Brokken Arrow

by Abagail Eldan

  Mr. Hale visibly relaxed and cleared his throat. “There are jobs around the ranch I will do to pay off my debt.”

  “Debt?” Mr. Isaac said.

  Mr. Hale linked his fingers together. “The use of this cabin.”

  Isaac gave Mr. Hale a soft smile. “You’ve only stayed two nights.”

  Deborah nodded in agreement. “There is no need to pay us back. This cabin was empty, and you were more than welcome to use it.”

  Mr. Hale shook his head. “No, I will pay for my stay.” A warm smile spread to his eyes and released butterflies in Deborah’s stomach. He seemed have forgotten Isaac’s presence. His gaze remained on her.

  She stood and grabbed a plate. “These dishes won’t wash themselves.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Hale stood to help, but Isaac shook his head. “I’ll help Miss Deborah. It might do you some good to spend time with your friend.” He nodded toward the door.

  Mr. Hale did not argue but grabbed his hat and left.

  Deborah gave a short laugh while she filled the dishpan from the bucket at the backdoor. “His friend? When did those two become friends?”

  “They seemed perfectly at ease with each other when we entered, friends, I would say. Perhaps jealousy between them caused friction earlier,” Isaac said, a smile playing on his lips.

  “Jealousy?” Her cheeks heated under his scrutiny and she busied herself with scraping the plates and dishes. The men had left little food. “Why would they be jealous of each other?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, they both seem smitten with you.” He laughed and stacked the scraped-out dishes by the dishpan.

  “Nonsense.” Heat rose to her cheeks, and she knew it betrayed her. “Well, maybe Mr. Caper is. I’m not sure. He’s the type who flirts with all the ladies.” They both laughed and worked in silence for a few minutes.

  When Deborah scrubbed the last plate clean and handed it to Isaac to rinse, he touched her arm. “Normally I would consider this none of my business. However, Mr. Hale spoke to me of things that happened in the War, things you need to know before you consider courting him.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not going to court Mr. Hale, I assure you.”

  “May I ask why?”

  She frowned at him and gave him the washrag to wipe down the table. “First, you know my grandmother would never allow it ...”

  “And when has that ever stopped you?” Isaac laughed and handed her back the washrag.

  She rinsed it and laid it out to dry. “The main reason I would not consider it is because Mr. Caper said Mr. Hale murdered people. I think that’s what he said—murdered, not killed. Although I’m not sure what the difference is.”

  Isaac nodded solemnly.

  She went to the backdoor and threw out the dirty wash water. She wiped out the dishpan and turned it upside down before she faced him. “Why do you think Mr. Caper told me Mr. Hale was a murderer?”

  “Caper, more than likely, wishes to court you. Maybe he’s trying to rid himself of competition. Or, who knows? Maybe he’s the type to spread gossip.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Deborah nodded. “If he’s a gossip, that means he’s a liar?”

  “I didn’t say he was a liar. Gossip often has a kernel of truth.”

  She considered that, turning it over in her mind. “If he’s not lying, Mr. Hale is a murderer. Murderer or not, he is strange, not like the others. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do. That does not make him a bad man.”

  “So, what are you saying? You think I should encourage this man?”

  He patted her shoulder. “No. Don’t encourage him until you learn the truth. Sit down and talk with him.”

  “Why? I said I had no interest ...” She dropped her gaze to her hands. She’d never lied to Isaac. She would not do so now. “The truth is that he attracts me, more than any other man I’ve ever met. I thought it best to stay away from him. Besides, he has no interest in me.”

  Isaac laughed. “The man is smitten with you. I knew that from the moment I met him.”

  She gave a snort. “He rarely opens his mouth when I’m around.”

  Isaac canted a glance at her. “Did you forget he talked to us a few minutes ago?”

  “Because he had something to say.” She shook her head.

  “Maybe he has something to say about the War. Ask him. It’s that simple.”

  Her fingers intertwined and twisted, but she’d already decided she’d do it. But she knew it would not be simple.

  KLINT CHOSE TO STAY behind to walk to the bunkhouse with Chance. Miss Brokken and Mr. Isaac took the leftovers and headed back. It took only a few minutes for Chance to gather his things, whistle for Rascal, and they were on their way. He’d grown used to Klint’s constant chatter and enjoyed listening to him tell of his exploits in the War.

  When they arrived at the bunkhouse, Klint left without saying where he was going. Chance stored his gear away, fed Rascal, and washed up. The men still had not returned from town. The courting business lasted a long time.

  Chance sat on his bunk and wondered if he should start work on his own or wait. Thankfully, Mr. Isaac came to the door and motioned for him. Chance told Rascal to stay and followed Mr. Isaac.

  But instead of heading toward the field, Mr. Isaac walked toward the main house. He did not offer an explanation.

  Chance, his gut queasy, put out a hand to detain him. “Where are we going, Mr. Isaac?”

  “To the Brokken House. Miss Deborah wishes to speak to you.”

  “To me?”

  Mr. Isaac squinted at him. “I’m a bit nearsighted, but I think I grabbed the right man.”

  Chance did not laugh. “Are her grandparents there?”

  Mr. Isaac smiled. “Luckily, they are not. They are visiting with neighbors. Miss Deborah pleaded a headache to get out of the commitment.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. Why would she wish to speak to him? Had she changed her mind again and planned to kick him out before he even settled in? He tried to sort through the emotions surging through him, but didn’t know whether he was more excited or nervous.

  The house was different than any he’d seen before, the wood dark and ornate on the outside. Inside, the rooms were brighter, the large windows catching the light.

  They paused in the foyer, and Mr. Isaac indicated a coat tree for him to hang his hat on. Chance ran his fingers through his hair nervously and followed Mr. Isaac into the sitting room.

  Miss Brokken rose to greet them. She’d changed into a dress of turquoise that perfectly matched her eyes. His heart quickened in response to her soft smile.

  Mr. Isaac left them, although Chance suspected he had not gone far.

  Miss Brokken indicated the round table beside her that held a porcelain tea service. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Hale?”

  He didn’t, really, but he nodded and took a seat across from her when she sat down.

  If she was nervous, she did not show it as she presided over pouring the tea. “Mr. Isaac suggested this meeting.” She paused as if waiting for him to speak.

  When he didn’t, she continued. “I wondered if you could tell me about the War.” A soft pink stained her cheeks.

  “What do you want to know?” He took a sip of the tea, feeling disoriented, as if in some outlandish book, like Alice, in Wonderland.

  “I want to know about your experiences in the War.” She took a sip of tea and again waited for him to speak.

  Had someone told her, as they had Miss Waldruff of the things he had done? He frowned. “Has Preacher Grisson been speaking to you?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No, not lately. Why?”

  He set his cup and saucer on the table. “Preacher Grisson told Miss Waldruff ... things about me. I thought he might have talked to you, also.” He shrugged.

  Her breathing deepened, and she raised an eyebrow. “What is it you don’t Preacher Grisson telling people?”

  “Some t
hings are best left unsaid.” His tone was angry, and she drew back as if he had struck her. Her reaction unsettled him. “I’m sorry. I’m confused as to why you would want this information.”

  She avoided his eyes for a second. “I ... This is difficult to discuss. I need to make some decisions, and I need to understand you better... so I can make.. my decision.”

  “Miss Brokken, do you want me to leave Brokken Arrow? Is that what you are trying to decide?”

  She glanced down at the teacup in her hands and then up to him, her eyes shimmering. “No, Mr. Hale. I’m trying to decide if I want you to stay.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Deborah’s cheeks felt as if they’d burst into flames at any second. She lowered her gaze to the teacup again and waited for him to speak.

  “You’re trying to decide if you want me to stay? In what capacity? As a ranch hand?”

  She peered up to see his forehead was a mass of furrows. She’d hoped he’d understand her intentions a little faster.

  She placed the cup on the table beside her. “Not exactly. I like you, Mr. Hale. I want to get to know you better.”

  His frown deepened. He shook his head. “My plans are to repay you for your hospitality, and I hoped perhaps I could get hired on as a ranch hand, just long enough to make enough money for a train ticket. You do not want to get to know me better.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you used to making decisions for people?”

  His throat was dry, and he picked his cup up to drain it of the tea. “Yes, unfortunately, I am used to making decisions for others. You want to know what I did in the War? I decided who lived or died. I didn’t give them much choice at all in the matter.” His angry eyes shot shards of glass into her heart.

  She put her hand to her chest to ease the pain. “But I’m confused. Isn’t that what war is about? Men shooting other men?”

  He passed a hand over his face and rested his elbows on his knees. “There are different ways to wage war. One way is to give the other side a fair chance. War should not be about killing your enemy but defeating your enemy, forcing them to surrender, not utterly destroying them. And, yes, men are killed, but that’s not the purpose of war.” He fell silent.

  She puzzled over his words. “Mr. Hale, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  He twisted his head to look at her and then straightened and leaned back in the chair. “I was a Union Sharpshooter and picked men off one by one, destroying them. And not just them, but their families.”

  A numbness enveloped her, but she was able to nod and say softly, “I see.”

  He spoke softly. “So, what now?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “I need time to think about this.”

  He didn’t move, seeming to have fortified himself. “I want to be sure I fully understand our conversation, also. Are you telling me that I have hope of winning your affection? And that is why you are questioning me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hale. We have so many obstacles in our way, but yes, I’m asking you, well, I know you were not interested in marrying, but I ... I hoped ...”

  “Perhaps I can be persuaded to marry.” He smiled his elusive smile that warmed her soul, but then his face fell. “That is if you can live with the fact that I was a Sharpshooter. But there’s still something else you need to know.”

  An icy claw closed over hear heart. “Yes?”

  His breathing deepened, and he pressed his fingers to his temples as if his head ached but did not speak.

  “Please tell me, Mr. Hale.”

  “My brother was a Confederate gunner. I shot him.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You accidentally shot your brother?”

  His eyes became glazed. “No, it wasn’t an accident. I raised my rifle and aimed it at his head—”

  “Chance! Please!” Tears streamed down her face although she wasn’t sure when she’d started crying. She fumbled for her handkerchief.

  He looked at her with dull eyes. “I didn’t know he was my brother when I pulled the trigger, but it was no accident that I killed him.” As if his legs had forgotten how to work, he struggled to his feet.

  “How do you endure it?” she whispered.

  “Not very well at all.” The sense of loss, deep in his eyes, constricted her heart.

  She stood and moved to him, to touch the back of her hand against his cheek. The desire to pull him into her arms, to offer him comfort, grew. With an effort, she stepped back. “I’m sorry I forced you to speak of such a painful subject.”

  “You needed to know ... in order to make your decision.” His fingertips touched hers, sending a tingling up her arms. “Goodnight, Miss Brokken.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he was gone. The steps upstairs seemed insurmountable, but she made it to her room and fell across her bed and sobbed.

  CHANCE LAY IN HIS BUNK and stared at the ceiling. The whirlwind of emotions had yet to die down. That Deborah had feelings for him, might be willing to marry him lifted his heart, and then the memory of shooting Paul drove it back into the deepest pit.

  And guilt for what had he had put Deborah through. The tears streaming down her face rent his heart. When she recovered her senses, her decision would be clear—she’d never see or speak to him again.

  He sighed so deeply someone whispered harshly to quiet down.

  Mr. Isaac had told him no sin was unforgivable. He thought of Klint. The Confederate sharpshooters had never been an organized regiment. Klint had not made as many kills as he had, not nearly as many, but he had killed men in the same way. Somehow, Klint had forgiven himself.

  Perhaps if one of the men had not been his brother Paul, it would have been easier for him. But when all was said and done, what difference did it make if it was Paul or some other man? Everyone he shot had family who mourned them. Killing Paul had exposed that truth.

  Perhaps the hardest part to forgive was that he could have stopped the killing when he realized how wrong it was. But he didn’t; instead, he increased his kills. He had longed for, prayed for death, somehow, someway, but he had not died. Exposing himself to more and more danger did not destroy him but elevated him to the status of hero.

  Some comfort could be gained by telling himself it was all part of the war effort. The comfort was almost meaningless. The scars he carried would never be alleviated. And if he married...Deborah, he whispered aloud...wouldn’t she be asked to carry the same scars, share in the same pain? And if they were blessed with children, when he told them, and he would tell them, no matter how painful to them or to him, what would be their reaction?

  Perhaps, he should walk away to spare others the pain. God help him, he didn’t know if he possessed enough strength or sense.

  He sighed deeply again. Deborah would not choose to join her life with his. What woman in her right mind would do so? No, he would walk alone the rest of his life.

  Sleep finally came in the wee hours of the morning, and his dream was familiar, pleasant, the same dream as the night he spent on the train, a dream of Deborah.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deborah cried herself to sleep. Even her grandparents, who usually noticed nothing out of the ordinary, remarked upon her appearance at breakfast. She explained it away by saying she was coming down with a cold. She walked into Brokken, stopping at the knoll that overlooked the town. She lingered for thirty minutes, hoping the cougar she’d seen before might make an appearance. That day, for a cougar to come so close, to watch her, and to slip silently away seemed almost a sign from God, one she had needed at the time. But today, the cougar made no appearance.

  Would she have taken it as a sign if it had? Would it have helped her to decide?

  She stopped in at the bank, although she had no energy to pour through books filled with numbers.

  Klint was there and looked up from the account book in front of him and smiled. “Miss Brokken! Good morning.”

  His forehead furrowed, and he immediately moved around the count
er to come stand beside her. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  She ignored his question but forced herself to indicate the work he’d been doing. “Are you making headway?”

  “Some. Leave it in my hands, and I’ll have the bank open in a couple of days.”

  He stood too close, and she stepped away. “I know I said I’ll help today... but I do feel unwell.”

  His eyes filled with warmth as he regarded her. Why did she prefer Chance Hale over him? Her heart made no sense to her head.

  She took a moment to wind the cuckoo clock. “As a matter of fact, I am going to see the doctor.”

  “It’s good to know Brokken has a doctor.”

  “To tell the truth, the doctor was killed in the War, and his wife took over his practice. She’s quite capable,” she said to the surprised look on his face.

  He inclined his head. “I’m sure she is, as are all the ladies of Brokken.”

  His words made her blush for an unknown reason. When he moved toward her again, she backed away. “I’ll be by later, when I feel better.”

  She hurried out the door and continued down Main Street. More people were out than usual, and it took her a moment to realize the potential grooms were making repairs on storefronts. She’d forgotten them in her distress.

  To her friends, she nodded in greeting, but did not linger to speak, even when she passed Wanda Waldruff. She was glad when she reached the old brothel where Miss Abby practiced medicine.

  Abby greeted her and stepped back to survey her. “Are you ill?”

  Deborah loosened the bonnet strings and flung her bonnet down on the teak bar top. “Folks keep asking me that. I suppose I must look a mess.”

  Miss Abby led her to the kitchen. “Lucky for you, I just made scones. A couple of those and a hot cup of coffee will do wonders for what ails you.”

  Deborah sank into a chair, and Miss Abby set the scones on the table. “There’s nothing better than fresh butter and orange marmalade on a scone. Please, help yourself.”