Brokken Knight
April, 1867
Chapter One
Abigail Bailey stood on the porch of the home she had once shared with the man she promised to love until death. Thunder rumbled in the far distance and faint lightning flickered across the night sky. She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and tilted her head into the gusting wind. The scents of bluebonnets, jasmine, and wisteria mingled with the clean aroma of the rain and the rich, loamy earth.
Thankfully, the deep drought which had marked the winter abated with several days of continued rain. More would be necessary to fully break the drought. She had faith it would end, though she knew it wouldn’t end tonight. If the direction of the wind held, this storm would skirt the town. A few drops might fall, but it wasn’t going to pour on them. The lack of ferocity in the storm didn’t stop her from glancing at the closed doors of the root cellar and the relative safety it provided.
Spring often came early to this part of Texas and this year had been no different in that aspect. So far, there hadn’t been any of the strong, intense storms which produced the terrifying, monster tornadoes. In the years she had lived here, she had become adept at reading the weather. This storm didn’t appear to be a “widow-maker.”
They certainly didn’t need any more widows. The good Lord knew they had more than their fair share.
Abigail left the porch and made her way down the darkened main street of Brokken. Her restless thoughts drew her unerringly to a small glade nestled in the thick pine stands.
This little secluded glen had been a special place for her and Sam. Summer picnics shaded by the pines and oaks, small fires built for warmth to star gaze in the winter, her head in his lap as he read aloud to her, moments spent sobbing in helpless loss in Sam’s arms when they lost an unborn child…Abigail sank to the warm, damp earth, letting the memories wash over her.
Ever since Sam succumbed to his injuries after being taken prisoner during the battle of Nashville, Abigail returned to this clearing to talk to him. It was silly, she knew, but she also felt as if somehow, a part of Sam was still here.
“I wish you could see how ridiculous some of the women are behaving, Sam, with every new man who arrives in town.” Abigail’s smile became a soft chuckle. “You’d think half of them haven’t even been married before, the way they’re acting. I’ve never seen such flirting in all my life. Batting eyes, preening and cooing, and the fans…I’m surprised they haven’t worn the fans out with all the opening and closing of the things. Most of those men don’t stand a chance.”
Lighting flickered across the dark sky and the roll of thunder almost sounded like a deep laugh.
“The same ladies who were so uncertain of the idea to send off for mail order grooms are practically falling over themselves to meet the men they’ve agreed could court them.” Abigail drew a piece of fresh grass through her fingers. “And, these mail order grooms—they’re all broken in some manner or another. Men have arrived here missing limbs, missing an eye, and a few are missing huge parts of their souls. So many broken people, Sam. You were right when you said only fools and Yankees wanted that war.”
A whisper of the wind in the pines entered the sudden silence. She heaved out a deep sigh. “One of the men who responded to an advertisement in a paper near Atlanta—his name is Mathew Knight. He’s a doctor and since you’ve been gone, we need one here. I can only do so much with my backwoods medicine.”
Sam had always been respectful of and more than willing to utilize her knowledge of plants and their many medicinal uses. More than once he told her that Mother Nature knew better than all the book learning in the world. Sam’s acceptance of her knowledge made Abigail feel as if she was vital to the health of his patients. Before the war had taken him away, as much as he taught her to read and write, he had been learning from her and incorporating her remedies into his medical resources.
“I wrote to him.”
Hers was the last letter sent. Only a renewed silence filled the glade while she waited for something that could be construed as a response. Not even the spring frogs called to one another.
“Actually, I told Vic what to say and she wrote my letter for me, so he wouldn’t think I was stupid and illiterate. We were married by proxy. That was his idea. If it is agreeable to both of us, after we’ve met, we can have Pastor Grisson marry us. If it’s not agreeable, I guess we just ask for an annulment. Vic had to explain to me what that word meant. Proxy, too.”
A long, loud rumble of thunder startled her.
“No.” Abigail shook her head. “You’re not allowed to complain anymore, Sam. You lost the right to complain when you didn’t keep your promise to come back to me. You made me promise to find someone else if the unthinkable happened.”
The unthinkable…she thought about it every waking second Sam had been gone until the news came that he had died and was buried in a mass grave next to the prisoner camp. For so many days afterward, she had refused to believe it to be true. The anger and a crippling rage came next, when she screamed herself hoarse. All of it sharpened with an unrelenting pain that he couldn’t keep the last promise he made to her before he rode off to muster into the Texas Brigade, a promise to grow old with her. The bargains she tried to strike with the Almighty that the reports of Sam’s death weren’t true still caused the occasional twinge of shame. She finally reached a sense of peace when she returned to this glade and carried on her one-sided conversations with Sam.
A whisper through the trees reached her, stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped her usual braid, as soft as a caress.
“That house is so empty. I feel as if sometimes I could get lost in my own home. I want someone to talk to late at night, like we used to do on the glider on the porch. I miss all those little things that make up a marriage, especially when the memories come on so strong. I’m being selfish. I know I am.” She lifted her gaze to the thunderstorm sliding off to the northeast and blinked away sudden, scalding tears. “I wouldn’t ever compare him to you. That wouldn’t be fair to him.”
A long, low roll of thunder reached back to her.
“Or to you, Sam.” Her throat tightened over the words. “He’ll be here in three days. I suppose a marriage based on necessity can work. Ours started that way, didn’t it? We learned to love one another.”
She had been a foolish young girl and Sam was the first grown man who had ever paid her the slightest mind. Several years older than her and his attention had made her feel treasured, loved, and most of all, intelligent. Clandestine meetings in the hay mound led to their marriage, arranged at the end of her daddy’s shotgun.
“I’m scared, though, Sam. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to love another man. I know I’ll never love anyone else like I loved you. I wish you were here so I don’t have to be scared of the future.”
The wind shifted just enough to sigh a last time through the pines and to brush across her cheeks. Like so many snowflakes, the white petals of a dogwood drifted across the hollow, twisting and swirling in the breeze. She caught a single, velvet-soft petal in her hand. Renewed tears burned her eyes.
The first of a very few times she and Sam had argued it had been spring. As a manner to reinforce his apology, Sam brought her a bouquet of dogwood blossoms. After that, he made it a point to bring her a bunch of the blossoms every spring.
“Apology accepted, Sam.”
April, 1867
Chapter One
Abigail Bailey stood on the porch of the home she had once shared with the man she promised to love until death. Thunder rumbled in the far distance and faint lightning flickered across the night sky. She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and tilted her head into the gusting wind. The scents of bluebonnets, jasmine, and wisteria mingled with the clean aroma of the rain and the rich, loamy earth.
Thankfully, the deep drought which had marked the winter abated with several days of continued rain. More would be necessary to fully break the drought. She had faith it would end, though she knew it wouldn’t end tonight. If the direction of the wind held, this storm would skirt the town. A few drops might fall, but it wasn’t going to pour on them. The lack of ferocity in the storm didn’t stop her from glancing at the closed doors of the root cellar and the relative safety it provided.
Spring often came early to this part of Texas and this year had been no different in that aspect. So far, there hadn’t been any of the strong, intense storms which produced the terrifying, monster tornadoes. In the years she had lived here, she had become adept at reading the weather. This storm didn’t appear to be a “widow-maker.”
They certainly didn’t need any more widows. The good Lord knew they had more than their fair share.
Abigail left the porch and made her way down the darkened main street of Brokken. Her restless thoughts drew her unerringly to a small glade nestled in the thick pine stands.
This little secluded glen had been a special place for her and Sam. Summer picnics shaded by the pines and oaks, small fires built for warmth to star gaze in the winter, her head in his lap as he read aloud to her, moments spent sobbing in helpless loss in Sam’s arms when they lost an unborn child…Abigail sank to the warm, damp earth, letting the memories wash over her.
Ever since Sam succumbed to his injuries after being taken prisoner during the battle of Nashville, Abigail returned to this clearing to talk to him. It was silly, she knew, but she also felt as if somehow, a part of Sam was still here.
“I wish you could see how ridiculous some of the women are behaving, Sam, with every new man who arrives in town.” Abigail’s smile became a soft chuckle. “You’d think half of them haven’t even been married before, the way they’re acting. I’ve never seen such flirting in all my life. Batting eyes, preening and cooing, and the fans…I’m surprised they haven’t worn the fans out with all the opening and closing of the things. Most of those men don’t stand a chance.”
Lighting flickered across the dark sky and the roll of thunder almost sounded like a deep laugh.
“The same ladies who were so uncertain of the idea to send off for mail order grooms are practically falling over themselves to meet the men they’ve agreed could court them.” Abigail drew a piece of fresh grass through her fingers. “And, these mail order grooms—they’re all broken in some manner or another. Men have arrived here missing limbs, missing an eye, and a few are missing huge parts of their souls. So many broken people, Sam. You were right when you said only fools and Yankees wanted that war.”
A whisper of the wind in the pines entered the sudden silence. She heaved out a deep sigh. “One of the men who responded to an advertisement in a paper near Atlanta—his name is Mathew Knight. He’s a doctor and since you’ve been gone, we need one here. I can only do so much with my backwoods medicine.”
Sam had always been respectful of and more than willing to utilize her knowledge of plants and their many medicinal uses. More than once he told her that Mother Nature knew better than all the book learning in the world. Sam’s acceptance of her knowledge made Abigail feel as if she was vital to the health of his patients. Before the war had taken him away, as much as he taught her to read and write, he had been learning from her and incorporating her remedies into his medical resources.
“I wrote to him.”
Hers was the last letter sent. Only a renewed silence filled the glade while she waited for something that could be construed as a response. Not even the spring frogs called to one another.
“Actually, I told Vic what to say and she wrote my letter for me, so he wouldn’t think I was stupid and illiterate. We were married by proxy. That was his idea. If it is agreeable to both of us, after we’ve met, we can have Pastor Grisson marry us. If it’s not agreeable, I guess we just ask for an annulment. Vic had to explain to me what that word meant. Proxy, too.”
A long, loud rumble of thunder startled her.
“No.” Abigail shook her head. “You’re not allowed to complain anymore, Sam. You lost the right to complain when you didn’t keep your promise to come back to me. You made me promise to find someone else if the unthinkable happened.”
The unthinkable…she thought about it every waking second Sam had been gone until the news came that he had died and was buried in a mass grave next to the prisoner camp. For so many days afterward, she had refused to believe it to be true. The anger and a crippling rage came next, when she screamed herself hoarse. All of it sharpened with an unrelenting pain that he couldn’t keep the last promise he made to her before he rode off to muster into the Texas Brigade, a promise to grow old with her. The bargains she tried to strike with the Almighty that the reports of Sam’s death weren’t true still caused the occasional twinge of shame. She finally reached a sense of peace when she returned to this glade and carried on her one-sided conversations with Sam.
A whisper through the trees reached her, stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped her usual braid, as soft as a caress.
“That house is so empty. I feel as if sometimes I could get lost in my own home. I want someone to talk to late at night, like we used to do on the glider on the porch. I miss all those little things that make up a marriage, especially when the memories come on so strong. I’m being selfish. I know I am.” She lifted her gaze to the thunderstorm sliding off to the northeast and blinked away sudden, scalding tears. “I wouldn’t ever compare him to you. That wouldn’t be fair to him.”
A long, low roll of thunder reached back to her.
“Or to you, Sam.” Her throat tightened over the words. “He’ll be here in three days. I suppose a marriage based on necessity can work. Ours started that way, didn’t it? We learned to love one another.”
She had been a foolish young girl and Sam was the first grown man who had ever paid her the slightest mind. Several years older than her and his attention had made her feel treasured, loved, and most of all, intelligent. Clandestine meetings in the hay mound led to their marriage, arranged at the end of her daddy’s shotgun.
“I’m scared, though, Sam. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to love another man. I know I’ll never love anyone else like I loved you. I wish you were here so I don’t have to be scared of the future.”
The wind shifted just enough to sigh a last time through the pines and to brush across her cheeks. Like so many snowflakes, the white petals of a dogwood drifted across the hollow, twisting and swirling in the breeze. She caught a single, velvet-soft petal in her hand. Renewed tears burned her eyes.
The first of a very few times she and Sam had argued it had been spring. As a manner to reinforce his apology, Sam brought her a bouquet of dogwood blossoms. After that, he made it a point to bring her a bunch of the blossoms every spring.
“Apology accepted, Sam.”