A Home in Drayton Valley (7 page)

Joss had no desire to grieve Mary, but he couldn't admit to any hankering to befriend the Irish girl, either. “I need to unhitch the team. Do you want to stay here and rest, or would you like to get out?”

“I'd like to get out and enjoy the evening breeze.” She tried to push herself upright. Her face contorted, and she dropped back onto the rumpled quilts with a strangled moan.

Joss reached for her. So much effort just to sit up. No matter what Mary said, Tarsie's cures were useless. He scooped her into his arms and eased her over the edge of the wagon. He followed with the quilts and laid them out in the shade of the wagon. When she'd settled herself, he crouched before her. “You all right there?”

She offered a gentle smile. “I'm fine, Joss. Go about your business.”

His legs stiff from hours on the wagon seat, he scuffed to the horses and released them from their rigging. He tethered
the pair within reach of the creek and left them contentedly munching tender shoots of green along the bank. By the time he returned to the wagon, Tarsie had already started a fire. A coffeepot sat on one side of the crackling flames, a covered kettle on the other. She held a bowl between her skirt-draped knees and stirred cornmeal into a mushy mess with a wooden spoon.

Joss stifled a snort. Beans and johnnycakes for supper. Again. The aroma of roasted meat drifting from the campfires of the wagon train made Joss salivate. He paused, lifting his face to inhale the scent and let it flavor his tongue. Then, without warning, something else drifted from the camp. A scream.

Tarsie leaped up. The bowl tumbled from her lap and its contents splattered across the ground. A second scream rent the air, this one even more piercing than the first. Nathaniel and Emmy raced from their playing spot nearby. Tarsie held out her arms, and the children clung to her.

Mary struggled to her feet and staggered to Joss's side. She clutched his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “W-what do you suppose is happening?”

Joss shook his head. “Nothing good, that's for sure.”

Tarsie separated herself from the children and scuttled to Mary. “It must be the woman straining to deliver her babe. I should fetch my pouch and go over. Maybe—”

“You stay here,” Joss ordered.

A third scream, long and anguished, carried to their ears. The hair on Joss's neck prickled. He curled his arm around Mary's waist and turned her toward the quilts. “Sit and rest. No matter what's going on over there, there's nothing you can do.”

Tarsie let out a little huff. “There's somethin'
I
can be doing!” She grabbed up her skirts, darted to the wagon, and clambered into the bed. Moments later she emerged with
her pouch tucked under her arm. “I'm going over to see if I can help.”

“I told you—”

Mary grabbed Joss's arm. “Let her go, Joss.”

Joss ground his teeth as Tarsie dashed toward the circle of wagons.

 7 

T
arsie stood with the other solemn travelers, watching as Mr. Murphy emptied shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto the blanket-wrapped forms of Minnie Jenkins and her newborn son. A mighty lump filled her throat.
It shouldn't be, Lord. Birthings should be times of celebration, not times of mourning.
But sounds of sorrow filled her ears—low moans, soft sobs, whispered prayers seeking comfort, and the
skritch-skritch
of a shovel's blade digging into dirt, followed by soft plops of earth falling.

The rosy pink of a new dawn highlighted the scene, and birds chirped a cheerful song from nearby brush. The sweet promise of the blossoming day seemed a bitter insult to the too-soon ending of two lives. Tarsie hugged herself, blinking hard against tears.

Mr. Murphy used the back of the shovel to smooth the dark mound of dirt, then stepped aside. Minnie's husband, his steps slow and plodding, separated himself from the throng. He gripped a crude cross fashioned from two thick twigs bound together by a rawhide strip. Using a rock as a hammer, he dropped to one knee and pounded the cross into the newly turned dirt. Each strike of the rock on the wood sent a shaft of pain through Tarsie's heart. Oh, why couldn't she have saved them?

The cross secure, the man rose and stood silently, staring down at the cross with his wide shoulders slumped and tears swimming in his brown eyes. A woman—Minnie's mother—broke from the crowd and staggered forward. She held out her arms to her son-in-law. The rock fell from his hand as they clung to each other. In unison, cries wrenched from their mouths. From their souls. And then the others joined in, giving vent to their sorrow in a grief-laden melody that rose from the earth all the way to the heavens, where, Tarsie prayed, God would hear and rain down blessed comfort.

Tarsie wanted to cry, too. But she realized her tears were as much out of guilt as sadness. She'd failed Minnie Jenkins and her baby. She had no place in this circle of mourners. Yet she couldn't bring herself to leave. She stayed until the song of sorrow died to sniffles and muted moans. The people shuffled away one by one until only Minnie's husband and mother, still locked in a tight embrace, and Tarsie remained on opposite sides of the fresh mound.

Mr. Murphy propped the shovel on his shoulder and inched to Tarsie's side. He spoke in a near whisper. “Gonna let Harp an' Judith take a little more time here, then we'll pull out.”

Tarsie nodded, her throat so tight no words could escape.

Mr. Murphy's thick hand descended onto Tarsie's shoulder. “Don't be blamin' yourself now. Minnie's mama tol' me that babe was fixed to come out wrong-side first. Nothin' you coulda done. Your bein' here, your carin', was a blessin'. You think on that, you hear, Miss Tarsie?”

Tarsie offered another miserable nod, then scuffed her way back to Mary and the waiting wagon, cradling her bag of herbs in her arms. Mary greeted her with a warm hug, then pulled back, her hands clamped over Tarsie's shoulders as her empathetic gaze searched Tarsie's face.

“We heard the wailing. Did she lose the baby?”

“The babe died. And his mother did, too.” Tarsie separated
herself from Mary's tender grasp. “I need to put my medicine pouch in the wagon.”

Mary grabbed Tarsie's arm, holding her in place. “It wasn't your fault, Tarsie.”

Tarsie looked away, unwilling to accept the tenderness in her friend's eyes. She didn't deserve kindness. Not when she'd failed so miserably.

“Death . . . happens. Babies die. Mothers die. And we simply have to trust both life and death to our loving heavenly Father's hands.” Mary's tone changed from compassionate to contemplative, sending an uneasy chill across Tarsie's scalp.

Tarsie gently removed her arm from Mary's light grasp. “Let me put away my pouch, and then I'll be seein' to breakfast.”

She scurried off, eager to put her hands to work. If she were busy, she wouldn't have to think. When she'd finished frying cornmeal cakes in bacon grease, she tossed a quilt on the ground to serve as their table and called everyone to breakfast.

Joss, who'd kept himself occupied with the horses while Tarsie prepared their morning meal, ambled over after Mary had prayed and served the children. He crouched at the edge of the quilt, selecting one of the remaining crisp cornmeal cakes in the skillet. He sent Tarsie a low-browed look while he chewed. “You were out all night.”

Tarsie poked at the browned cake on her tin plate. She couldn't bring herself to swallow. “Yes. It was a hard birthing.” She flicked a glance at the children, hoping Joss would read the warning in her expression. Why subject the little ones to unpleasantness? “And it ended in the worst possible way.”

He nodded, popping the final piece of cake into his mouth. “Figured as much from all the caterwauling.” He glanced toward the other camp, a flicker of something unreadable squinting his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and rubbed
his palms on the thighs of his britches, leaving streaks of grease on the heavy duck fabric. “Since the new mama won't need time to rest up, guess we'll be pulling out early. Glad I hitched the team.” He pushed himself upright.

Tarsie bit down on the end of her tongue to prevent herself from unleashing a torrent of fury at the man. How could he be so unfeeling? He himself had lost three babies. His wife sat now, pale and with barely enough strength to lift a fork. Didn't he possess even an ounce of charity?

She spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Murphy intends to give Minnie Jenkins's husband and mother a proper time of mourning before we set out again.”

Joss looked again toward the gathered wagons, as if seeking evidence that contradicted Tarsie's statement. Finally he nodded and hunkered down again. “Well, then, reckon I'll have another cup of coffee.” He held out his tin cup.

Tarsie rose with a rustle of skirts. “Pour it yourself.” She stomped away, her hands clenched into fists and her teeth clamped so tightly her jaw ached. Mary called after her, but she ignored her friend and continued to the creek, where she plopped down on the bank. She tore loose a few sprouts of green and gave them a vicious toss into the sunshine-speckled water, watching as the slow-moving stream carried the scraps out of sight. If only her own feelings of inadequacy could be so easily discarded.

“I'd also like to be sending
Joss
downstream, the insensitive oaf!” She muttered the words to the passing breeze. It replied by tossing loose strands of hair across her cheek. With a grunt, she anchored the strands behind her ear and folded her arms over her chest. She sat stiffly until Joss hollered they were pulling out.

After thanking Mary and Emmy for seeing to the breakfast cleanup—something she should have done instead of skulking off in a cloud of anger—she huddled in the corner of the
wagon bed and fell silent. She wanted to sleep, as she'd gotten no rest the night before, but the jouncing progress over stones and ruts in the road jarred her from sleep every time exhaustion coaxed her eyes closed.

Mary, seemingly oblivious to the jolts and bumps, napped off and on. The children entertained themselves with some rocks they'd picked up along the way that left whitish marks on surfaces. By the end of the day, they'd decorated every exposed inch of the wagon's planked sides, earning a scolding from their father. Tarsie bristled at his harsh words. The wagon was old and battered. The simple drawings and attempts at the ABCs did no harm. But she held her tongue and spoke not a word to Joss, fearful she'd say things that would distress Mary and displease her Lord. That man ruffled her feathers worse than anyone else she'd ever known.

At suppertime, a rustle in the brush near their wagon stilled everyone's forks above bean-filled plates. Tarsie instinctively reached for the children, but Mary had already tugged them snug to her sides, so she hugged herself instead.

Joss snatched out the pistol he wore in the waistband of his britches and aimed it at the shadowy patch. “Who's there? Make yourself known before I lose my patience and pull the trigger!”

A hatless form in dark trousers with ragged holes where the knees used to be stepped from the shadows into the flickering firelight. “No need to shoot, mistuh. It's just me, Harp Jenkins—from the Murphy train.” He inched closer, bringing his face into view, but stopped well away from the quilt that served as their table. “I ain't armed. Just brung somethin' for Miss Tarsie. A payment for her service to . . . to my wife. Can I give it to her?” He held out a bandana-wrapped packet with both hands.

Joss shoved the gun back into its hiding spot. He bobbed his head at Tarsie. “Go ahead.” Bending over his plate, he
resumed eating but kept his wary gaze pinned on the other man.

Tarsie skittered across the short distance to Harp, her heart twisting in her chest. “You shouldn't be giving me anything, Harp. I'm not deserving of payment.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “Yes'm, you are. You done us a favor, spendin' the night easin' Minnie's pain an' bein' a comfort to her mama. This ain't much . . .” He pressed the packet into Tarsie's hands. “But I hope it'll serve as a thank-you. You's a nice lady, an' we's honored to know you.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a throaty whisper. “It weren't your fault, Miss Tarsie, that Minnie an' our baby boy died. So don't be blamin' yourself now.” With a respectful bow of his head, he turned and slipped away into the shadows.

Tarsie stood, clutching the lumpy packet—she didn't have the courage to open it yet—and stared at the spot where Harp had disappeared. He'd told her not to blame herself. Both Mr. Murphy and Mary had told her the same thing. She sighed, lifting her gaze to the sky where a few bright stars winked white against the pale gray expanse.
Lord, how many times will I need to be told it wasn't my fault before I finally believe it?

The morning of their eighth day of wagon travel, Mary awakened in such intense pain she couldn't hold back a cry of anguish.

Tarsie, lying in the narrow gap between crates, bolted to her knees and gripped Mary's shoulders. “What is it?”

The flap of canvas serving as a curtain at the back opening whisked aside and Joss peered in. His dark hair drooped across his thick brows. “Mary?”

Mary wanted to reassure both of them, but when she
opened her mouth only a groan spilled out. Nausea—the worst ever—rolled through her belly. Panic-stricken, she gasped, “I . . . I'm going to be sick.”

Joss unhooked the back hatch and let it drop open with such force it rocked the wagon. Tarsie's arm slid behind Mary's back and urged her upright. The moment Mary raised her head, the earth spun, throwing her back again.

“Joss, be helping me!”

At Tarsie's shrill cry, both children, who'd been put to bed in the space under the wagon last night, began to cry. The sounds of their distress carried through the floorboards and stung Mary's heart. How she wanted to comfort her babies, but she could only hold her stomach and hope the bile filling her mouth wouldn't spew across their belongings. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength.