by Lynda Cox
Abigail blinked away the sudden threatening tears and shook her head, angry with herself. Wallowing in self-pity never did a body good. When word came of Sam’s death at Camp Chase after his capture she promised she would stay on to take care of her friends until a new doctor could be convinced to come to Brokken.
And one of those people needed her help, now.
She took hold of the railing on the steps and pulled herself to her feet. A pause to brush the dust from her dark skirt gave her another few moments to contemplate the dying town nestled into the rolling hills and pine stands. The winter rains hadn’t come, and all was a desiccated, yellow-brown. Lord, they needed rain. While collecting young shoots the day before, the tinder-dry condition of the pine stands and the oak groves gave her deep pause. One spark...
Abigail froze, looking at the town again. A spark. Something to light a fire under the people of Brokken. How many times had she witnessed how thickly vegetation returned after a fire? A nebulous idea began to form. Was she or was she not a healer? Brokken was broken, hurting, and in need of a healing touch. And the men who had lost their families in the War—perhaps Brokken could provide them a home and they, in turn, could provide the town with what it most needed.
If she could convince the other widows and Pastor Grisson to endorse the idea, it just might be the manner to heal Brokken and restore life to the small town. That’s what they needed—an infusion of life.
In the meantime, she had a sick woman to care for.
ABIGAIL PAUSED AT THE gate in the fence surrounding the small, nondescript cabin Martin Davis had built for what he hoped to be a growing family. He had taken his time with this fence, forming pickets and supports. She remembered the care that had once been taken with this place—the lush vegetable garden of green beans, peas, corn, and tubers; the small patch of grass Davis had maintained near the door; even the tiny flower beds next to the cabin Jane had so lovingly tended.
The garden plot was over-grown, the grass had gone to seed last fall and still wasn’t cut back, while dank weeds choked out Jane’s small flower beds. The fence was in dire need of whitewashing, and the chinking in the cabin gaped open in places. Even the gate hung askew, in desperate need of a new hinge at the bottom.
This wasn’t the home of a man intending to stay.
Abigail quelled her sigh. Whether or not Davis was staying, Jane was still ill. She drew her shoulders back, shifted the small basket over her lower arm, and lifted the gate out of the dust. She marched to the door, taken slightly aback with the silence shrouding the home. Unless it had been worse than Davis let on, surely even he wouldn’t have butchered out all their chickens.
A firm rapping on the door produced only a hollow echo. Abigail’s heart sank. She twisted the door knob and pushed the door partially open. “Hello. Is anyone at home?”
When there wasn’t an answer, not that she had been expecting one, she pushed the door fully open. Her heart sank all the way to the soles of her feet. The modest two-roomed cabin was empty. Nothing remained of the couple who once lived here—even the glass had been removed from the two small windows. The handmade table and its matching chairs were all that was left. No small wonder Davis had been so evasive earlier in town.
A jar of what appeared to be preserves held reign in the middle of that forlorn table, with a small piece of paper tucked under the jar. Abigail walked across the rough-hewn floor and sank into a chair. She dropped her basket to the freshly swept floor and looked around at the desolate little room. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the opening where there had once been a glass window, dust dancing in the beams. As she watched the motes twisting and shimmering, her eyes lost focus.
This wasn’t just the loss of another family in Brokken. Jane had been her friend, someone who, despite Martin’s derision and fear of backwoods witchcraft, had gone with her into the glades and thickets and braved the swampy areas to help her collect leaves and roots and barks. Jane made her laugh, especially in the first few weeks after Sam’s capture and more importantly, after his death.
Blinking with the stinging in her eyes, she slid the jar closer to her and picked up the scrap of paper. The crude, block letters spelling out “For Abby” blurred. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to steel herself to this new loss, and the breath ended on a choking sob.
There wasn’t a manner to fight this loss. Abigail crumpled the paper, holding the wad tight in one hand, while she cradled Jane’s blackberry preserves to her breast and gave in to the tears. She slumped over the table, her heartbroken cries filling the empty space.
Not sure how much time had passed before she regained control of her emotions, Abigail finally wiped her face dry. The light entering the cabin had shifted, the rays longer and red as molten steel. The thought crossed her mind the rain crows had been wrong. There would be no rain overnight.
She picked up her basket, settled the jar of preserves in its depths, carefully smoothed out the simple note and secured it in the basket for safekeeping. If she remembered correctly, there was a simple hand pump behind the cabin. As hot as she felt and as much as her eyes burned, her face must be red and marred with the aftermath of her crying jag.
Long shadows filled the pine thickets. The usual chirping of the birds fell silent with her approach to the pump. Ghostly fingers trailed along her spine. Abigail paused, peering into the dark shadows, unable to suppress the thought she was being watched. A slow scan of the thickets didn’t reveal anything, and Abigail shook off the chill.
A few quick pumps brought the cool water spilling from the spigot. Her large, cotton handkerchief caught the water. She wrung the fabric out, wiped her face, and pressed the still cool cloth to her hot eyes. The silence grew and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Lowering the cloth and making another more careful study of the shadows still didn’t reveal the reason for the silence of the forest birds or why the hair stood on the back of her neck.
She wadded the cloth in her hand and froze when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. The biggest cougar she had ever seen emerged from the undergrowth and picked its way through the brush, in complete silence, and approached a tiny stream. The cat stopped and lowered its head to the stream.
The sound of the cougar lapping water carried throughout the glade. She sucked in her breath and held herself rigid. Even though her heart raced with trepidation, Abigail couldn’t deny the beauty and raw power exuding from the tawny body. White dusted the end of its muzzle and filled the inside of its constantly flicking ears.
As if it sensed her gaze, the cat slowly lifted its head and looked directly at Abigail. The black smudges over its eyes only accentuated the green depths. For a heart-stopping moment, the predator locked eyes with her. It flashed massive white fangs with a guttural snarl, twisted away from the stream, and bounded into the deeply shrouded undergrowth. Not even a twig snapped with its passage.
Abigail’s knees buckled, and she struggled to remain standing. Her heart started to beat again. She sucked in a deep breath, light-headed with relief.
The short walk back to town left her feeling uneasy and repeatedly looking over her shoulder. More than once, she fought the urge to hike up her skirts and run. She’d never carried a gun, though more than once Sam had urged her to when she went into the thickets and stands to collect plants for her tinctures.
The sight of the steeple of the church slowed her steps and allowed her to breathe easier. She came to a halt on a small rise overlooking Brokken. The very last of the long, rosy rays of sunlight bathed the tiny town. Windows of the homes and businesses burned with that reflected glow, while all the structures shimmered in rose-gold. A calm settled over her as she continued to look on the town.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She was not leaving. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. The few letters from her family back East made it clear there was nothing left to return to. Union and Confederate troops had occupied her family home more than once as
battle lines had shifted, advanced, and retreated. The Till family didn’t have a lot before the war. Occupying forces made sure there was nothing. Even now, there was still nothing.
Brokken was her home. One way or another, she would gather the forces needed to save Brokken, to make it into a thriving community again.
Her plan would work. Somehow, the cougar solidified her courage, made her goal tangible.
A weight lifted, and she started down the rise into town. Her town.
Chapter Three
Abigail let herself into the home she had once shared with Sam. The memories here sometimes overwhelmed her. For the most part, they were good memories. Memories of the man she loved. She halted in the middle of the foyer, inhaling deeply the aroma of the mountain laurel branches she had cut that morning. A smile crossed her face with the recollection of how many times she had brought a cutting home when she and Sam had gone down to Austin, only to have the cutting die. She finally found the way to keep the cutting alive and take root was to plant it in sandy, rocky soil.
A soft sigh escaped her as she crossed the foyer into the parlor. The garish decorations here had long ago ceased to startle her, though that had taken time, too. When she and Sam first arrived in Brokken, newlywed and as poor as the proverbial church mouse, this house was the only building they could afford. No one in Brokken mentioned that before they purchased the building it had been a brothel, complete with an ornate teak and brass high-class bar.
She put her tinctures onto the shelves behind it. This bar was the one thing she and Sam had never even contemplated removing. The top itself was a single piece of teak, blacker than midnight, and its long length warped and twisted into a graceful, slow “s” curve. The craftsmanship and detail that had gone into its creation often had Abigail trailing her fingertips over the intricate inlays of three separate starburst patterns.
As she traced the largest of the starburst patterns, her cheeks heated with the recollection of Sam boosting her onto the teak...Abigail shoved those thoughts away. If she dwelled too long in the past, the pain might bring her to her knees again.
She turned her attention to the medicines and supplies. Horehound and yarrow tincture bottles appeared frighteningly low. Restocking the yarrow would mean a day’s jaunt to where she often found the plant. Once more, she resolved to dig some and plant it in her garden. It was probably the most resilient and adaptive of the plants she used for medicinal purposes.
“Did you talk to him?”
Abigail startled with Victoria’s question. She turned to the open doorway of the parlor. “Do you ever knock?”
“I did.” Victoria crossed the room, halted at the bar, and propped her elbows on the teak. A soft scraping noise accompanied her booted foot coming to rest on the brass footrail. “You didn’t answer. Did you talk to him?”
Which was it she was being accused of not responding to—not hearing Victoria’s knock or her question? Abigail picked up a bottle, shook it to mix the contents again, and then replaced it. Add licorice to her list of needed supplies. She refused to contemplate how low the supply of laudanum was.
“No, I didn’t talk to Mr. Davis. He was gone...so was Jane.” The lump in her throat threatened to choke Abigail again. “Everything was gone, even the glass windows. I don’t know why he was in town earlier, but they’re gone.”
Victoria slumped closer to the bar top. “Gone?”
Abigail nodded, once, unable to force another word past the growing lump. Jane hadn’t been just her friend. She, Victoria, and Jane had been inseparable. Or so she thought. A bittersweet memory came to her, of sitting on the bank of the small creek on the Davis property with both Victoria and Jane, the woods aglow with the golden light of the last hour of the day, the three of them sipping their first attempt at making hard cider and none of them willing to admit what they had was vinegar not cider. Finally, Victoria, in her shooting from the hip style, tossed the contents of her cup into the stream and announced just how horrible it was. Jane had said it was about time one of them admitted it and a small laugh started. Soon, the only way they could remain upright was to cling to one another in uncontrollable laughter, laughing until tears flowed.
“Gone?” Victoria repeated the word on a stricken whisper.
“Yes, gone.” Abigail reached across the mirror-like finish of the teak and took Victoria’s hands into hers. “Vic, we have to do something. You were right earlier. Brokken is dying.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.” She squeezed her friend’s hands once more before releasing her. “But, when I saw that cougar—”
“You saw a cougar? Where?”
“At the Davis place. When I saw that cat, I knew we must do something. Gone only a day and already that cougar felt brave enough to come to the creek in broad daylight.”
“I’ll take a rifle and go wait for it there tomorrow. I’ll take care of it.” Victoria looked over her shoulder, as if somehow the cougar might be in the house with them.
“That’s not my point.” Abigail twisted the small jar of preserves still in her basket. “My point is, with people leaving Brokken, that cat felt comfortable enough to come that close to the house. It’s not the only danger around here. We’ve both heard the rumors of deserters who are still avoiding the law and how dangerous they are. What happens when, not if, word gets out that this town is mostly women and children?”
A sullen pout twisted Victoria’s lips. “Are you saying I can’t defend this town from outlaws?”
Abigail slammed her open palm down on the teak bar top. “Will you stop taking everything personally? That is not what I’m saying. I’m saying you shouldn’t have to. I’m saying your biggest worry should be what to cook your family for supper, and until we get more men in this town, you won’t be able to cook that supper.”
“I don’t need a man.”
Abigail knew she had pushed Victoria too hard. Her friend’s shoulders tensed, her head jerked up, and the hard glitter in the depths of her eyes was much more than anger.
This stubborn refusal to accept what any sane person would have already accepted exasperated Abigail. “I know, Vic. You think he’ll be back, just like Sam promised me.” She struck the table again. “Face it. He’s not co—”
“Don’t you dare tell me again that Jonathan won’t be coming back. Don’t you dare!” Fury and desperation left Victoria’s voice little more than a shaking, guttural growl. “Until I know for sure he’s dead, I can’t stop waiting for him.”
“Vic, you may never know. Tullahoma happened four years ago.”
Victoria’s face blanched. The glitter sharpened into daggers. “No one saw him fall.”
“No one saw him afterward, either.” Abigail almost reached for Victoria’s hands again and thought the better of it. For too long, Victoria had kept this wound open, refused to allow it to heal. “No one has seen him or heard from him in four years, Victoria.”
“Until I have proof, Jonathan isn’t dead.”
This wasn’t an open wound. This was a festering, stinking, abscess, poisoning her friend. Sam would have told her that it had to be lanced and drained to allow for healing. The only manner to open this wound would be with words honed to scalpel sharpness and wielded with exacting precision. “Every time you asked Mr. Davis about Tullahoma, he told you the same thing. No one saw Jonathan after the battle. When they started burying the dead, so many were maimed beyond recognition. The only thing they could do was bury them and mark whether the grave was Confederate or Union. With every day that goes by, the odds become better and better that Jonathan was one of those buried in a grave marked only as a fallen son of the gray.”
Victoria clamped her lips together so tightly, white edged their shape. Her face paled until her skin resembled fragile, bleached, white-bone china. Her hands clenched into fists, the knuckles whiter than her face.
Abigail tried again. “It’s one thing to hold onto hope while there is hope to be had. It’s another
to hold onto it when any reasonable person would have stopped hoping. It’s time to mourn your loss and start living, to put the past behind.”
Her friend blinked once, twice. “It must be so comforting to be able to know exactly how to tell others to feel.”
“You’re a reasonable, sane person. Put that rationale to use, Vic, and face the facts. Jonathan is dead.”
“I can’t accept it until I have proof.”
“More than anything, I wish Jonathan had come home for you. Maybe more than I wish Sam hadn’t died.” Abigail lowered her gaze to the black wood. She walked around the bar and stood next to Victoria. “Mourn for him, by all means. But, stop grieving for him and for what might have been. There is a difference.”
Victoria didn’t look at her. Her gaze remained locked on the large mirror behind the bar. Abigail shifted her sight to their reflection. She deliberately softened her voice. “Vic, you’re my dearest friend. More than that, you’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister, and it cuts my heart to pieces to see you being eaten alive on the inside with this.”
“I can’t accept it.” Victoria’s face crumbled, and with an effort, she reestablished her self-control. “If I do...and, he promised me. He never broke any promise to me. Ever.”
Abigail turned to Victoria again. She hesitantly curled her fingers over her friend’s shoulder. “If he could have kept that promise, you know he would have.”
Victoria sucked in a deep breath. And another, gasping as if she’d just run a very long distance. Her shoulders rounded. Her head bowed. Her fists unclenched just long enough to grasp the silver star pinned to her blouse with one hand. “The truth is, I’m afraid he’ll keep that promise.”
