Brokken Yesterdays

by Lynda J. Cox

  He wasn’t alone. He drew a deep breath, whispered “God forgive me” and kicked the supporting beam running the length of the boardwalk.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The first shot, followed immediately with a second, forced Victoria to a complete halt. She froze, her heart not beating, her lungs not working. She couldn’t make herself move, either away from the building or back to Jon. She angrily shook herself. If Jonathan came out the back of the building, he’d see her and shoot her, too.

  She ducked behind the tarp covered hearse, hating Jonathan as she had never hated anything before. Her loathing of him before paled in the face of this white-hot, consuming hatred.

  Several interminable seconds passed. Had any one of those searching the other end of town heard the shots? Was anyone coming to help?

  She rose slowly from her protected position, ducking back down when the sound of two, nearly simultaneous shots rolled through the thick fog, followed with a third. A heavy crashing reverberated from inside the undertakers.

  Victoria couldn’t stay still any longer. She rushed to the wide, double-doors at the back of the building. A fierce tug on the knob proved they were still locked. She ran around the building, sliding and stumbling, falling to her knees in the slick, clinging, thick mud.

  The fog parted enough to allow her to see Jon standing on the boardwalk, his back pressed tight to the wall, his head bent, her revolver hanging loosely from his hand. He was covered head to toe with mud.

  “Jon?” She slowed to a walk, approaching him with her heart in her throat.

  He slowly raised his head. “Tell me I’m not alone.”

  Victoria leaped onto the boardwalk and flung herself at him. She pulled him into her arms. “No. I’ll always be with you.”

  A weak smile twisted his mouth and the revolver clattered to the ground. To her horror, he crumbled against her in degrees, driving her to her knees. She couldn’t hold him any longer and he rolled from her arms.

  “Jon! NO! JON!”

  Renewed crashing inside the Klein’s building snapped her head up. One of the double doors opened, and Jonathan staggered out. Before he could raise his gun, Victoria flung herself over Jon, grabbed her revolver, and brought it up. Please, God, let there be one bullet left. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  VICTORIA CLUTCHED A coffee cup, staring into the oily, dark brew without seeing anything. The recollection of Jon rolling from her arms, seemingly lifeless, ripped through her again and again, as if a bullet shredded her heart over and over. She snapped her head when Abigail entered the kitchen.

  “Is he d...?” She couldn’t force the word past the lump searing her throat.

  “He’s alive.” Abigail’s tired smile spoke more than the words.

  She told herself so many times in the past hours she was not going to cry. That resolve faded as quickly as the warm sunlight burned away the fog in the aftermath of the long rain. Her tears broke, and she fell over the table, sobbing.

  The warmth of Abigail’s arm around her back penetrated. Victoria sat up, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Can I see him?”

  Abigail shook her head, another tired smile crossing her face. “Not yet. Mathew said he’ll come and get you when you can. You know, you really need to stop using my kitchen for your crying jags.”

  A broken laugh rippled from Victoria. “Where else can I feel it’s safe to let my guard down?”

  Abigail flung her arms around her and hugged her. To her mortification, Victoria felt renewed tears stinging her eyes. She should have no tears left. Abigail released her as Mathew walked into the kitchen.

  The doctor wore his frock coat, something she had never seen him do in his own home. Dark, rusty stains dotted what she could see of his white shirt. Without any preamble, Mathew said, “He’s alive. I’m guarded about his chances to survive.”

  It felt as if another bullet tore into her chest.

  “The severe systematic torture and abuse he suffered at that prison takes months, if not years, to recover from. He was just beginning to recover when that bas—that man broke his collarbone.” Mathew crossed the kitchen to the stove. He poured a cup of coffee and took a long drink. “However, he’s still alive only because of that broken collarbone. If his arm hadn’t been immobilized against his chest, he would be dead. The bullet went through his lower arm and all the binding. Still broke two ribs when it entered, and it pulled lint and threads from the linen we used to bind his arm to him into the wound. Not to mention all the mud in the wound.”

  “You’re worried about infection?” Victoria shot a glance from Mathew to Abigail.

  Abigail shook her head. Mathew took another long drink from his cup. “No. Abby gave me a poultice she’s used, and I’ve seen how well it works to prevent infection. I’m more worried about the loss of blood. And because of the angle the bullet went through his lower arm, it shattered both bones. I had to amputate at the elbow and reset his collarbone.”

  Amputate—if he had to do surgery, he only had one hand. Victoria sucked in a short, painful breath, and twisted her head to Abigail. Her friend’s cream-colored blouse had oddly-shaped dotting along the sleeves and above where an apron would have covered her. The color of those dots matched the rusty stains on Mathew’s shirt. “You helped.”

  It wasn’t a question. Abigail answered with a barely perceptible dip of her head.

  He wouldn’t be the only man in Brokken with an amputated limb. There was Thomas Reed, Micajah Fenton, Evander Prince, Tucker Means, Alan Brandon...she bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. He was alive. “Can I see him?”

  Mathew eased his breath out and then nodded. “Yes, though he’s in and out of consciousness. I loaded him with morphine for the pain, so he may not be completely coherent.”

  Victoria stood and made her way to the front parlor, which had always served as the doctor’s office, even before Mathew arrived in Brokken. She paused in the opened doorway. If surgery had been performed in this room, there was no sign of it. She had seen surgery done before, knew how much blood spilled onto the floor, how many rags were soaked with it, even remembered the sickly-sweet iron rich scent of it. Jon was stretched out on a narrow cot, his head on a thick pillow and turned toward the door. A heavy comforter draped him from chin to toes.

  God, he was so pale and drawn. His chest rose and fell in a steady, though not deep, rhythm.

  He was alive.

  A wooden, ladder-backed chair next to the cot drew her steps. She eased into the seat and softly spoke his name. “Jon?”

  His eyelids fluttered but he didn’t open his eyes. Victoria leaned closer to him and smoothed her palm over his chest. “I’m here, Jon. You’re not alone.”

  The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth, and while she wouldn’t swear to it, she thought his head moved in a nod. She leaned closer and carefully lowered her head onto his shoulder and rubbed the pad of her thumb on his chest.

  “My arm.” His voice was ragged and slurred. The quilt stirred as he moved the amputated limb.

  “It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is you’re alive.”

  “I really...really am broken.”

  “You’re not broken to me, Jon,” she whispered.

  The exhaustion hit her with a vengeance. She had been awake for almost thirty-six hours. She didn’t want to fall asleep where she was, but she was unable to keep her eyes open another second. Without jostling him, Victoria worked her way under his uninjured arm. As her eyes closed, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

  This was where she belonged, at his side, wrapped in his embrace.

  JUDGE DAVIS SHUFFLED a stack of papers, set them to a side, and then looked around the table. His gaze lingered on Colbert. That she was seated across from the vile man made Victoria’s skin crawl. Davis shifted his gaze to her. Victoria did her best not to squirm under the venerable judge’s scrutiny. The tightening of Jon’s hand on hers helped her remain motionless. His
sight turned to Jon.

  Jon sat straight in the chair, the sleeve on his left arm pinned back. He was still pale, and anything more than a short walk around her small flower garden left him shaking with exhaustion.

  “The last time I was in this bank, I was here because of the Andrews gang.” Davis finally spoke. “Sheriff, you have a serious enforcement problem in your town.”

  Victoria bit back the angry retort she longed to loose. Jon squeezed her hand and spoke. “The problem has been resolved, your Honor.”

  Davis’s lips pursed and he tilted his head toward Jon, the disapproval lining his features causing Victoria’s stomach to sink. He turned to Colbert. “Why are you here?”

  “I came here to take Jonathan English back to Watonga Prison.” Colbert looked across the table at Jon, never breaking eye contact.

  Jon didn’t back down, either.

  Davis’s gaze skipped from Jon to Colbert. “I thought this man was Jonathan English.”

  “No, sir.” Colbert finally looked away from Jon. “Jonathan English is at the undertakers, being prepared for burial.”

  Davis blinked. Victoria finally looked away from the judge, bowing her head. Her hand, held safe within Jon’s, was just visible under the table.

  “Who are you?” Davis demanded.

  “Ishmael Jonathan Michael Andrews, sir.” Jon tilted his head ever so slightly to Davis.

  “Of the Andrews gang?” Davis reached for the stack of papers in front of him.

  “No.” Colbert spoke. “He’s not a member of that group of outlaws and probably never was.”

  “Probably?” The manner Davis’s voice rose on the end of the word lifted the hair on the back of Victoria’s neck.

  “Let me rephrase that. There is no way this man could have been part of the outlaw gang, because when they were doing their worst, he was in my prison.” Colbert’s gaze flickered to Victoria for a brief second and then back to Jon.

  “You just said you came here to take Jonathan English back to Watonga. You also had this man in your prison?” Davis’s rigidity broke and he craned his neck toward Colbert.

  “I never had English. I had the wrong man.”

  The tightening of Jon’s posture was probably indistinguishable to anyone else but Victoria. She squeezed his hand, hoping to convey some assurance to him.

  The judge leaned an elbow onto the conference table. “Wasn’t this man serving time for the rape of a young woman? Or, was that English, too?”

  “Your Honor, if I may?” Victoria extracted her hand from Jon’s. “Jon—”

  “Jon?”

  “Mr. Andrews, your Honor, was railroaded into a conviction. The woman he was accused of hurting is here in Brokken.” Victoria stood, drawing her hands down the front of her skirt. Wearing the creation bought out of the general store window had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, she would have felt more confident in her usual attire of trousers and chambray. “I sent one of my deputies to find her. She’s in Mr. Brokken’s office.”

  Jon snapped his head up to Victoria. “Varina’s here?”

  “Bring her in.” Davis’s voice oozed with long-suffering impatience.

  Victoria walked to the closed door and pulled it open. Curt stood guard outside his brother’s office and the woman who still held Jon’s life in her hands. As the first time she saw her, Victoria’s heart twisted with pity for how Varina Carroll had been used.

  Curt ushered Varina toward the conference room and then through the open door. Her father, bent and stooped, a battered and sweat-stained slouch hat held in one hand, followed. Jon, the judge, and Colbert all came to their feet with the fragile-looking woman’s entrance. Colbert’s jaw dropped and even Davis was hard-pressed to remain impassive.

  The woman’s hair was the color of freshly fallen snow, her skin so pale and white it was nearly translucent. It was her eyes, though, that drew most people in—a shade of gray so light as to be almost white. Varina scanned the room and the assembly with those unsettling eyes, finally resting on Jon. A genuine smile crossed her delicate features. “Ishy.” Her voice was as ethereal as her appearance.

  Ishy? In spite of the sense of foreboding in the room, the woman’s pet name brought a smile to Victoria’s face.

  Jon dipped his head in greeting. “Hello, Varina.”

  “Daddy said you went away because of me.”

  Jon shook his head. “No. It wasn’t because of you.” He walked around the table to where Varina stood with her father and pulled a chair out for the woman. Her father stood next to Colbert.

  Varina touched Jon’s upper arm, her gaze following the sleeve to where it was pinned back on itself. “You’ve been hurt.”

  Victoria’s heart clenched with the innocence, the child-like quality to this woman. The man she knew never would have done anything to harm Varina Carroll. Curt moved to stand closer to the strange woman, as if in a defensive position.

  “I’ll be all right.” Jon took Varina’s arm and assisted her to sit. “Varina, Judge Davis wants to ask you a few questions.”

  Varina’s father, Colbert, and Davis sat once the woman was seated. She looked up at Jon, her smooth brow furrowing with consternation. “Did I do something wrong, Ishy?”

  “No, Rina, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Jon dropped to one knee at her side. “Just answer his questions truthfully and as well as you can remember. You can do that.”

  Varina’s pale, pale hand left Jon’s arm. She primly folded her hands on her lap, her head bowed. “What questions does he want to ask me?”

  Jon still knelt at her side. “He wants to ask you about when I worked on the Tumbling M.”

  A hint of a smile emerged, visible even with her head bowed. “You talked to me about books, and places I can’t go. I never finished reading Moby Dick because every time I read Ishmael’s name, I saw you. You were the only friend I ever had.”

  Jon’s shoulders rounded. He took the woman’s fragile hands into his. “I’ll always be your friend, Varina Carroll.”

  Varina lifted her head and studied Jon for a long moment. She then looked over her shoulder at Victoria. The soft, sad smile lifting her lips made the breath catch in the back of Victoria’s throat. Varina returned her gaze to Jon. “You were always alone. You’re not now, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I can answer the questions.” Varina looked down the table to the judge.

  Jon stood and stepped away from the ethereal woman. He stood at Victoria’s side and took her hand into his again. Victoria held onto him as if she were drowning, and he was her only lifeline.

  Davis studied Varina for a long moment. “Is Moby Dick the only book you and Mr. Andrews read?”

  Varina shook her head. “I can’t go out in the sunshine. I’m forced to stay inside during the day, so I read a lot. At night, I can be outside. I take care of my flowers at night. Ishy started helping me, and we started to talk about books. Daddy’s bought me a lot of books. Every time he goes to town, he buys me a new book.” She paused to smile at her father. “Ishy told me about Mrs. Stowe’s book. How can anyone be so cruel to other people, just because of the color of their skin?”

  The poignancy of her question hung in the room. Perhaps as much as Isaac, Varina had been on the receiving end of cruelty and prejudice simply because she was different.

  Davis cleared his throat. “What else did Mr. Andrews do when he was there?”

  “Daddy said he was a good worker.” She smiled again at her father. “Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

  Martin Carroll nodded. His sight never left his daughter.

  The judge again cleared his throat. “Did Mr. Andrews ever do anything inappropriate with you, Miss Carroll?”

  Varina’s laugh reminded Victoria of tiny, silver bells. “He is a gentleman.” Her voice took on an edge. “I heard what those men told you after Ishy left, Daddy. I heard them say I had to say he hurt me. Ishy never hurt me. He never did anything to hurt me. He didn’t even kiss me.” She twisted he
r head around to look at Jon and Victoria. Tears welled in her unusual eyes, making the white-gray sparkle like snowflakes in the winter sunshine. “Did you go away because those men wanted me to lie?”

  Before Jon could answer, Davis interjected. “I don’t need to hear any more. Miss Carroll, thank you.”

  Curt offered his hand to the strange woman. As she walked to the door, she stopped, her gaze skipping from Jon to Victoria. “Will you let me hug you, Ishmael, one time?”

  Without waiting for Jon’s answer, Victoria released his hand and took two steps back. Jon glanced at Victoria, the depths of his eyes darkened with pain for the hurt inflicted on Varina. Then, he held his arm out to the ethereal woman.

  Varina wrapped her arms around him. “I will miss you, Ishy, perhaps more so now than I did before.” She released Jon from her embrace but grabbed his hand. Without letting go, she reached across the distance and took Victoria’s hand. As she pulled them closer and then folded her hand into Jon’s, Varina looked into Victoria’s face. Victoria forced herself to meet the unnerving, pale gaze.

  “Take good care of him,” Varina whispered. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I will,” Victoria promised the woman. “I give you my word.”

  Martin Carroll gestured for Curt and his daughter to leave. He waited until Curt pulled the door closed before he spoke. “Your Honor, I have something I need to say.”

  Davis leaned back in his chair. Jon stiffened, and his fingers tightened around Victoria’s. He seemed to be holding his breath. The judge dipped his head. “Speak your piece, Mr. Carroll.”

  Carroll twisted his hat, turning it around and around. “I’m an old man. My doctor told me a little while ago I wouldn’t live to see my next birthday. I’ve proven him wrong, but I know my time’s coming fast.” The old man glanced over at Jon and then to Colbert. “When my doctor told me I was dying, I tried to set right what I’d allowed to be done wrong.”