A Home in Drayton Valley (33 page)

He shifted his focus from the children to Tarsie and
discovered the same apprehension pinching the children's faces shimmering in her green eyes, as well. The sight pierced him—pierced him deep—and he searched for some way to erase the sad unease from her countenance. He never would have imagined caring about how she felt. She was, after all, Mary's friend. Someone to look after his children. But she'd become more. Much more. And he didn't know what to do with the feelings boiling inside of him.

He lifted his foot to turn around and escape, but then Emmy spoke.

“Guess what, Papa? There's a mouse in our house.”

Nathaniel popped his finger free of his mouth and nodded, his round eyes serious. “Mou-ouse.” The word carried great meaning.

A burble of laughter formed in Joss's throat. “Th-that so?” He dared a glance at Tarsie. She stood, silent and somber-faced. He gulped. “Didja buy a trap?”

“We bought buttons,” Emmy answered.

Joss looked at his daughter. “Buttons?”

“Tarsie made me a new dress. But I needed buttons.” She twisted back and forth, making the skirt of her little yellow-flowered dress sway. “She lemme get pink pearl ones.”

“Th-that's right nice of her.” Joss wished he could quit stuttering. But he felt stupefied, standing with a good ten feet of planked boards between them and a thousand unsaid words floating in the air.

“Uh-huh. The neighbor traded Tarsie yard goods for doin' wash, an' Tarsie sewed me a dress an' some aprons 'stead of sewin' herself a dress.” Emmy jabbered on, talkative as Joss had ever seen her. “She's gonna use my old dress to make Nathaniel a shirt. She said boys can wear blue gingham.”

Joss swallowed a chortle. He'd've been mortified to wear a blue gingham shirt made over from somebody's dress when he was a boy, but he wouldn't say so. He was enjoying listening
to his daughter. Why hadn't he ever realized how adorable she was? How could he have just handed something so precious to someone else? And how could he reverse it now?

Emmy pointed at Joss's chest, her little brow puckering up in concern. “You gots a button missing.” Then she brightened. “But Tarsie can fix it for you.” She swung her grin in Tarsie's direction. “Can'tcha, Tarsie?”

 33 

T
arsie drew upon every bit of self-control she possessed to remain at the counter rather than running across the floor to Joss. She didn't know what she'd do when she got to him. Pound her fists on his chest and wail? Fling her arms around him and cover his face with kisses? Neither would be acceptable. So she stood as still as a scarecrow on a windless day, heart thudding erratically in her chest and stomach whirling, while she listened to Emmy prattle on about everything and nothing.

Until the little girl turned the question on her.

Joss remained just inside the door, his handsome face aimed in her direction, his expression both sheepish and hopeful. He appeared to hold his breath, waiting for her reply to Emmy's innocent query.

Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She needed to answer. But what should she say? Pulling in a quick breath, she found her courage, unstuck her tongue, and blurted, “Sure I can fix it. There's buttons”—she flopped her hand in the direction of the dry goods corner, her gaze never wavering from Joss's—“over there. Find one that matches and then . . . then be bringin' me the shirt. Won't take but a minute or two to . . . to . . .”

Won't take but a minute or two
 . . . Her words echoed in
her head. How she wished his shirt bore a jagged tear or his pants had a hole in the knee. Something that took
time
to fix. Maybe if they had time together, they could repair the damage their budding relationship had suffered.

Joss shuffled in place, his eyes darting from Tarsie to the children and back again. “That'd be fine. I . . . I'd appreciate it.” He pushed his hands inside his pockets but then pulled them out again to finger the place where a button should be. “Can I maybe come by this evening?”

Eagerness exploded through Tarsie's chest. “Sure. You can be . . .” The dryness plaguing her mouth made it difficult to form words. “. . . coming early in the evening. Eat with us.”

He ducked his head, seeming to examine the scuffed toes of his boots. “Nah. I'll eat at Tollison's.” He flicked a glance at her. “Seven? Seven-thirty? That be all right? Then I can be outta there before you tuck the young'uns into bed.”

Disappointment sagged her shoulders. He didn't want more than a minute or two with her. She nodded silently, afraid of what might come out if she opened her mouth.

Joss looked over his shoulder, and he jolted. He edged backward, bumping the screen door open with his back pockets. “I gotta go. Wagon's leavin'. I'll—” His gaze fell on the children, and a tenderness crept across his hard features—“I'll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Papa,” Emmy and Nathaniel chorused, their voices matching their somber faces.

“Bye.” Joss scurried out the door as if a grizzly bear were after him.

The mercantile owner bustled from the back room, swishing his hands together. “Thorry for makin' y'all wait. Dumped a bag o' beanth on the floor an' hadda thcoop 'em up.”

Tarsie gave herself a mental reminder to wash well any beans she purchased in the future, then assured the man the wait was no trouble at all. But she told a fib. Seeing Joss had
certainly been trouble. And tonight she'd see him again. To fix his shirt. Something a wife would do.

While she and the children walked home, she plotted what she would say to Joss. If she had only a few minutes with him, she needed to make every word count. She didn't want to rail at him in fury, but she needed answers. She needed to understand why he held his distance but saw to their needs. Did he care, or did he only feel guilty?

God, give me words, an' give me the courage to speak them plain
.

Tarsie finished Emmy's dress that afternoon. The little girl insisted on wearing it right away, and although Tarsie preferred her to save the dress for Sunday, she couldn't refuse the child's sweet begging. But she insisted the children not play outdoors lest the dress be soiled. So Emmy sat at the table, humming happily in her new pink calico frock with its row of pink pearl buttons, and drew pictures on the edges of a catalog page with the stub of a pencil. Nathaniel, also content, played with blocks on the floor.

Tarsie went about her duties, the hours to evening stretching endlessly before her. Needing something to occupy herself, she decided to bake. She checked her supply shelf, and thanks to Joss's generosity in leaving money on the porch each Saturday, she discovered she had plenty of flour, sugar, and baking soda left in their bags. A swap earlier in the week with Ruth for butter and eggs gave her everything she needed to bake a cake.

She tapped her chin with one finger, thinking. Why not make it an extra-special cake? She could add walnuts harvested from a tree growing near the river, cinnamon and cloves, and maybe even some chopped dried apples. How wonderful a cake laden with spices and apples would smell. Wouldn't the aroma be welcoming for Joss when he came?

Suddenly, she dropped the little tin of cinnamon onto the
shelf and buried her face in her hands. A groan found its way from her throat, creating an ache as it escaped. She must stop thinking of ways to please Joss. He'd made his choice clear. He didn't want her. Didn't want his children. Somehow she had to forget a man named Joss Brubacher existed and find happiness without him.

Letting her hands slip away from her face, she straightened her shoulders and drew in a deep breath.
Mary, I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I failed you. I can't love Joss for you. Not anymore. It's just too hard.

The cake was cooling on the windowsill, flavoring the air, by the time Mary's beautifully carved clock showed the hour as seven. Tarsie had hurried the children through supper, determined to have dishes washed and put away and the house in perfect order before Joss arrived. Emmy's mention of the mouse that had found its way in through a tiny hole in the north wall niggled in the back of her mind—she hoped Joss knew she checked their food supplies and beds for anything a mouse might leave behind before making use of any of it. A clean, tidy house would reassure him. She wouldn't have him thinking his wee ones weren't properly cared for.

Nathaniel, dressed in his nightshirt, came around the corner from the sleeping area. He crossed directly to the open window where the cake perched. He licked his lips and pointed, beseeching Tarsie with his eyes.

“What is it you're wantin', Nathaniel?” Tarsie prompted, even though she already knew.

Emmy bounced from the sleeping area, her hair free of the little braids Tarsie had fashioned earlier in the day. “He's wantin' cake. I want some, too.”

Tarsie clicked her tongue on her teeth. “Emmy, darlin',
you've got to let Nathaniel use words himself instead of talking for him or he'll never learn to speak.”

Emmy wrinkled her nose. “Can we have cake now?”

“When your father gets here,” Tarsie said, her throat closing at the mention of Joss. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes past seven. Her heart hiccupped. This waiting was torturous!

At twenty after, she relented and sliced into the cake. The children climbed into their familiar spots on the benches and forked up moist bites, following each mouthful with a sip of milk from their cups. They each were digging in to a second—albeit smaller—piece when a tap at the door signaled Joss's arrival.

Tarsie felt strangely uncomfortable opening the door to him. He paid the rent for this house. His children resided under the roof. Yet he was a visitor. Everything felt backward. Especially the way her stomach turned a somersault at the sight of his tall form, standing just outside the door, the familiar wool cap in place over his hair. He had one hand behind his back, his feet widespread, giving him a very formal bearing.

“Good evening, Joss.” Tarsie creaked the door a little wider. “W-won't you come in?”

He tipped sideways slightly and peeked past her to the table, where Emmy and Nathaniel paused in their eating to look back at him. Milk mustaches, spotted with crumbs, decorated their faces. Tarsie nearly moaned. She should have cleaned their faces before opening the door!

A grin twitched Joss's lips. “Got any more milk?”

Tarsie blinked twice. What kind of greeting was that? “Do you want a cup?”

His grin grew, and he pulled his lips back down with one finger, the other hand still hidden behind him. “I don't . . . but he might.” And he brought his hand around. A small bundle
of orange fur with pointy ears and white whiskers splaying out like dandelion tufts nestled in his large palm.

Emmy squealed, leaping from the bench. “A kitty!”

Tarsie stepped back as Joss went down on one knee and presented the kitten to Emmy. Emmy cradled it beneath her chin, laughing in delight, while Joss grinned at her.

“He's just a baby, but he'll grow fast,” Joss said, his voice gruff, the way Tarsie remembered it, but gentleness showed in the fine lines around his eyes. “In no time at all he'll be able to take care of any mice that sneak into the house.” He sent a quick look at Tarsie. And he winked. “Lots cuter than a trap, huh?”

Tarsie's face became a roaring inferno.

“Where'd ya get him, Papa?” Emmy nuzzled the kitten.

“Oh, there's lots of cats out at Tollison's. Pret' near fill the barn, so the boss said I could pick one out for you.” Joss lifted his attention from the kitten to Tarsie, his expression sheepish. “That's why I'm late. Wanted to pick just the right one.”

His eyes seemed to linger on a strand of hair falling alongside Tarsie's cheek. Embarrassed but unsure why, Tarsie anchored the strand behind her ear. His gaze followed her fingers, increasing her feeling of discomfiture.

“What's his name?” Emmy plunked the kitten on Joss's knee, where it hunkered, looking around the room with round green eyes.

Blessedly, Joss shifted his attention to his daughter and the cat. He rubbed the kitten's chin with his knuckle, and the little thing started up a loud purr. “He don't have one yet. I thought you'd wanna name him.”

Emmy lifted the kitten again, holding it at arm's length and giving it a good look-over. “He's orangey-colored, so I think I'll call him . . . Marmalade.” She gave a satisfied nod, tucking the kitten beneath her chin again. She beamed at Tarsie. “This is Marmalade, Tarsie. Papa brung him to us.”
Then she turned slowly, sending an uncertain look at Joss. “Is he gonna stay here forever?”

Tarsie thought her heart might break in that moment. Mary's death and Joss's departure had shaken the little girl's base of security. As much as Tarsie had longed for this evening with Joss, she now wondered if she'd made a mistake, allowing him to come. Would his leaving again inflict an even deeper scar on Emmy's heart?

Joss ran his big hand over Emmy's hair. “You take good care of him, an' he won't want to go anyplace else.”

I took good care of you, Joss Brubacher, and you still left.
Tarsie held back the protest. She couldn't say such a thing in front of the children. Curling her hands over Emmy's small shoulders, she turned the child toward the center of the room. “Pour the rest of your milk into a bowl for Marmalade. I'll be fixin' him up a little pallet between your beds in a bit. But first I need to”— she swallowed—“take care of your papa's button.”