Chapter Six
No one gave Chance a say in whether to stay at the hotel or not. Everyone agreed Miss Sophia would not approve of a dog occupying one of the rooms, and so it was settled. It meant he’d have to climb in the back of the wagon, with Miss Brokken sitting in front of him, distracting him. They didn’t have far to travel, from what he heard. The ranch lay on the northern outskirts of town.
After they were given refreshments at the hotel, the men staying headed to their rooms. Klint, as he’d now told Chance to call him, chose to go to Brokken Arrow Ranch. After giving everyone a lengthy explanation as to the propriety of staying at the hotel with his intended, though, as far as Chance could figure, Miss Lilley had a home of her own, he climbed in the back of the wagon and sank down beside Chance and Rascal. The other men going to the ranch soon joined them.
Klint was in a happy mood although that wasn’t unusual. Chance had yet to see him when he wasn’t. The men exchanged stories of battles, even though some had been in the Confederacy and others with the Union army. Chance kept silent, although he had his own stories to tell, and even versions of their own that they knew nothing of.
Klint dug an elbow in his ribs when they passed the Brokken Bank and then the Brokken General Store. He leaned in closer, so close that Rascal shrank away and let out a low growl. Chance shushed him and gave him a pat to let him know all was well.
“Looks like the Brokkens own half the town,” Klint whispered.
It made no difference to Chance, who stiffened and leaned away, hoping Klint would notice that he was in no mood to talk.
One of the other men, Joshua Franklin, motioned with his thumb to Miss Brokken on the seat beside Mr. Isaac. He whispered, a little too loudly. “That’s the sister. I heard tell her brothers ran off with the town’s money.”
“It’s none of our business,” Chance responded and narrowed his eyes at the man. He shifted his position, given himself room to move quickly if need be.
His words didn’t diminish the man’s beaming demeanor. He leaned forward to peer under Chance’s hat. “Don’t I know you? You sure look familiar.”
Chance shrugged, pulled his hat farther down, and draped his arms over his knees, forcing the man back.
Klint nudged his ribs again. “This is Chance Hale.” He spoke with pride, as if he was some prized hog.
“Chance Hale? That name sounds familiar ...” Mr. Franklin snapped his fingers. “He’s that Union Sharpshooter.” He fell back on his heels and rubbed the back of his thumb against his lower lip.
Chance jerked his head up to glare at Klint, still sitting too close. That smiling face needed punching. “Why did you tell him my name?” he growled.
Immediately, Klint was contrite, and he leaned even closer. “Sorry, Chance. They were bound to find out sooner or later.”
When Chance turned his attention back to the other men, they had fallen silent, and most looked in his direction, some with rounded, fearful eyes.
Chance would ask Mr. Isaac to stop, and he’d walk the rest of the way to the ranch. What he’d do when he got there, he didn’t know.
The wagon lurched, and Isaac struggled for a minute to control the horses before pulling them to a halt. The men scrambled from the wagon and, somehow, Chance had no notion how, Klint reached Miss Brokken first and helped her descend from the lopsided wagon.
One glance showed the wheel had broken. Several men gathered to give Mr. Isaac a hand in the unhitching of the mules. When the others gave him a wide berth, Chance hoisted his bag to his shoulder and moved away to the side and waited with Rascal
After a few minutes, Miss Brokken spoke quietly with her foreman. Mr. Isaac tilted his head, took off his cap, and wiped away sweat from his dark brow. Although only early March, the day had been warm.
The sunset in the west filled half the sky, and Chance focused on it. If things did not work out with Miss Waldruff, he’d head west, change his name, and start anew. How he’d do that with no money, no horse, and no rifle, he didn’t know. He’d traded his rifle in for a revolver, still in his bag, along with a holster. It had been a foolish thing to do, but he had his reasons. Maybe he could sell the revolver, use the money for a train ticket.
It was possible he might have some luck with Miss Waldruff. She’d seemed perfectly amiable when they’d met. The question was how she’d feel when she learned of his past. She’d have to know before any courting commenced.
And, if she did reject him, he had another option. Mr. Isaac looked like an intelligent, reasonable man. Maybe Chance could work on the ranch for a few months, earn enough money to make a fresh start. He’d have to avoid Miss Brokken, somehow. Even now, she drew his attention, and his dream came back to haunt him, stirred up feelings that rose to the surface to tighten his chest. He cursed himself and took off his hat to run his fingers through his hair.
Mr. Isaac put two fingers to his lips and let loose a shrill whistle, motioning the men over. They gathered ’round, and Chance replaced his hat. He hovered on the edge of the group.
“Listen, men. It’s getting late. Miss Brokken has decided to walk the rest of the way home. We have another wagon at the ranch, but these are our only mules.”
“Not much of a ranch if you’ve only got two mules,” Franklin mumbled. Several men laughed.
Someone shushed the man, but Mr. Isaac had heard as had Miss Brokken. She flushed with anger and stepped closer.
She enunciated every word clearly. “Everyone has suffered after the War, and we are rebuilding. We can only do that by working together. As most of you know, the town was founded by my father. Although I am not the one in charge and have no say in final decisions, I will discuss any rude behavior with the sheriff and her father, Preacher Grisson.”
“You mean we have to work with the Brokkens or else?” Franklin challenged her.
The question hung in the air unanswered except by a steel glint in Miss Brokken’s eyes. Chance’s breath quickened, and the tightness in his chest increased.
A few of the men moved restlessly, muttering, and after someone gave Franklin a shove, he whipped his hat off his head. “I meant no disrespect, Miss Brokken.” After another nudge, he added, “Mr. Isaac.”
Miss Brokken shot a glance at her foreman and cleared her throat. “If you don’t like our ranch, if you don’t want to work together, the Brokken Road that brought you here can lead you away.” She turned on her heel and left them standing there.
Klint grabbed his bag from the wagon and motioned to Chance. “You coming?” He hurried after her, and the other men followed, moving slower.
Chance hung back until he gained control of his emotions and then walked over to Mr. Isaac. “Do you need help with the mules?”
“That’d be greatly appreciated. You have me at a disadvantage. I didn’t catch your name.”
It hadn’t gone unnoticed that Miss Brokken had not introduced him to her foreman. “My name is Chance Hale. I’m in a bit of a dilemma. The other men” –he nodded in the direction they’d gone— “are uncomfortable around me.”
“And why would that be?” Curiosity danced in the older man’s eyes.
Chance shrugged. “I was a Sharpshooter in the Union army.”
The man’s forehead creased, his puzzlement evident. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means some consider me a murderer.”
DEBORAH’S CHEEKS HAD not cooled although the temperature dropped as the sun set. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips when Mr. Caper caught up with her. She glanced beyond him but did not see Mr. Hale. All well and good if he decided to head back down the Brokken Road, back to where he’d come from.
Breathless, Mr. Caper spoke. “I’m sorry about Joshua Franklin back there. If he gives any more trouble, I’ll take care of it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If we need your help, we’ll ask for it. The Brokkens are not ...” Her voice faltered. What was she going to say? Not in need of help?
To tell the truth, her f
amily could use help. If folks were to be believed, her father had betrayed the Confederacy, and her brothers had stolen most of the money from the bank.
And the ranch was far from thriving. Not to mention the bank had still not reopened, with no one qualified to run it. How capable was she? How much could she do to aright it all? Tears pricked her eyes.
She sighed loudly and peeked at Mr. Caper. His blue eyes sparkled in the dying light, lifting her spirits.
He moved closer, so close his arm brushed hers. “Are not what?” He flashed a smile. “Are not in need of help? I disagree. We can all use help from time to time, although from your speech back there, I see you are fully capable of holding your own.”
She pressed her lips together and did not speak until they reached the gate leading into the ranch. None of the other men were in sight. She placed a hand on his arm that felt strong and capable. “Mr. Caper, I do need a favor.”
“Whatever you wish, Miss Brokken.” He placed a warm and comforting hand on top of hers.
She couldn’t repress a smile. “Will you wait here for the rest of the men? The bunkhouse is close to the barn. You can’t miss it. I’m sure supper is prepared, but I’ll check to be sure on my way home.”
“Of course, I will wait. It’ll be my pleasure.”
To her consternation, when she attempted to remove her hand, he took it in both of his and kissed it. She pulled her hand loose, slowly, and bid him goodnight. Mr. Caper was a fine man, but she did not like his flirtatious behavior, especially since he was promised to Lavendar. Her cheeks burned. Wasn’t she the one who had been forward, placing her hand on his arm.
She took a deep breath and walked toward her beloved ranch. It took all her effort not to run all the way home.
Chapter Seven
Chance waited for Mr. Isaac to speak, but he said nothing. All the others had moved out of sight. Chance and Mr. Isaac led the mules at a slower pace. The silence between the two men was compatible, the walk pleasant. A cool breeze had picked up and the countryside, although not what he was used to, was appealing. The trees stood farther apart and did not tower above them like those back home. He had an affinity with trees. They’d served him well, especially during the War when he’d shimmy up one to get a better shot. If it’d been a particularly tall one in full leaf, the enemy had an almost impossible task of locating him in his green uniform.
Isaac, slightly ahead, pulled his mule to a stop, and Chance stopped beside him.
The older man tilted his head and removed his cap, swiping his forehead with his arm. “How old were you, Mr. Hale, when the War began?”
“Seventeen.”
Mr. Isaac contemplated him for a few minutes, his dark eyes luminous. “How did you become a Sharpshooter?”
Despite all the heartache that had ensued, a smile played on Chance’s lips. His selection had been a moment of great honor, had made his family proud.
He looked away before he spoke. “I have ... had eight brothers. Before the War, my brother Jonathan met and married a woman from Wisconsin. When his wife was lying in, for the delivery of their first child, my mother asked me to accompany her there from our home in Missouri.” He fell silent for a moment, re-living the happy reunion. Jonathan’s wife had delivered a healthy baby boy whom he had not seen since he joined the army.
He passed a hand over his face before he continued. “That was in the summer of 1861, before we knew the full extent—I reckon no one knew what this War would entail. We tarried longer than we’d planned, at my brother’s, and I turned eighteen that fall.” He moved to get a better view of Mr. Isaac who remained silent, his face composed.
“My brother told me Colonel Berdan was forming a regiment of Sharpshooters, but the men would have to pass a test to be considered. He said he was going, and I should too. Jonathan had faith in me, more faith than I had in myself. If it hadn’t been for him ...”
“Did he become a Sharpshooter?” Mr. Isaac interrupted.
Chance shook his head, and to his consternation, a tear slid down his cheek. The errant tear was brushed away with the back of his hand. “He came close, but not perfect. You didn’t get a second chance to put ten shots in a ten-inch circle. Only one of his shots was outside the circle, by less than half an inch, but it was enough to disqualify him.” Chance shrugged. “I always thought God was with me that day when I was able to get all ten of mine in the circle, but maybe it was the devil.”
More tears pricked his eyes. The stress from the journey, being around so many folks, had taken a toll. Rascal sensed his distress and brushed against his leg. He knelt to pat his sides and stayed kneeling until the threat of tears abated.
“Let’s walk on,” Mr. Isaac said, as if he hadn’t noticed.
Chance climbed to the feet, and they walked for a few moments, long enough for Chance to speak with a level voice. “Missouri was divided over the War, even in our family. Two of my brothers joined the Confederacy—Daniel, my oldest brother, and Paul, who was just two years older than me.”
Paul had taught him how to fish. He had shown him the best places to look for worms, and then how to thread the worm on the hook. Most importantly, he taught him how to patiently wait for the nibble, to know the exact moment to set the hook. And later, they’d gone hunting together, but that had been a mistake, teaching him how to shoot. He looked up to see Mr. Isaac watching him.
Isaac’s voice was a soothing bass tone. “I know that must have been difficult for you and your family, to fight on opposite sides.”
Instead of comforting him, it did the opposite. Memories he’d kept pushed far from the light of day welled up, choking him. He swallowed hard and tried to still the shaking of his hands. He pulled the mule to a stop and leaned against him, as if the mule’s strength would give him enough courage to go on.
Mr. Isaac stepped beside him and placed a hand on his back. “Let it out son. You’ve been holding it in for too long.”
With the older man’s touch, the dam broke and sobs shook his shoulders. Mr. Isaac remained beside him and spoke words meant to comfort, but comfort no longer existed for him.
When the tears abated long enough for him to speak, Chance choked out the words he’d never spoken before. “Paul was a gunner for the Rebs. He stood to load the cannon, and men in uniform look alike.” Chance lifted a tear-stained face to Isaac and swiped his nose with his shirt-sleeve. “I shot him.”
His forehead touched the mule’s side. He waited for Mr. Isaac’s words to condemn him, but the man remained silent, his hand still on his shoulder.
Dusk was gathering before he lifted his head again. Mr. Isaac pointed him to a nearby stream, and he went to wash the tears away, spending a few minutes to listen to the gurgling of the stream. Rascal had followed him and whined until he took a moment to run his palm over his dog’s head, smoothing down the fur. He rose, feeling as if he’d marched twenty miles, as he did that day they advanced toward Yorktown. His weak legs returned him to where the older man stood with the mules.
Mr. Isaac waved an arm toward a trail up ahead. “Come with me, son.”
Chance fell in step beside him. “Where are we going?”
“Miss Deborah’s brothers have a shooting house near here. You can stay here for a few days. Being alone will do you good.”
“You mean I ain’t fit to be in the company of others.” The bitterness twisted his mouth as he spat out the words. But hadn’t he asked for this? To be alone?
He followed Mr. Isaac onto a narrower trail. It wasn’t until they reached the cabin that Isaac again spoke. “You need time to contemplate your life and, more importantly, time to forgive yourself.”
Chance shook his head. “There’s no forgiveness for me. None.”
“God’s word teaches us to forgive others, and, believe it or not, that forgiveness extends to ourselves. Read your Bible. God’s forgiveness reaches all, even you.” He searched Chance’s face and then held out the reins. “Hold the mules for a minute.”
Chance did
as he was told. Mr. Isaac entered the cabin and shortly reappeared. “I think you’ll find all you need. Did you bring any food?”
Chance nodded. “Enough to get me by until tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll be back to check on you.” He hesitated a moment. “It’ll be all right. Have faith.” After patting his shoulder, he led the mules away.
Chance wiped his nose again with the back of his shirtsleeve. Hadn’t that been Jonathan’s words to him, right before he was chosen to be a Sharpshooter? Faith had never gotten him anywhere.
WHEN DEBORAH SAW MR. Hale had not arrived with the others, she rejoiced and thought her prayers had been answered. The next morning, she discovered otherwise.
“Why do I have to take him food?” Deborah asked irritably as she watched Isaac saddle his horse.
He turned to her. As always, Isaac’s deep brown eyes contemplated her calmly. “Preacher Grisson has taken the men into town to meet their intended brides. You’re the only one here.”
“I know, I know. But what is Mr. Hale doing at the Shooting House in the first place? He’s supposed to be bunking here.”
“It’s better for him to be alone.” He cinched the saddle and faced her. “Why are you questioning me on this?”
She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t trust herself around Mr. Hale. Instead, she said, “You know my grandmother would not approve of me visiting a strange man.”
“Your grandparents went into town, to help supervise the meetings. We have no choice, and you’re holding me up. I need to get into town myself, to get the Jennings brothers to help with repairing the wagon wheel.” He had one foot in the stirrup.
Deborah bit her bottom lip. “I can go with you, and we’ll drop the food off at the cabin. Give me a minute to saddle my horse.”
Isaac swung a leg over and settled into the saddle. He sighed deeply. “All you have to do is leave the food. Don’t even speak to him.”
She stepped closer, laying a hand on the mare’s neck. “Mr. Caper said Mr. Hale killed men ...”
Brokken Arrow Page 4
