“When I gots the lessons down real good myself, then I can be teachin’ our chillun. Maybe even all the colored chillun from Drayton Valley. Don’tcha see, Simon? Our prayers’ve done been answered.”
“How you gon’ be able to do all that?”
Ruth gave him a sour look. “You sayin’ I ain’t smart enough to learn what needs learnin’?”
“That ain’t what I’m sayin’ at all, an’ you knows it.” Simon shifted, his foot aching from supporting her weight. But he didn’t push her from his lap. He’d never minded sharing a chair with Ruth. “I’s just saying learnin’ takes time—a heap o’ time. What’s gon’ happen when that husband o’ hers says he don’t want her spendin’ so much time with the likes o’ you?”
Ruth pinched his earlobe. Hard. “You sayin’ the good Lawd’d take away His gift right aftuh He done give it to me? Where’s your faith, Simon Foster? Your pappy’d have your hide to hear you talkin’ thataway.”
Simon couldn’t hold back a chuckle. He rubbed his ear. “Reckon you’re right. But Pappy nevuh got the chance to meet Joss Brubacher. Matter o’ fact, Joss wouldn’t even be hired on if Pappy hadn’t died.” He sighed ruefully. “That Joss, he be a good workuh, I’ll give him that. But he sho’ ain’t got Pappy’s easy way o’ livin’ a life.” Simon pictured Brubacher, tall and sturdy, with lips that never smiled. “That man, he carries a grudge. A mighty big grudge. And it seems to be aimed at peoples like you an’ me.”
Simon burrowed his face against Ruth’s cheek, seeking to soften the impact his words could have on her hopeful heart. “Don’t wantcha gettin’ all worked up, thinkin’ you’s gon’ get somethin’ that don’t nevuh come.” Lord knew she’d had enough disappointments in life between losing her mama and pap when she was but a girl, burying two babies before her twenty-first year, and marrying up with a man with a crippled foot. She’d already borne more than a body should. Simon would have a hard time staying pleasant with Joss if the man did anything to hurt his Ruth.
Ruth smacked a kiss on Simon’s lips and pushed up from his lap, her smile wide. “Don’t you be worryin’, Simon Foster. I gots faith in Tarsie. She be a good woman with a good heart—I can see it in her. The Lawd done tol’ her to teach me, an’ she’s a gal who does what the Lawd say, so she’s gon’ teach me. You just wait. Uh-huh, you just wait an’ see.”
Joss paced beside the wagon, listening to the distant rumble of thunder and waiting for the windows to go dark. As soon as Tarsie put out the lamp, he’d know the young’uns were sleeping. And then he and Tarsie would have themselves a talk.
He couldn’t let her make a commitment to that Negro woman. Soon—another month, maybe a little more—he’d have enough set aside to hightail it out of here. With him gone, she’d need to find herself a job. And if she took up with a colored woman, nobody in town would hire her. Prejudices ran deep. He’d have to make Tarsie understand how she was hurting herself to make friends with a Negro family.
The sky’s grumble increased in volume, flashes of sheet lightning turning the clouds into Chinese lanterns. Wind gusted, rocking the wagon. Josh shoved his hands into his pockets, stifling the desire to let loose a string of curses. It was mid-June already. When would these storms leave for good? They’d gotten so much rain the ground was too soft to support a new dock, leaving the dockworkers without a means of caring for their families.
Talk around the vineyard had it a railroad was thinking of bringing a line through Drayton Valley, which would take the place of the dock. Men hoped it would happen—there’d be jobs laying the lines, and the railroad always brought more businesses and people to a town. But unless the rain stopped, removing the threat of flooding, nobody’d take a chance on running rails through town.
More flashes illuminated the sky, the bursts of light bouncing from east to south and back again. The thunder rolled with such intensity Joss’s chest tightened. He needed to get inside the wagon before the storm let loose. Would Tarsie ever turn out that light so he’d know it was safe to talk to her?
After another twenty minutes of pacing, during which time the wind rose to a howl that raised the hairs on the back of Joss’s neck, the glow behind the windows finally died. Blowing out a breath of relief, Joss trotted to the front door and tapped. “Tarsie? Open the door. It’s me, Joss.”
Moments later she cracked the door a scant six inches. A burst of lightning illuminated her figure, her disheveled braid tumbling across the bodice of a belted robe.
Joss gulped. “Didn’t know you’d already dressed for bed.” He aimed his gaze at the murky sky where clouds hid the stars from view. “Need to talk to you.”
“Can it not be waitin’ until tomorrow? The children’n me will be risin’ early to prepare for service in the mornin’.”
Her thick Irish brogue let him know it unsettled her to be caught in her nightclothes. If he possessed an Irish brogue, he’d be using it himself, considering how flustered he felt seeing her with her hair all billowy around her face and her bare toes peeping from beneath the hem of her robe.
He took a backward step. “M-maybe that’d be best.”
She creaked the door open a bit more—wide enough to poke her head out. “Would you be goin’ with us? Emmy an’ wee Nathaniel, they’d find such pleasure in goin’ to Sunday service with their papa.”
“No,” Joss barked over a roll of thunder. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow when you get back.” He charged around the house to his waiting wagon without giving her a chance to speak again. He climbed into the wagon, tying the canvas cover closed at both ends just before the clouds opened and rain pelted the earth. Carried on a gusting wind, raindrops found their way between cracks, spattering Joss. He hunkered as low as he could and pulled the blanket clean over his head. He found it stifling underneath the heavy wool, but it blocked the water and also muffled the howl of wind, crashes of thunder, and rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops on the canvas.
The wagon rocked in the wind, and soon Joss fell into a fitful sleep, wrapped in his blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He dreamed he sat high on a wagon seat, driving through a gray, gloomy countryside. The road was rough, the wheels bouncing over rocks, nearly jarring him from the seat. But in the distance he caught sight of a slight figure. Shining blond hair blew in the wind, and deep blue eyes beseeched him to come nearer, nearer. His heart pounding in eagerness, Joss encouraged the horses to hurry, which increased the jolts and bumps of the wagon. But no matter how much distance the wagon covered, the woman remained far away. Heart thudding, breath coming in heaves, Joss leaned forward and forced the horses faster. The wheels hit a boulder, and the wagon tipped, tumbling end over end.
Joss jolted awake, gasping as he realized the tip of the wagon was reality, not a dream after all. He reached for some kind of handhold but found none. Curling into a ball to protect himself as best he could, he rolled with the pitch of the wooden box, jarring his knees and elbows and banging his head as he went. The wagon came to a rest on its side, the canvas cover torn and flapping in the wind that continued to blow. Rain pelted him, dripping into his eyes and drenching his clothes.
He lay for a moment, trying to gather his senses. His forehead throbbed, and he gently fingered the area. Already a lump was forming. He’d have a goose egg for sure. His pants were torn at the knee, and it hurt to bend his right arm. Rain lashed him, the drops stinging his flesh. He needed shelter. But the only place to go was the house. Would Tarsie let him in?
Using flashes of lightning to guide him, he limped his way around the house to the front, his feet slipping in the mud. His first knock went unacknowledged, but the second—harder and more insistent—brought a rasping query. “Who’s out there?”
“Lemme in, Tarsie.” Joss hugged himself, shivering from the rain and the shock of the past minutes.
“Joss?” She sounded dumbfounded. He heard the scrabble of the cross-latch, and then the door swung wide. She held a lantern high in one hand and clutched her robe at her throat with the other, gawking at
him. “What happened to you?”
He stumbled over the threshold and sank onto the closest surface—the trunk where they ate their meals. Keeping his voice at a whisper to avoid waking the children, he said, “Wind blew the wagon clean over. The cover’s all torn. I’m gonna have to stay in here.”
She stared at him, her lips pressed tightly together, as if struggling against a mighty argument. Then she let out a whoosh of breath. “Well, then, I guess there’s no choice in the matter, is there?” She set her shoulders square, peering down her nose at him. “No one can be looking askance at us, considering we were joined by a clergyman. It’s not unseemly, is it, for a man and his wife to reside together under the same roof.” She spoke as though convincing herself.
Joss, listening, wished he could crawl inside his own soggy shirt and disappear. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t be so stalwart.
“I’ll just climb in with the wee ones,” she went on in that same no-nonsense tone. “You . . .” Under the glow of the lantern, her face bloomed bold pink. “Be changin’ into dry clothes and take m-my sleeping spot. Good night, Joss.” She leaned forward and deposited the lantern next to his hip, taking care that her fingers avoided contact with his wet trousers. Then she scurried to the corner, slipping beneath the quilt with Emmy and Nathaniel.
Joss started to unbutton his shirt, then he flicked a glance at the corner. Tarsie’s eyes were shut, but her eyelids quivered. He drew in a deep breath, then used the air to extinguish the lantern. Fumbling through the dark, he located the trunk that held his clean clothes. He changed, flicking furtive glances toward the corner, then left his wet clothing in a pile on the floor.
Dry again, he snuggled into the pile of blankets, still warm from Tarsie’s body. An uneasy chill worked its way up his spine. Come tomorrow, there were lots of things he and Tarsie would need to discuss. And she wasn’t going to like any of them.
21
Sunday morning dawned rosy and calm, the fury of last night’s storm chased away by cheerful fingers of light spreading across the horizon like a fine lady’s jeweled fan. Tarsie tiptoed, barefooted, over soggy ground strewn with scraps of green leaves to the well and lowered the bucket into the cool depths.
She wore her robe over her nightclothes, just as she had all night. Where would she find the privacy to change into her church dress? If she asked, would Joss step outside and allow her to disrobe without audience? As her husband, he had every right to remain inside. To even observe her, if he desired. The thought of Joss’s eyes on her sent tremors through her belly.
She pulled the full bucket upward on its squeaky rope as heat built in her face. “He’s never once demanded his rights as husband,” she murmured, trying to reassure herself. “Surely a tipped wagon won’t be changin’ how we’ve done things in the past. He’ll just set it back to right again an’—”
“Tarsie?”
Tarsie let out a yelp of surprise and released the rope. The bucket plummeted downward and landed with an echoing splash. She whirled around, her mouth open, to find Joss a few feet behind her. His tan trousers and blue untucked shirt were rumpled. A dark shadow filled his lower face, and his thick hair stood in untidy tufts, signifying a rough night’s sleep. For one brief second, Tarsie found herself wanting to smooth his hair into place. Her hand lifted, but she caught herself in time and linked her fingers together, pressing her joined hands to her ribs, where she felt the pound of her heartbeat.
Joss strode toward her, the ties of his boots flopping against the moist grass. He tugged the bucket upward, then sloshed water into her waiting pail. Tossing the empty bucket back into the well, he studied her solemnly. “Did you take a look at the wagon?”
“N-no.”
He pursed his lips, his mustache forming a grim line. “It’s ruined. Cover’s shredded, front axle broken, box all busted up. It’s nothin’ more’n scrap lumber now.”
Although he didn’t come right out and say so, she knew he’d be residing in the house from now on. She lifted the pail and started for the house, Joss on her heels. His hand curled around her elbow, halting her progress. She looked up at him, her mouth dry. Although they’d exchanged vows nearly two months ago, they’d never stood so close. She could see her own reflection in his pupils.
“Before you go inside and wake the young’uns, let’s talk.”
Tarsie swallowed. Her attire and his sleep-tumbled appearance lent too much intimacy to the moment. She didn’t think she’d be able to form a coherent sentence. “C-can’t it wait . . . ’til later?” After breakfast. After worship service. After she was dressed and had gathered her wits about her.
He scowled. “Puttin’ it off won’t change anything. Just listen. I don’t think you oughta teach that colored woman to read.”
Tarsie drew in a breath, an argument forming on her tongue, but before she could speak he went on.
“Folks won’t look kindly on you, taking up with her. An’ if you’re gonna make your home in this town, you don’t want to be branded a Negro sympathizer. It’ll cause all kinds of trouble for you.”
She huffed. “I can’t be livin’ my life worryin’ about what pleases or displeases narrow-minded people. In the end, the only opinion that matters is the one held by my Lord, an’ He’s the One who gave me the idea of teachin’ Ruth.”
His lips curled in derision. “Lord oughta have sense enough to know something like that would put you in disgrace with your neighbors.”
She wrenched her arm loose and pointed one finger at him. “Don’t you be spewin’ insults toward the good Lord Almighty, Joss Brubacher!”
“Just speaking the truth.” Joss balled his hands and plunked them on his hips. With widespread feet and arms held akimbo, he created a formidable figure. “You think your neighbors are gonna trade milk or pork roasts with you once you’ve tainted yourself? You’re walking a dangerous road, woman. And what’s worse, you’re dragging my young’uns down with you. Your actions’ll affect them.”
As much as Tarsie wanted to deny Joss’s claims, she feared he could be right. People’s prejudices were never rational. Might Emmy and Nathaniel suffer as a result of her reaching out to Ruth Foster? But how could she possibly refuse after making a promise? After seeing Ruth’s face light with pleasure—after experiencing the rush of peace that only came when one followed the Lord’s prompting—she couldn’t retreat from her commitment.
Tarsie drew in a breath and then let it rush out, her shoulders wilting. “You know how much I love those wee ones. I’d never want to bring hurt on their little hearts.”
Joss folded his arms over his chest and peered down at her. “So it’s settled, then.”
“Yes, Joss. It’s settled.”
“Good.” He took one step toward the house.
“I’ll be prayin’ for God to wrap His arms of strength and protection around Emmy an’ Nathaniel so if anyone flings an arrow of criticism, the wee ones won’t be pierced by ugly words.”
He whirled to face her, his gaze narrowing. “What?”
“I’ve got to do what God asked me to do no matter what it might cost.”
Fury sparked in his eyes. “You mean to say you’re gonna teach her even after I said not to?”
Tarsie lifted her chin. “That’s what I mean.”
Joss growled low in his throat. He clenched his fists again and leaned toward Tarsie, his pose menacing. But then he spun, presenting his stiff back. “No colored woman oughta be able to do somethin’ more’n what I—” His voice stopped so abruptly, it seemed as though someone had ripped his tongue from his mouth.
Tarsie’s heart skipped a beat. “More than you . . . ?”
But Joss charged toward the corner of the house, calling over his taut shoulder, “Get inside, get dressed, an’ you an’ the young’uns skedaddle outta there. I got work to do this morning, and I don’t want any of you underfoot.” He stormed from view.
Tarsie stood in the morning sunshine, staring after him, her lip caught between her teeth. She r
epeated his unfinished sentence in her mind, considering possible completions, and when realization hit, her knees nearly buckled. She stared at the corner of the house where he’d disappeared, remembering his tense shoulders and tightly clenched fists. Anger—and pride—had pulsed from him.
“Joss can’t read.” She whispered the words, her stomach churning with both sympathy and embarrassment for him. Little wonder he’d gotten so frustrated with the children for leaving all those marks on the wall. Little wonder he pressed bills into her hand and sent her to do the shopping. Little wonder he’d never picked up a storybook to read to the children.
She pictured the page in her Bible where she’d filled out the marriage certificate. Heat rose from her middle and seared her all the way to her scalp as she recalled him turning away when she’d asked if he wanted to sign his name on the page. “Just do it,” he’d said, stinging her with his disinterest. But it wasn’t disinterest that kept him from writing his name—it was inability.
A proud, independent man like Joss . . . unable to read. Her heart ached for him. Just as God had placed Ruth’s plight on her conscience, Joss’s need weighed heavily on Tarsie. But Ruth had begged for teaching. Joss would certainly refuse any offer. His fierce pride would hold him back.
Heaving a sigh, Tarsie scuffed toward the house, water pail in hand. She’d do as he said for now—ready the children for service and leave. And when the minister had them all kneel to pray, she’d ask God to reveal a way for Joss to learn to read and write so he needn’t hang his head in shame. She’d have a time of it, convincing Joss to bend his pride enough to admit he needed help. But God answered prayers.
Strength, Father . . .
When she and the children returned from church, Tarsie paused in the yard, puzzled by a strange banging coming from inside the house.
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 16
