Isaac frowned at her until she stepped back. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let him go without then, if that’s what you want. I can spare no more time in arguing.”
Contrite, she shook her head. “I’ll take the food.”
“And give him the message, please.”
“I will leave a note.” She knew it was childish, but she pouted. “Mr. Hale should be helping you, instead of taking it easy in our cabin. It’ll be your fault if you come back and find me dead.” She laughed, to take the edge off her words.
“We’ll give you a good burial. Now, git. It’s almost lunch time.” He flashed a smile as he urged his horse forward.
Chapter Eight
Isaac didn’t know the turmoil he was causing, but she’d promised Isaac, and she never broke her promises. Besides, it was a beautiful day for a ride, and she’d concentrate on that.
But the dread lay in the pit of her stomach despite the beauty around her. Plants pushed their way up from the soil and a few flowers already bloomed. Spring was well on its way, but she barely noticed. Icy knots twisted in her stomach, and her breathing quickened as she neared the cabin. A dog barked, startling her, before she realized it was Rascal, running to meet her.
She pulled her horse to a stop and glanced around. Her glance revealed no sign of life, besides the dog. She dismounted, gave Rascal a scratch behind his ears, and pulled the saddlebag down.
If he’d left, just walked away, her turmoil would be over, but she knew that hadn’t happened. Rascal would have gone with him. That man was around somewhere. Hopefully, it was not in the cabin.
Her heart tried to beat itself out of her chest when she climbed the two steps to stand on the porch and face the door. She knocked. No one answered.
“Mr. Hale? Are you at home?” She cursed herself for asking that. At home? This wasn’t his home. She rapped again, louder, taking her anger out on the door. When there was still no answer, she entered.
Cautiously, she glanced around. It was difficult to tell there had been an occupant last night. The covers were smoothed on the bed, and nothing was out of place, not even a coffee cup, though the aroma of coffee hung in the air.
She shouldn’t have lingered, but a surge of nostalgia washed over her. Before the War, they’d gathered here at Christmas and Easter. The cabin was situated on a knoll, to give a view of the lake below, one the Brokkens never tired of, and even now she was drawn to it.
After she unpacked the food, the aroma of the coffee drew her to check the pot, and she discovered there was some left. Perhaps Mr. Hale had gone to explore the area, and perhaps he’d be gone for hours. Maybe she had time for coffee.
She poured herself a cup and carried it to the window, to reminisce of happier times, before the war. Her grandparents, her mother’s parents, never came, so it had been just them—the Brokkens—her and her father and her brothers, Karl, Curt, and Fritz. One Christmas, Curt and Fritz had carved crude versions of horses and were pleased at her squeals of delight. Karl had been the one who had an artistic eye. He had painted her portrait, and the painting still hung in her bedroom, too painful for her to look at, although she had not had the heart to remove it.
She tried to reconcile her memories of her brothers with their stealing the money from the bank, and, what hurt more, leaving her behind, with no knowledge of where they’d gone. She sighed heavily. Something had to be done soon. The bank had remained closed too long. If her family expected to hold onto it, she’d have to get it up and running soon. What family? She was the only Brokken left. Her grandparents were little help, and sad, but true, she wished they’d been the ones to have left. If not for them, her brothers would have moved back to the ranch instead of staying in town. And things would have been much different.
She sighed. As her grandmother always reminded her, if wishes were horses, even beggars would ride. Wishing for a different past was getting her nowhere.
The past was gone, and she had to get on with living. As Paul said in Philippians, This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.
And she had a lot of reaching forth to do. After a day or two more to rest from her journey, she’d go into town and see if she could make heads or tails of the banking business. With the men staying at the ranch, Isaac should soon have it up and running. Her father’s furniture could perhaps be sold to purchase more cattle. Things would work out, somehow.
She needed to forgive her brothers; that was the only way to quit re-living the past and would enable her to move on without them. Isaac had told her, more than once, that forgiveness meant giving up all hope of a better past. She knew what he meant by that. The past could not be changed, no matter how much you wished it could be.
She finished her coffee, washed the cup, and placed it on the shelf, ready to make her escape. The backdoor of the cabin opened, and Mr. Hale entered with a string of fish and laid them on the small table next to the door without seeing her. He hung his hat on a peg.
She moved toward the front, hoping to make a quick escape. His head jerked up, and she gave a terse smile, her hand on the door. “I brought some food, although I see you are capable of supplying your own.”
“Thank you. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a pole and went fishing this morning.”
“Isaac has decided to let you stay here, so you need to ask him what you can borrow. I obviously don’t get a say in the matter.” She frowned at him, to erase the image of those strange eyes that looked back at her.
“If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.”
Her voice took on a haughtier tone. “No, I consider Mr. Isaac a Brokken. He has been here since before I was born and has my complete trust. If he wants you here, he has his reasons, unfathomable to me as they may be. If I did not trust his judgment and had my way, you’d be long gone, not only from here, but from Brokken.” She gasped, and heat rose to her cheeks. Mr. Hale had done nothing to merit her words—nothing but stir up emotions she’d never known existed.
His fingers combed his unruly hair. “As I said, if you want me out, I’ll go.” His chin tilted up a notch and his eyes narrowed, locked with hers. “I know I’m not wanted around here, and believe me, I plan to leave, as soon as I can.”
She turned back to the door and released the wooden bar holding it shut. “Good day, Mr. Hale.”
He cleared his throat. “Thank you again for the food.”
“Mr. Isaac insisted I bring it.” She twisted her head in his direction. “I almost forgot ... Preacher Grisson wanted us to give you a message.” She had the paper in her pocket, but her fumbling fingers were unable to find it.
“Yes?” he said after a few minutes.
She quit looking for the message and straightened. “Miss Waldruff declines your proposal.”
His hand slammed on the table, and her heart constricted when she saw the forlorn look on his face. Her conscience smote her and kept her rooted to the spot.
He turned toward the stove. “Have faith. Where does that get you?” he asked bitterly as he shook the coffeepot, now empty. He set it down.
Deborah latched the door back. “I’m sorry. I drank your last cup. Let me make a fresh pot for you.”
He waved a hand as if to tell her he didn’t care. “I’ll go clean these.” He jerked up the string of fish and went out.
She hesitated and then walked to the wood stove. As she made the coffee, she considered his words. Was it Isaac who had told him to have faith? If so, why?
Mr. Chance Hale was an enigma. Mr. Caper said he’d murdered someone, but wasn’t that what war was all about? Men killing men? When did killing cross the line into murder?
She glanced out the window and watched as he cleaned the fish, his head bent to the task. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer, although what did a murderer look like? Something had happened to him, of that she was sure. And since she did not know his story, she had no business to judge him. Her emotions were clo
uding her reason.
All she knew of Mr. Hale was that he stirred something within her that she’d never felt before. Even now, shivers ran the entire length of her spine as she watched him do the simple task of cleaning fish.
Coffee made, she moved away from the window, set a clean cup on the table for him, and slipped out the front door.
Chapter Nine
Miss Brokken’s words hurt him more than Chance wanted to admit. He probably should leave on foot and find the next town. If he had a hunting rifle, maybe he would have. Instead, he spent a miserable night and slept late the next morning. Even when he woke, he stared at the ceiling, too drained to move until Rascal’s barking got him out of bed. He peered out the side window and found he had company coming. He dressed quickly and went to answer the knock.
Klint, Mr. Isaac, and Miss Brokken waited on the porch. They’d brought more food. Miss Brokken and Mr. Isaac, probably noting his disheveled appearance, strolled down to the lake, saying they’d eaten a late breakfast.
Chance left Klint to wash up and to rake wet fingers through his hair. Klint had set the table when he returned.
“You’re joining me?” Chance asked.
“Yes, and I’m starving.” He sat down with Chance and piled his plate full.
Chance leaned back. Why had they brought food after Miss Brokken told him she wanted him out?
Klint indicated Chance’s plate with a wave of his fork. “You planning on eating?”
The aroma from the stew made his stomach growl. He nodded and fixed his plate.
“I made coffee. Let me grab us a cup.” Klint jumped to his feet and returned with the pot. “You about ready to return to civilization?” he asked as he poured the coffee.
“Civilization? What does that mean?” Suddenly, he didn’t feel like eating and pushed his plate away and focused on his coffee instead.
Klint returned to his seat. “I mean the ranch, the bunkhouse.” He paused, indicating Chance’s plate again. “You’re missing some fine eating. Miss Brokken knows how to cook.”
“I’m not hungry. And to answer your question, Miss Brokken does not want me to return to civilization, not on her ranch. I reckon I’ll be leaving.” He stared into his cup. He’d leave when he got up enough energy, and he’d better find it soon. His mother had often told her sons if a man didn’t work, he didn’t eat. He’d mooched off these folks long enough.
Klint raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re mistaken about Miss Brokken. She’s the one who wanted to bring this spread to you, who was up at dawn cooking.”
“Not for me?” He frowned. “For everyone, surely.”
“No. The men have returned to town again. That Preacher Grisson wanted to question them and let them spend more time with the ladies. It looks like not everyone was happy after the first introductions.”
Chance narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “If they’ve gone to town, what are you doing here?”
“Do you have to rub it in? The lovely Miss Lavendar Lilley has rejected me.”
Chance snorted. “I find that hard to believe.”
Klint shrugged. “What can I say? It seems I do not meet her criteria of being a cat lover. She took me to her house and perhaps I complained too much of the cat hair.”
Klint probably secretly loved cats but wanted to be free of Miss Lilley. Klint’s sights were set solely on Miss Brokken.
Chance took a sip of coffee and casually asked, “What now? Do you plan to stay?”
Klint grinned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Miss Brokken has offered me a position at the bank. I’ve had some experience.”
Probably with embezzlement. Chance pulled his plate back to him and ate a few bites. After he finished off his buttermilk pie, he gave a tilt of his head. “I guess you heard of my rejection. Miss Waldruff refused to even meet me.”
“I thought it was you who had no interest in Miss Waldruff? You said your brother corresponded with her without your permission.”
“That’s true, but when I read her letters, I felt a bit of hope.” He shrugged his shoulders, as if it no longer mattered.
“I’m sure Preacher Grisson had a hand in that. I know he questioned the men about you and probably told Miss Waldruff without softening any of the details. You could explain to her. I’m sure most of what was said were exaggerations.”
Chance looked into the depth of his coffee as if it held answers. He shrugged. “Maybe they were not.”
“Anyway, if you’re ready to join us at the bunkhouse, it would also suit Mr. Isaac, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know. Those other men fear me, don’t want me around. I saw it in their eyes.”
Klint snorted. “That wasn’t fear you saw. That was admiration. Heck, even the Rebs admire your shooting skills. Half those men are in awe of you.”
Chance didn’t believe him. His temples throbbed, and he was ready to be rid of Klint. “So, is that why you came today? To talk me into going to the bunkhouse? Not just to eat all the food?”
Klint grinned and picked up the pot. “Want another cup?”
“Sure.” Chance set the cup in front of him. “I’ll speak to Mr. Isaac. I’d be less of a burden at the bunkhouse, but I plan to leave Brokken, as soon as I get enough money for a train ticket.”
“Is that what you want?”
Chance pressed his lips together. “It doesn’t matter what I want. Never has.” He lifted his cup.
Klint caught his arm just as Chance brought it to his lips, causing him to spill a few drops. Chance’s glare did not seem to make an impression on the irritating man.
Instead, Klint tightened his grasp. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. If you want something, go after it. Quit making excuses.”
Chance jerked his arm away, spilling more coffee. “So, you’re asking me to compete with you for the affections of Miss Brokken?”
“What?” Klint’s mouth gaped open. He stroked his chin and shook his head, throwing Chance a sly look. “Nope. I wouldn’t go that far. However, if you truly wish to meet with Miss Waldruff, perhaps I can talk to her for you.”
“Act as a proxy for me? I bet she’d love that, a man who can’t even plead his own case.” Chance laughed harshly.
“If you’d rather speak to her, do so.”
The urge to punch Klint’s smiling face was almost impossible to resist.
Chance shook his head. “It won’t do any good. Why bother?”
“You were a Sharpshooter, one of the best, if not the best. It helped to end the war. Miss Waldruff may well understand.”
“Perhaps she’d understand that part ... but there’s more.” Chance wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup. “I shot my brother. He was a gunner for the Confederacy.” He braced as if for a blow.
When he threw Klint a sideways glance, he saw the man’s eyes were compassionate. Klint leaned toward him. “You made a mistake. Men in uniform look much alike.”
“Yes, but I went crazy after that.” He rubbed his face. “I wanted to die and did foolish things, tried to get my own self shot, to end my misery.”
Klint shook his head, his brows drawn down. “That was the past. Forgive yourself instead of pitying yourself.”
“You think I pity myself?”
Klint shrugged.
Chance’s anger boiled over. “I’m not pitying myself. I pity my brother for dying so young, his wife and child, for losing him, our family... they had to live with what I had done.”
“Lots of people lost family in the War.”
Chance ignored him. “And it’s not just my brother. I took the lives of men who never had a chance to defend themselves. Shot them down in cold blood. I should have quit, after killing my brother, but I kept shooting that damn rifle.”
Klint laid a hand on his arm. “Mistakes were made, by many people. If we kept count of all our mistakes, we’d be living in misery the rest of our lives.”
Chance propped his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. He would not break down in front of
Klint. With Mr. Isaac, that had been different. But Klint? Who’d probably marry Deborah Brokken? Who got everything his heart desired? Chance took a shaky breath and steeled himself. He raised his head to glare at Klint. “You have no idea what it’s like.”
“I might have a vague idea.” His face was composed as he leaned closer. “You see, I was a sharpshooter, too. For the Confederacy.” He chuckled. “No one’s heard of me. We were a ragtag group, not like the elite Sharpshooters of the Union.”
Chance’s jaw fell slack. “You?”
“Why are you so surprised? You don’t think I can shimmy up a tree?” His laughter filled the room, and his blue eyes flashed.
DEBORAH AND ISAAC CAME up on the porch and heard the laughter from within. She raised an eyebrow. “Is that Mr. Hale laughing?”
Isaac smiled. “More likely Mr. Caper.”
“Should we knock?”
“I believe that would be the polite thing to do.”
Mr. Caper opened the door and beckoned them in. Perhaps Mr. Hale had not been laughing, but his face was composed when he stood.
“If you gentlemen have finished eating, I’ll clean up the kitchen,” she said.
“Before you do that, if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you and Mr. Isaac.” He shot a glance at Mr. Caper and motioned toward the door.
Mr. Caper took the hint. “I’ll take a stroll if my presence is not needed.” He left.
Deborah waited for Mr. Hale to speak. He did not do so until they were all seated around the table.
“Klint and I have been talking. It made me realize that I’m getting preferential treatment.”
Deborah tilted her head. “What? You mean by staying here? Do you want to move into the bunkhouse?”
“If you agree?” His eyes were on her, and her cheeks grew warm.
She nodded. “Of course, I agree.” She longed to reach across the table to touch his arm. “I’m sorry for my words yesterday.”
Isaac raised an eyebrow at her. She had not told him what had happened.
Brokken Arrow Page 5