers and a green plaid shirt. His hair glistened with water and lay slicked away from his face in thick waves. Apparently he'd shaved, because his cheeks were red and smooth, making his mustache seem even darker. She gave him an up-and-down look and gulped. “D-does this mean you . . . we're . . . ?”

He gave a brusque nod. “Reckon so.” No joy lit his face. Or his voice. Instead, he spoke in a flat tone. Emotionless. Dead. “If Mary wanted it, then . . .”

Realization of what she was giving up to marry Joss hit hard, carried on a wave of intense disappointment. She'd never be wooed, never indulge in tender glances or stolen kisses, never hear a shyly uttered request for her hand. Marrying Joss would give the children a caretaker and continue Mary's determination to see Joss accept God's love in his life—good things—but it meant a sacrifice Tarsie hadn't understood would cost so dear until that moment.

She swallowed the knot that formed in her throat. “Will you bring the minister here for our nuptials, or—”

“Don't want that preacher who spoke over Mary's grave.”

From behind her, Nathaniel mumbled in his sleep. Tarsie quickly climbed out of the wagon and led Joss several feet away to prevent disturbing the children. “But he'd do a fine job, I'm thinking.”

Joss shook his head. “Huh-uh. Won't have the man who did the service for Mary's burying be the one who binds me to another wife.”

Tarsie's heart turned over. She wouldn't have thought of Joss as sentimental, but his reluctance to have their wedding attached to Mary's burial touched her. “I understand.”

He stared off to the side, giving her a view of his chiseled profile. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. “White Cloud's big enough to have more'n one man who can take care of things for us. I'll walk to town, make the arrangements. While I'm gone, you get cleaned up and ready the young'uns. Soon as we're . . . done . . . we'll set out again.” He heaved a huge sigh. “No need to stick around here any longer.” Without a glance in her direction, he strode off, arms pumping with determination.

Tarsie watched his broad back disappear over the gentle rise in the road leading to town. A fierce ache rose from the center of her chest. Longing—to love and to feel loved—nearly strangled her. Her groom-to-be, although spit-shined and handsome, had barely looked at her. She'd witnessed intense reluctance—even resignation—in his eyes. He'd agreed to her proposal, but only out of obligation to Mary.

She gave herself a little shake. Hadn't she only suggested marriage out of obligation to Mary? Of course she had. So why should she expect more? She looked to the east where fingers of sunlight poked through a bank of purple clouds and pointed to the peach-colored sky. “Father, when I speak the words ‘I do,' I'll be making a commitment. To Mary. To Joss. To Mary's children. But most of all, to You. Give me the strength to honor it.” Hot tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “Let this union be pleasing to You.”

The prayer complete, she scurried to the wagon to wake the children. Within an hour, she'd fed Emmy and Nathaniel a simple breakfast of johnnycakes, dressed the pair in clean
clothes from the trunk, and washed and packed the dishes and pan. While Tarsie went about her morning chores, the Murphy wagons departed. The children waved good-bye, and loneliness rolled over Tarsie as the last wagon disappeared around the bend. They were truly on their own now.

With everything packed, Tarsie instructed the children to sit on a quilt outside the wagon and look at a picture book together. Then she climbed inside and gave herself a cursory wash with water drawn from the river. She opened her bag to remove a clean dress, and her fingers found her Bible.

She lifted out the book and opened it to the section marked “Family Record.” Using her finger to underline the words, she read aloud, filling in the blanks with the information that would be recorded in black ink by the end of the day. “This certifies that Treasa Raines and Joss Brubacher were united in holy matrimony on the 21st day of April in the year of our Lord 1880 in White Cloud, Kansas.”

The ache in her chest increased. Her hands began to tremble. She closed the Bible and hugged it close. She was doing the right thing, wasn't she? Giggles erupted from outside. She peeked out the flap to see Emmy tickling Nathaniel. The little boy's gleeful chortle, coupled with Emmy's teasing grin, brought an answering smile to Tarsie's lips. Yes, this was right. She'd do it for the love of Mary and her children.

Without further rumination, she donned her nicest dress—the green-sprigged calico—then brushed out her hair and tied it in a tail at the nape of her neck with a satin emerald ribbon. Even though both frock and ribbon were rumpled, they were the best she could offer. And they'd go nicely with Joss's green-checked shirt. Even if their hearts weren't in this union, at least they could offer a pretense of unity.

When Tarsie emerged, Emmy looked up and smiled. “You look pretty, Tarsie.”

“Pretty,” Nathaniel repeated, his blue eyes wide and bright.

Their sweet words served as a balm. She gave them each a hug, then knelt before them. “Children, today your papa and I will be saying some special words in front of a preacher. And when we're done, I'll be your new ma.”

Emmy drew back, scowling. “I don't want a new ma.”

Nathaniel, apparently sensing the panic in Emmy's tone, puckered up.

Tarsie pulled Nathaniel into her lap and took Emmy's hand. “I know you're wanting your mama. She was the dearest woman in the world, and she loved you so much.” Both children stared at her, and Emmy sniffled. Tarsie forced her lips into a wobbly smile. “Right before her spirit slipped away to heaven, she asked me to take very good care of you, and I promised her I would. You wouldn't be wantin' me to break a promise to your mama, would you?”

Nathaniel leaned against Tarsie's shoulder. His hair tickled the underside of her chin. She smoothed the tousled blond wisps into place and looked at Emmy, waiting for the little girl's reply.

Emmy sucked on her lower lip, her brow furrowed. “Do we hafta call you Mama?”

Tarsie shook her head. “You can call me Tarsie just like you always have.”

Emmy's thin shoulders lifted and lowered in a resigned shrug. “I s'pose it's all right, then. But it feels funny.”

Tarsie couldn't argue with Emmy's conclusion. Becoming wife to Mary's husband and mother to Mary's children felt funny to her, too, but she believed she would grow into the roles over time. Maybe, someday, would she have a wee one of her own who wouldn't balk at calling her Mama?

Nathaniel raised up in Tarsie's lap, pointing. Emmy turned and looked, and she pulled in a deep breath. “There's Papa. An' some man.”

“Must be the preacher,” Tarsie said. She set Nathaniel
aside and stood on quivering legs. She smoothed her hands down her skirt—if only the wrinkles would magically disappear. Then she stood with the children on either side of her, waiting for Joss and the preacher to reach them.

Joss stopped a few feet from Tarsie and jerked his thumb toward the other man. “This here is Stanley King. He's gonna speak our words.”

Tarsie stepped forward and shook the man's hand. Dressed like a workingman, with a thick thatch of brown, curly hair, Stanley King didn't look like any minister she'd seen before. But she supposed a man of the cloth might dress humbly on a day he didn't need to step behind a pulpit. Even so, she found it strange that he hadn't combed his hair or donned a nicer-looking suit to officiate a wedding. Regardless of her inner ponderings, she gave the man a respectful nod and thanked him for coming.