A Home in Drayton Valley by Kim Vogel Sawyer

“What about canned milk? The children will need milk.”
    Frank gave a hearty laugh. “You don’t need to worry about that none. Ever’ one o’ these trains, somebody’s got a cow. You’ll be able to barter milk without no trouble at all. How many young’uns you got?”
    Pain crumpled Mary’s chin. Joss knew she’d say five. She always counted the three they’d buried. Then they’d have to explain why only two were in the wagon. He blurted, “Two.”
    â€œWell, then . . .” Frank popped open a round glass jar and withdrew a pair of fat, sugarcoated gumdrops. He plunked the candy into Mary’s hand. “A treat for your little ones.”
    Tears winked in Mary’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”
    â€œOh, now, it ain’t much.” Frank grinned and backed away, wiping his hands on his stained apron front. He waddled behind the counter and retrieved a small tin box. Its hinges creaked when he lifted the lid. “Let’s get you all tallied up here. Then we can load your wagon.”
    Joss paid the bill—to his relief, a lesser amount than he’d expected. Then, with Frank puffing along beside him, he carted everything to the waiting wagon. Mary stood beside the wagon while Tarsie climbed inside and organized the sacks, boxes, and bushel baskets, leaving space in the center of the bed for the children and her to sit.
    Frank frowned at the wagon. “Don’t you got a cover for this thing? Bound to hit rain on the trail. You’ll need a cover.” He slapped Joss on the back. “Tell you what, I got a canvas big enough, and there’s a broken-down wagon out back. Been tearin’ it up and usin’ the wood in my cookstove, but the ribs’re just lyin’ there. No use for ’em. You can have ’em if you buy the canvas.”
    Tarsie’s face lit. “What a generous offer! We’ll be thanking you kindly.”
    Joss harrumphed. Friend of Mary’s or not, this girl would have to learn her place. He was in charge, not her. “Go check on the kids,” he told her. She frowned, but she climbed out of the wagon and bustled away. Turning to the store owner, Joss squared his shoulders. “’Preciate the offer. But I wouldn’t know how to fit the wagon with ribs.”
    â€œWhy, that’s no problem at all, mister!” Frank beamed. “Any o’ the wagonmasters’ll be able to attach the ribs an’ stretch a canvas over to keep the sun an’ rain off your family. Most of ’em are right good wainwrights—have to be to take care o’ those they’re leadin’. ’Sides, you get rain on them sacks, that cornmeal, sugar, an’ flour’ll be ruined. Gotta have a cover.”
    Swallowing an irritated grunt, Joss surrendered. If the wagon had a cover, they could use it as a temporary shelter tonight instead of paying to sleep in the liveryman’s barn. “All right, then. Where’ll I find one of the wagonmasters so we can get a cover on this thing?”
    Frank’s deep chortle shook his belly. “You’re in luck, mister. Right there’s Tate Murphy, one o’ the most reliable wagonmasters I’ve ever known.” Lifting his thick arm, he waved. “Tate! Over here! Got some folks—Joss an’ Mary Brubacher an’ their young’uns—wantin’ to join up with your train!”
    Joss squinted up the road and spotted a man on horseback. His dusty plaid shirt and brown trousers spoke of days in the saddle. Leather gloves covered his hands, a bandana circled his neck, and a battered hat tugged low hid everything but his thick black beard. Except for the bandana and cowboy-styled hat, he might have been one of the dockworkers from New York.
    The man reined in the horse next to the emporium’s hitching rail and swung down. With a deft flick of his wrist, hewrapped the