by Lynda Cox
A bright, harsh flash of lightning lit up the room while the simultaneous violent crack of thunder made all three jump and added a final emphasis to Laura’s words. Ever so briefly, Devon’s eyes fluttered. Abigail’s heart leaped with the hope flooding her.
“Laura, come here.” Abigail kept her voice as calm as possible, not wanting to alarm her. Even though she tried not to, Laura’s haste to reach Devon revealed she hadn’t fully succeeded.
“What’s wrong?” Laura sank to her knees at the boy’s side, brushing frantic hands over his chest.
Abigail shook her head and placed a hand on her arm to calm her. “I think he can hear you. Call him, just like you would call him in to supper.”
Grisson crossed the room, hovering at the foot of the bed. He folded his hands and bent his head in an attitude of prayer. Laura took Devon’s hand in hers again. “Devon, time to come in. Supper’s on the table.”
The boy’s eyes fluttered but still didn’t open. Without any urging from Abigail, his mother called him again. “Devon, now. Supper’s getting cold.”
“Mmmmma.”
Laura gasped and burst into tears. Abigail squeezed her shoulder.
Grisson’s usually rigid posture broke and he sagged with relief. The pastor whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
He wasn’t out of the woods yet, and Abigail wasn’t going to give false hope to anyone, especially his mother. “Keep talking to him, Laura.”
“You scared me, Dev.” Laura furiously wiped the tears from her face. “Scared a lot of us, including Miss Abby.”
Devon opened his eyes, though one was still swollen with his head injury. “Wha’s for supper?”
Laura’s laugh mingled with tears, though this time they were happy tears. “Whatever you want. I’ll make you anything you want for supper, even if it means I have to rob the Brokken Bank to get the money to buy the fixin’s.”
Abigail pulled her attention from Devon and his mother, looking for Pastor Grisson. He was gone. She straightened and patted Laura’s shoulder. “I’ll be out on the porch. I need a moment.”
“Thank you.” Laura’s voice sounded as little more than a whisper.
Abigail just nodded, not knowing what to say. It hadn’t been her doing. If anything, this had been a miracle. She slipped out onto the porch, the pounding of raindrops on the tin roof a cacophonous roar. Grisson stood in a shadowed corner, his head bent. The muted grey light of the stormy dawn almost hid him from sight.
“Is that how you think, too, Abigail?”
“Think about what?”
He closed this distance. “Do you think I hide behind a façade and should have taken a side?”
“No one is asking you to fight that war, again.” To give herself time to consider her words, Abigail settled her palms onto the rain-slicked railing. The wood was cool, clean, washed free of the accumulated dust under her hands. “Laura is right. We can’t be Yankees or Rebels any more. We must be Texans, and more importantly, we must be the people Brokken needs. You have to set the example.”
AFTER A LONG WALK TO settle herself, Abigail opened the door of the small jail and let herself in. Victoria perched on the edge of the dark wood desk, with a steaming cup coffee clutched between her hands. Its aroma filled the small jail. Victoria nodded a greeting, and then returned her scrutiny to the two young men in the cell. The de facto sheriff said, “Father told me Devon’s awake.”
“And hungry.” Abigail caught the smile Victoria couldn’t hide as she sipped her coffee.
“If he’s gonna be okay, can we leave?” Alexander asked.
“Nope.” Just that one word from Victoria.
“Why not?” Alexander stood with his large hands gripping the bars, as if he could bend the metal with his bare hands. That he hadn’t killed Devon was a miracle in itself.
“Because you tried to kill that little boy.” Victoria set the cup on the desk. “You’re twice as big as he is...”
More than twice, Abigail corrected silently.
“...and it was two against one. So, until I figure out an appropriate punishment for the both of you, you are staying here.”
In all the years she had lived in Brokken, Abigail couldn’t recall a time that she had ever heard Aaron, the younger of the Jennings brothers, speak.
“Punishment?” With Aaron’s slow question, Abigail’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut. He did speak.
“You ain’t got that legal power,” Alexander shot at Victoria.
“You’re right,” Victoria mused. Abigail poured herself a cup of coffee and settled into the chair behind the sheriff’s desk as Victoria continued. “I don’t have that authority. The only ones who do are those blue-coats with Reconstruction. So, I’ll just have to send a telegram to them over in Shreveport. Now, how do you think they’re going to take it when they get here and find out two former Rebels tried to kill a little boy just because his father fought for the Yankees?”
Abigail studied the black depths of her cup. Both Alexander and Aaron had run off to join Confederate forces near the end of the war, even though they were only thirteen and twelve at the time. The Confederates had been so depleted, no one questioned either of them when they said they were of age to join. That’s what that war had done—made babies into killers.
Alexander released the cell bars. “What kind of punishment did you have in mind?”
Victoria turned to her with a question. “How long is Devon going to laid up?”
“Well, I’m keeping him at my house for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. Long term, with that broken arm and fractured bone over his eye, I don’t want him lifting anything more than a fork until the bones have healed, so it’s going to be at least six weeks before he can help his momma.” Abigail set her cup down. “I just stopped in to let you know I’m headed out to the Peters place to take care of the animals.”
“No, you’re not.” An utterly evil grin crossed Victoria’s features. “I just decided on the punishment for those two.”
Knowing her friend, this was going to be good. Abigail almost felt sorry for the Jennings boys. Almost.
Victoria walked over to the cell. “Until Miss Abby says Devon can do his chores and help his momma, you two will be doing everything for Miz Peters. You will keep her firewood supplied and chopped. You will feed their animals.”
“They got pigs.” Alexander sounded as if he was going to be sick.
“Well, then, I guess you need to learn real fast how to slop hogs. Taking care of them is no worse and no less smelly than taking care of those goats at your house. Any chore that Devon did for his momma, you’re going to do. You will be at the Peters home at sunup to do the morning chores and you’ll be back there to do the evening chores. Every day.”
“But...”
“Or, I’m going to send that telegram.” Victoria didn’t relent. “Your choice.”
Alexander’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at the floor. Victoria hesitated to unlock the cell. “If you decide to run away to avoid helping Miz Peters, you’d better keep running. Don’t come back.”
“We’ll help her.” Alexander capitulated to Victoria’s terms for their release.
“One other thing,” Abigail stood as she spoke. “You will help her, Alexander. You won’t make Aaron do all the work. He never would have been involved in this if you hadn’t taken the lead. He follows you like a puppy.”
Alexander’s gaze shot from Victoria to Abigail and back to Victoria. “Can she do that? Can she tell me to do that?”
“If she can’t, I can. You heard her.” Victoria twisted the key in the lock and pulled the cell door open. “You’d better get a move on. You’ve got chores to do at the Peters house and I know your momma has chores for you to do, too.”
Once the boys were out of the jail, Abigail couldn’t contain her laughter. “That was brilliant.”
A rueful grin crossed her friend’s face. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and picked up her coffee cup. “Sometimes, I can d
o this job right.”
“Most of the time you do it right, Vic.” She let another laugh emerge. “And, I need your help now with your father.”
“My father?” Victoria almost choked on her coffee. “Why do you need my help with him?”
“I have a plan, but if he doesn’t approve of it and agree to help, it won’t work.” Abigail couldn’t bring herself to drink any more of the strong, bitter brew. How Victoria could manage to choke this stuff down was beyond her understanding.
Suspicion narrowed Victoria’s eyes. “A plan for what?”
“We need men here. We need a doctor—”
“You’re doing just fine.”
“No, I’m not. Devon is going to recover, but I think it’s more due to divine intervention than anything I did. Anyway, we need men here. We need men to be willing to marry the widows here and others to marry the young ladies who have no prospects for marriage unless they leave Brokken.” Abigail twisted her cup on the desk. “We need to send off for mail-order grooms. Your father can be the one responsible for receiving the letters from the men who might be interested in coming to Brokken.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably.” Abigail continued to twist the cup round and round. “But as I see it, it’s the only way we’re going to save this town.”
“I am not marrying anyone else.” A very unladylike snort erupted from Victoria. “And you want my father to be responsible for deciding if those men who might respond to our request are fit to marry one of us? Have you forgotten what he told me when Jonathan was hitting me?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I didn’t say we make your father responsible for matchmaking. That’s going to be entirely up to each of us. We decide if we want to remarry. We decide who to marry. But our advertisement will carry more weight if the men must respond to a preacher, don’t you think?” Abigail stopped toying with the cup and looked over at her friend. “If you have a better idea to save this town, I’m all ears.”
Victoria eased the cell door shut and then pulled the key from the lock. She tossed the heavy key ring onto her desk. The chattering of the large keys sounded abnormally loud in the small jail. “I’m not sure Brokken is worth saving.”
“You don’t believe that.” Abigail gestured to the keys on the desk. “If you did, you wouldn’t have come up with the punishment for the Jennings that you did. Now, help me plan how to present this idea to your father and get his approval.”
“Appeal to his vanity. He is a very vain man. He’ll do it if he thinks he will win the praises of his congregation. Why do you think he wouldn’t take a side in that blasted war? It had nothing to do with pacifism.” Victoria turned a pointed stare to her, her lips thinned. Her posture straightened as she eased out a tense breath. “But, you’re right. My father should place the ad. We’ll go talk to him.”
Abigail gave a simple nod and handed Victoria her cup.
“Do you really think this town is worth saving?” Her gaze locked with Abigail’s.
“Yes. It’s our home. I, for one, don’t intend to leave. And if I’m going to stay here, I’m going to do all I can to help it survive.” She took a step closer. “Please help.”
To her relief, Victoria nodded. “Let’s go see my father.”
“Now?”
“Why wait?” She was already opening the door.
Abigail hurried across the floor and caught her elbow. “Vic, wait. If we don’t have everything all lined out, he’s going to do one of two things—either take over totally or refuse to help.”
Victoria nodded and added a sigh as she closed the door. “There is no middle ground with him, that’s for sure. What do we need to do to ‘line everything out’?”
“We need to have as many of the women in this town onboard with this idea. We need a place for the men to stay while they court and hopefully wed the widows.” Abigail brushed a wayward strand escaping her braid off her face. “I think I can convince Sophia to allow a few to stay there. The ones who can’t pay board can work. Since she’s been on her own running the hotel, it’s needed some maintenance.”
Victoria leaned against the door. “There’s also the Broken Arrow. Those three brothers of Deborah’s aren’t much help out there. I think we can pull Deborah onto our side if we frame it that the men will be required to help on the ranch to pay for room and board until they marry.”
“Good. But, that’s only two.”
“It’s a start. You go talk to Sophia. I’ll send for Deborah and tell her I need to talk to her.”
Chapter Five
On a small rise, Deborah Brokken stopped to view the town, but it held little interest. Instead, the clearing itself held her attention. A tree’s gnarled roots grabbed the ground, digging fingers into the damp soil, as if savoring the water before it evaporated away. Green moss and algae sprinkled its bark, like an old woman desperately trying to hide age spots with an overabundance of rice powder.
Winter held February loosely in its grasp, and the cool wind soothed her. When peace prevailed, she spread her handkerchief on a damp log, settled on it, and propped her elbows on her knees. Why had the sheriff sent a message by Calvin to meet her at the Brokken Bank?
At that moment, in the stillness, the tantalizing scent of an orange came to her. It intensified a craving.
Every Christmas her father had managed to bring home a sack filled with oranges, and he presented one to each of his four children. Her brothers peeled theirs quickly, devouring the slices two or three at a time. Not her. Without a word, she handed her orange to her father. He’d give her a wink, and then roll the orange back and forth on the table, to soften it, to release the sweet juices. And then he’d take his ivory-handled pocket knife and carve a hole in the fruit. She still remembered his smile when he handed it to her, a smile she’d not seen for six long years, since she was thirteen.
The last orange had been before the War, before her father left with her oldest brother Curt. Her other two brothers, Karl and Fritz, followed a year or so later. Of course, she’d stayed behind with her grandparents and Isaac Iverson, the foreman of the ranch.
It wasn’t much of a ranch now. Her grandparents moved from Boston after her mother had died, to care for her. They need not have bothered. Isaac was the constant in her life. He’d been the only one who could rock her to sleep, who could help ease her colic as a baby. She’d been a difficult child, she’d been told more than once, until Isaac’s patience worked wonders. She giggled. Or so everyone thought.
And even though she grew up motherless, life had been good before the War. She had her father, who doted on her, her three older brothers, who teased her endlessly and protected her fiercely, her maternal grandparents, who tolerated her, and Isaac.
Her father had been busy with the bank he’d established, with the General Store he owned. He loved her, brought her oranges, but Isaac was more of a father, although his skin was dark. Her attachment to him never wavered. His wisdom guided her, and his laughter sustained her through the bad times.
Franklin Brokken had been killed in battle, and she’d suffered an even greater loss, her brothers. They’d returned, but with empty eyes that looked beyond her to some far-off battlefield.
She shook her head. No. Something remained, something as intangible as the craving for an orange. She longed to escape her memories but knew not how.
And she wasn’t alone. The widows of Brokken, with no place to go, had their own haunted eyes, as depleted as the town founded by her father.
She shook her head at her musings and pushed herself off the log. Daydreaming her life away, that’s what Grandmother would say. Deborah brushed off her dress, dismayed to see a stain from the mud. She’d wash out the stain as soon as she got home, before Grandmother saw it.
It was less than half a mile from here into town and now she wished she’d ridden her horse. She’d feared the recent rains left too treacherous a path and left Ruckus behind in her stable. Deborah squared her shoulders and tilted h
er chin a notch and walked toward the town. As much as she tried, she could not avoid all the mud puddle and slid once, narrowly avoiding a fall.
She reached North Main Street and headed toward the bank. Not many people were out today, the town square empty.
Three horses were tethered at the well, resting peacefully. They were the only horses she saw. Once, before the War, the square had been filled every day of the week, except Sundays when most folks attended services at Brokken’s one church.
When new arrivals came into town to establish rival churches, Preacher Grisson met with them and convinced them to join his church. Most did although some moved on. Having one church united the town in theory but not always in practice. One man in charge led to stagnation.
She arrived at the bank, her family’s bank where Curt and Karl worked, or at least passed their time. Fritz ran the General Store. The Brokken population had little money to entrust to them or to spend in the store, so her brothers were idle most of the time, waiting, as the whole town seemed to be.
Curt was in the front, his elbows on the counter behind the teller’s window. He acknowledged his sister’s presence with a slight nod and bent his head to his hands as if hiding his face. Deborah walked to the fireplace, warmed her hands, and waited for Sheriff English.
Her father had secured the services of a master woodsmith to carve the oak surround. Although the wood was much lighter, it matched the intricate carvings on the cuckoo clock, high on the wall. It had been brought from Germany by her great grandfather, Wilhelm Brecheisen. His surname meant “breaker of iron” in German. Not long after Wilhelm arrived in America, he became involved in a fistfight with a fellow German, a man named Frederick Eisen. When Eisen landed a blow and Wilhelm fell, breaking his hip in the process, one of the onlookers said, “The iron has broken the iron breaker.”
