Brokken Yesterdays

by Lynda J. Cox

  His eyes slid shut for a long moment. “I don’t want you to be in love with a perfected version of him.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face, certain the distance between them was a mile-wide chasm. “I’m not in love with any version of him.” She managed one step closer, attempting to bridge the yawning chasm. “I never loved him as I am certain I love you.”

  His breath audibly caught. He took one hesitant step closer to her and held his hand out.

  Victoria flew across the distance, flinging her arms around his neck, letting herself melt against him and into his embrace. A rattle of the doorknob followed with a rapid pounding against the wood forced them apart.

  Jon lowered his arms with a short breath. Victoria turned from him and went to the door. Mathew stood with Ethan at his side.

  She didn’t have the door fully opened before Mathew blurted out, “Can you keep Ethan for a little while? Abby’s in labor.”

  Victoria looked from Ethan to his very rattled father. In the year she had known him, she had never seen Mathew this disconcerted. “Is everything all right?”

  Mathew nodded. “Seems to be. I’d feel better if there was another midwife. I’ve never delivered my own child before.”

  Add Abigail to her concerns. Victoria caught Mathew’s lower arm under her hand and said, hoping to convey a lack of worry to the man, “Abby delivered every baby in this town when Sam was alive. Between the two of you, it will be fine.”

  Jon’s footsteps sounded behind her. He dropped to one knee in front of Ethan. “You’re going to be a big brother pretty soon, aren’t you?”

  Ethan vigorously nodded. “Momma’s having a baby.”

  Jon lifted his head to Mathew but didn’t come to his feet. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your wife?”

  The doctor dragged a hand through his hair, further disheveling his appearance. “You won’t let him out of your sight?”

  That simple question drove an icy shaft into Victoria’s heart. Mathew’s over-protectiveness of Ethan had lessened in the previous months, eased by the peace and security Abigail offered. To hear Mathew’s fear for Ethan’s well-being reassert itself after he had helped to bury Lavender’s little dogs confirmed how concerning this new threat in Brokken was.

  Jon rose. “You have my word. Victoria, why don’t you go with Mathew, in case he needs some help?”

  THE BACK DOOR CREAKED and a moment later, Jon heard the latch catch. He slipped off the chesterfield and made his way through the dark and silent house into the kitchen. It had been well after midnight that he finally got Ethan to settle down enough to fall asleep in Victoria’s large bed. For the first time in his life, he thanked heavens he had grown up with several much younger siblings.

  Victoria sat at the table, nursing a cup of what he knew to be old coffee.

  “I could start a new pot,” he offered, and reached over the table for the lantern and lit it, trimming the wick until only the barest of illumination splashed onto the table. Her badge caught the feeble flame, shining and shimmering on the table, directly in front of her.

  Victoria shook her head. “I’m not really drinking it. It’s habit, holding a cup at the table. Where’s Ethan?”

  “Asleep in your bed, finally.” Jon lifted a chair to move it away from the table, not wanting the scrape the legs on the floor and risk waking Ethan. “Everything okay with doc and his wife?”

  “Abby’s tired but she’s fine. Mathew’s...he’s a little stunned, I think, is the best word for it. She had twins.”

  Jon sank into the chair. “Twins? That’ll keep them busy. They name them yet?”

  “Josephine Elisabeth and Ezra Samuel.” She bent her head with a deep sigh. “I never realized how tiny newborn babies are.”

  “Ethan has the little brother he said he wanted.” Jon leaned his elbows onto the table. “I’ve got to head out to the Brokken Arrow in a little while.”

  “You’re going with Isaac?” She still stared into the cup she clutched between her hands. He wasn’t sure because of the dim light but he thought he saw her shoulders tremble.

  “Unless you’re willing to give up that badge, I don’t think I have a choice.”

  She stilled as if she were carved of marble.

  He eased out a long breath. “That’s what I thought.” The badge drew his attention, and he picked it up, to turn it over and over in his hands. “Vic, I meant it when I said I don’t want it. The little I’ve learned about how he used that tin star makes me even more determined to never add that to my portrayal of him.”

  “Isaac’s right,” she whispered. With as much care as if the cup were crafted of spun glass, Victoria set the mug on the table. She lifted her head. The luminosity in her eyes took him aback when he realized the brightness was unshed tears. She added, “As much as you don’t want to wear that star is all the more reason you need to be the one people call ‘sheriff’ in this town.”

  “And what will you do? Somehow, I don’t think that transition would be easy for you.” The low-pitched lamp flickered as a breeze found its way into the house through the open windows. Approaching rain heavily scented the air. Jon set the badge on the table again, once more in front of Victoria.

  A watery smile splashed across her features. “I can go back to being Mrs. English.”

  “I don’t like that, either.” Jon thought about pushing away from the table. Instead, he leaned closer to her, and caught her hands into his. “I’d much prefer you be Mrs. Andrews. However, as long as I’m a wanted, escaped convict, that—”

  “What if we could clear your name?” Her fingers tightened on his and the tremulous smile strengthened. “What if we could prove you didn’t do anything you were accused of?”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” He extracted his hands from hers and stood. “I’ve got to grab my bedroll off the back porch and get out to the Brokken Arrow.”

  “Don’t go. Please, don’t.” Victoria shoved herself to her feet and wrapped him in her arms. “Please.”

  “I don’t like being blackmailed. He didn’t leave me a lot of options, Vic.” Jon knew he should be pushing her away and didn’t have the fortitude. He gathered her closer to him, resting his chin on the top of her head.

  “Then, call his bluff. Don’t go. You don’t have to take on the responsibilities of being the sheriff, either.”

  “What if we both call his bluff?” Jon struggled to ignore how her warm breath feathered across his throat or how that warmth settled deep in his core. “Make me your deputy. You have the trust and confidence of the town’s people. I don’t have that. Being your deputy, we can work on reforming my reputation.”

  She lowered her head to his chest, her arms tightening around his waist. “Can you take orders from a woman?”

  “Enough people were shocked that I could take orders from Isaac.” A laugh welled in him. “Taking orders from you will be easy.”

  She nuzzled in closer to him, her breath again light along his skin. “I have an order I’d like to give you, but unfortunately, our bed is occupied.”

  He couldn’t quell the shiver that skipped over him when she brushed her lips against his collar bone. “Sheriff, are you suggesting you’d order me to perform an act reserved for the marriage bed? May I remind you, we aren’t truly married.”

  The breeze flickered the lantern flame again, the scent of rain more pronounced. “Only you and I know that, Mr. Andrews, and I have no intention of revealing our secret.” She pulled her head off his chest and looked up at him. Sudden sadness darkened her already dark eyes. “You must think I’m a loose woman with even looser morals.”

  “No, I don’t.” Jon slipped one arm off her waist. He drew his fingertips along the slope of her cheek. “I think you’ve found enough courage to risk being as vulnerable as you can ever be with someone you can trust. I don’t believe that makes you a woman of loose morals.”

  An intermittent pattering whispered through the open window while the clean scent of the
newly arrived rain filled the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Jon didn’t arrive at the Brokken Arrow as ordered, Isaac sent Calvin with a message that his employment was terminated and to not expect to be recommended for employment at any ranch in the area. Jon’s response was he’d never been terminated from a position before. He then fell into the role as her deputy with a relaxed ease that made her question if he’d worn a badge previously.

  He was more relaxed than she’d ever see him. That relaxation brought another wrinkle into the whole landscape, though. He was in an incorrigible flirt. His flirtations often distracted her from the serious nature of her job and the grim reality there was still a deranged individual in her town killing helpless animals. The latest had been Sally Jane’s fluffball of a kitten. Jon defused Chance Hale’s towering rage by promising the former sharpshooter five minutes alone with the perpetrator when—not if—when he was apprehended.

  Victoria looked out the window of the jail with a sigh. What started as a soft, gentle soaking rain grew into a steady, continual downpour that so far had lasted three days. The streets of Brokken were fetlock deep in mud and anyone crossing the quagmire took life and limb into their own hands. The metallic rapping from the blacksmith shop continued almost nonstop, as Peter’s business boomed replacing shoes sucked off hooves in the thick, clinging mud.

  Jon pushed the door open, pausing only long enough to pull his hat from his head and let the pooling water on the bill drain onto the boardwalk behind him. He sluiced water off his long, oiled duster before he withdrew the weekly packet from inside the coat. He dropped the large envelope onto the desk. “Curt said to tell you that dress is still in his front window.”

  Heat filled Victoria’s face. How often in the last few weeks had she thought about that dress? Or what Jon might say if she did purchase it and wear it for him? She pulled the packet closer to her, hoping to hide the color she knew stained her cheeks.

  “You’re blushing.” Amusement warmed and deepened his voice. “I glanced at it. It would look very nice on you.”

  “Oh, and you know all about ladies’ fashion, now?” She withdrew the contents from the large envelope and began to leaf through the assorted posters and notices.

  “No, though I did get an education from Miss Deborah on why that dress is perfect for you. I also know pretty, and that dress was designed to be worn by a woman as beautiful as you.” Jon hung his hat and duster on the coat tree, the soft patter of water dripping from the duster’s lengths onto the floor filling Victoria’s hearing. A gurgle of coffee filling a cup reached her. She glanced over at him, wondering how she had ever mistaken him for Jonathan.

  “You should buy it.” Jon grinned at her over the rim of the cup. “Really startle everyone in this town.”

  “Why don’t you just say what you really want to—that you want to see me in that frippery and frou-frou.” Victoria looked away, unable to maintain her air of disapproval in the face of his amusement, the warmth simmering in his gaze, or even the suggestive lift of his brows.

  She was much too aware of his presence when he propped a hip against her desk and leaned closer to her. “What man wouldn’t want to see his wife dressed in such finery?”

  “As you are so often pointing out, we’re not really married. You’re still sleeping on the chesterfield.” Victoria flipped another poster over. Another wanted poster for those James boys. Again, she wondered if the US Marshal’s office knew just how far Brokken was from Missouri. She scanned a notice. The more she read, the more difficult breathing became, and it felt as if ice filled her veins. The print on the heavy paper swam and she shook her head, hoping to alleviate the light-headedness threatening to pitch her face-forward onto her desk.

  “What’s wrong?” Jon’s teasing tone disappeared.

  She handed him the notice. He scanned it, the color draining from his face. Wordless, he shook his head.

  New charges had been filed against the escaped convict, Jon Andrews. A substantial reward was now offered and being paid for his return—dead or alive—all in connection with the murder of a homesteader’s wife a few hours south of Watonga. According to the notice, the night after Jon’s escape, a homesteader described a tall, dark-headed man who had stolen a horse. He pursued the thief but lost the trail. A few hours later, the horse was found, grazing. When the homesteader returned to his isolated home, his wife had been brutally butchered, according to the notice, and another horse was missing.

  “It wasn’t me,” Jon whispered. He raised his gaze to her, levelly meeting her eyes. “I swear by all that’s holy, it wasn’t me. I never doubled back to any of the homesteads I came across.”

  “I’m not the only sheriff or marshal who gets these packets. Adding a reward will have every bounty hunter in the state looking for you.” Victoria swallowed the icy lump in her throat. Before, the search might not have been intense. Prisoners escaped often, and sooner or later, were recaptured because the escapees couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. It was an accepted reality. But, for an escaped prisoner to kill a woman, that would bring, to quote one lawman she knew, “hell raining down.”

  “You think it was me.” It wasn’t a question. He staggered a step away, the hunted and desperate light she had seen in his eyes those first few days burning across his expression again.

  “No.” Victoria shot to her feet, throwing her arms around him before he could further his retreat. “No. I don’t believe for one second it was you.”

  He pushed her away, desperation darkening his eyes. “It couldn’t have been me.”

  “Jon, I believe you.” She held her hands out to him. “We’ll resolve this, somehow. Somehow, we’ll prove it wasn’t you.”

  “How?” Desperation tightened his voice. “I can’t even remember most of what I did or where...” He trailed off, staggering another step away. His whole posture sagged, as if he was crumbling under a crippling weight. “Oh, God...Vic, other than when the dog caught up to me and that first night trying to break the chains and taking that first horse, I can’t remember everything. It’s just bits and pieces.”

  “You remembered you took three different horses. You remembered back tracking a couple of times.” She hoped she could jog his memory.

  He nodded. “I never backtracked to the homesteads where I took the horses. I’m fairly certain of that.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. When he spoke again, defeat layered every word. “Who else could it have been?”

  “Not you.” Victoria caught his hands into hers. “I don’t believe it was you.”

  THE RAIN CONTINUED to fall as Jon made his way through the darkened, slumbering town. His clothes wicked in the damp, clinging to him as cloying as a shroud. His head pounded. Each step he took throbbed through his skull with a sharper intensity.

  How he got from the house to the small tributary of the Lighter Knot River had him confused. Jon stumbled as he crossed the train tracks, drawn to the light and the loud, bawdy music spilling out of the saloon. He halted before he stepped onto the boardwalk at the entrance. He’d never set foot in a saloon in his life. The pull to enter the establishment was almost overwhelming, even though the noise and light increased the pain piercing his head to nauseating levels.

  Fighting the desire to walk through those doors, Jon turned away, a flaring lantern burning in a window of the telegrapher’s office catching his attention. For a moment, he wondered who would be sending out a telegram at such a late hour. He walked away as quickly as he could, breaking into a jog when he re-crossed the tracks. A single light shone through a window on the first floor of Knight’s house. Jon skidded to a halt in the mud, staring at that light.

  He gulped down the thick knot in his throat before he approached the house. At the door, he hesitated, and then knocked. When he thought no one was awake to answer, he turned to leave.

  The door opened, and Knight stood silhouetted in the light. A sleeping infant was cradled to his chest. “Jonathan? Is something wrong?”


  A low, far distant rumble of thunder growled across the heavens. Jon stared at the baby Knight held.

  “You’re soaked,” Knight said, moving to one side. “Come on in.”

  Jon backed a step, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m here, Doc.”

  Knight’s brow knit, even as he gestured for Jon to come into the house. “Why don’t you come in, then? I would appreciate the company.”

  Jon still hesitated. “I don’t want to bother you. You appear to have your hands full.”

  “It’s no bother. If I put Miss Josephine down, she starts screaming.” Knight gestured again for Jon to enter, and then led the way to the parlor. “It’s my turn to hold her so everyone else can get some sleep.”

  The only time he had been in the parlor had been the morning Knight helped him bury Lavender’s dogs, and his concern then had been for Lavender, not the décor. Jon did his best not to stare. Jonathan would have seen the interior of this house at least once, he assumed. The parlor was unlike any he’d ever seen. The room possessed a curving teak bar, the curve a graceful, sweeping “s” shape. Behind the bar, a mirror covered the wall from corner to corner and floor to ceiling. Red velvet flocked wallpaper patterned with gold-foil fleur-di-lis covered two of the three remaining walls. The last wall was dominated by a massive fireplace constructed of what Jon thought to be slate and granite, the fireplace itself flanked with built in bookshelves. The grandfather clock in a corner of the room quietly tolled the midnight hour.

  Midnight? He’d bid Victoria a good night about nine. If he had been wandering the streets for a few hours, why couldn’t he remember?

  Knight shifted the sleeping infant a little higher onto his shoulder and pulled a decanter out from under the massive bar. “Drink?”

  Jon shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

  “Anymore?”