by Lynda J. Cox
“I should have gone with Mr. Reed to help keep an eye on the boys.”
“Stop, Abby, please.” Mathew hesitated again. “Let me see if there’s a lantern in the buggy. We’ll go find Ethan and then go back to town. There are people who are going to need help.”
THE HORSE PLODDED BEHIND them. Abigail carried the lantern and led the way to Roden’s house. Though the worst of the storm was long past, heavy rain continued to fall, and the path of the tornado was obvious. With every step, Mathew’s heart sank lower and lower. The tornado had traveled this same route.
Before Roden’s home came into the lantern light, the destruction became evident. Boards were scattered on the ground, shattered into little more than kindling. What was left of the house appeared to have been smashed by a vengeful giant. Pieces of the building spread out for yards from the original structure.
Mathew jogged a few paces closer. “Ethan!”
Only the pattering of the rain on the demolished structure answered him. No one could have survived this.
“Ethan!”
Abigail stopped next to him and lifted the lamp higher. Mathew drew a deep breath to call for Ethan again when a low moan from the farthest edge of the debris field caught his attention.
“Over there.” He pointed and together he and Abigail made their way to the edge. Abigail gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth when the lantern light revealed Roden.
A large section of the roof covered him from mid-chest down. A long piece of board had been turned into a deadly projectile by the high wind. It pierced Roden’s arm and embedded itself into a tree, pinning him to the live oak. Still another board protruded through the roof section.
Mathew ran the remaining feet to the unconscious man. Abigail followed him. He knelt next to Roden. “Raise the lamp a little more, Abby.”
She lifted it as high as she could. “Can we lift that part of the roof off him?”
Mathew took the lamp from her and peered under the roof, and then shook his head. He gestured to the board piercing the roof section. “It’s impaled him.”
She turned her head, retching. Mathew set the lantern on the ground. He wanted to shake the man back to consciousness and knew he couldn’t do that.
A low groan broke from Roden, and his eyes fluttered open. “Don’t think...think you can...fix...” An aborted cough brought a bubble of dark blood to Roden’s lips.
“Robert, stay with me. I need you to stay with me.” Mathew grabbed Roden’s free hand. “Stay with me.”
“Abby...tell him...” Another bubble broke on his lips.
Abigail dropped to her knees next to him. “Tell him what, Robbie?”
“You were...were...gonna marry...”
Mathew met her gaze over the dying man and he nodded slightly, whispering, “Tell him anything he wants to hear.”
Her eyes widened, and then she forced a smile and looked down at Roden. She brushed her hand over his brow. “You should have asked me, Robbie.”
Roden’s eyes half-closed. Mathew leaned closer to him. “Where is Ethan, Robert?”
“Stor...” Roden’s eyes opened fully. “Storm...cel...cellar.”
Wanting to do nothing more than bolt to his feet and find Ethan, and knowing if he left Roden would die alone, knifed through Mathew. Every second that passed was a potentially wasted second he could use in a battle to save his son’s life.
Roden’s next breath was shallow and gurgling. A final bubble formed on his lips and broke with the long, sighing breath that escaped him.
Mathew released Roden’s hand and placed it across his unmoving chest. He sucked in a deep breath while he closed the man’s unseeing eyes. Abigail rocked back onto her heels, breathing in harsh, short, gasps. Mathew pushed himself to his feet. His son had to be somewhere near.
“I have to find Ethan, even if he’s...” He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest. Mathew grabbed the lantern. He had no idea what he was even looking for. “Where is it?”
Abigail stood, turning in a circle. “Usually, they’re built under the house or in a hillside. There aren’t any hills close. It’s got to be under the house.”
Mathew scanned the landscape, taking in the destruction again. “God help us...what’s left of the house buried it.”
“No. There are always outside doors in case the house does fall down.” She ran to the house and walked slowly around the foundation.
Mathew heard the change in her steps when she crossed what he thought was a section of the wall on the ground.
“Here. Mathew, bring the lantern.”
Three long, heavy timbers blocked the access to the cellar. Together, he and Abigail pushed each timber off the doors, and then Mathew pulled them open. He rushed down the earthen steps, Abigail right behind him.
“Ethan!”
Ethan huddled in a far back corner, shuddering. He lifted his head. His face was filthy and streaked with tears. Ethan bolted to his feet and ran to him. Mathew scooped him into his arms, hugging the boy tightly to his chest. Ethan reached over his shoulder.
“Momma,” Ethan whispered, straining to reach Abigail. “Don’t go.”
Abigail’s gasp sounded unnaturally loud in the small, dirt room. Mathew turned. She was halfway up the steps, her back to them both. Without letting go of his son, he closed the distance and caught her elbow. He softly repeated Ethan’s plea. “Don’t go.”
Chapter Seventeen
Abigail walked on one side of the horse, Mathew on the other. They kept a hand on Ethan to keep him from sliding off the horse as he had fallen asleep. His only complaint about the whole ordeal was that Robbie had taken his “great big fish from him,” and he didn’t get any supper.
Dawn tinted the sky with soft pastel pinks and yellows when they approached Brokken. As they drew closer to the west bridge on the far edge of town, the destruction she expected to see wasn’t there.
“Mathew, stop.”
He brought the tired horse to a halt. Abigail stared at the town, wondering if she was seeing an illusion. “It’s all there. It’s all still there.”
“How did it miss the town?” He slid his hand across Ethan’s back to grasp hers.
“It must have turned.” She squeezed Mathew’s hand, glanced at him, and met his gaze. “Maybe, God decided Brokken has been broken enough. Maybe, we’ve all been broken enough.”
She tried to pull her hand free but acquiesced when he gripped her hand with greater force.
“Abby, I don’t want a proxy marriage. Marry me in Grisson’s church. Even if you don’t always agree with him, he’s the only pastor in town.” Mathew looked away briefly, and she followed his line of sight back to Brokken. He continued, his gaze still on the town, “I realized something last night. I want to grow old with you. I want to spend the rest of my life in this broken little town in Texas.”
Abigail looked away from the town washed clean with the downpour and shimmering in the light of a new day. She settled her gaze on Ethan, still in a sound sleep on the broad back of the horse.
Mathew continued to look at the town. “We both have a past that didn’t include each other.”
The first, long rays touched the curls on Ethan’s head, spinning gold from their depths. “I don’t live in the past, Mathew.”
“Only ghosts can.” His fingers tightened again on hers. “She was my wife, and yes, I see a lot of her in Ethan. Just because I see his resemblance to her doesn’t mean I compare you to her. Other than how she died, I’m not sure how much he even remembers about Georgianna. He did make it clear a few hours ago who his mother is.”
Tears stung her eyes when she looked at their joined hands across Ethan’s back.
“Abigail, will you let Grisson marry us again? Will you be wife, my helpmeet, and mother to my son?”
IT TOOK SIX WAGON LOADS to move enough hay bales and long boards to the glen. The bales were set up as both seating areas and as supports for the boards to create tables. Those boards groaned with the food set on them.
The only way to stop thinking of this glen as a special place she could only share with Sam was to open it to the whole town and make new memories here.
It wasn’t just a wedding, Abigail decided, but a celebration. Brokken had been spared and with the mail-order grooms, had another chance to survive and thrive.
Thomas Reed reined in the horse pulling Sam’s old buggy to a halt at the edge of the glen. Abigail scanned the faces turned to her. Everyone in town was here, even old man Fenton. She lifted her gaze to the man waiting for her across the glen. Her breath caught in her throat. Good heavens, he was tall and nothing at all like Victoria had teased her he was.
The warm breeze caught the ends of his silk tie and fluttered them. The half-smile crossing his face when he met her gaze across the distance settled deep in her, filled her with warmth and started butterflies flittering in her stomach.
Reed gave her a hand from the buggy, and she was met by Ethan. He took her hand into his small one. “I’ll walk you to Pa, Momma.”
Abigail glanced down at Ethan and then to his father. Mathew’s smile softened, and his head dipped in a slight nod. So, this was the surprise Ethan had been almost bursting his buttons to share. “Thank you, Ethan.”
Ethan led her up the aisleway created by the hay bales, announcing to the gathered townsfolk, “Me and Pa are marrying Momma.”
Even the somber and severe Pastor Grisson smiled with Ethan’s announcement. They halted next to Mathew, and Ethan refused to relinquish Abigail’s hand. Yancy, Mathew’s best man, leaned down to Ethan and said in a loud whisper, “Button, you need to let go of her hand. Your Pa has to put a ring on her finger, and he can’t marry her if he doesn’t.”
Ethan turned his face up to Abigail, clearly doubting Yancy. Abigail smiled and nodded. “Yank’s right.”
Victoria, wearing a dress for the first time in years, held her hand out to Ethan. She had even forgone wearing her badge and carrying a sidearm. “Come here and stand with me, Ethan.”
Once Ethan stood with her maid of honor, Grisson intoned, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and this company, to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony...”
“Me, too,” Ethan pointed out.
Laughter rippled through the small glen. Grisson smiled and recovered quickly. “To unite as a family this man, this woman, and this child.”
As Grisson continued with the ceremony, Abigail tilted her head to Mathew, her gaze skimming his features. Her hand shook when he held it and slid a simple, unadorned gold band onto her finger. After what felt to be an eternity, the ceremony was almost over and Grisson finally said, “It is my honor to present to you, Dr. and Mrs. Knight. Dr. Knight, you may kiss your bride.”
Abigail’s breath caught in the back of her throat as Mathew leaned closer to her. He slid an arm around her shoulders and tilted her chin with his right hand. He left a lingering kiss on her lips and then whispered in her ear, “How long do we have to stay for the festivities?”
Everyone in the glen had to see the blush on her face as hot as her cheeks felt. She managed to murmur, “Just a little while.”
A little while turned into several hours, and the sun was setting when Mathew caught her arm at the elbow. He nudged his head toward the waiting buggy. “Molly and Thomas are keeping Ethan for the night. Let’s go home, Mrs. Knight.”
Abigail turned fully to him, her hand brushing across his broad chest. “I thought you were never going to suggest that.”
Mathew guided her across the glen, nodding at the well-wishes called out. A warm breeze lifted as they passed by a dogwood still holding a few remaining petals. As silent as snowflakes, the petals drifted down across their path and one landed on Mathew’s arm. Abigail picked it off his sleeve, hesitating.
Mathew stopped, a brow lifted in a silent query.
Abigail drew a deep breath. “I wanted to be married here for a reason.”
“I know. Victoria told me this morning what this little glen meant for you and Sam.” He brushed the back of his hand along the slope of her cheek. “I’m honored you wanted to have Grisson marry us here.”
She raised the solitary petal into the breeze and let it go. Together they watched it drift upward. It spiraled and swirled across the clearing and then disappeared into the gathering twilight. She softly whispered, “Good-bye, Sam.”
THIS IS THE FIRST BOOK of the Brokken Road Romances. Thanks so much for reading.
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Book 2, Brokken Arrow, a Novella, is also available.
Brokken Rising by P. Creeden is available for preorder.
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Author’s Note:
One thing that many readers might be surprised to learn is that the practice of medicine during and immediately after the American Civil War was not as barbaric as is often portrayed in the movies. The use of anesthesia, predominantly the use of chloroform, has been standard practice since the early 1800s. While doctors knew very little of germ theory, Joseph Lister proved in 1865 that using carbolic acid to create a sterile surgical field and to treat open wounds prevented infection, based upon his own experiences and on research by Louis Pasteur.
For every man killed on the battlefield during the American Civil War, two more succumbed to infection, disease, or illness. Dysentery, small pox, and measles killed as many as the minie ball did. If a minie ball struck bone, the bullet would shatter that bone beyond repair and often tear inches of bone away as it exited. Amputation was the only recourse and the only chance a Civil War soldier had of surviving a bullet wound injury to a limb. Amazingly, even without sterile techniques in the battlefield surgery, the odds of surviving an amputation were better than seventy-five percent.
Advances in prosthetics, surgical techniques, hospitalization, and even sanitation all came about because of the dedicated physicians who served both the Union and Confederate forces. The Union Army was the first to create a special designation for a battlefield surgical/hospital area—flying a yellow flag emblazoned with a large, red “H.” The Confederacy soon followed with that designation and there appeared to be an unspoken agreement between both sides to not fire upon the men fighting valiantly to save lives in utterly deplorable conditions.
In Brokken Knight, I write of food rations being cut and then cut again for the Confederate prisoners held at Camp Douglas, in Illinois. The Confederacy did not have a monopoly on appalling environments or staggering death rates within the prisoner of war camps. The death rates in Union prisoner camps matched, and in the case of Elmira, New York exceeded, those of their Southern counterparts, including Andersonville, Georgia, and for all the same reasons. Camps routinely held three to four times more prisoners than they had been built to house, and in some camps, ten times more men than they were ever designed to accommodate. At best in the camps, sanitation was poor. Food shortages—especially in the South—were the norm. Medical attention was nonexistent. Combine these factors and it equals an appalling death rate of more than twenty percent for all camps. In the Northern prisoner of war camps, those shortages in foods and medical care which lead to the horrifying death rates came about as a policy of retribution and through the deliberate actions and non-actions of Lincoln’s Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton.
Lynda J Cox
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