A Home in Drayton Valley (40 page)

She turned toward the door, her heart heavy. “I better go now.”

He dashed around the table, his hand extended but not touching her. “No. You stay here tonight. I'll walk to the livery, bed down there.” A teasing smile curved his lips and brightened his eyes. “You've done enough wandering the hillsides for a while.”

“But—”

“Tarsie, please. Stay with the young'uns. You have to stay somewhere until the trial's over. Why not here? I'll stay out of the way so there's no question about propriety. Stay . . . please?”

He'd finally asked, but not for himself. For the children. Even so, when he asked so sweetly, she had no ability to refuse. She gave a weak nod.

“Thank you.” He moved to the door and grabbed the
crosshatch. Then he looked back at her, his expression contrite. “And, Tarsie? About me grabbing on to you like I did in the jail . . .”

Heat rushed to her face. She gulped.

“I shouldn't have done that. I was just . . . so relieved.” He drew a deep breath, his chest expanding with the indrawn air. “You don't need to worry. It won't happen again.” He slipped out the door.

Tarsie held to the door's edge, staring after his tall form moving down the hill. What would he do if she told him her greatest fear was that he'd never hold her again?

 40 

T
he circuit judge wired that he'd be in Drayton Valley the second Friday in September to preside over the trial of the two accused thieves. With no courthouse, court would be held in the community church. Simon drove his boss to town for the trial. Mr. Tollison usually had Thurman Fenn drive him, but he'd said he needed to talk to Simon and the drive would give them privacy. Simon, never one to disregard an instruction, readied the buggy and pulled up in front of the big house to retrieve his boss.

Instead of climbing into the back of the four-seat buggy, the way he usually did, Mr. Tollison sat next to Simon on the driver's seat. Dust from the horses' hooves flew in their faces as Simon headed down the lane, and Mr. Tollison held a white handkerchief over his nose.

Simon cast a worried glance at his boss. “You sho' you don't wanna get in the back? Less dusty back there.”

Mr. Tollison shook his head, coughing a bit behind the hankie. “If I sit back there, I'll need to raise my voice to be heard, and yelling is harder on my lungs than breathing a little dust.”

Simon pulled the reins, slowing the big pair of roans. Maybe a slower pace would mean less dust. “You do lots
o' coughin'.” He hoped he hadn't insulted the man, but he cared. “You seen a doctor 'bout that?”

Mr. Tollison chuckled, bringing on another bout of coughing. “I've seen several doctors, Simon, and they all tell me the same thing: I need to live in a dry, warm climate. So far I've managed to survive Kansas by using more onion poultices than I can count, but with that vote . . .”

Sorrow weighted Simon's shoulders. He'd known Mr. Tollison his whole life. He'd never heard the man sound defeated. But he did now. “Gon' hafta shut things down, ain'tcha?”

“I am.”

They rolled on in silence for several minutes. Simon wiggled his nose against droplets of sweat that rolled from his forehead while the horses
clip-clopped
a steady beat.

Finally Mr. Tollison shifted in the seat to half face Simon. “I don't want to leave you and your people without a means of providing for yourselves. My father brought you here. I won't sell the land out from under you. I've already drawn up papers to make sure the property where your houses are built transfers to your names.”

Simon heaved a sigh of relief. He admitted to some worry about what might happen. “That's right good o' you, suh.”

“And I intend to sign over the orchards to you, Simon.”

Simon jerked, yanking the reins. The horses neighed in protest. He chirped to them, giving them an apology, then gawked at his boss. “Sign ovuh? You mean so's I be ownin' all them trees an' such?”

“That's right.”

“But . . . but . . .” Simon shook his head, unable to conceive what he was hearing.

“I know it's a huge responsibility,” Mr. Tollison went on, his voice muffled by the protective square of white. “But you know how to operate the orchard. The grapes will be plowed
under—the governor's edict stipulated that had to happen before the year's end—but there's no reason to destroy the apple, peach, or pecan trees. More than half of my income has come from the wine. A fine income, allowing me to live well and set a goodly portion of money aside. I have enough that I don't need to sell the orchards, and the trees will continue to provide an income for you, your family, and your friends.”

Simon marveled at the man's generosity. He bit down on his lip for a moment, but he had to ask a question. “What about the white men workin' fo' you? You gon' provide for them, too?”

Mr. Tollison chuckled. “Well, Simon, that's up to you. The orchard will be yours. I imagine a few of them won't be interested—”

Simon could surmise which ones.

“—but you can hire whomever you'd like to work with you.”

Simon knew who he'd ask first. “I don't rightly know what to say, Mistuh Tollison.”

“Say you'll take care of the trees. My grandfather planted them, and my father tended them. He meant them to be my inheritance. But this foul consumption . . .” He coughed again, long and hard. When he finished, his face was white and his breath wheezed. “Prohibition is a blessing in disguise, Simon. I would never have left the place if I wasn't forced to. Maybe my health will improve once I've left Kansas.”

“Me an' Ruth'll sho' be prayin' fo' that, suh. An' me an' mine, we'll take special good care o' them trees fo' you an' yo' pappy.”

Mr. Tollison laid his hand on Simon's shoulder. “I know you will, Simon. I know you will.” He shifted in the seat, facing ahead. “Now let's hurry this team. I want to see those two men who wreaked such havoc brought to justice.”

When Tarsie finished testifying about what she'd experienced, she left the church. Joss, Emmy, and Nathaniel sat out on the steps, waiting for her. Joss rose when she emerged.

“It's over already?”

“Just my part.”

“You don't want to stay . . . hear the verdict?”

Tarsie shook her head. She'd stayed long enough. Too long. The past weeks had been sweet agony, caring for the children's needs, fixing meals for Joss, teaching him the alphabet and celebrating words coming to life for him, feeling her love grow deeper day by day, minute by minute. Then watching him stride away every evening. Now that she'd fulfilled her obligation to the sheriff, it was time to pack her bag and go. It would break her heart to leave Mary's family, but she knew the children would be well cared for.

Joss's ability to read had blossomed daily, as had his relationship with God. Many times tears filled her eyes as she received glimpses of God's amazing transformation in his actions and speech. Between Simon's example and Joss's desire to change, he was becoming the kind of father Mary had always wanted him to be. Tarsie had been a witness to a miracle, and her heart rejoiced. But at the same time, she mourned. Because loving him and the children wasn't enough. Being loved by the children wasn't enough. She wanted Joss—this new, changed Joss—to love her, too.

They walked to the house, the children scampering ahead, their giggles ringing. Tarsie memorized the sound, her heart aching. If she never had the joy of motherhood, at least she would have these memories to recall and treasure. She sighed, and Joss looked at her.

“Glad it's over?”

She knew he meant the trial, but his words carried a deeper meaning for her. “Yes . . . and no.” How could one small heart
hold so many mixed emotions? She sped her steps, eager to retrieve her belongings and leave so she needn't prolong this torment.

He caught her arm, drawing her to a halt. “Tarsie . . .”

She didn't want to look at him, but she couldn't stop herself. Just as she'd tried to memorize the sound of the children's laughter, she now memorized Joss in that moment. Always handsome with his thick hair, square jaw, and broad shoulders, the softening of his features only increased his attractiveness. He gazed down at her, his expression serious, a shadow of whiskers darkening his tanned skin. His fingers still held her arm, the touch as gentle as a summer breeze. Tarsie swallowed.

“What is it you're wantin', Joss?”
Please, say it and then let me go. Let me go. . . .

He toed the ground, letting his hand slip away from her arm. “I know you said as soon as the trial was over you intended to move on. Start over someplace else. But . . .” He whisked a glance ahead to the children, who crouched in the dirt by the side of the road, examining something. “I wondered if I could talk you into . . . not going.”

Tarsie took a deep breath, ready to argue.

He hurried on. “Those two love you. Love you as much as they loved their ma. And they need you. I couldn't find someone better to raise 'em right if I searched a hundred years. I know you love 'em. You said so in your letter.”

Her eyes flew wide, and he nodded, his face serious. “Uh-huh, I read it. Every word of it.” Pride squared his shoulders. “But even if you hadn't written it down on paper, I'd already know. I see it on your face every time you look at them.” His brow pinched. “Can you really leave 'em, Tarsie?”

Tarsie gazed at the pair of blond heads close together, little shoulders hunched, whispers carrying on the breeze. Her heart constricted. “I have to.”

“But what about that promise you told me you made to Mary?”

Her head zipped around to look up at him. “Don't be throwin' my promise at me, Joss Brubacher. You know I've done my very best to honor it! But Mary, she asked too much of me. I can't do it anymore!”

“Can't . . . or won't?”

She folded her arms over her chest. A bird chirped from a tree nearby, and two gold leaves let loose and spiraled downward. Tarsie stared at them, their hue the exact color of Emmy's and Nathaniel's soft curls. And Mary's hair. Tears burned behind her nose.

“Why'd you stay as long as you have?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me.” Joss brushed his fingers from her shoulder to her elbow.

Tremors shuddered through her entire frame. She hugged herself harder and whispered, “For love of Mary.” She swallowed. “And Emmy. And Nathaniel. And . . .” She couldn't finish.
Wouldn't
finish. Wouldn't humiliate herself here in the sunshine on a glorious fall day.

He leaned close, his voice dropping low. So low she almost thought she imagined its tenderness. So sweet it washed over her like a dew-kissed morning. “But you didn't only vow to love Emmy and Nathaniel. You vowed to love me, too. The way God would love me—unconditionally. Isn't that what you told me?”

Mesmerized, she could only nod—one slow bob of her head.

“Then are you leaving because of me? Because you can't do as Mary asked and love me unconditionally?” Pain formed a sharp
V
in his brow. “I know I've wronged you. Lied to you. You have reason not to forgive me.”

“But I have forgiven you!” The words burst out, shrill and louder than she'd intended. The bird shot from the tree, its wings beating the air. She ducked her head. “I'm not going because I'm angry with you, Joss. I'm going because . . .”
Oh, Father, strength!
Unless she told him the truth, he'd never let her go. Meeting his gaze, she drew back her shoulders and stated boldly, “Because I can't be stayin' here while I'm lovin' you and not havin' you love me in return. There! Now will you please let me go?”

She marched forward, arms swinging, determined to reach the house and escape before she could suffer any further mortification. A laugh exploded from behind her. She whirled around to see Joss holding his stomach, his face crinkled in mirth. She jammed her hands on her hips. “Don't you be makin' fun o' my feelings, Joss Brubacher! You an' your stubborn ways. You just had to push an' push until—”

Three long strides brought him to her. That grin still stretching across his cheeks, he caught her by the upper arms, drew her up, and captured her lips in a kiss so strong and sure her head spun. He stood upright, his hands still holding tight, which was a good thing or she might have collapsed out of shock.