Brokken Promises

by Abagail Eldan

  She closed the lid but did not lift it from the cot. She draped the work dress over the foot of her bed while she slipped off the dress she wore. Not only had she gotten her dress wet when she had forgotten her apron, it had also gotten stained and would have to be washed later. For now, she dabbed at the stain with a wet rag and then hung the dress on the same nail as her apron.

  She eyed the trunk and the image of the dress within seemed to burn through the lid. She gave in and opened the lid. The silky brown reflected the light from the candle. She fingered the dress, her favorite, before lifting it out. The smoothness of the dress surprised her, and she marveled at how soon such things were forgotten.

  The dress was for evening, but how much did Mr. Brokken know about women’s wear? A woman, even Mrs. Howe, would note that the dress was not fashionable, and even when it was, had not been designed for daywear. But why should she care what Mrs. Howe thought? Why deny herself the luxury when she might not get another chance to dress in such finery?

  She held the dress to her for a minute, touching the fabric to her cheek, and the memories flooded through her. She sighed deeply and shook her head at her foolishness. What was the point? Was she trying to impress Mr. Brokken? To what end?

  But she did not put the dress back in the trunk. Instead, she draped it on top of the work dress and smoothed it the best she could. She locked the trunk and put it back in place under the cot while her gaze continuously returned to the dress.

  She blew out the candle, and climbed into bed, careful not to disturb the dresses. She hoped they’d not be on the floor in the morning—the silk was already wrinkled enough, and she had no way to heat an iron even if she had one.

  For some reason, the trunk bit even deeper into her, and she tossed and turned as she sought to find a more comfortable position. Even if the thin mattress had been stuffed thick with down and goose feathers, sleep would have been delayed in coming by her racing thoughts and her rapidly beating heart.

  What was to happen to Sally Jane? What did Mr. Brokken wish for her to do? Her heart ached, but how could she possibly remedy the situation? It was all she could do to keep her own body and soul together.

  Her own thoughts held no solution to the problem, no ablution for her soul. Tomorrow, she’d see what Mr. Brokken had to tell her. Maybe he had some ideas, otherwise, why had he come? She’d listen, but she would not tell him the truth, no matter how much guilt gnawed within her.

  But what if he already knew or had guessed? Heat burned her cheeks and thought of rising to splash water on her face but dismissed the idea. She was too fatigued to rise.

  She sighed. There was no need for speculation. If she wanted to look her best tomorrow, she needed her sleep. She forced herself to focus on things she’d seen long ago, pleasant things before the War, balls and cotillions when the brown silk had been worn.

  She saw herself as part of a happy past, imaginary though it was. Images floated through her mind of dancing with a man, and a different warmth rose within her when his features became clearer. Mr. Fritz Brokken. And the dreams of the handsome man lulled her to sleep.

  Chapter Six

  Fritz awoke with his mind replaying the events of the day before. When he’d first arrived in San Francisco, after five long months tracing and retracing the trail of Camellia Jenkins, he had planned to procure a room in the hotel where the woman he searched for worked as a dishwasher.

  However, the rundown hotel, with smells assailing him upon arrival, had not engendered a desire to stay. He’d wondered at the sort of woman who would accept employment at such an establishment as soon as he’d entered.

  The heavy-set man behind the counter had confirmed that he would not be staying at a hotel managed, or perhaps mismanaged was the better word, by such a person. When Fritz had inquired for Mrs. Jenkins, he’d been greeted by a snort and a mumbled retort. The best Fritz could make out was the man was laughing at Fritz’s use of the word “Missus.”

  Fritz had already assumed Mrs. Jenkins was unmarried, had borne Sally Jane out of wedlock, but had decided to address her by the more respectable appellation, especially in the presence of her employer, who Mr. Bolt obviously was. He’d resented the man for not showing Mrs. Jenkins the same respect.

  Mr. Bolt had first summoned an older woman, Mrs. Howe, who had eyed Fritz suspiciously. No, more than that. Even a flash of the deputy’s badge Sheriff Vic had given him had not fazed Mr. Bolt nor Mrs. Howe. There was an arrogance to their behavior, a reckless disregard for the law. Reluctantly, after Fritz moved to leave with a promise to return with the local authorities, had they relented.

  He’d been unprepared for the appearance of the woman when Mrs. Howe had finally fetched her. He’d expected an older version of Sally Jane, someone with blonde hair and wide, blue eyes. Instead, Mrs. Jenkins was thin, almost painfully so, with skin, although smooth and unblemished, would have appalled Lydia Walsh who took great pride in her own pale complexion. Her dark hair was pulled severely back, and she had dark eyes he’d only caught a glimpse of before she’d demurely cast her gaze to the floor. Her dress was plain, a rough cotton—no surprise since she worked as a dishwasher. She could scarcely dress in finery while washing dirty dishes.

  She’d been a woman who would have never caught his eye—plain, too thin, almost frail, and dark. And more than that— demure. When she’d spoken, her voice was soft with no vitality. Her indifference to Miss Edna’s fate shocked him until he’d reminded himself that Miss Edna had given her up for adoption. Mrs. Jenkins had been raised by someone else and did not know Miss Edna as her mother. Still, a little more concern on her part would not have been amiss, but at least, she’d shown regard for Sally Jane’s welfare.

  Soon after, Fritz had left the H & B to head for the Castle, a luxuriant hotel he’d once visited with his father. He’d had a restful night and had awakened early. Once dressed, he’d have a leisurely breakfast downstairs, from where delicious smells emanated.

  He dressed carefully, aware he’d not been at his best yesterday, covered with dust and grime from his travels.

  When he caught sight of a family before him, he sighed heavily as he made his way downstairs. By his age, nearing thirty, he expected to be married, with a couple of children by now, someone to carry on the Brokken name. He startled to realize neither he nor his two brothers were married, and both Curt and Karl were in their thirties. That blasted War had stolen years from their lives. Time passed with such swiftness, and memories of their childhood had dried up and blown away like a powdery dust in the hot Texas wind.

  To think, the youngest of the children, Deborah, was the only one yet married. Would it be her children, fathered by that blasted Chance Hale, who would inherit the Brokken Ranch—and worst yet, the Brokken heritage without the Brokken name? It was almost too painful to contemplate. He snorted at the thought and cursed himself.

  Why had he ruined his chances with Lydia Walsh? There was not another woman in Brokken he gave two figs about. Perhaps it would not be foolish to look around for a wife; the South had an abundance of War widows and a discreet advertisement for a wife might suffice. When he returned home, he’d give the idea more consideration.

  He gave a nod and spoke to the waiter. He led him across plush carpet to a table in the far corner of the room. Fritz gave an order of steak and eggs. In but a few minutes the waiter arrived with his food, and Fritz lingered, enjoying the steak, cooked to perfection.

  The dining room was filled to capacity, but the carpet and heavy draperies absorbed and muffled the sounds of the crowd. Besides, these were well-bred people who spoke softly, discretely, and Fritz lingered over his coffee and enjoyed the ambience. The couple with their children, two boys and a young daughter, were still eating, the children well behaved, especially considering their ages.

  He pulled out his pocket watch. He had plenty of time for another cup of coffee, and it would give him time to rehearse his words one last time. After he drank his final cup, he calculated that if he w
alked to the B & H Hotel, it would be a quarter till ten when he arrived. After his experience yesterday, arriving early might be to his advantage.

  He gave a nod of satisfaction, whether to his hearty breakfast or to the plan he implemented, he was unsure. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

  WHEN HE ARRIVED AT the H & B, Fritz did not enter. Instead, he ducked into the alley, feeling a slightly silly at his furtiveness, and made his way to the back. He did not wish Mr. Bolt to get the wrong impression—that Fritz was afraid of him, even if the man did outweigh him by a good fifty pounds.

  The reason for the subterfuge was to spare Mrs. Jenkins the disapproval of her employers. Fritz would not put it past them to prevent the meeting upon some pretext. He frowned. The relationship between Mrs. Jenkins and her employers was obviously not a normal one, but he had no clue why.

  As he made his way around back, he caught sight of a few hogs behind a rickety fence, their snouts embedded in troughs probably filled with leftovers from breakfast. They squealed and fought for preeminence while chickens and two roosters pecked the ground beyond them. Puddles of water dotted the earthen yard that was devoid of pavers or even gravel.

  He sidestepped the greasy puddles that shimmered rainbows from within. Even the grimiest life held a semblance of beauty although existence here was unthinkable.

  He climbed the backsteps to the narrow porch area. To his right was a windowless rectangular shed, as narrow as the porch, barely wide enough for its door. Directly in front of the steps was another door in the center of the wall, with only one high window. This appeared to be the kitchen door, and he considered knocking for a moment. But what if Mrs. Howe answered? True, she might be within, but even so, it would certainly be best to catch her unawares. And, with that thought, he threw open the door.

  The startled brown eyes of Mrs. Jenkins met his. Behind her was a woman whom he’d never seen. To his amusement, Mrs. Jenkins clutched the top of her brown silk dress as if she were not fully clothed.

  “Mr. Brokken!” she exclaimed.

  At her words, his grin widened. He decided to act as if he was entirely in charge of the situation. He whipped off his hat and bowed toward the two women. “Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, in the most solemn tone he could manage.

  “You are early,” she said, in an accusatory tone.

  He calmly pulled forth his watch. “Only by seven minutes.”

  She nibbled her bottom lip as her face regained its composure, and then she seemed to come to a decision. She smiled and turned her head toward the woman who stood behind her. “Miss Smith, this is Mr. Brokken whom I told you about.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and gave him an admiring look, her eyes shining and her lips curling into a slow smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brokken.”

  He smiled, enjoying the young lady’s obvious flirtation with him. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Miss Smith giggled and went back to fiddling with the back of the dress. Mrs. Jenkins’ cheeks pinkened. “I am almost ready.”

  Fritz realized he’d stepped into the woman’s toilette and gave another bow. “I will await outside for you.”

  “On the back?” she asked. She ran a tongue over her generous bottom lip.

  It took him a moment to answer as he had to yank his gaze away. “Yes, if that is acceptable?”

  “Certainly.” Her voice was a whisper, as light as a breeze. “Mrs. Howe is in the lobby with Mr. Bolt, awaiting your arrival.”

  He smiled, keeping his gaze averted as he moved toward the door. He placed his hat on his head. “In that case, I will definitely wait on the back porch for you.”

  Both women giggled, and Fritz tipped his hat in their direction and went out. The pigs were no longer feeding but lay on their sides in the sun. Although chilly, the sky was clear, and Fritz felt happier than he had in months. He didn’t have time to analyze why for it was only a moment before Mrs. Jenkins joined him.

  She wore a brown silk, more suitable for evening wear, but it was becoming to her complexion and made her dark, luminous eyes even darker. Her hair had been arranged differently, piled atop her head, the sides smoothed. It was a stark contrast to her nondescript appearance the day before, and his heart constricted at the trouble she had gone through, even if her attire was not fashionable.

  His acquaintance with Lydia had taught him more than he ever wanted to know about women’s attire, and he noted the dress was frayed at the hemline. Still, it had once been an expensive dress, and to know she had fallen so far pained him.

  He held out his arm. She wrapped dainty, gloved-covered fingers around it, feeling so much like a baby bird, precariously perched and ready to give flight at a moment’s notice. He laid his own hand across hers, to steady her, before they descended the steps.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice lighter than it had been yesterday. It made him wonder how often she escaped the confines of the hotel. By the actions of Mr. Bolt and Mrs. Howe, he would guess not often enough.

  “I noted a small park on my way over. I’m not sure if it’s an actual park, but there are a couple of benches and some trees.” He noted her posture relax as they moved farther away from the H & B and the possible prying eyes of her employers.

  Her gaze darted around at the people they passed on the streets, and she did not respond.

  “The small park a block from here—do you know it?”

  She raised her eyes and her gaze met his. “Oh, yes. I know the place.”

  Her voice still had the breathless quality that caused a pleasurable sensation in Fritz. He wanted to hear her talk more but did not want to launch into his speech yet. They walked in silence, Fritz rehearsing what he planned to say. Mrs. Jenkins was unusually quiet for a woman; Lydia would have been chattering away like a magpie.

  They reached the area, and Mrs. Jenkins released his arm and took a seat on the bench the farthest from the street. Perhaps she was afraid her employers might come looking for her. Her countenance became grave when he sat down beside her and their knees touched. She did not jerk away but shifted her position slightly to put more distance between them and folded her hands in her lap.

  He noted that her gloves extended up to her elbows, not proper for daywear. Somehow, it endeared her to him, and he cleared his throat before becoming maudlin. “You probably wonder why I wish to speak to you.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and she again appeared to have forgotten him. “It’s a beautiful day today.”

  She had not responded to his words, and it reinforced his previous idea that she seldom left the confines of the hotel. It made him reconsider what he wished to say. He turned so that he could see her more clearly. “You left your child in the care of Miss Edna.” He had not meant to sound judgmental although that is how his own words sounded to his ears. He should have stuck to the speech he’d rehearsed.

  Her eyes widened, and she fully focused on him. A furrow appeared between her brows. “And?”

  Surely, she knew without him having to spell it out. “With the death of your mother, I’m sure your fondest wish is to be reunited with your daughter.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “Clearly it is evident I am in no position to support a child?”

  Fritz pondered her words for a moment. This conversation was not going the way he wished. “If you need monetary compensation, the Brokken family is in a position to offer it to you.”

  “Monetary compensation? I am sorry, Mr. Brokken, but I am confused. You wish to offer me money?” Her face was distressed, and she wrung her slim hands.

  Her discomfiture pained his heart. “Perhaps I misspoke. What I mean is that Miss Edna was beloved by our community. We are willing to help her family in any way possible.”

  Her face contorted, and she looked away. When her gaze returned to him, she had composed her features and gave a slight nod. “I do appreciate your kind offer, but I cannot accept money I did not earn.”

  She was so close, he wanted to press her hand to his cheek. “But Miss Edna
was appreciated and her death...”

  She lifted her hand and waved it as if shooing away a fly while she gave him a gentle smile. “She did not raise me, as you well know. How can you consider me her family? Propriety would be violated if you offered money to a stranger.”

  “But for Sally Jane, surely you would consider it?” Her warm eyes ignited something within, but he reigned in his feelings.

  Her brows drew together although her eyes remained thoughtful. Her gaze met his again. “When was Miss Edna killed?”

  “Nine months ago.”

  She cast her gaze down to the hands she had refolded in her lap. “And where has Sally Jane been this entire time?”

  “With someone unsuitable, I assure you.”

  “Oh?” She gazed at him through her lashes. “You and the town of Brokken believe this woman to be unsuitable, and yet you have not remedied the situation?”

  Somehow the conversation had taken another wrong turn. “It’s the man who is unsuitable. Your daughter is with Chance Hale, a Yankee Sharpshooter.”

  Her lips curved upward, and she raised her head. “Ah. So, we are still fighting the War, Mr. Brokken?”

  He silently cursed his choice of words. “Of course not. However, Miss Edna, so I was told, was born and raised in Mississippi. I assume her...your family supported the Confederacy?”

  Her face darkened, and she lowered her eyes again. Her breathing deepened and her agitation was evident. It was a few moments before she raised her head. “The War is long over. I will not rehash it.”

  He softened his voice. “Nor will I. However, Hale was hated and feared by his own.”

  “And why was that?”

  He looked away. “I don’t know exactly. I do know he killed with total disregard for human life. He executed his victims, never giving them a chance.” Shame gripped him. Curt had explained at least part of Chance’s actions, and yet he continued to disparage his brother-in-law.