Brokken Yesterdays

by Lynda J. Cox

  Chapter Four

  Jon stared at a ceiling he couldn’t see through the darkness. Knight slept in the other cell. The amused wondering crossed his mind if Victoria caught the doc sleeping if she would light into him as she’d lit into that poor kid. Somehow, he doubted it.

  He cautiously sat up, keeping his shackled wrist completely still. The pillow in the cell did little to cushion his head, but it worked very well to muffle the clinking of the chain. He twisted his hand, pulling against the manacle. It wasn’t sliding off. Even secured around the bandaging on his wrist, someone made sure it was tightened to the point he could not maneuver his hand free. An exploration of the lock didn’t help, either. Without the key or a heavy hat pin to trip the mechanism, the manacle would remain tightly locked.

  “The wrist manacles she used to tether that chain to the bars are just as secure,” Knight said through the darkness.

  Jon shook his head and collapsed backwards onto the bunk. He barely kept a growl of frustration curbed.

  “I’m a doctor. I’ve gotten into the habit of sleeping very lightly when I have a patient needing round the clock attention.” Amusement added another layer to the doctor’s voice. “I’ve also got fairly good night vision.”

  “I don’t think I need medical care at all hours of the night and day.” He turned his attention to the ceiling. How much could he share that wouldn’t put him in jeopardy of having his neck stretched? If he was still here when Colbert showed, he was as good as dead. He’d escaped prison, injured a guard and killed one of Colbert’s vicious man-hunting dogs in the process. In Colbert’s view, the loss of Precious was the greater crime. God help him if DeLindsey was with Colbert if they ever caught him.

  He closed his eyes. He’d forced himself to sleep before in places far worse than this. This time, his thoughts refused to quiet. If he was going to be held here, the last thing he wanted was to be dragged out of the cell and handed over to the federal authorities for transport back to the Indian Territories clad in no more than a flimsy sleeping shirt. “Doc, do you think she’d be opposed to allowing me clothing other than this nightshirt? And maybe a wash basin, so I can clean up?”

  “I’ll talk to her in the morning, but I don’t think she’ll let you have a razor.”

  He rather doubted that, too. He stared up at the ceiling again. Should he thank the man for talking to the sheriff on his behalf? A more pressing thought crossed his mind. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

  The mattress in the other cell rustled. “Letting you die wasn’t part of the oath I took when I became a doctor.”

  For some reason, Knight’s words brought to mind the small locket he carried with him ever since the night he’d woken up confused on the battlefield at Tullahoma, the same locket now secured in a drawer in the sheriff’s desk. The miniature captured the woman serving as Brokken’s sheriff but didn’t do her justice. He’d stroked the small snip of hair included in the locket so many times all the strands had broken and become lost in the intervening years. The locket and hair snip were carried in a single page letter she’d written. He’d unfolded it and read it so often the paper tore along the creases where it had originally been folded. Read it so often he’d memorized every word she wrote.

  Jonathan, all is well here and there has been very little fighting near us, something for which we can all be thankful. The news of how this war progresses does not come often, though we do receive the casualty reports fairly regularly. Every report, I search for your name. It was heart-breaking for Laura Meyers to read of Calvin, Mathias, and Obadiah’s deaths, all in the same battle. Little Calvin is too young to fully understand and much too young to be without his father.

  You are in my prayers every night. When you return, your happiness will be my only goal. Father tells me I can insure your happiness by being a better wife. I suppose I shouldn’t burden you with an obligation to write, though I wish you would send a few words back. You must have so many other worries weighing upon you. I do not wish to add to those cares.

  Please write.

  Victoria

  He drew in a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. That letter hadn’t been written to him.

  VICTORIA WALKED SLOWLY down the middle of the street toward the general store and post office. Wednesday always brought a thick packet of wanted posters from the US Marshal’s office in the Indian Territories. The outlaws seemed to prefer Indian Territory. Most law officers didn’t want to take the risk of tracking those dangerous men into equally dangerous territory.

  Brokken stirred to life in the muted pastels of a late spring morning. Curt Brokken met her on the boardwalk outside of the general store. She stared at him, not sure if she was surprised or disappointed the oldest Brokken brother was home. Perhaps, his journey to the family holdings in Germany hadn’t given him the answers he needed.

  “When did you get back?”

  “Late last night. I decided not to wait for the train and rented a horse.” As he unlocked the store, he spoke over his shoulder. “Last night’s packet is a lot thicker than usual.”

  Though nothing had truly changed since last night, after a deep sleep that had been remarkably restful in one of the patient rooms on the first floor of the doctor’s house, Victoria could find reasons to smile. It didn’t hurt, either, that Abby had her laughing until she cried. Victoria couldn’t resist tormenting the oldest Brokken brother. “There posters in this one for you and your brothers again?”

  Curt froze, a frown wrinkling his brow. Then, he seemed to realize she teased him. In a complete and total deadpan, even as he pushed the store’s door open, he said, “We won’t show up on any wanted posters until we’re all off your terms of probation, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll be the first to mount up to hunt you down and bring you back if you show up on any.”

  “Don’t doubt that for one second.” He walked into the store. “Be right back with your packet.”

  She glanced at a new dress in the front window. Gold thread detailed a jacket of deep purple velvet. The linen skirt appeared to have been dyed with a strong tea and gold thread embellished the hem. She was so lost in admiring the craftsmanship in the detailing on the jacket she didn’t even hear Curt return.

  “That would look good on you, Sheriff, with your hair color.”

  Victoria snapped her head around to the store-owner. “Curt Brokken, are you flirting with me?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good now,” Curt said, shoving the official, leather-bound packet from the marshal’s office toward her. Bright color crept up his face. “I’m just repeating what Deb said when I pulled that out of the shipping box. She helped me get everything organized that had arrived while I was in Germany. She said it about three times while she put it on that mannequin.”

  If she didn’t know better, Victoria would almost hazard a guess Curt was sweet on her. Trying to avoid creating further awkwardness, she took the packet into both hands, and then stepped closer to the dress. The detailing was exquisite. This was ridiculous, to even look at it and dream of putting it on. She’d never be able to afford a dress of this quality. “When would I have the occasion to wear something like this?”

  “Why not wear it for your husband?” Curt stood at her side. “A man would have to be dead to not notice a pretty woman dressed in that.”

  Curt’s words washed over her as chilling as a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over her head. Victoria turned away from the dress now bathed in the first light of day. The very last thing she wanted was to draw Jonathan English’s attention. She clutched the packet to her chest and walked away from the store.

  “Victoria!” Her mother marched along the boardwalk, in an unerring path toward her.

  Victoria couldn’t keep her groan of frustration silent. She drew in a fortifying breath, recognizing the determined set to her mother’s expression.

  “Did you spend another night at the jail?” her mother asked.

  “No, Mother, I didn’t.” Victoria glanced down the str
eet at the small, squat, flat-roofed building. There were times, the ugly little building felt more like her home than her own house did. At that moment, bathed in the early morning light, the small building didn’t look quite so ugly, either.

  “You weren’t at home when your father and I went by there last night after the town meeting.”

  “That’s because I was at Abby’s. I went there for the night. Mathew stayed at the jail to guard the prisoner.” Why did talking to her mother make her feel as if she was a child again, always having to explain herself, justify every action?

  “I know.” Her mother’s voice and bearing softened. “I went to the jail this morning, a little after dawn. I woke early and went to see if you wanted to join me for my morning walk.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. If I’d known—”

  Trudie Grisson took her daughter’s elbow. “Vickie, you don’t need to apologize to me. But there is something I have to discuss with you.”

  “Can’t it wait? I have to get over to the jail, so Mathew can go home.”

  “This is important.” Her grip tightened on Victoria’s elbow.

  “All right. What is it?” Without being rude and resorting to outright disrespect, Victoria realized her mother wasn’t going to stop until she’d said her piece, whatever that was.

  “I know you’re holding that man in the jail because you believe it’s Jonathan, and you’re afraid he’s going to hurt you again.”

  Victoria’s jaw dropped. Who told her mother about Jonathan’s abuse? She had only told two people, and she knew with an utter certainty, Abigail would have never breathed even a word of it. That left her father. The man who told her she needed to be a better wife so that Jonathan would stop finding fault with her. “Of course, it’s Jonathan. Who else could it be?”

  Trudie shook her head. “He looks enough like him to be Jonathan’s twin, but I don’t think it’s Jonathan.”

  Beyond worrying about being rude, Victoria snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Mother. What makes you think that?”

  Her mother stroked her arm. “When I went to the jail this morning, he didn’t recognize me. Oh, he covered it quickly enough, but he didn’t know who I was. When your father told me all those years ago what Jonathan was doing, I couldn’t look at that man without such a rage in my heart for what he was doing to my baby. This morning, I didn’t feel that rage with that man in the jail.”

  “If you knew what he was doing...” Victoria sucked in a sharp breath and trailed off for a heartbeat. “All you can see is a man who’s had some of the pain and hurt he dealt out finally visited on him. Isn’t Father so fond of quoting that if you sow the wind you will reap the whirlwind? Jonathan’s reaping the whirlwind.”

  Trudie placed a hand over Victoria’s heart. “Jonathan left so many scars here that aren’t visible and damaged your heart’s ability to see. That man in the jail is not Jonathan.”

  “Who else could he be? He looks like Jonathan, talks like Jonathan, sounds like Jonathan.” She shook her head, silencing anything else her mother might say. “I have to go.”

  “Victoria, whoever that man is, you cannot continue to hold him in your jail. You either have to set him free or—” A visible shudder passed over her mother. “—you have to send him back to the place he escaped from. What you’re doing isn’t right.”

  “I’ll do what’s right,” Victoria pulled away from Trudie. “I have to go, Mother.”

  Leaden legs carried her away from her mother to the jail. She pushed the door open. The aroma of rich, freshly brewed coffee greeted her. Both her prisoner and temporary guard were awake, and both clutched a cup of the dark brew.

  Mathew rose from the chair behind her desk. “Your mother was here.”

  “I know.” The words sounded on a sigh. “I ran into her outside of the general store.”

  A sympathetic smile crossed the doctor’s face even as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the small, pot-bellied stove in the corner of the room. “Coffee’s ready.”

  “Thank you.” Victoria dropped the packet on the desk. The slap of the heavy pouch onto the wood sounded uncomfortably too close to what a slap against skin sounded like. Another chill skipped over her.

  “I’m going home to check on Abby. Before I head out to the Fenton place, do you want me to stop at Molly’s and ask her to bring breakfast here for you and him?” Mathew paused in the open door.

  Victoria nodded, even as she poured a cup of coffee.

  Mathew still hesitated. “Vic, he’s well enough to be up and about. I’m no lawyer, but I think you need to find out where he escaped from if you plan on keeping him chained and locked up in that cell. That’s the legal thing to do. Morally, if you discover where he escaped from, sending him back there is a death sentence, and that’s not right.”

  Abigail had said almost the same thing to her. As had her mother. While she knew she had to send him back to wherever he had escaped from, her heart shrank from that action. No matter the crime, no man deserved the cruel torture Jonathan had received.

  “Unless I find out where he’s escaped from, you’re right. I can’t hold him like this.” She watched Jonathan’s feigned air of utter disinterest from the corner of her eye. “Even though I’d like to retroactively charge him under the town’s new ordinance, I can’t do that.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s legal, either.” Mathew clamped his hat onto his head. “There isn’t anything that says you can’t tell him to get out of town and stay out of town.”

  Victoria waited until Mathew pulled the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps echo on the boardwalk before she canted her head to Jonathan. “As soon as Molly brings breakfast for you, I’ll go to the house and get your belongings.”

  “Could you bring my shaving kit, too, please?”

  “You took that with you when you left.”

  He blinked, as if he had realized something was wrong, and then that half-smile returned. “I forgot I took it with me. I guess I won’t be shaving any time soon.”

  “You can get a shave in the next town over. I want you out of my town by noon.”

  Something shifted in the depths of his eyes, darkening the blue. “I’ll be gone before noon.”

  “You come back, Jonathan English, and I’ll shoot you on sight. I’ll risk hanging to kill you.”

  The blue darkened further before he dropped his head to study the cup held between his hands. “I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for your neck being snapped in a hangman’s noose, Vic.”

  She startled with the shortened version of her name. He had never called her that before. If he had ever used an endearment or a pet name for her, it was either “darlin’” or “Torie.” Unwilling to puzzle through why he’d chosen that form of her name, she crossed over to her desk and turned her back to him.

  The packet of new wanted posters drew her attention and she slid the collection closer. A quick tug of the thin leather thong opened the large envelope, and she pulled the thick stack free. Each poster was studied in turn. So far, none of those being sought was anyone she recognized or had seen in Brokken.

  She sipped her coffee, wondering why the marshal’s office sent her posters for bank robberies in Missouri and Kentucky, the deeds committed by what were apparently two sets of brothers, a Frank and Jesse James and a Cole and Bob Younger. Another was for a Clint Reno up in Indiana for train robbery. That was the first time she’d seen anyone wanted for train robbery. Did the marshal’s office in Indian Territory have the slightest idea how far they were from Indiana?

  A knock on the door halted her study of the fugitives and outlaws. Molly stood outside the door. Victoria gestured for her to come in. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked biscuits, gravy, eggs and bacon combined with the sweet scent of the beignets Molly’s husband Thomas had become famous for in and around Brokken.

  “I’ll be back later to get this when you’re done with it.” Molly set the basket on the desk and pulled the n
apkin covering the contents off, even as she cut a quick, openly curious glance into the occupied cell behind Victoria. “I put plates and forks in here.”

  “We thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  We? Jonathan had never included her in any statement like that before. Even though she recognized the warmth in his voice that brought a blush to Molly’s cheeks, by thanking her for both of them, it wasn’t really flirting, was it? And calling Molly “ma’am”? He’d known Molly for as long as they had lived in Brokken.

  Victoria huffed out a short breath. Molly shook herself as if she had been caught wool-gathering, smoothed her hands down her skirt, and took a step back. “Mathew suggested a light repast, as Mr. English hasn’t had a lot to eat for some time. Anyway, I’ll be back later to get the basket and such.”

  “I’ll bring it to the café, Molly.” Victoria lifted a plate from the depths. If this was what Molly considered a light repast, she wondered just how much Molly would have brought to the jail if Mathew had said Jonathan could have a full meal. “I have to go to my house and get his belongings. He’s leaving.”

  Molly’s mouth dropped open. For a slender moment, Victoria wondered how much gossip this development would cause and realized she didn’t care. As if folks hadn’t clucked and sent disapproving glances at her before. The crescendo was reached, not when she pinned the badge to her blouse, but when she donned a pair of trousers. Let them gossip.

  JON MOVED THE SCRAMBLED eggs around on the plate with his fork. He never liked his eggs scrambled. Couldn’t tolerate the texture. One piece of bacon, a bite of the gravy smothered biscuit, another bite of the airy, melting, sweet beignet and his stomach hurt as if he’d stuffed himself on a rich, Christmas supper.