16 

Simon leaned over the wash bucket on the bench outside the door of his simple clapboard house set well behind Tollison’s mansion and splashed water on his face. All the rain lately’d kept the temperature pleasing, but he still managed to work up a sweat. Ruth’d say it was a good day if he’d brought forth honest sweat—he’d wager she was the most uncomplaining woman in all of the United States of America. And she’d chosen him. He sent up an oft-repeated prayer of gratitude for his beautiful wife, then dried his hands on his shirtfront while gazing at the little house a few yards to the right of his.

His chest tightened. How he missed Pappy. Smelling the smoke from his old corncob pipe drift across the breeze each evening, hearing him greet the day with songs of praise, seeing his face light with pleasure when little Naomi skipped across the yard to give him a howdy . . . Slipping his eyes closed, Simon clasped his hands beneath his chin and spoke to the only Father he had left.

“Dear Lawd, I thank You an’ praise You for the years I had with Pappy, even if thirty-two just don’t seem long enough sometimes. But I know me an’ him an’ Mama’ll have eternity togethuh with You, so I ain’t gonna complain none ’bout spendin’ the rest o’ my earthly years without ’im next door. Still, Lawd, my heart’s just achin’ at missin’ him, an’ my chilluns’re gonna miss ’im, too, so gib us comfort an’ strength to face these days without ’im. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Simon popped his eyes open and found Ruth beside him, her dark eyes looking at him so tenderly it made his throat ache. He held open his arms, and she settled herself against him. Where he was slight, she was robust, but they still fit together like two halves of one whole. The red bandana tied over her wiry hair brushed against his cheek, holding the smells of her cookstove. Corn bread, pork, and onion. Good smells.

He sighed. “Ah, woman, nothin’ beats comin’ home to you, you know that?”

She chuckled sweetly as her hands roved across his shoulder blades, calluses catching on the flannel of his shirt. “Nothin’ beats seein’ you come home to me, an’ that’s a fact, Simon Foster.”

Simon marveled anew that Ruth could find such pleasure in him—scarred and crippled and imperfect him. God-planted love surely made a person see things differently from what they really were. Slipping his arm around her waist, he guided her over the threshold. A glance around the little room proved they were alone, so he stole a quick kiss before sending her back to the cookstove with a teasing pat on her behind.

He shuffled to the bed in the corner and sat to yank off his shoes. His misshapen foot always ached horribly at the end of his working day. “Where’re the young’uns hidin’?”

She stirred a pot, her apron strings swaying with the movement and steam swirling around her chin. “Sent ’em to the garden plot to carve out furrows for plantin’.”

Simon propped his foot on the opposite knee and massaged, wincing. “Awful muddy out there. You know how them boys are. Gonna create a lotta washin’ for you.”

She shrugged, flashing an impish grin over her shoulder. “Keeps ’em outta mischief. An’ since when’ve I evuh minded washin’? Gibs me pleasure, it does, to see stains come outta shirts an’ britches. Reminds me o’ the good Lawd takin’ away the stains o’ our sins.”

Simon rose and limped to the stove. Wrapping his arms around her middle from behind, he rested his chin on her shoulder and nuzzled her ear. She tipped her head slightly, returning his affection in the only way she could with her hands busy flipping pieces of salt pork in a skillet of sizzling grease.

After a few minutes, she gave a little shrug that urged him away. “Time to eat. Go fetch the chillun an’ have ’em wash good. Tell them boys to use the lye soap, too.”

Simon’s stomach rolled over in eagerness. “Yes, ma’am.”

He headed outside and shuffled around the house on bare feet, enjoying the feel of cool, moist earth beneath his soles after hours in the hot, confining boots. Just as Ruth had said, all three youngsters worked busily, hoes in hand. Crooked furrows marched from one end to the other in the large patch of mud behind the house. E.Z. and Malachi had done a right fine job, readying that ground for planting. Simon chuckled, noting little Naomi’s tongue poking out in concentration while she hacked ineffectively at the edges of the plot, using a rusty hoe with a handle three times her height to chop away bits of weeds.

He stood for a moment or two, enjoying the sight of his children—dark hair glistening in the fingers of sunlight that peeked between clouds, their hands set to constructive tasks. Then his stomach growled, reminding him Ruth was waiting. He called, “Young’uns! Time to eat!”

All three faces turned to him, three pairs of dark eyes lighting at the sound of their pappy’s voice. Hoes fell in the mud with soft plops and they all came running on healthy legs, hands extended, smiles beaming. Simon braced himself for their hugs, laughing as their sturdy bodies plowed against his.

Ah, Lawd, such blessin’s, such blessin’s—more’n I deserve. Thank You, dear Lawd.

Joss entered the house without knocking. Before he could close the door behind him, Emmy and Nathaniel dashed across the floor and wrapped their arms around his legs, crying in shrill unison, “Papa! Papa!” The force of their greetings nearly toppled him. Grunting in aggravation, he caught hold of their shoulders and peeled them loose. He steeled himself against their hurt expressions and looked across the room at Tarsie, who stood with a skillet in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Her face pursed in disapproval.

He grunted again. “You just now putting supper out?” He glanced at Mary’s clock, which stood proudly on a warped shelf alongside a few sparse grocery items. “It’s near seven o’clock.”

Her faded skirts swirling around her ankles, Tarsie charged to a trunk she must’ve pulled to the center of the room during the day and plopped the skillet onto the wooden top. Hands on hips, the wooden spoon still wrapped in one fist, she glowered at him. “’Tis near seven o’clock, an’ ever since noon I’ve been worryin’ an’ wonderin’ where you’ve been keepin’ y’rself.”

Her Irish brogue thickened with ire. She was in full temper right now. Despite himself, a grin tickled Joss’s lips. He drew his hand over his mustache to hide any sign of humor, thumped his way to the wash bucket beside the stove, and dunked his hands in the tepid water. He angled a glance over his shoulder and noted she’d followed, wielding the spoon like a weapon.

“All the other dockworkers came wanderin’ back midmornin’, fussin’ about how the dock washed away an’ no work was to be had. I watched an’ watched for you . . .”

Straightening, he plucked a length of toweling from a nail and dried his hands, his eyebrows high. “Don’t s’pose it occurred to you I’d be looking for another job, seein’ as how my first one went floating downriver?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Now, come Monday morning, he’d have to explain why he didn’t keep the new job.

Tarsie squinted. “You went job seekin’? You weren’t . . . ?”

Her disbelieving tone stirred Joss’s irritation to life. What gave her the right to throw accusations at him? She wasn’t anything more than his children’s nanny and his maid. He smacked the towel onto the nail and marched to the trunk, where four tin plates formed a circle around the skillet. “We gonna eat or not?”

Tarsie drew in a breath, as if preparing to release a torrent of words, but then she waved her hands at the children. “Come. It’s late, and I know you’re all hungry.” Her eyes spit fire at Joss, telling him she wasn’t finished with their conversation.

They had no chairs, so they knelt beside the trunk, except for Nathaniel, who remained on his feet. Tarsie scooped servings of beans and chunks of ham swimming in a thick gravy onto their plates. She sent him a warning glance when he reached for his spoon, and with a disgruntled snort he waited until she offered a brief prayer before yanking up his spoon and digging into the mound on his plate.

His mouth full of the flavorful beans, he mumbled, “No biscuits?”

Tarsie swallowed. “No flour.”

Emmy sent a shy look at him. “We used up the flour makin’ cookies. Tarsie says we’ll have ’em for dessert.”

Nathaniel waved his spoon. “Cookies!”

Tarsie caught the boy’s hand and drew the spoon toward his plate. “But not ’til you’ve eaten all your beans.”

With a grin, Nathaniel jammed the spoon into the mound of beans.

Joss frowned. “You wasted the flour on cookies?”

Tarsie raised one brow. “I didn’t consider it wastin’ when your children were in need of a distraction while wonderin’ where their papa was. Besides . . .” Her expression softened. “Every wee one needs a treat now and then.” She shrugged and took another bite. “We’ll buy more flour at the mercantile, an’ I’ll be sure to fix a batch of biscuits for tomorrow’s supper.”

Joss bent over his plate, thinking. His knees hurt after his day of stooping next to grapevines. He didn’t care to eat every meal kneeling at this crate. They needed chairs. And a decent table. He had the six dollars from his dock work, and after tomorrow he’d have another four dollars for his time at the vineyard. Ten dollars in all—not an insignificant amount, but not enough to buy furnishings. It’d be enough, if they were careful, to keep them in groceries till the dock was rebuilt and he could take up there again. However, he’d fill a purse faster, furnish this little house quicker—and be able to beat it to Chicago sooner—if he continued working at the vineyard.

An image of Simon’s dark, smiling face filled Joss’s memory. Hadn’t he decided he couldn’t work with that man? He clanked his spoon into his empty plate and lurched to his feet.

“Gonna head to the wagon and change my clothes.” He gestured to his mud-stained trousers. “I’ll bring these dirty ones back in for washing.”

Emmy blinked up at him. “Don’tcha want a cookie, Papa?”

“Every wee one needs a treat now and then.” Nobody’d ever treated him when he was a youngster. A band wrapped around his chest, restricting his breathing. “No.” He headed for the door.

“If you’re done eatin’, I’ll be speakin’ with you, Joss Brubacher!”

The command in Tarsie’s voice stopped Joss midstep. He aimed a glower in her direction, which she didn’t acknowledge. She rose and offered quick instructions to the children to finish eating and then they could each have two cookies from the tin. She scurried to his side. “Let’s be steppin’ outside, you an’ me.”

Joss yanked open the door and swept his hand in a grand gesture of invitation for her to precede him. Skirts pinched between her fingers, she flounced past him with her chin set at a determined angle. Stifling a grunt, Joss followed.

On the porch, she whirled on him. The feistiness that had sparked in her eyes earlier had fled, replaced by a glimmer of concern. “Joss, when the other men came back, all a-flutter about the dock being gone and no work to be had, I feared for you. I’ve spent the whole day pacin’ and prayin’ . . . remembering how you’d take to drink when things went wrong.”

Heat filled Joss’s face. Partly shame, partly fury, and partly desire to lift a glass and feel the burn of whiskey draining down his throat followed by blissful numbness.

Tarsie touched his arm, her fingers resting gently on his sleeve. “I’m proud to see you didn’t go searching for a bottle. Mary’d be proud, too.”

The mention of Mary sent a shaft of pain through Joss’s middle. He stepped away from Tarsie’s light touch. “Yeah, well, I found a job, but—”

“Where?”

He shook his head. Couldn’t the yappy woman let him finish his sentence? “At the vineyard south of town. As a field worker. But—”

“A vineyard?” Tarsie’s voice turned shrill. “You didn’t take a job at a vineyard, did you?”

Defensiveness straightened Joss’s spine. “I did.”

“Oh, but, Joss . . .”

The disapproval in her tone raised Joss’s stubborn pride a notch. “And just why shouldn’t I work at a vineyard?”

She fluttered her hands, her lips pursed. “You know why. They’ll be brewing wine at a vineyard. Why be placing yourself in the midst of temptation?”

“We’re makin’ wine out there, not drinkin’ it.” Joss growled the words, determined to put her in her place.

“But it’ll be easily available to you.”

Joss clenched his fists. He leaned close, lowering his voice to a grating growl. “You got no say in this, Tarsie.”

She turned sharply away and sucked in several little breaths, her chest heaving with each intake. Her eyes snapped closed for several terse seconds, and when she opened them again, she met his fierce gaze with a calm resolve. “As your wife and the caretaker of your children, I should be havin’ a say, Joss. I’m concerned for you, putting yourself in such a place. We came here to Kansas to help you lose your taste for the drink. But if you—”

Joss held up his hand, stilling her words. “I gotta earn a wage. Dock’s gone, so I’m gonna work at the vineyard an’ that’s the way it is. No more talk.”

He ignored her sharp gasp of frustration and stepped off the porch. As he strode around the house to the wagon to fetch another pair of trousers, it occurred to him he’d just trapped himself. He slapped his forehead, inwardly berating himself for letting his pride run ahead of his mouth. With a growl, Joss heaved himself into the wagon and flopped onto his back on the quilt.

He was stuck with that job now, or Tarsie’d think she’d been the one to change his mind. Which would be harder to tolerate—following Simon’s directions, or having Tarsie believe he cared about her opinion? He’d either be kowtowing to a black man or appearing to kowtow to a woman. Both ideas soured his stomach.

“Well, Brubacher,” he muttered to the flapping canvas cover above his head, “you got yourself in a fine pickle now.”