A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  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 t
humb 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.

  “Weren’t no, er, wasn’t any trouble, miss.” He toyed with one of the buttons on his brown shirt and shot a quick look at Joss. “Well, let’s go ahead an’ get the words spoke, huh?”

  Joss lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “That’s what we’re here for.” In one stride, he moved beside Tarsie. But he didn’t take her hand. Or even her elbow. Apparently a pretense wasn’t important to Joss. Tarsie blinked back tears as her groom folded his arms over his chest and aimed his unsmiling gaze at Stanley King. “Let’s get this over with.”

  12

  Joss gripped the reins so tight his fingers ached. Had they fooled her? The billiard hall bartender had done a decent job of remembering the right words for a wedding. Joss had stated his “I do,” knowing it didn’t matter, since Stanley King had no authority to bind a man and woman together. Even so, Joss had caught himself hesitating, a prick of guilt at his deception causing his tongue to stumble.

  But Tarsie hadn’t hesitated. She’d promised right there under the sunshine and without so much as a stammer to love, honor, and obey him for the rest of her earthly days. Joss stifled an amused snort, imagining Tarsie being obedient. She had a lot more sass in her than he preferred—but that was the only reason he could carry through with the mock ceremony. When the truth came out—and it would as soon as he got her and the young’uns settled in Drayton Valley—she’d have the gumption to see to herself, Emmy, and Nathaniel without him sticking around. A woman with sass had backbone. She’d be fine.

  But would he? Ever since they’d put Mary in the ground four days ago, he’d felt empty. Like something that’d made him whole had been plucked out. Would he be forever hollow and aching? He wasn’t one to cry. Pa had chased away his desire to let loose with tears when he wasn’t much bigger than Nathaniel. But keeping the hurt bottled up inside was harder than he’d figured something could be. He missed Mary. Missed her something fierce.

  Tarsie and the young’uns rode in the wagon bed, their soft voices keeping company with the clop of the horses’ hooves and the wind’s whistle. It was cooler today, and the air smelled like rain. He wanted to reach Drayton Valley before those clouds billowing in the east opened up. Sooner he could get there and get Tarsie settled, sooner he could hightail it out of here. He couldn’t go back to New York—not with Lanker waiting—but Chicago seemed like a good place. Lots of jobs available, and lots of saloons where he could keep himself so pickled he’d forget he once had a family.

  He cleared his throat and called out hoarsely, “Tarsie? Come up here.”

  Within seconds, she poked her head from the gap in the canvas. “Yes?”

  Would she be so johnny-on-the-spot if she knew those vows’d been recited to a bartender instead of a minister? He cleared his throat again. “Climb on the seat. Need to talk to you.”

  She wriggled her way over the seat’s back, keeping a grip on her skirts. Even so, he got a quick glimpse of her unruffled petticoats. He jerked his gaze forward and focused on the horses’ rumps until she settled herself.

  “Yes? Is there something wrong?”

  There were lots of things wrong. Mary was dead, he was heading to a town where he didn’t know a soul, he had a woman for whom he didn’t give two beans in a pot relying on him . . . He resisted a snort. “Just wanna tell you we’ll be reaching Drayton Valley by tomorrow evening, for sure. Fella in White Cloud told me there’s houses built for dockworkers’ families an’ we oughta be able to rent one of ’em without too much trouble. Thing is . . .” He angled a look at her attentive face. She appeared to be memorizing his every word. Did she have to look so . . . wifely?

  He harrumphed and continued. “Them houses’ll be small. Sitting room and sleeping room all in one—that’s it.”

  She turned abruptly forward. Sunshine splashed her cheeks, which blazed red. Her fingers wove together in her lap. “Oh.”

  Joss waited a few seconds to see if she’d say anything else. But she sucked in her lips and sat silently, staring ahead without blinking. He gave the reins a flick. “You gonna be all right sharing a little house like that with me? Or should I see about renting two of ’em? That’d mean less money coming in, of course, but if you’d rather—”

  The coils of hair that always worked loose from her braid bounced against her pink-stained cheeks as she shook her head. “No. No, that’d be foolish, wouldn’t it, to spend money on two houses when . . . when we’re . . . a family?” Slowly, she turned her face and met his gaze. “We’ll make do.”

  Joss’s chest pinched. “All right, then. We’ll stop in an hour or so for some lunch and to stretch our legs.” He bobbed his chin toward the wagon bed. “Go on back with the young’uns now.”

  Without a word, she followed his direction. Alone on the seat again, he considered her halting response to his question. Apparently when she said she’d be his wife, she meant in every way. Pa would probably smack Joss on the back and crow about how lucky he was, having a woman as easy on the eyes as Tarsie willing to offer herself to him. But something sour rose from Joss’s belly and settled on the back of his tongue. He might’ve faked that wedding ceremony, but he wouldn’t take advantage. As Mary’d said, he wasn’t his pa.

  Just as dusk was falling on the twenty-fifth day of April 1880, they reached Drayton Valley, Kansas. Tarsie held the canvas flaps wide as Joss drove the wagon down the middle of the town’s main street. She didn’t want to miss a single inch of the place she’d dreamt about for so long.

  Built in an area with close-fitting, rolling hills, the town reminded Tarsie of a tiered cake. The lowest, flattest portion stretched the widest and contained the businesses, with each subsequent level scattered with houses in uneven rows. Wood-shake roofs glowed gold, gilded by the descending sun. Glass windows glimmered like diamonds. Water from the recent rain stood in the ruts carved by wagon wheels and reflected light, becoming streaks of silver.

  Tears pressed for release, but she blinked them away and focused on the sights. She examined the town for herself, but also for Mary, who would never see it.

  By the time they reached the edge of Drayton Valley that butted against the banks of the Missouri River, Tarsie was convinced the Handbook of Kansas had aptly described the town. Such a nice place. A clean place. A cheerful place with proud trees standing guard on every corner and clustered in thick stands around the town. Surely she, the children, and Joss would find happiness here.

  She pressed her fist to her mouth. “Oh, Mary, I wish you were with us.”

  The wagon rattled to a stop, and Emmy and Nathaniel scrambled to the back hatch. Emmy turned a hopeful gaze upward. “Can we get out, Tarsie? Huh? Huh? Can we?”

  Nathaniel adding his begging. “Out? Can we?”

  Joss hollered over the fray before Tarsie had a chance to respond. “Not sure where we’ll end up tonight. Stay in the wagon ’til I get back.” His gaze bounced to Tarsie. “All of you.”

  The children moaned, and Tarsie bit back a word of protest. They’d spent so much time cooped up in this small space—what would it hurt to let the children run around a bit? But remembering her promise to Mary to show God’s love to Joss, she offered a nod rather than an argument. Joss strode toward the only house on this block with a railed porch, and Tarsie shifted her attention to the children. “While we wait for your papa to come back, how about a game? I’ll pretend to be an animal, and you can be guessing what it is.”

  Neither child expressed great enthus
iasm, but Tarsie played the game with them until footsteps signaled Joss’s return. He poked his head through the gap in the canvas. Although Emmy and Nathaniel bounced to the end of the wagon like a pair of eager puppies, Joss looked past them to Tarsie. “Talked to the dock manager—he said there’s a house we can rent, but it’s been empty for a while and is plenty dirty. Has a couple broken windows, too, so it might be wet inside. Guess they got the same rain we did on the trail.”

  A house—no matter how dirty or damp—would be better than remaining in the back of the cramped wagon one minute longer. Tarsie said, “I can be sweeping dirt and blotting up water. As long as it has a good roof, we can make do.” She hoped her positive attitude might relieve the slump in his shoulders and ease the deep crease in his forehead, but he merely offered a weary nod.

  “I’ll tell him we’ll take it, then.” He patted the lump beneath his shirt where the money pouch rested. “Gotta pay him for the first month’s rent. Eight dollars.”

  Tarsie gasped. “Oh, such an amount!”

  Joss grimaced. “I know. But once I start working, it’ll come out of my pay, so . . .” His brow furrowed as if something pained him. But then he drew in a breath that erased the odd expression. “Lemme get him squared away. Then we’ll head to the house.”

  Tarsie let the children climb onto the wagon seat so they could see their surroundings. When Joss returned, he squeezed in between them and drove the wagon to a tiny clapboard house identical to more than three dozen others, with dirt pathways separating them and small yards climbing upward behind them. Joss set the brake and looked at the children. “Out of the way, now. We got a wagon to empty.” They scooted to obey.

  The sun had slunk behind the trees while Joss made arrangements for their new home, and Tarsie squinted through the long shadows as she carried her carpetbag across the mushy ground to the little wooden stoop that served as a porch. Joss followed with one of the trunks. When he set it down on the wide-planked floor, dust rose.