This Brokken Road

by Lynda Cox

  And just like that, Brokken became Wilhelm’s last name. Her great grandfather cheerfully accepted the Americanization of his name but added the K, right in the middle. The K, he told his family, stood for kein, that meant “not” in German. He declared to all who would listen that he was not broken. And he set out to prove it, soon becoming one of the richest men in Pennsylvania.

  She stretched again and yawned. Sheriff English’s message had said two o’clock. It was now ten minutes past. Deborah walked to the large window at the front when the door opened, and Victoria English stepped inside. The sheriff’s gaze swept the interior of the bank.

  The sheriff never took a day, no, make that a minute, off from her duties. Her probing eyes focused on Curt. Her brother glanced up, his face startled. Deborah should have told him she was meeting the sheriff there.

  His face quickly composed, and he gave a smile. “May I help you, Sheriff?”

  Sheriff English waved a hand. “No business today, Mr. Brokken.”

  Deborah’s cheeks burned. As hard up as the town was, she probably hadn’t been paid in a month of Sundays. Even Curt’s hands shook. As the children of the town’s founder, they felt an obligation to see the sheriff was paid for her duties, although officially, the levied taxes paid for her services.

  Deborah caught her brother’s attention. “The sheriff is here to see me, Curt. We’re going into the meeting room.”

  “Conference room,” her brother corrected. “Would you ladies like a cup of coffee?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble for me.” The sheriff pulled off her leather gloves and rubbed her fingers.

  “No trouble at all. I think Karl made some earlier before he went out.”

  Deborah should have spoken to Curt, asked about her other brothers. She’d not seen them for three weeks since they spent most of the time in town. She hid from them the hurt that they inflicted by their rare visits. Still, Curt, Karl, and Fritz were her bothers, and nothing could change her love for them. Even now, her heart ached. She wished Curt would give her a hug or even a smile.

  Instead, he opened the conference room door. “We had a fire going earlier, and it’s still warm in here. I’ll bring the coffee.” He gave a slight, oddly formal bow and left.

  They both took a seat at the sturdy, yet elegant, oak table. The bank needed to convey a sense of prosperity and stability, her father had always said. Only the finest furniture would do.

  Her brother returned immediately with the coffee service on a silver tray. “I’ll be in the lobby if you need me ... unless you’d like for me to stay?”

  Sheriff English gave a slight shake of her head.

  His smile didn’t waver, but a deep sigh carried into the room as the heavy oak door shut behind him.

  Deborah sighed, too, and flattened her hands against the smooth surface of the table and smiled at the sheriff. “You needed to speak with me?”

  Sheriff English seemed not to have heard. She glanced around the room with interest, her eyes alight. When the sheriff’s penetrating gaze met hers, Deborah startled at its intensity.

  Deborah licked her lips and linked her finger together. “Did you wish to discuss something?” Her gaze went to her hands, the highly polished surface of the table reflecting the sunlight into dappled patterns on her skin. And then she looked up and braced herself.

  The sheriff’s look softened, and she leaned across the table to touch Deborah’s arm. “Sorry. I was thinking of other things.”

  Deborah relaxed. “From your look, I thought you were here to arrest me.”

  Sheriff English laughed. “Actually, I wanted to ask a favor ... we need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes, your family’s help. We’ve been making plans.”

  Deborah folded her hands in her lap. “Plans?”

  “Abby came up with the idea.” The sheriff cleared her throat before she continued. “Many of our men did not come back from the War. The ones who did are packing up and leaving.”

  Deborah nodded. Hadn’t she been thinking the same thing only a few short minutes ago?

  Sheriff English grimaced. “We have to face facts. Our town is dying.”

  “What can my family do to help?”

  The sheriff’s glance did not quite meet Deborah’s, and her cheeks pinkened. “We’d like to place an advertisement in papers around the country, to invite men to come here. We have plenty of jobs for them to fill.”

  “The women are holding their own. I believe you are doing a fine job as sheriff.” Deborah poured the coffee and tilted her head. “Cream or sugar?”

  The woman across from her shook her head and accepted the black coffee. She looked in her cup for a long moment before taking a sip and then set it back in the saucer. “Perhaps I’m doing an adequate job as sheriff, and the other ladies of Brokken are doing the best they can. Gwynn is squeamish but is a good undertaker. Molly could use help at the café, only because she is so busy. Sophia runs the hotel the best she can.”

  “And the livery runs smoothly with all the Walsh ladies pitching in.”

  The sheriff nodded. “However, some women want husbands.” She gave a harsh laugh and snorted.

  Obviously, the sheriff was not one of them. Thoughtfully, Deborah added cream to her coffee and stirred it slowly. With such a shortage of men, she had never contemplated marriage. When she turned twenty-one, her grandparents would probably insist she travel to Boston to procure a husband. Of course, she had no intention of agreeing with their plans.

  The sheriff cleared her throat. “We plan to have a meeting with the ladies of Brokken. Before we do, we want to have everything accounted for. Abigail and I think the hotel and the Brokken Arrow ranch would be a good place to house the men. Do you think we could use the bunkhouse?”

  To have time to gather her thoughts, Deborah refreshed their cups. She picked hers up, held it with both hands, her thumbs rubbing the smooth porcelain. A small crack had begun. Someone, probably Curt, had handled the cup carelessly. The crack would only grow, and the fragile cup would lose its usefulness. Tin cups held up better, but that would never do in the Brokken Bank.

  “The bunkhouse would work, but the final decision would be made by my grandparents and Isaac ... Mr. Iverson, of course.” She blew across the surface of the coffee and observed the ripples.

  The sheriff smiled. “Of course. The reason I’m speaking to you first is to pave the way, so to speak. I’m not sure how your grandparents would feel about these men coming to your family’s ranch.”

  “I suppose it depends on the type of man ...”

  The sheriff waved a hand. “I will interview them as they arrive. Those who are not ... um ... morally upright, we’ll send packing. They’ll never make it to your ranch.”

  Deborah gave her a nod. “I’ll explain that to my grandparents. How many men do you expect?”

  “Thirty or forty. It’s difficult to say until we receive the responses.”

  “We will need food and supplies.”

  “I’m sure the residents of Brokken will be willing to help. And there’s an added benefit for Brokken Arrow Ranch. I will inform the men that they will have to work for their board and keep.”

  Deborah’s eyes widened, and then she smiled. Her brothers had shown little interest in ranching since returning from the War. They’d probably not liked how her grandparents had taken over. Who could blame them? Her grandparents were not Brokkens, were Yankees from Boston, and had no clue how to run the ranch. But they still insisted on doing things their way.

  Deborah looked into her coffee cup. Did her brothers view her the same way, as an interloper, even if they shared the same father?

  She moved restlessly, and her gaze met the sheriff’s. “I’m sure you know that the ranch has fallen into disrepair. That would certainly aid us.”

  “Will you inform your grandparents I will be by this evening?”

  “Certainly. And will you stay for supper?”

  “I appreciate the in
vitation, but I have to get back to town as soon as possible.” She pushed her chair back and stood, offering her hand across the table. “Thank you, Miss Deborah.”

  Deborah took the sheriff’s hand in hers and then gave it a squeeze before she released it. “It sounds like a good plan. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  The sheriff left, and Deborah banked the fire. As she placed the cups and saucers on the tray, the cuckoo sounded the hour.

  Deborah straightened and listened. As the cuckoo echoed to silence, a prickling ran across her arms, as if someone had walked across her grave. Advertising for the men had to be an answer to their prayers, a way to revitalize a dying town. Why, then, did this feeling of impending doom surround her?

  All she could do was be patient and see what Miss Abigail and Sheriff English’s plan wrought, but patience was not one of her virtues.

  Chapter Six

  When Deborah finished putting the coffee service away, she went into the conference room to make sure it was tidy. She hesitated. All three of her brothers were gathered around the table, and her heart gave a hitch. This was a good time to make amends, to speak to her brothers, to let them know how much she wanted ... to be their little sister again. She inhaled deeply and smiled.

  Karl turned a red face to her. “What did the sheriff want?”

  Deborah, taken aback, could only widen her eyes in surprise. Her other brothers watched her but did not offer a greeting.

  Curt sent an angry glance to his brother.

  After a moment of silence, Karl spoke again, his tone softer. “We were just wondering, that’s all. Not every day that the sheriff comes for a visit.”

  Deborah moved away from her brothers to stand by the fireplace. Although the ashes were cold, as cold as her brothers, she held out her hands, as if to warm them. Without looking at them, she spoke. “Miss Abigail had an idea since so many men didn’t return from the War. We have an overabundance of widows ...”

  Karl laughed harshly. “And what?”

  Deborah turned to face him. “She wants to advertise for men, and Sheriff English wanted to know if some of the men could bunk on the ranch.”

  Relief flooded her brothers’ faces.

  Karl’s face, although still red, was now composed. “Of course, that’s fine. We have plenty of room on the ranch.”

  Curt nodded. “Why didn’t she ask me?”

  An anger so strong, she herself was taken aback, boiled inside her. She turned back to the fireplace to compose herself. What did her brothers care about the ranch? Isaac was the one left to make all the decisions. Her brothers didn’t care that she and her grandparents struggled to keep the ranch going.

  And now Curt thought he should be the one to make decisions about housing the men? The place he’d not been for at least three weeks? Her breathing deepened. They didn’t care—not about the ranch, not about her ... not even, it seemed, about the bank or General Store. They only went through the motions.

  She walked over to the wall of windows and pulled back the heavy curtain, still trying to contain the angry words threatening to spill. The street was empty. The town her father had founded was dying. It must be a difficult burden for his sons. Her breathing slowed, and she turned.

  Fritz, her youngest brother, had not spoken, but his eyes had followed her, were still on her when she faced the room again. He gave her a tentative smile, as if he knew what she had been thinking. “Deborah, we’ve been neglecting, not just the ranch, but you. We will do better, I promise.”

  Curt stepped toward her, took her elbow, and guided her toward the door. “Deborah, we were discussing business. I’m sure you have some errands to run.”

  She allowed Curt to lead her from the room but pulled away once at the front door. Fritz followed them. “Wait, Deborah. I wanted to tell you...”

  “What?” Deborah said, irritably.

  He touched her arm and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Always remember I love you, Sis.”

  To her surprise, Curt also spoke, although his jaw remained stiff. “Yes, we love you, Deb. See you later.” He gave her arm a playful punch, and all but pushed her through the door, bolted it after her, and pulled down the shade.

  She was left outside the door, staring at the pulled down shade. The bank never closed at this time of day. She shrugged. Her brothers’ behavior since returning to Brokken had been unpredictable, but they were up to something. She headed toward the General Store to find it locked.

  Perplexed, she debated what to do. Deborah hesitated a moment more and then started toward Brokken Arrow to find repose and forget her brothers. She’d tell her grandparents of the sheriff’s impending visit and prepare them the best she could. Even though the sheriff had turned down the invitation to eat supper with them, she’d help her grandmother prepare fried chicken, dumplings, perhaps a peach pie. The thought made her mouth water and she hurried home.

  THE SHERIFF CAME BY and was persuaded, probably by the smell of the peach pie, to eat with them. Her grandparents had been agreeable to the idea of housing the men. The promise of free labor appealed to them. Her grandmother insisted on hearing all the details surrounding Devon’s near-death experience. It was late when the sheriff left, and later still, by the time Deborah had tidied up the kitchen and gone to bed.

  The next morning broke with the singing of birds, as if spring had arrived unseen. It was only one pair of tree swallows on the bare branches of the dogwood tree outside her window. They must have traveled alone, ahead of the flock. Or more likely, had been left behind, to survive the winter alone. At least they had each other. Deborah had no one. She shook off the pity. She had Isaac, and he’d be ashamed of her feeling sorry for herself.

  She might not be able to see it, but she could feel it—the earth shook off winter. Spring was coming, and this pair of swallows had survived and were ready to sing again.

  Deborah dressed quickly. The smell wafting up the stairs told her that Grandmother had arisen early to bake sugar cookies. Despite her grandmother’s faults, she always fulfilled her duty to provide for those in need. She insisted Deborah take a basket of cookies to the Peters, immediately after breakfast.

  Before she left, Deborah went outside and scattered bread crumbs for the birds. From the kitchen window, her grandmother scolded until she finally set off for the Peters.

  As she walked along, she searched for other signs of spring on the way. Perhaps the blessing of rain might hurry along the Indian Paintbrush or other flowers. For now, all was barren and gray.

  When she reached the Peters, Deborah did not rap on the door before it was flung open. She handed Mrs. Peters the basket. “Sugar cookies from Grandmother.”

  “They smell heavenly,” Devon’s mother said with a smile. “Please be sure to thank her for her kindness.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.” Deborah tugged on the strings of her bonnet. When they didn’t immediately loosen, she pushed it back to dangle at the back of her neck.

  The cabin, though small, was clean and tidy. Mrs. Peters chatted away while she led her to the back room where Devon rested. His rosy cheeks made Deborah suspect that was not the case. He’d probably crawled in bed when he’d heard her enter. A colorful quilt was pulled up to his chin, hiding his broken arm.

  Deborah stopped at the foot of the bed to give his mother room to move to his side. She laid a hand on his leg and gave a small squeeze. “What’s this, young man? Aren’t you all better by now?”

  The young boy’s eyes sparkled. “Ma won’t let me up. I’m fine as frog hair split three ways, but she won’t listen. Heck, I’ll even do my chores without fussing. I can do them with my good arm.” He stuck it out from under the covers as if to demonstrate.

  Deborah laughed at his determination. “I’m only joshing. It’s going to take time to heal that hard head of yours. You listen to Miss Abby. The doctor knows best.”

  Mrs. Peters smoothed his quilt that didn’t need smoothing. “She’s coming by today. She’ll let us know how much longer Dev
on has to stay in bed.” She studied her son. “Even if she says you can get up, you can’t be gallivanting around, not until you heal.”

  “Is there anything we can help you with?” Deborah asked.

  “No, ma’am. Sheriff Vic has the Jennings boys doing all the work, so we don’t need to worry none.” She rubbed her arms as if she’d been hit by a chill. “Those boys haven’t had a proper raising, poor souls.” She shook her head. “And Aaron stays hid half the time, but I don’t doubt he’s shouldering most of the chores. Don’t know for sure since he’s so quiet and slips in and out without a word.”

  A strand of hair fell across her forehead, and she smoothed it back into place. “I feel plain sorry for him.” She shook her head and then held forth the basket to her son. “Miss Deborah brought you a treat.” She stepped closer and lifted the red checkered cloth to give him a peek.

  “Can I have one, Ma? Please.”

  At his upturned pleading face, her heart gave a funny hitch, and she took a deep breath and blew it out softly to release the tightness. This young boy had been close to death, not expected to ever regain consciousness. His survival was a miracle, Sheriff Vic had told her.

  Mrs. Peters’ eyes went to Deborah as if seeking her permission. “I don’t normally let him have sweets this early.”

  Deborah chuckled softly. “Maybe this once won’t hurt.”

  A smile crept across Devon’s face, and he pushed himself to a sitting position with his good arm.

  Mrs. Peters gave a small nod to Deborah. “Let me fetch him a glass of milk. Would you like one, too?”

  “No, thank you. I need to get back to the ranch, back to my chores. I’m not as lucky as Devon here. No Jennings brothers to help me out.” She laughed and gave his leg another squeeze. “Listen to your mother, Devon. And do what the doctor says.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Deborah pulled her bonnet onto her head and tucked in her hair. “And I’ll bring you some more treats if you are a good patient.”

  After promising to visit again soon, she took her leave.