Brokken Promises Read online

  Brokken Promises

  A Christmas Story

  Brokken Road Romances

  Book 9

  Abagail Eldan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Brokken Promises

  Chapter One | San Francisco | 1868

  Chapter Two | Brokken, Texas

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author, Abagail Eldan

  Brokken Promises © 2019 Sheila Hollinghead

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Any discrepancies in the timeline between Brokken Promises and the other novels in The Brokken Road series are entirely my doing. Working with several other authors and attempting to keep an unbroken timeline for when characters arrived in our fictional little town of Brokken, Texas proved to be a challenge.

  There are also minor characters in this series who appear in several of the stories. As with the timeline, there may be discrepancies in how those minor characters are portrayed from book to book although I endeavored to remain true to the original author’s intent.

  All covers designed by Carpe Librum Book Design, owned by cover designer, Evelyne Labelle.

  Visit our Western Historical Readers Group on Facebook

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  Chapter One

  San Francisco

  1868

  Camellia Jenkins wrung out the dishrag and noted the redness of her knuckles. Her eyes were probably red, too, not only from the long, tedious hours spent washing dishes and cleaning the immense dining room, but also from the long, sleepless nights she endured on the tiny cot in her small room.

  Her sleeping quarters were provided by the hotel, off a rickety back porch. It looked to have been hastily and carelessly built, with cracks between never chinked boards. Of course, she was glad for the openings, for otherwise, the room would have been stifling. No one had seen fit to add a window, and Camellia figured it must have once been a storeroom and then emptied and a cot shoved in for the kitchen help. Other staff, the cook and a jack-of-all-trades, lived upstairs, in a couple of rooms at the top of the hotel.

  Would upstairs have afforded her more comfort? Probably not, from what she’d seen, and worse, smelled. But upstairs, she’d have company besides rats, even if it was but Miss Smith, the cook. She seemed nice enough, but never invited Camellia to visit.

  Instead, Camellia was resigned to her room where at night rats scurried beneath the planks, some sticking an inquisitive head through the largest of the holes to take a look around her room. Camellia never carried food there, so the rats had learned their forays were useless. Even dresses and other garments the rats might have used for nest building were tucked away in her trunk shoved beneath the cot.

  Unfortunately, the cot was so low that the trunk bit into her back. The flimsy mattress, stuffed sparsely with cotton, gave more pain than comfort. No wonder she endured sleepless nights—and she consoled herself that it was not all due to a guilty conscience.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?” Mrs. Howe asked. The gray-haired, heavyset woman nursed a cup of coffee, as she did all day, every day—except when she took time to berate her husband Mr. Bolt as she called him.

  Camellia cast a glance at Mrs. Howe and murmured acquiesce, glad to escape the kitchen, still hot from the wood stove in use all day. Camellia’s hair escaped from its tidy bun, frizzing around her face, and she smoothed it back with the palm of her hand. The cook had gone upstairs more than an hour ago, leaving Camellia to clean the kitchen and dining room alone, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Howe.

  The cook did double duty; she not only prepared the food but carried it out to the diners. Camellia was not allowed into the dining room when guests were present. Mrs. Howe told her, upon her hire, that she would not be sashaying around the dining room in front of customers, not even to clear the tables. It was Mr. Bolt, almost as heavyset as his wife, who cleared them. He huffed and puffed each time he came to the kitchen door with a load of dirty dishes, and his small eyes would narrow. He would grin, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth, when Camellia took the dishes from him. Often, he lingered until Mrs. Howe spoke sharply to him.

  Her employer now used the back of her hands to shoo Camellia toward the dining room. “Be sure all the guests have left before you step foot in there.”

  Camellia muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” and dutifully grabbed a wash pan, perching it on her hip, and went to the door to peer through.

  A lone candle flickered on the middle table. Even though the hotel was equipped with gaslights, they were immediately turned off when the last guest departed. The light from the candle chased shadows up the wall, leaving the corners shrouded in darkness.

  At this time of night, Mr. Bolt should be at the front counter, tallying up figures. No one was in sight, and she breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the room. She set to work, wiping down the oilcloths on the tables, rinsing her rag often. The smell of rancid grease permeated the entire place, along with an odor she often encountered—that of a decaying rat. The room had carpet but that did not stop the smell of dead rats from seeping through.

  At least Mr. Bolt half-heartedly tried to keep the rats at bay, although he never properly disposed of those he killed. Everything done at the hotel was half-hearted, from the cleaning to the cooking to the simple greetings of those who chose to stay there—and the clientele were themselves not the upper crust of society nor even the middle. Camellia was thankful she did not have to clear the room when it was populated with such people, a favor whether Mrs. Howe had intended it or not.

  And she would do her job properly. A slither of lye soap laid at the bottom of the pan, and she lathered up her washrag to finish the wiping down of the tables. She moved toward the last table, in the darkest corner, near the front of the hotel. When she raised her eyes from her task, she gasped. Mr. Bolt sat in a chair, his ghastly face suddenly revealed by the candlelight. She stepped back as he stood and moved forward, his large hands encircling her waist. Too bad she’d set the heavy pan on the table or else she would have used it as a weapon. She still had the washrag and used it to strike him across the face with all the force she could muster.

  He yelped and released her, staggering back. She gathered the pan, not only because she planned to retreat to the kitchen, but also to serve as a shield. The kitchen door opened, spilling light into the dining room.

  “Are you thro
ugh in here?” Mrs. Howe asked, her hands on her hips.

  Mr. Bolt had silently faded away into the shadows, and she refrained from looking in his direction.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She walked quickly toward the kitchen although Mrs. Howe caught her arm before she could squeeze by.

  “Hold on. Was someone in here with you?”

  Camellia did not hold with lying although she’d been well taught to keep her mouth shut. She did so now, but Mrs. Howe did not loosen her grip. Her fingers dug deeper into her skin, making it difficult for Camellia to keep her face impassive.

  Mrs. Howe frowned at her. “I asked you a question, young lady. Someone were here in the dining room with you, weren’t there?”

  Camellia raised her head and looked into her employer’s eyes. “I checked before I entered and saw no one. All of the guests had departed.”

  Mrs. Howe’s frown deepened, creating deep furrows across her forehead. “Where is Mr. Bolt?”

  “I assume he is at the front. Perhaps you’d like to check?” Camellia raised her chin slightly.

  “You impudent girl! You can be sure I will speak to my dear Jakoba. And if I find you have been using your wiles on my husband, you will be kicked out of here before you can sneeze from a dip of snuff.”

  Camellia lowered her gaze, her challenge to Mrs. Howe short-lived. She studied the tips of her boots and waited for the woman to release her. It was a few more seconds before Mrs. Howe gave her arm a shake, let go, and moved into the dining room, heading for the lobby.

  Camellia did not tarry but hurried into the kitchen and out the back to fling the dirty water into the yard. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she took a moment to stare into the skies and allow her breathing to steady. It was foggy, as usual, and clouds skipped across the moon. Even the stars were obscured.

  If only there was a means of escape. She’d tried, more times than she could count, to find other employment. With no references and no previous experience, it was impossible. She’d hoped to escape her past, find, if not happiness, at least peace, when she arrived in San Francisco. Instead, this place held its own brand of misery.

  She went back into the kitchen, wiped out the pan, and flipped it over on the wooden counter. She hung the rag near the big wood stove to dry. She hesitated a moment and wondered if she should turn off the gaslight in the kitchen. Mrs. Howe might be furious no matter what she did. She left the light burning. Mrs. Howe made rounds at night, and she was sure the woman would be back shortly to bolt the back door.

  Camellia went to her tiny room, barely wider than the cot, and pitch black, the light from the kitchen failing to reach this far. A wooden shelf, only a couple of inches wide, was next to the front of the cot, and by feel, she lit the candle that stood there. At the foot of the cot was a metal pan and jug on a small table. She poured water and then stripped off her apron and her plain dress. She kept on her petticoat to sleep in and washed only her face and hands. Even that seemed a chore. Her limbs did not want to cooperate.

  She inspected her apron and found a stain. She wearily scrubbed it away with her washrag and hung her apron and dress on a nail. Perhaps she could get one more day’s wear before having to pull out her trunk to find her other work dress. She had other dresses in the trunk, but they were not suitable.

  With no way of bolting the door, she moved the small table in front of it before climbing onto the cot and blowing out the candle.

  As usual, she became wide awake although every bone in her body ached and yearned for sleep. If she’d been in a comfortable bed, even then she was sure she’d be tossing and turning. Along with the memories that haunted her, leaving Sally Jane behind tormented her day and night.

  But how could she have supported her when she could not even support herself? When she’d left Sally Jane with her grandmother, she’d been sure it was the best possible solution. She had not tarried long in Brokken, Texas, a pleasant small town. She could go back and live there although the hope only lasted a moment.

  No, it would never work. Folks were bound to find out her secret. She could not, would not, do that to Sally Jane. She deserved a happy life. Perhaps Brokken would provide that for her.

  Besides, Camellia did not have train fare to travel. Her wages were pitiful. Mrs. Howe gave her one free meal a day, breakfast. Her stomach growled reminding her of the fact of how long it had been since she’d eaten. Even skipping the other two meals did not make much difference in her pay. Mrs. Howe was in the habit of taking money from her for any nick in the china. No matter how carefully Camellia washed the dishes, Mrs. Howe always returned with two or three chipped plates or cups.

  More than once, she’d wondered if Mrs. Howe had a stash of chipped dishes she pulled out for that sole purpose. Or maybe Mrs. Howe chipped them herself. Maybe she hit Mr. Bolt over the head with one or two.

  Camellia giggled at the image she’d formed. Her giggle reminded her of those she’d shared with her sister. Often, they’d sung each other to sleep with an old lullaby, learned at her mother’s knee.

  She hummed it to herself now.

  Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

  Go to sleepy little baby.

  When you wake, you shall have,

  All the pretty little horses.

  Blacks and bays, dapples and greys,

  Go to sleepy you little baby,

  And somehow, someway, her eyelids grew heavy, the song giving her a measure of comfort, and she slept.

  Chapter Two

  Brokken, Texas

  The room was stifling, filled with too many bodies, too many smells, and too much laughter. Fritz Brokken snorted his disgust.

  His brother, Karl, was leaving tomorrow for Germany, and this was supposed to be his going away party. And yet, his face a mask of contentment, Karl sat in the corner, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his lip slightly curled as if all his thoughts were pleasant. Karl watched the people thronging around Chance Hale, and his eyes sparkled with amusement, and something else, perhaps anticipation for his trip.

  Fritz was not as complacent when he looked toward his brother-in-law. His hands fisted and unfisted at the crowd’s display of adulation. Fritz glanced back at Karl who removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and polished them before putting them back on, wrapping the earpieces around his ears with methodical care, a smile playing on his lips.

  Did Karl not know or simply not care that the town people hailed their brother-in-law as a hero? Because of Chance, both his brothers had been wounded. Yes, it was Chance’s fault. If he had ridden into town with them, if he’d followed Fritz, the outcome would have been much different. Not that they had not achieved their objective, even with the casualties, but that was due to Fritz’s leadership.

  Curt stood close to Chance, at the edge of the crowd. His face was somber, strained. Sheriff English had deputized his brother too soon, while he was still recovering from his gunshot wound. Fritz shouldered most of the work at the bank and General Store, but Curt insisted on helping—more than helped, often taking charge. He never complained, but the unmasked pain in his eyes was evident.

  Fritz glanced back to Sally Jane who sat in Chance’s lap, her head against his chest. Occasionally, Chance brushed a curl from the little girl’s face. Fritz’s sister Deborah stood behind the chair, beaming at the praise bestowed upon her husband. His eyes were hooded, serious when he deigned to raise his head, but that was only an act. Chance was basking in the adulation and the scene disgusted Fritz.

  If his brother-in-law had not shown his cowardly streak, the school would never have been set on fire. Together, they would have stopped the gang. Instead, Chance almost got everyone killed. For some reason, Fritz wasn’t sure why, the town blamed Fritz when he had been the one who’d saved his brothers, had saved the town, even if a few buildings were burned, a couple of people killed, and his brothers wounded. Chance, a worthless Sharpshooter Yankee, despised even by his own kind, was the one declared a hero.

  How Chance survived the War was a mystery
. How he had stood on the roof of the school with bullets buzzing and climbed down without a scratch was also a mystery.

  Fritz cursed silently. Why had Chance not shot that straggler? Because of his cowardness, Chance had gotten the schoolteacher Edna Wallace killed. And yet no one agreed with Fritz, not even his two brothers.

  Fritz growled under his breath again when he noticed Lydia Walsh say something teasingly, something that made red creep to Chance’s ears. A brief smile touched his brother-in-law’s lips.

  Lydia had never looked more beautiful. She wasn’t grieving over Fritz, that was certain. She laughed at Chance’s discomfiture and then turned, her gaze meeting Fritz’s. He found it difficult to pull away until he pushed himself to his feet and headed toward the front door. He’d tell Karl goodbye tomorrow. The train wouldn’t be leaving until two o’clock.

  He grabbed his hat and slipped out. There were a couple of people on the porch, and he automatically gave them a nod without stopping his descent of the steps. He heard the door open behind him, but he didn’t look to see who it was.

  He headed for the barn, shrouded in darkness, and stopped to light a lantern. He’d ridden his horse to the ranch and the mare was in a stall. Steps sounded behind him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. It was Lydia.

  He ignored her, leaving her in the dark, as he, with the lantern, went into the barn to retrieve his horse. She did not follow him into the darkness but waited until he re-emerged from the depths. He did not speak but paused to frown at her.

  She put out a hand as if to reach for him and then let it drop by her side. “Don’t leave, Fritz. This is your brother’s party. I shouldn’t have come. I wouldn’t have if I had known it would bother you so.”

  His frown deepened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Why do you think your presence upsets me?” He said it as coolly as he could manage, then turned and hung the lantern in place. He kept his back to her afraid his face would belie his words.