A Home in Drayton Valley (28 page)

Nathaniel screamed like a banshee, his face so red and veins so purple Tarsie feared he might burst something. For a small child, he proved amazingly strong, flailing his arms and legs with such force it took both Ruth and Simon to hold
him still long enough for Tarsie to examine the cut on the sole of his foot. Bile filled the back of her throat. Although a clean slice, it was deep. She glimpsed bone.

“He'll need stitches for sure.” She cringed, thinking about poking a needle through the little boy's flesh.

Nathaniel's screams turned to harsh sobs. Emmy's wails carried from the yard, where Simon had instructed the other children to remain when he'd carried Nathaniel back from the creek. Tarsie should go comfort Emmy, but she needed to tend to Nathaniel first. A woman needed at least six arms at a time like this. Thankfully, Simon and Ruth could help.

Simon shook his head sorrowfully. He smoothed Nathaniel's sweaty hair from his forehead while the child continued to buck weakly in Ruth's restraining arms. “Sure am sorry you got hurt, boy.” He lifted his gaze to Tarsie. “Wish I'd've seen that busted glass in the watuh. All the rain we had last month done muddied things up—watuh ain't clear like it used to be. I sho' di'n't see it. Not 'til Nathaniel starts howlin'.”

“Ain't yo' fault.” Ruth pressed Nathaniel tight to her bosom and rocked. “I sent y'all down to that creek. Shoulda known, what with all the ruckus we heard from there a few nights back, there might be busted bottles.”

She pursed her lips, her big hand patting Nathaniel's bottom as she rocked forward and back, forward and back in rhythmic movements. “Fool men anyways. Oughta know chilluns use that pond for wadin'. Oughta not be breakin' their bottles on the rocks. But what do they care? Just little colored chillun, they think. Who cares if one of 'em gets hurt? When them men's all liquored up, they care even less'n usual 'bout anybody 'sides themselves, an' that's the truth.”

A shadow fell across the floor, and Tarsie shifted her gaze from Ruth to the doorway. She gasped. Joss stood in
the opening, Emmy clinging to his leg. Had he heard what Ruth said?

His eyes bounced past Tarsie to his son cradled in Ruth's arms. A fierce scowl marred his face. “Emmy said Nathaniel got cut.” His flat, emotionless tone revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he cupped Emmy's head with his hand, his fingers gently stroking.

Tarsie swallowed tears. “It needs stitching.” She gazed into Nathaniel's sweet little-boy face, still red from his wild crying. He was quiet now, but he wouldn't be once she put a needle and thread to work. She looked at Joss again. “I'll need help.”

Joss set his mouth in a grim line as he stared at Nathaniel. Her husband held his body so taut and still Tarsie wondered if he even drew breath. Then he gave a brusque nod. “Let's get him home. I got the horse out here so I can carry him back.”

Ruth glanced in Joss's direction, and her arms curved protectively around Nathaniel's little form. “You sho'? Here, Tarsie's got me to help her with this'un. At home she's only got . . .” She didn't need to complete the sentence. They all knew what Ruth was asking.

The muscles in Joss's jaw clenched, and his eyes squinted for a moment. But then he said, “I'm sure.” He turned to Tarsie. “Better to fix him up at home. Then you can tuck him into bed . . . afterward.”

Simon limped toward Joss. “I'll hitch Ransom to my cart an' tote Tarsie an' Emmy. Only take a minute.” He shuffled out.

Joss set Emmy aside and strode forward. He stopped in front of Ruth, his hands balling into fists and then opening, as if testing their ability to function. Tarsie, watching him, marveled anew at his size. Such a big, powerful man—and handsome, too. He reminded her of the biblical man named
Samson who possessed great strength. What might God accomplish through Joss if he used his strength and ability to bring God honor?

Joss's arms stretched out. His hands slipped beneath Nathaniel's armpits. He lifted, and the boy tumbled, unresisting, into his father's embrace. Without looking at Tarsie, Joss turned toward the door. “Let's go.”

 28 

C
an't you hurry?” Sweat dripped from Joss's forehead, stinging his eyes. But the sting in his heart was worse, hearing his son's pained cries while Tarsie stitched the gash closed. How could someone so small fight so hard? Although Nathaniel couldn't move his arms or legs, trapped in his father's embrace with Joss's leg thrown across Nathaniel's much smaller ones, he continued to screech and buck his body, determined to free himself.

“I'm doing the best I can considering his squirmin'. Glad we battled his britches off of him. At least I'm not having to push his muddy pant legs out of the way anymore. . . .” Tarsie's face looked white in the harsh light of the lantern. Joss hoped she didn't pass out before she finished. He wouldn't be able to poke that needle through his son's tender skin. He also hoped Nathaniel didn't damage his lungs with all the screaming. He was getting hoarse.

Tarsie tied off the black thread, then sat back on her heels, a sigh slumping her shoulders. “There. All done.” She held out her arms. “Let me have him.”

Instead, Joss stood and swung Nathaniel around. The boy's arms flew outward, wrapping around Joss's neck. Joss held him close and paced back and forth across the floor while Nathaniel continued to cry—wracking sobs of hurt and frustration.

Emmy scuttled out of the corner where she'd hunkered, crying softly, during her brother's ordeal. She threw herself on Tarsie, and Tarsie soothed the little girl the same way Joss tried to soothe Nathaniel. Emmy quieted a lot quicker, though. For a moment, Joss considered handing Nathaniel over to Tarsie. Maybe he'd settle down faster if she took him. But he wanted to be the one to calm Nathaniel. He
needed
to calm him—needed to know if he could.

So he walked and patted and murmured nonsense while Tarsie moved to the stove, Emmy holding on to her apron, and started chopping potatoes into a pot of water. By the time steam rose from the pot, Nathaniel's harsh sobs had faded to jerky hiccups. Relieved, Joss leaned over to set the boy on the bench at the table, but Nathaniel wailed, “Nooo!” He gripped Joss's shirt in his fists.

Joss started to jerk Nathaniel loose—to tell him he'd done enough crying. But just as his fingers tightened on Nathaniel's arms, a memory surfaced—his father's hand, flying out to smack Joss hard on the cheek. His mind echoed with Pa's snarl:
“Didn't I tell you to stop that snivelin'? No more, or I'll give you somethin' to snivel about!”
The remembered pain and humiliation of that moment roared over Joss as harsh and strong as if it were happening now.

He caught Nathaniel's hands and gently disentangled them from his shirt. “I'm not goin' nowhere. Gonna sit here beside you.” He heard his growly tone and cleared his throat. “You'll be all right.” Joss sank onto the bench next to his son, and the little boy curled against him.

“Foot. Owie. Hurts.”

“I know.” Joss slipped his arm behind Nathaniel, holding him close. Had he ever held the boy this way before? He couldn't remember. Amazing how Nathaniel allowed it. Amazing how good it felt.

Joss glanced at Emmy, who watched from a safe distance,
her eyes—blue, with thick lashes just like Mary's—fixed on him. He offered his daughter a hesitant smile. “Come sit, too, Emmy.”

She shook her head.

Resentment pricked. He opened his mouth to insist she get herself over there now, but once again he caught himself. After drawing a few breaths, he said, “Nathaniel'd probably like it if you would.”

For a few moments Emmy stood, hand curled around Tarsie's apron strings, her face puckered with indecision. Then she released the apron and scampered to the bench, wriggling in next to Nathaniel. She held her brother's hand. The three of them sat, Joss giving Nathaniel little pats now and then and Emmy flicking puzzled glances at her papa. Joss understood her confusion. He didn't quite understand himself, either.

Tarsie ladled bowls of potato-and-green-bean soup with a few chunks of ham floating in the thin broth. Joss did his best to encourage Nathaniel to eat, but, fussy, the boy barely finished three bites. Tarsie ate in silence, her pensive gaze shifting from Joss to the children and back again. When they'd finished, she cleaned up the dishes without a word, leaving Joss to carry Nathaniel to his pallet and help him into his sleep shirt. Emmy dressed herself and then climbed in with Nathaniel.

He should've gotten those beds done so the children could sleep separately. Tangled up so close together on that pallet, Emmy'd probably be kicking Nathaniel all night long. “Don't bump your brother's foot tonight,” Joss said.

“I won't.”

Emmy's indignant tone reminded Joss of his own, and he grimaced. Simon was right. Children did what they learned. He sure hadn't taught them much good. He pushed up from his knees and stood for a moment, gazing down at the blond-haired pair. Who was he fooling, playing papa? He'd never
be more than his own pa had been. These kids'd be better off without him. Sooner he left, the better for everybody.

“Sleep good,” he ordered in his familiar gruff tone, then returned to the main room of the house. Tarsie washed dishes in the dented basin set on top of the dry sink. He crossed to her and leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You didn't put any herbs or wrapping on Nathaniel's foot. Don't you think you ought to?”

Color splashed her cheeks. She slapped a clean bowl onto a towel she'd laid across the corner of the stove. “I'll be watchin' his foot for signs of infection. If I see reason for concern, I'll take him straight to Drayton Valley's doctor.” She gave him a sour look. “Probably should've had a doctor stitch him up, too, but I boiled that thread an' needle beforehand, just like a doctor would've done, so I'm trustin' all will be well.”

“Why didn't you tell me you'd rather have a doctor stitch him up?”

Eyes on the sudsy water, she spoke through clenched teeth. “And when have I ever known you to be willin' to fetch a doctor for something like this?”

Joss's body jerked reflexively. Guilt rose, followed by a wave of anger. “I can't change none of that now, Tarsie.”

“No, you surely can't.” She yanked her hands from the dishwater and dried them on her apron. Then she faced him, her eyes sparking. “Just what do you think you're doin', Joss Brubacher?” Her words came out in a low-toned hiss.

“What're you talkin' about?”

“Bein' all kindly an' attentive toward those two wee ones after years of ignoring them. Are you tryin' to break their little hearts?”

He stared at her, openmouthed. “Of course not!”

“Well, it just seems odd to me, how you sneaked out last night an' got yourself pickled the way you used to do in New
York, an' now you're bein' all nicey-nice. . . . Those poor wee ones won't know what to expect from you tomorrow.” She balled her fists on her hips. “Just what can we be expectin' tomorrow, Joss? A drunkard or a sober man? A man who holds himself aloof an' barks orders or one who tugs his child close an' soothes his hurt? 'Cause truth be known, I'm befuddled myself, an' I'm a grown woman. I can't imagine what those children'll go through if you bounce back the other way after an evenin' of kindness.”

Had he really thought he appreciated her sauciness? He snorted and lifted his foot to stomp away.

She caught his sleeve. “Don't be misunderstandin' me, Joss. The way you were tonight with the children, that's what I've prayed for—what Mary hoped for all along. A part of me thrills to see you reachin' out to them. But it also scares me. 'Cause it needs to be more than a one-time action that stems from you feelin' guilty about what you did earlier in the day.”

Joss wanted to pull loose, but he felt as though someone had driven stakes through the toes of his boots. He remained still as a statue as she continued.

“Those children need you to be a lovin' father to them every hour of every day. They need to be able to trust you. To depend on you. Do you understand what I'm sayin'?”

Even though Joss had decided on his own he didn't have what it took to be a good papa to his youngsters, it riled him more than he wanted to admit to have someone else say it. He shoved her hand loose, then took a step away. “I understand what you're saying. And I already know you're right. Those kids—they need more'n what I can give 'em. I tried to tell you that when Mary died. Didn't I try? I wanted to send 'em to an orphans' home where they'd have a chance of a different life. But you concocted this crazy idea of me marryin' up with you. Well, now look what we've got. Two miserable kids and two miserable adults. It didn't fix nothin', did it, Tarsie?”

His head began to ache again. Clutching his temples, he moaned. “What'm I doin' here? Should never've come.”

He needed a drink. With a snarl, he whirled toward the door. But just as he grabbed the crossbar and raised it, a little voice trembled behind him.

“Papa?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

Emmy stood in the gap of the dividing wall. Tears swam in her eyes. “I accidentally bumped Nattie's foot. It's bleedin'.” She held out her hand. “Will you come?”

Joss turned his gaze forward, away from his daughter's pleading face. “Tarsie'll see to him.” And he strode out into the night.

Although Tarsie lay awake well past midnight, Joss didn't return that night. Or the next morning. On Monday evening, Simon, Ruth, and their children came for Ruth's lesson—this time on numbers—and Simon strung ropes on the bed frames he and Joss had constructed. When Tarsie asked, he said Joss'd been to work that day and showed no signs of having been drinking, but he didn't know where he'd gone afterward.

Tarsie spent most of Monday night praying he'd come back so she could apologize for her outburst. Her anger over his choice to drink had made her harsher than she'd intended. She didn't feel badly for asking the questions—he needed to understand how his behavior affected his children—but she wished she hadn't turned the questions into an attack. She'd driven him away, and guilt wore on her as heavily as a necklace of boulders.

Tuesday morning, she opened the front door to allow in a breeze and found a little drawstring pouch on the stoop. It contained four silver dollars. Her heart leapt as she held it, and she searched the neighborhood, seeking signs of the
man who'd left it. But Joss was long gone. Heartsore, she fixed breakfast and avoided the children's questions about their papa.

By Wednesday, worry had created a constant ache in the center of her stomach. How long did Joss plan to stay away? His parting words—claiming he should never have come to Kansas—tormented her. How she wanted to set things right with him, but how could she if he didn't return?

Thursday afternoon, she and the children went to the mercantile to purchase a few staples. Tarsie carried Nathaniel. Although his foot was healing nicely and he'd learned to tiptoe around the house to avoid stepping on his heel, he couldn't wear a shoe. She couldn't expect him to tiptoe barefooted all the way to town and back, so she carried him. With his weight in her arms, she couldn't hold anything else, which forced her to limit her purchasing, since Emmy had to be the one to tote the items home. But she did buy a half pound of the pungent white cheese Joss preferred. Just in case he came home. Oh, how she prayed he'd come home!