Brokken Promises

by Abagail Eldan

  Curt frowned at him. “How do you figure that?”

  Fritz could not articulate an answer. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “Are you certain you’ll be able to handle the bank and General Store while I am gone?”

  “Yes, I hired the Jennings brothers, and Calvin Meyers is helping with deliveries. Everything will run smoothly. I assure you we can get by without your help.”

  The way he said it made Fritz think he meant forever. His own brother did not appreciate all he had done.

  He walked toward the door and spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll be ready to leave in half an hour. The sooner I’m out of your hair, the better. Please send Calvin with my horse.”

  “Fritz...”

  But he did not tarry to hear what his brother had to say. Outside, he raked his hair back and settled his hat on his head and strode forth, ready to find Camellia Jenkins and persuade her to claim Sally Jane.

  What mother would not want her daughter back? If it took every penny of the Brokken money to do so, he would persuade her.

  It wouldn’t change anyone’s opinion of him, not even his brother’s...or his sister’s—of that he was certain.

  FRITZ DID AS HE HAD promised and was ready to go when Calvin arrived with his horse. He ignored Calvin’s incessant chatter and curiosity and rode out with only a nod in the boy’s direction.

  He would begin by checking with law officials in the towns nearest Brokken. Any mother would long to be close to her daughter, he reasoned. But after speaking with the sheriffs in the nearby towns, he discovered no one of her description had been seen. As a matter of fact, only three towns had new residents at all, and none had many people passing through.

  He widened his search and spent another fruitless week before it occurred to him to check with the train station. He finally hit pay dirt when a ticket collector remembered seeing a woman on a westbound train.

  Instead of continuing his quest by going from town to town, Fritz secured a hotel room and sent inquiries to several places to the west of Brokken and waited for weeks to receive word.

  The hotel room was the best the town had to offer. It had been four weeks, and he was getting stir crazy, but he forced himself to stretch out on the bed, his hands beneath his head, willing himself to relax.

  As always, his thoughts returned to the meeting with his brother. Curt’s problem was that he had not seen Chance’s arrogant behavior and their brother-in-law’s reluctance to help Fritz. Hearing it secondhand was not the same as seeing it. Somehow, when he returned, he’d make it clearer, convince his brother of Chance’s unsuitability for Deborah. Then, they could both persuade Deborah to have the marriage annulled. Getting Sally Jane away from Chance would be the first step.

  Fritz had not known, or if he’d been told, he’d forgotten, that Chance had accidentally killed his brother. Yes, he was sure it had been an accident, despite the angry words spoken to his brother. Sheriff English had condoned the courtship, encouraged it, in fact.

  He’d always had the utmost respect for Sheriff English...Vic. They’d been friends, so he’d thought, until the trial. Well, a preliminary trial for the judge to determine if actual crimes had been committed.

  Breaking out of jail, no matter how much he wished to justify it, had been a criminal act, and he’d paid for it in making restitutions to the town. Could he blame Vic for being so angry? On the other hand, she’d known him for years and should have understood the secrecy, why he had not confided in her.

  His anger at her still seethed. He sighed heavily, ran his fingers through his hair and swung his legs off the bed. He’d go down to the telegraph office and see if they had received any news. It was a useless endeavor he knew, but he was tired of waiting.

  To his surprise, he had a telegram from San Francisco. There was a Camellia Jenkins employed at the H & B Hotel.

  It would take weeks to travel to San Francisco by horseback, and he’d already spent weeks searching. At this rate, it would be months before he’d make it back to Brokken—but maybe it was a good thing. It would be time for folks to forget, and Lydia to overcome her anger.

  But to tell the truth, he already missed his family. After time spent exploring other towns, he could think of no better place to hang his hat than Brokken, Texas.

  The sooner he contacted Camellia Jenkins, the sooner he could return home. There was no time like the present. He went to the hotel, gathered his saddlebag, and checked out.

  He’d only gone half a day’s ride before he realized he’d picked an inopportune time to leave. It had not rained for weeks and, at first, billowy clouds of dust had followed behind his horse. The dust was so thick that he’d pulled his bandana over his nose. But the dust was about to settle by the looks of things.

  Gray above stripped the blue from the sky. Iron-black clouds built overhead and soon masked the sky. The wind carried a scent of rain, detectable even behind his bandana.

  The next town was miles away, too far for him to escape the coming storm. He urged his horse forward, searching for shelter, but nothing was in sight besides a few forlorn trees. Above, the clouds crumbled beneath their load.

  The storm had broken in earnest, sending buckets of water washing down his back. He pulled the bandana away and tugged down the brim of his hat, hunching his shoulders forward against the onslaught.

  He was soon a washed in misery and hoped his meeting with Mrs. Jenkins would be worth riding through this deluge.

  Chapter Five

  The dirty dishes piled next to Camellia’s pan grew instead of diminished. She stifled a sigh, stiffened her spine, and did not hear Mr. Bolt at the kitchen door until he spoke. He called Mrs. Howe to his side, and Camellia could not resist turning to glance in their direction.

  They stood in the open doorway, their heads bent together until Mrs. Howe raised her head and caught Camellia’s gaze. The woman sent a scowl and waved her hands in a silent command for her to get back to work. Camellia took the hint and resumed her task, her head bowed until Mrs. Howe let out a squeal of anger. She furtively cast a glance over her shoulder to see Mrs. Howe’s face redden with anger.

  Her brows almost met as she furrowed her forehead, and then she shook her head darkly. “I will not have it.”

  Mr. Bolt spoke through gritted teeth, his features also contorted. “He won’t take no for an answer.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Mrs. Howe said.

  Neither glanced in her direction but marched out, the door slamming behind them. Camellia had no clue why the two were so angry, and it was none of her business. She allowed a full sigh to escape her lips and then arched her aching back before plunging her hands into the pan.

  The mountain of dishes gradually became a hill. She stopped for a moment to survey the dirty water before she carried her pan to the backyard to dump it. Ready to be done for the day, she hurried back in and added more water from the kettle on the stove that had cooled considerably. The cook had been gone for over two hours, and Mrs. Howe never allowed more wood to be added once the cook left for the day.

  Camellia was able to fit the last of the dishes into the pan of lukewarm water, and a surge of energy flowed through her at the thought of she’d soon be through.

  Before she’d finished one plate, the kitchen door reopened, and Mrs. Howe stuck her head in, her lips twisted as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “There’s a man in the lobby asking for you.”

  Camellia’s hand clutched at her chest, and it took a moment for her words to emerge through the tight constriction of her throat. “A man?”

  Mrs. Howe scowled at her. “Goodness, girl! You are dripping soap and water all over the floor. Get it cleaned up and get to the lobby. Now.” She marched away.

  The constriction in her chest tightened further, and it became difficult to draw a breath. This man was not him, could not be him. She was being silly. After a moment, she was able to draw in a few gasping breaths.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and mopped up t
he floor. Even in her frenzied effort, she made sure she got every drop. Then she whipped off her apron, hung it on a nail, and made an attempt to smooth her hair as she scurried to the kitchen door.

  The path through the dining room had never looked so long and dark before. The lone, flickering candle ran shadows up the wall, and her hands shook slightly before she made it to the door leading to the lobby.

  She paused and composed her face before opening the door and stepping through. Even in her fear, she was eager to see who awaited.

  A quick glance showed Mr. Bolt at his usual place behind the counter. His small eyes in his reddened face were glued to a strange man. Mrs. Howe, too, frowned in the man’s direction before noticing her.

  “Hurry up, Camellia, and find out what this man wants. He has some nerve interrupting your chores. The dining room ain’t going to clean itself.”

  Camellia moved forward, and the stranger, for indeed it was a stranger, stepped to meet her, sweeping his hat from his head. Her manners automatically kicked in, and she extended a hand which he took for a second, making a slight bow, before releasing it.

  When his gaze raised to meet hers, she was confronted with a warm smile that momentarily confused her. She straightened her shoulders, tilted her head, and smiled back.

  The planes of his face were smooth as if he had full control of the situation. She searched her memory but still could not place the handsome man who still surveyed her. His brown eyes crinkled, and he quirked an eyebrow, as if he and Camellia shared an amusing moment.

  He spoke first. “Mrs. Camellia Jenkins?”

  She did not correct him although she was unmarried. She gave a dip of her head in acknowledgment.

  “My name is Fritz Brokken.”

  She startled. “As in Brokken, Texas?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A bit of red crept up his neck, and his face became serious, the laughter leaving his eyes. “I am sorry to inform you...”

  A hand went to her throat. “Has something happened to Sally Jane?”

  “No, no. Do not alarm yourself although I am the bearer of bad news... it is not of your daughter, but your mother.”

  “You have a daughter?” Mrs. Howe asked from behind her.

  But Camellia scarcely heard her. “My mother?” She swallowed and licked her dry lips before continuing. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Brokken also ignored Mrs. Howe, although his eyes flicked in her direction, before coming back to search Camellia’s. “I regret to inform you that Miss Edna Wallace was killed by a stray bullet during a gunfight.”

  He said it as if he read a telegram with no inflection in his words. She gave a nod. “Thank you for informing me. And where is Sally Jane?” She braced as if for a blow.

  He did not immediately answer but looked down at the hat that he twirled in his hands. When he looked up, his gaze went from Mrs. Howe to Mr. Bolt before returning to her. “We need to discuss this at length. I will come back tomorrow in order to do so.”

  Mr. Bolt gave a loud explosion of disgust. “Absolutely not. Miss Jenkins is in our employ and has work to do.”

  Mr. Brokken turned his head to nail him with a stern look. “And she never has a break?”

  Mr. Bolt did not answer although his eyes threw dagger.

  There was a hard shine in Mr. Brokken’s eyes, and a tightness at the corners of his mouth when he shrugged. His face cleared. “If she does not have time to see me during her work hours, I will return when Mrs. Jenkins finishes for the day.” His voice was pleasant, and his smile returned.

  The sudden silence was deafening. Her employers seemed at a loss for words, and Camellia scarcely dared breathe as she waited to see what they would say.

  Mrs. Howe stirred and cast a glance to her husband before facing Mr. Brokken, drawing her shoulders back. “We are not in the habit of allowing the ladies in our employ to consort with unknown men after hours.”

  His muscles tensed again although he spoke quietly. “So, you treat your employees as slaves, not allowing them to have a say in their activities?”

  Camellia could not stifle a gasp. She startled when Mrs. Howe stepped towards her and took her by the arm.

  Her employer’s fingers dug into her flesh. “That’s a ridiculous statement, Mr. Brokken. If you must speak to her, Miss Jenkins has a break each morning at ten o’clock. If you have something further to say, please come back at that time.”

  Without giving her a chance to speak, Mrs. Howe guided Camellia toward the dining room door. Camellia could not help but crane her neck in Mr. Brokken’s direction.

  His rigid stance softened, and he grinned at her. “I will be back at ten o’clock sharp.”

  Camellia nodded to let him know she heard before Mrs. Howe pushed her through the door, slamming it shut behind them.

  “Get back to work,” the woman said. She pressed her lips together, anger sparkling in her eyes.

  Camellia shrank away and headed toward the kitchen. Unlike Mrs. Howe whose very anger oozed forth, Camellia’s step was light. The encounter with the strange Mr. Brokken had lifted her spirits. The death of Edna Wallace was sad, but she’d barely known her, had first met her when she’d brought Sally Jane to Brokken. Relief flooded her, to know that Sally Jane was safe and had suffered no physical harm.

  With renewed energy, she sped through the rest of the dishes and then tackled the dining room. Despite Mr. Brokken’s interruption, she finished earlier than usual. She’d thrown out the last of the water and wiped the pan dry when Mrs. Howe returned.

  The woman fell heavily into her usual chair and eyed Camellia. “Where’s your apron? You have spoiled your dress!”

  Camellia looked down, only now noticing her wet dress. “I suppose I was so flustered I forgot to put it back on.”

  Mrs. Howe clucked her tongue. “No wonder with that man coming here to expose your shame.”

  “My shame?” She frowned at Mrs. Howe, genuinely puzzled at her words.

  Mrs. Howe cocked her head. Her face wreathed into a sly smile. “Must I spell it out for you? The shame that you have a daughter out of wedlock, dearie. Don’t worry. Our lips are sealed.”

  Camellia narrowed her eyes and made a split-second decision to lie. “No, ma’am. I was married to Sally Jane’s father. When he died of typhoid, I left her with her grandmother so I could find work.”

  The woman cocked her head, and a tight-lipped grin spread across her face. After a moment, she cleared her throat, and her eyes bored into her. “Is Edna Wallace your mother or your husband’s mother?”

  It was all Camellia could do to not squirm. “My mother.”

  “You seemed none too concerned over your own mother’s death.”

  Camellia didn’t know what to say and was silent for a minute.

  Mrs. Howe clucked her tongue. “No concern for your own kin and leaving your daughter behind?”

  “Of course I care for my relatives. It’s that Edna Wallace gave me up for adoption when I was a baby. I only met her once, when I left Sally Jane with her.”

  Mrs. Howe continued eyeing her, her head bobbing, her lips puckered, suspicion written in every feature. “If you was married, as you say, where’s your wedding ring?”

  Camellia glanced at her hand. She felt a momentary shame and grappled with her conscience before raising her head. “I have no use for one now that my husband is dead.” Her tiredness had returned with a vengeance. Lying was not for the faint of heart, and Camellia swayed on her feet. “Ma’am, I’m not feeling well. If there’s nothing else, may I go to my room?”

  Mrs. Howe pressed her lips together and puffed out her cheeks, her look comical. She released a breath in a whoosh and waved the back of her hands toward Camellia. “After you fetch me a cup of coffee. And be quick.”

  Camellia did as she was told, grabbing her apron from the nail, and using it to protect her hands from the handle of the pot. She needn’t have worried. Like the water earlier, the coffee was only lukewarm.

  Mrs. Howe took a sip and
then slammed the cup on the saucer. Camellia winced, hoping she’d not chipped it.

  Mrs. Howe waved her hands again. “This coffee is not fit to drink.” She eyed Camellia as if it was her fault.

  “The fire is almost out,” she replied, as if Mrs. Howe did not know.

  “Take this cup and saucer and wash it up,” the woman demanded.

  Camellia bit her lip. “I’ve no more water.”

  “Is there none on the stove?” Mrs. Howe asked gruffly.

  Mrs. Howe watched her closely as Camellia checked the kettle. There appeared to be enough water to wash the cup and saucer. With hands and arms numb with tiredness, she flipped the pan over and poured in the last of the water. An errant curl tickled her cheek, and she pushed it behind her ear.

  Mrs. Howe stood and stretched. “Be sure you blow out the candle before you leave. I’ll send Mr. Bolt in a minute to lock up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Camellia thanked her silently for the warning and gathered the cup and saucer.

  Mrs. Howe left, and Camellia opened the back door to fling out the cold coffee. For once, the fog did not obscure the sky, and she sighed a longing and blinked away tears. Despite her hurry, she paused a moment and looked at the stars as if they held an answer.

  She shook her head. Mr. Brokken was not here to rescue her. Her hopes were silly and to dwell on such would only lead to heartache.

  She went into the kitchen, hurriedly washed and dried the cup and saucer, blew out the candle. Luckily, she finished before Mr. Bolt arrived.

  She scurried to her room. After hanging her apron on the nail and lighting the stub of a candle, she slid the table against the door before she pulled out the trunk. It took all her strength, but she hoisted it onto the cot. Breathing heavily, she opened it, got out her other work dress, and gasped at what lay beneath as if seeing it for the first time. For some reason, since she’d arrived at the H & B, she’d ignored most of the contents of the trunk. What had been the need when she’d never wear the beautiful dresses?