Free A Home in Drayton Valley by Kim Vogel Sawyer

uneasy chill across Tarsie’s scalp.
    Tarsie gently removed her arm from Mary’s light grasp. “Let me put away my pouch, and then I’ll be seein’ to breakfast.”
    She scurried off, eager to put her hands to work. If she were busy, she wouldn’t have to think. When she’d finished frying cornmeal cakes in bacon grease, she tossed a quilt on the ground to serve as their table and called everyone to breakfast.
    Joss, who’d kept himself occupied with the horses while Tarsie prepared their morning meal, ambled over after Mary had prayed and served the children. He crouched at the edge of the quilt, selecting one of the remaining crisp cornmeal cakes in the skillet. He sent Tarsie a low-browed look while he chewed. “You were out all night.”
    Tarsie poked at the browned cake on her tin plate. She couldn’t bring herself to swallow. “Yes. It was a hard birthing.” She flicked a glance at the children, hoping Joss would read the warning in her expression. Why subject the little ones to unpleasantness? “And it ended in the worst possible way.”
    He nodded, popping the final piece of cake into his mouth. “Figured as much from all the caterwauling.” He glanced toward the other camp, a flicker of something unreadable squinting his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and rubbedhis palms on the thighs of his britches, leaving streaks of grease on the heavy duck fabric. “Since the new mama won’t need time to rest up, guess we’ll be pulling out early. Glad I hitched the team.” He pushed himself upright.
    Tarsie bit down on the end of her tongue to prevent herself from unleashing a torrent of fury at the man. How could he be so unfeeling? He himself had lost three babies. His wife sat now, pale and with barely enough strength to lift a fork. Didn’t he possess even an ounce of charity?
    She spoke through clenched teeth. “Mr. Murphy intends to give Minnie Jenkins’s husband and mother a proper time of mourning before we set out again.”
    Joss looked again toward the gathered wagons, as if seeking evidence that contradicted Tarsie’s statement. Finally he nodded and hunkered down again. “Well, then, reckon I’ll have another cup of coffee.” He held out his tin cup.
    Tarsie rose with a rustle of skirts. “Pour it yourself.” She stomped away, her hands clenched into fists and her teeth clamped so tightly her jaw ached. Mary called after her, but she ignored her friend and continued to the creek, where she plopped down on the bank. She tore loose a few sprouts of green and gave them a vicious toss into the sunshine-speckled water, watching as the slow-moving stream carried the scraps out of sight. If only her own feelings of inadequacy could be so easily discarded.
    â€œI’d also like to be sending Joss downstream, the insensitive oaf!” She muttered the words to the passing breeze. It replied by tossing loose strands of hair across her cheek. With a grunt, she anchored the strands behind her ear and folded her arms over her chest. She sat stiffly until Joss hollered they were pulling out.
    After thanking Mary and Emmy for seeing to the breakfast cleanup—something she should have done instead of skulking off in a cloud of anger—she huddled in the corner of thewagon bed and fell silent. She wanted to sleep, as she’d gotten no rest the night before, but the jouncing progress over stones and ruts in the road jarred her from sleep every time exhaustion coaxed her eyes closed.
    Mary, seemingly oblivious to the jolts and bumps, napped off and on. The children entertained themselves with some rocks they’d picked up along the way that left whitish marks on surfaces. By the end of the day, they’d decorated every exposed inch of the wagon’s planked sides, earning a scolding from their father. Tarsie bristled at his harsh words. The wagon was old and battered. The simple