A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Just set it on the floor there. He’ll come get it when he’s hungry.”

  Emmy climbed off the bench and crouched to place the bowl on the floor under the table. Then she tipped her face to Joss. “Papa? Where’s Tarsie?”

  Joss shook his head. “Not sure.”

  “She comin’ back?” Emmy’s voice quavered.

  Joss forced a grin and tousled his daughter’s hair. He needed to find a hairbrush and get rid of those tangles. “Sure she will.” His confident tone belied his inner concern. “But I’m not sure when, so we gotta figure out where you an’ Nathaniel are gonna go while I’m at work. Maybe Mrs. Bliss next door—”

  Emmy made a face. “She don’t like us. She shouts at us when we play in the yard.”

  Joss chewed the inside of his cheek. He wouldn’t leave the youngsters with someone who wouldn’t be kind to them. Maybe one of the other neighbors—would they be any more willing? Most of them had started turning up their noses when Tarsie began to teach Ruth.

  Stretching to her feet, Emmy placed her hand on Joss’s knee. “Can we go to Mrs. Ruth’s?”

  Why hadn’t Joss thought of Simon’s wife? The children knew her, and he trusted her. And while he was there, he could ask Simon and Ruth if Tarsie had contacted them. Was Emmy’s suggestion of going to the Fosters God’s way of answering Joss’s question? His heart bumpity-bumped against his ribs. “Sure, honey. But you gotta get dressed. Help Nathaniel, too. Then I’ll take you to Mrs. Ruth.”

  While the children dressed, Joss stacked the dirty bowls with the pan in the washbasin. He didn’t have time to wash them if he was going to visit the sheriff before toting the children to the Foster place. His hands froze mid-task, awareness dawning. He planned to leave his children in the care of a colored woman. And the idea didn’t sour his stomach.

  When had he stopped looking at Simon and Ruth with derision and started counting them as friends? A smile tugged at his lips as he considered how pleased Tarsie would be at the change that had taken place inside of him. Then the smile faded, gooseflesh erupting over his entire body. Why didn’t he think how pleased Mary would be? When had Tarsie stepped into such an important spot in his life?

  He had to find her.

  Turning from the basin, he called, “Emmy, Nathaniel, hurry now—we gotta git!”

  “So you see, I had to leave.” Tarsie kept her voice low to avoid disturbing the Foster children, who still slept in the corner. She gave Ruth and Simon her most emphatic look. “If I stayed, Joss’d never step into fully caring for his children. And those wee ones need him.” A lump filled her throat. “They need him more than they need me. I’m just a . . . a person who cooks and cleans. He’s their papa.”

  Ruth squeezed her hand. “You’s a heap more’n a cook an’ housekeeper, Tarsie, an’ you knows it.” She sighed, turning her dark-eyed gaze on Simon, who’d sat stern and silent all through Tarsie’s explanation. “But she’s right ’bout Joss. ’Less he has to, he won’t start bein’ a papa to those chillun. Gots so much fear built up inside o’ him, ’cause o’ the way his own daddy treated him. But with Tarsie away, he’ll hafta do his duty.”

  Tarsie leaned in, hesitant hope rasping her voice. “So you’ll help me? You won’t tell Joss where I am?” If Joss found her and asked her to return, she’d go. Even as much as she believed she shouldn’t, she’d do it for love of Mary and for love of the children. And—she forced herself to accept the truth—for love of Joss. But she’d be miserable. She could no longer live a farce. To protect herself, she had to stay away. Loving him and not being loved in return would eventually kill her spirit.

  “I won’t tell,” Ruth vowed. She continued to look at Simon.

  Simon drew in a slow breath. Deep lines formed furrows across his forehead. He spoke to Ruth as if Tarsie weren’t sitting across the table. “You know how much trouble this’s gon’ bring down on us? You forget we’s colored an’ she’s white? So far folks’ve only frowned at us fo’ takin’ up with Miz Tarsie. Knowin’ she’s teachin’ you to read an’ write, an’ knowin’ you’ll be teachin’ others, they’s pret’ much held their tongues. But this’s goin’ beyond learnin’ from her. This is housin’ her. Hidin’ her. You think folks ’round here gon’ keep silent on that? Nuh-uh, they’s gon’ speak right up. An’ when they do, others’ll get wind of it. An’ trouble—big trouble, more’n we’ve ever known befo’—is gon’ come marchin’ right up to our door.”

  While he spoke, his low tone increased in intensity until the fine hairs on Tarsie’s neck stood up. Although he didn’t define the kind of trouble he expected, Tarsie could surmise. There were always those who viewed any person of color as inferior. Joss’s attitude on the trail had rankled her, and his reaction—holding his distance, speaking with superiority when addressing their black co-travelers—was mild compared to stories she’d heard of white men’s cruelty to colored men.

  She pushed up from the table. “I can’t be bringing trouble on you. I’ll—”

  “You’s gon’ stay put.” Ruth’s firm voice held Tarsie in place. She whirled on Simon, grabbing his hand and giving it a good tug. “All this time you been preachin’ at Joss ’bout trustin’ God. ’Bout lettin’ God meet his needs. ’Bout believin’ God can make changes in a man’s natural inclinations. An’ now you’re sayin’ God cain’t change folks’ inclination ’round here if’n they start to get riled?” She snorted, pushing his hand aside. “Shame on you, Simon Foster.”

  For a long moment, she sat glowering at her husband’s low-slung head. Then she sighed and curled her hand around the back of his neck, her thumb gently caressing the spot below his ear. “I’s sorry, Simon. You be a good man. I know you’s only thinkin’ o’ yo’ family right now—wantin’ to protect us, an’ I loves you for it. But this here’s a chance to show yo’ chillun what it means to stand firm an’ do what’s right, even when it might cost you somethin’. We cain’t turn Tarsie away. It’d be the coward’s way, an’ no place in God’s Book does it call us to be cowards.”

  Simon looked deep into his wife’s face. Uncertainty showed in the set of his lips and his puckered brow. But slowly his expression softened. He plucked Ruth’s hand from his neck and gave it a long squeeze. “Aw right then, woman . . .” A steely determination crept across his features. “Tarsie can stay in Pappy’s house long as she needs to so’s Joss’ll go back to his place, where he belongs. An’ we’ll be prayin’ God’ll work ever’thing out to our good.”

  “An’ His glory,” Ruth added.

  Simon gave a solemn nod.

  Tarsie eased back into the chair. “I only intend to stay long enough to collect my few things. Then I’ll be makin’ my way elsewhere.”

  Ruth gawked at her. “Not all the way back to New York!”

  A shudder rattled Tarsie’s frame. “Never there.” She forced a carefree shrug. “But there’re many cities in Kansas where a woman can settle an’ be makin’ her own way. I’m handy with a needle an’ thread. I won’t go hungry.” Her bravado faded a bit, thinking of being alone again. How she’d come to depend on Mary’s family to provide companionship for her. Then she set her chin at a determined angle. “Just as Simon’s been teachin’ Joss, God will be meetin’ my needs.” For food, shelter . . . and companionship. She tossed her head. “I’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  Joss kept one hand wrapped around Nathaniel’s middle and the other on the reins. Emmy’s small hands clutched his waist, her little knees snug against his hips. He’d nearly held his breath the entire distance from town to the little community of colored folks’ shacks, afraid one of the youngsters would bounce off the horse’s back before they reached their destination. Or that Marmalade would wiggle loose of Nathaniel’s arms and disappear in the brush. But there was the group of houses ahead, and no mishaps involving children or kitties thus far. A thank-you hovered on his heart, and he came close to saying it out loud, surprising himself. Because he knew Who he wanted to thank.

  As soon as he dropped off the youn
gsters with Ruth, he’d gallop on to Tollison’s and tell the boss he wouldn’t be able to work today. He’d best steer clear of the summer kitchen. The cook had gotten used to him seeing to morning chores—she’d be put out with him for spending the night away, but it couldn’t be helped. He wouldn’t have left his children untended.

  A wave of protectiveness swept over him, his hand automatically tightening on Nathaniel’s round belly while his elbow pressed down on Emmy’s little hand. These kids came first. Then Tarsie. Then Tollison. He just hoped his boss would understand.

  Black faces watched him warily, whispered voices reaching his ears, as he rode through the center of their little community. He bobbed his head in a silent hello to anyone who met his gaze, hoping his casual behavior would give them no cause for apprehension. He didn’t want them taking out their fear on Emmy and Nathaniel when he wasn’t looking.

  The door to Ruth and Simon’s place stood wide open, and Joss glimpsed the three Foster youngsters seated around the table. He drew the horse to a stop, then caught Emmy’s arm and swung her to the ground. “Go fetch Miz Ruth,” he said.

  Nathaniel leaned to hop down when Emmy scampered into the house, but Joss held on to him. “Just wait a minute, son.” Nathaniel leaned into Joss’s arms and poked a finger in his mouth.

  Moments later, Ruth followed Emmy into the morning sunlight. She peered up at Joss, her mouth set in an uneasy smile. “G’mornin’. Emmy here ask if she’n Nattie can spend the day.”

  “That’s what I was hoping. Tarsie’s . . .” He whisked a glance at Emmy’s innocent face. He didn’t want to worry her. “Not around today. An’ I gotta . . .” He shook his head. He couldn’t go into details with the youngsters listening in. “Can they stay with you? I . . . I don’t know anybody else.”

  Ruth’s gaze landed on the cat. “That thing stayin’ too?”

  Emmy gasped. “That’s Marmalade! He’s ours!”

  Ruth tsk-tsked, but she reached for Nathaniel. The boy, cradling the kitten, slid into her arms. She set them both on the ground. Emmy immediately took Marmalade from Nathaniel, who set up a howl. “Here now, ’nough o’ that,” Ruth said. The boy quieted, and Ruth cast a smile across both children. “You’uns go on in. We’s eatin’ flapjacks. I’ll fry you up some in a minute.”

  Emmy, with Marmalade dangling under one arm, caught Nathaniel’s hand and the pair darted into Ruth’s house without a backward glance at their papa.

  The horse pranced in place, and Joss pulled back on the reins to settle the animal. “Thanks. Can’t say for sure when I’ll be back. Tarsie took off last night. I’ve told the sheriff and he said he’d look around town.” Sheriff Bradley’s lack of concern still irritated Joss. The man didn’t care about Tarsie’s well-being. Not the way Joss did. Somebody needed to hunt hard. Like it mattered. Hunt until they found her. And that’s exactly what he intended to do. “I’ll come fetch the young’uns quick as I can, but it might be after dark.”

  He waited for Ruth to ask why he thought Tarsie might’ve run off, but she didn’t. Instead, an odd expression bloomed across her face. Joss couldn’t be sure, but he thought she looked guilty. Apprehension gripped him. “Ruth?”

  “Well, now, don’t you worry none ’bout Emmy an’ Nattie. I’ll take right good care of ’em.” Her promise chased away the niggling disquiet. She flapped her pink palms at him, backing up. “Go on about yo’ business an’ don’t give us’ns a thought.”

  Joss decided that asking questions would only delay his leave-taking. He nodded, then dug in his heels, urging the horse into a trot. The sooner he reached Tollison’s place, the sooner he could ask permission to take the day off so he could search for Tarsie.

  What if he couldn’t find her? Releasing a huff of aggravation, he pushed the errant thought aside. He would find her. He had to.

  36

  Tarsie watched out Old Zeke’s dusty window until Joss rode away. By pressing her ear to a crack in the window frame, she’d managed to hear most of what’d been said. Ruth hadn’t given away her hiding place, but Joss hadn’t asked about her, either. Disappointment weighed heavily in her heart. Why hadn’t he asked?

  She gave herself a little shake. Isn’t this what she’d wanted? For Joss to take responsibility for his children and not rely on her? So why did it hurt so much that he hadn’t seemed interested in her whereabouts?

  Before she left for good, she’d pen a letter to the children—something they could keep that would let them know how much she loved them. Her heart ached, thinking about leaving them forever, but she knew she was doing the right thing.

  She waited until she was certain Joss was far enough away he wouldn’t look back and catch a glimpse of her. Then she sneaked out the front door, inching her way around the far side of the house in case Emmy or Nathaniel looked out a window and spotted her. She needed her things from the house in town—her clothes, her sewing items, and her Bible. She had few belongings. Ruth’s basket should hold them all. Once she’d collected her things, she’d head down the river toward White Cloud. The ferry could take her across to the Missouri side. She’d surely find work in the big cities over there. And she’d still be close to Kansas and the people she loved.

  Behind Old Zeke’s house, she made a quick dash for the brush at the far edge of the property. And then, with a silent prayer for God to let her move swiftly, she took off at a brisk pace for town.

  Simon nodded as Mr. Tollison explained that Joss would be gone for the day. He’d suspected as much when he’d seen Joss come barreling in on that horse and jump up on the porch to pound on the door. His stomach whirled, wondering if Joss would seek him out and ask him about Tarsie, but after talking to their boss, he’d just swung himself up on the horse’s back and taken off again.

  “Get Stillman to take Joss’s place in the vineyard today,” Mr. Tollison finished. He pressed his hand to his chest and coughed. Long and hard.

  Simon gazed at his boss in concern. The man’s face turned bright red with all the coughing. “You all right, suh?”

  Without answering, Mr. Tollison turned and made his way back to the house, bent forward as if drawing a breath pained him. Simon waited until his boss was safely inside, then went in search of Stillman. He whistled under his breath. Stillman wouldn’t be happy to be pulled from his usual duties in the packing house to standing out in the sun, flicking bugs from leaves and checking for rotting fruit. But what Mr. Tollison said, Simon would do, for as long as he had this job.

  As he’d suspected, Stillman crunched his face into a fierce scowl. “Why me? Why not Rouse or Maher or Russell? They ain’t been here any longer’n I have.”

  Simon held out his hands, hoping to appease the aggravated worker. “I’s just tellin’ you what Mistuh Tollison tol’ me. You gots trouble with it, you can go up to the house an’ talk to him yo’self.”

  The man released a disgruntled snarl, but he yanked his straw hat low on his forehead and strode out of the packing house. Other workers watched him go, a murmur rolling through the wood building. Simon sealed his ears against the mutters—wasn’t like he hadn’t heard them before—and hitched his way back into the sunshine.

  Simon went about his duties, the job so familiar he could perform the tasks in his sleep. He checked on the men in the vineyard, instructed Todd to watch the burn pile closely—things had dried out in the harsh heat of August and he didn’t want any sparks igniting more than the snipped vines—and carted a few bushels of harvested grapes to the winery for pressing. The morning passed quickly, and he was startled when Cook clanged the noon bell, calling men in for dinner.

  He drove his cart, careful to stay behind the workers who walked in from the field. Watching the men clomp along on two sturdy legs always raised a longing in his chest, but he’d learned long ago to be thankful for two good hands, a cart to tote him wherever he needed to go, and a boss who didn’t hold his crippled leg against him. He might not have legs and feet that matched, but he had a lot for which to be thankful. He sent
up a quick prayer of gratitude as he pulled his cart in next to the dinner barn and reached for his lunch bucket.

  Just as his hand curled around the handle, someone behind him barked out one word: “Simon!”

  Simon spun around, tipping his bucket and nearly losing his balance. Mr. Tollison strode toward him, fury contorting his face into a scowl. Simon scuttled to meet him, aware of the workers’ eyes following him. Tollison grabbed Simon’s arm. His boss had never been forceful with him before. Fear rose in Simon’s belly, creating a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “Yessuh? What is it?” Simon maintained a respectful tone he hoped would calm the angry man, who held tight to his arm.

  “Have you been in the back room today?”

  He never entered the back room except on payday, to put away the cash box. “No, suh, I ain’t.”

  Tollison’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

  Drawing a steadying breath, Simon posed his own question. “Have I evuh been known to lie to you, suh?”

  At once, Tollison’s fingers fell away from Simon’s arm. He heaved a sigh. “Of course you haven’t, Simon. I . . . I apologize for my behavior. But . . .” He peered toward the dinner barn’s opening. Simon followed his gaze. A dozen men peered out, curiosity on their faces.

  Catching Simon’s sleeve again, he drew Simon to the porch of the big house, out of sight and hearing of the men. “Simon, I went to the back room to retrieve some larger bills to take to the bank and exchange to fill tomorrow’s pay envelopes. I discovered someone had tampered with the lock on the door. When I opened the closet, I saw that the safe was gone.”

  Simon’s legs went weak. He staggered to the side, catching the edge of the house with his hand to steady himself. “The whole safe? But that thing’s gotta weigh . . . what? Two hunnerd pounds?”

  “One fifty empty,” Tollison confirmed. “I chose a lightweight Whitfield’s safe to make it easier for me to transport.”