A Home in Drayton Valley by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page B

shirtfront as he went, he aimed himself for the door.
    â€œHey, mister—your money!”
    Joss ignored the call and careened into the street. So he’d left a good six bits behind. It was a small price to pay for—just once—putting Mary first.

    Tarsie tucked the children beneath the quilt Mary had used every day during their journey. Perhaps the scent of their mother caught in the fabric would help them sleep. Little Nathaniel was too young to understand what had happened, but he’d cried all afternoon because Emmy cried. The little girl’s inconsolable sorrow and Nathaniel’s repeated demand to go back to the cemetery and “dig Mama up” nearly broke Tarsie’s heart.
    She leaned forward and kissed their foreheads, then whispered, “Get a good rest now. God’s angels’ll be holding you tight all through the night.”
    â€œLike they’re holdin’ Mama tight?” Emmy’s voice quavered.
    â€œHoldin’ Mama?” Nathaniel mimicked.
    Tarsie forced her lips into a smile and brushed Emmy’s curls away from her tear-moistened cheeks. “Your mama doesn’t need angels to hold her anymore because she’s with Jesus.”
    Emmy blinked, her blue eyes so like Mary’s. “And she’s not sick no more?”
    â€œShe’ll never be sick again,” Tarsie said. As much as she missed Mary, she couldn’t help but send up a silent prayer of gratitude that her dear friend’s pain was forever gone.
    Emmy snuggled closer to Nathaniel, who appeared to have already drifted off to sleep. “I wish I could go to Jesus, too.” She sniffed. “I wanna be with Mama.”
    â€œI know, darlin’.” Tarsie adjusted the quilt beneath Emmy’s chin. “And you will be someday. But you have to wait ’til God calls you. He has a perfect time for you to go be with Him, and you mustn’t want to go ahead of His plan. All right?”
    Emmy yawned, her eyes crunching closed. “All right, Tarsie. G’night.”
    Tarsie remained on her knees beside the children’s pallet, alternately singing and praying, until Emmy’s deep, even breathing matched her brother’s. Then she carefully climbed out of the wagon into a starlit night. The fire she’d started earlier to cook their supper no longer snapped, but coals glowed. She added a few twigs, stirring the fire to life again. When Joss finally stumbled back into their camp, he might need the coffee she’d left in the pot.
    A few yards downriver, the canvas covers of the Murphy wagons hunkered like a circle of ghosts in the muted light. Campfires glimmered, and mumbled voices drifted to Tarsie’sears, a comforting reminder of someone’s presence. But here, in her silent camp, she felt alone. Tate Murphy had come over after supper to tell her that he and the others would head on come morning. She’d thanked him for staying long enough to see Mary buried. Even if Joss didn’t appreciate their attendance at the graveside, Tarsie did. And Mary would have, too.
    She glanced toward the town, searching the shadows for Joss’s return. She shivered despite the warmth from the fire. What if he didn’t come back? What if he decided to abandon his children now that Mary was gone? What would she do if—
    She refused to continue pondering what-ifs. He’d come back. Everything he owned was in the wagon. He had to come back. But the fire had died to smoldering coals a second time and the other camps had fallen silent before the sound of footsteps alerted Tarsie to someone’s approach.
    Straightening from her hunkered position beside the soft orange glow, she aimed her face toward the deep shadows. “Joss?”
    â€œIt’s me.”
    He stepped fully into the camp. As he passed her, a telltale odor tickled her nose, and she resisted pinching her nostrils shut. She watched Joss cross to the opposite side of the rock