Free A Home in Drayton Valley by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

drawings and attempts at the ABCs did no harm. But she held her tongue and spoke not a word to Joss, fearful she’d say things that would distress Mary and displease her Lord. That man ruffled her feathers worse than anyone else she’d ever known.
    At suppertime, a rustle in the brush near their wagon stilled everyone’s forks above bean-filled plates. Tarsie instinctively reached for the children, but Mary had already tugged them snug to her sides, so she hugged herself instead.
    Joss snatched out the pistol he wore in the waistband of his britches and aimed it at the shadowy patch. “Who’s there? Make yourself known before I lose my patience and pull the trigger!”
    A hatless form in dark trousers with ragged holes where the knees used to be stepped from the shadows into the flickering firelight. “No need to shoot, mistuh. It’s just me, Harp Jenkins—from the Murphy train.” He inched closer, bringing his face into view, but stopped well away from the quilt that served as their table. “I ain’t armed. Just brung somethin’ for Miss Tarsie. A payment for her service to . . . to my wife. Can I give it to her?” He held out a bandana-wrapped packet with both hands.
    Joss shoved the gun back into its hiding spot. He bobbed his head at Tarsie. “Go ahead.” Bending over his plate, heresumed eating but kept his wary gaze pinned on the other man.
    Tarsie skittered across the short distance to Harp, her heart twisting in her chest. “You shouldn’t be giving me anything, Harp. I’m not deserving of payment.”
    He shook his head, his expression serious. “Yes’m, you are. You done us a favor, spendin’ the night easin’ Minnie’s pain an’ bein’ a comfort to her mama. This ain’t much . . .” He pressed the packet into Tarsie’s hands. “But I hope it’ll serve as a thank-you. You’s a nice lady, an’ we’s honored to know you.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a throaty whisper. “It weren’t your fault, Miss Tarsie, that Minnie an’ our baby boy died. So don’t be blamin’ yourself now.” With a respectful bow of his head, he turned and slipped away into the shadows.
    Tarsie stood, clutching the lumpy packet—she didn’t have the courage to open it yet—and stared at the spot where Harp had disappeared. He’d told her not to blame herself. Both Mr. Murphy and Mary had told her the same thing. She sighed, lifting her gaze to the sky where a few bright stars winked white against the pale gray expanse. Lord, how many times will I need to be told it wasn’t my fault before I finally believe it?

    The morning of their eighth day of wagon travel, Mary awakened in such intense pain she couldn’t hold back a cry of anguish.
    Tarsie, lying in the narrow gap between crates, bolted to her knees and gripped Mary’s shoulders. “What is it?”
    The flap of canvas serving as a curtain at the back opening whisked aside and Joss peered in. His dark hair drooped across his thick brows. “Mary?”
    Mary wanted to reassure both of them, but when sheopened her mouth only a groan spilled out. Nausea—the worst ever—rolled through her belly. Panic-stricken, she gasped, “I . . . I’m going to be sick.”
    Joss unhooked the back hatch and let it drop open with such force it rocked the wagon. Tarsie’s arm slid behind Mary’s back and urged her upright. The moment Mary raised her head, the earth spun, throwing her back again.
    â€œJoss, be helping me!”
    At Tarsie’s shrill cry, both children, who’d been put to bed in the space under the wagon last night, began to cry. The sounds of their distress carried through the floorboards and stung Mary’s heart. How she wanted to comfort her babies, but she could only hold her stomach and hope the bile filling her mouth