The Remnant of Felix Springs

By Rhea Softley

In a town of only two hundred fifty people, can an anonymous lottery winner remain in anonymity? Everyone knows there are no secrets in small towns, but when the residents of Felix Springs begin searching for their town’s lucky Powerball winner, they discover a number of mysteries buried beneath the façade of country charm. Could the winner be Bryson Biggs, the grieving father and aging rancher; Doc Nabbity, the curious retired doctor; Justin Felix, the greedy financial planner; or Sally Jenkins, the down-on-her-luck store owner? Sorting out truth from lies, the residents grapple with the hardships of sustaining lifestyles in a difficult agricultural economy and a community that grows smaller every year. Even if the lottery winner is found, will the lottery money be enough to save this small town or will the townsfolk need to look elsewhere for salvation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098084622

Book preview

1

Ding.

Harold!

Seventy-four-year-old Harold Nimms was enjoying his first good night’s sleep since his cat had innocently discovered the coffee beans one shelf higher than the cat food and spent its extra newfound energy crying and clawing outside the bedroom door. On this night, Harold had just settled into the gentle rhythm of deep nasally breaths followed by a puff-puff-puff exhale when his wife, Henrietta, jabbed the only bony place on her body—her elbow—into his syncopating ribs.

Harold! Harold! It’s your phone. It dinged.

Harold’s eyes slowly opened as his fingers fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand.

I honestly don’t know why that telephone has to be in our bedroom, anyhow, Henrietta nagged. We were happily married for nearly fifty years without a telephone in our room, and now, all of a sudden, here it is. The ladies in club told me this would happen. They told me that thing next to our bed would be the end of our marriage.

Henrietta, the only thing this phone has ended is my night’s sleep.

Harold quickly pulled the phone from its charger and illuminated the screen. Glancing down at the source of the glow, he checked his new text message and sent a quick reply.

Harold Nimms had been the owner, manager, editor, and reporter for the Felix Springs Weekly Tribune, the only operating newspaper in Liberty County, for close to forty-five years. He had seen the business go from using typewriters and its own printing press to sending everything electronically to a printing hub that spit out the six-page papers for the two hundred fifty subscribers faster than Harold could open the tailgate on his little Ford Ranger pickup to haul them to the post office. Along with this newfound technology, Harold had also seen the paper go from employing ten full-time employees to him being the sole employee of the enterprise. The latest advancement in technology for the paper was Harold’s purchase of a smartphone that allowed him to receive emails at any time of the day. Since the papers were printed on Wednesday mornings, Tuesday evenings were especially sensitive times for processing information. It was not uncommon for Harold to receive emails late into the night about information that needed to be printed in the next day’s paper. This particular Tuesday night was one such instance.

Harold, now where are you going? Henrietta questioned as Harold gingerly pulled his well-aged legs out of bed and to the floor. It isn’t enough that you have to check your messages in bed, now you have to leave our bed to go deal with whatever nonsense it is. I’m just not sure how much of this I can take.

Henrietta, it’s coming from a big organization in Eastern Nebraska. It looks like a statewide release that they need printed in tomorrow’s paper, Harold responded.

Can’t you work on it the morning? Henrietta continued undeterred. It’s late. Why would they message you so late?

I don’t know. It must be important.

What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? Didn’t you just read the message? Henrietta was getting confused.

No, they just sent me a text message telling me to check my email. Harold was doing his best to calm Henrietta’s anxiety.

I swear, I don’t understand this new way of communicating at all. First, they send you a text message to check your email. Then, you must check your email for the actual message. It doesn’t make any sense, she continued. You have got to get that phone fixed or it’s going to be beeping and dinging all night long and I am never going to get a good night’s sleep. And you know what happens when I don’t sleep well—I get cranky and hard to deal with. Neither one of us wants that to happen.

Jeremy said he would visit this weekend. Harold offered a solution to pacify his troubled wife. I’ll have him look at the phone. Maybe there is a way to have him turn off some of those noises.

Buzz.

"Now, what is that noise?" asked Henrietta.

Harold looked down at the screen. That was the email. I’ll go open it in the office. You go back to sleep. We don’t want you to be cranky after all.

Harold, are you being smart with me?

Never, dear. Never.

Harold left his wife to fume on her own. Gently closing the door behind him, he sidestepped the cat on his way down the hall and landed in the old captain’s chair anchoring the messy office space just two doors down. The second-hand desktop computer booted up slowly as the dial-up internet seemed to match the pace of its late-night user. Harold logged into his email account, first mistyping and then retyping his password, and found the new message titled URGENT! Immediate action necessary. After years of practice, Harold had become skilled at quickly skimming documents for important information. But even with all those years of experience, Harold reread the small type of the screen multiple times with a curiosity like a newly struck match in a hay bale.

His eyes having grown tired from the harsh light from the screen, Harold finally shifted his weight back from the edge of his seat. The weight of the article’s words stirred up an excitement within the lifetime newsman, like he had rarely felt during his career as a journalist. As his mind raced down rabbit trails of hypothetical implications of the breaking story, his heart palpitations sent his arthritic hands fumbling for blood-pressure medicine. Unable to find the pill bottle at his desk, Harold decided to check the message one last time to make sure he had not misread anything in his wearied state. Leaning forward in his chair, again, he rubbed his eyes before returning their focus to the screen. No, he concluded. He had read it correctly.

Well, I’ll be, he muttered under his breath.

2

Felix Springs was not even a dot on most Nebraska state maps. Nestled in the heart of beef-and-corn country, the tiny community fell halfway between Lincoln and Denver—four hours from each. Only one two-lane highway ran through the very edge of town, allowing over-the-road truckers, cattle haulers, and occasionally, the wayward tourist a brief glimpse of the hamlet’s daily bustle before rushing them off toward the brighter and louder world calling from beyond the rolling hills. Outsiders often perceived Felix Springs as merely an eight-by-six grid of broken city streets decorated with dated houses, abandoned businesses, and floundering hope. Local residents, however, could still make out the faint heartbeat of the community, and fueled by pride, commitment, stubbornness, and faith, they banded together with an unspoken oath to keep the town alive as long as possible.

Bryson Briggs slowly pushed open the heavy glass door of the Felix Springs Senior Activity Center and leaned warily on the handrail as he shuffled up the three steps leading to the main eating hall. As his slumped shoulders filled the doorway to the east, blocking the early morning sun, his shadow fell across the handful of round tables spread across the room. A half-dozen other men, all seasoned in their years, glanced up at Bryson on his arrival and, after quickly acknowledging his presence, went back to their early morning conversations. Bryson continued his labored gait to the lone coffeepot in the corner of the room and picked up a small Styrofoam cup from the stack next to it. He could feel the eyes of Leola Pryce burning through him from across the room in the kitchen, so once he filled his cup half full, he fumbled in his pockets for a couple quarters to deposit into the Coffee Doesn’t Grow on Trees basket next to the pot.

Bryson turned to face the tables spread around the room and began to size up the men and their conversation, hoping to find an empty chair far from controversy but close enough he could hear. Among the other patrons of morning coffee were Leeland Brickman, the retired banker and recent widower, Jules Lee, an old history teacher and basketball coach from the glory days of Felix Springs High, Doc Nabbity, the town’s only physician who had seen his last patient in 2009, and Richard Dick Johnson, a seventy-five year-old rancher who laughed in the face of retirement and still prided himself on roping, throwing, and branding his own cattle. Harvey Smith and his brother, Howard, rounded out the group on this early Thursday morning. Harvey was a divorcee who lived on his own, farmed five thousand acres, and traveled east to see his grandkids once a month. Howard, on the other hand, had never married and still lived in the same house where the Smith children had been raised. Bryson spotted an empty chair between Doc and Dick and gradually began to pick up on the conversation as he settled onto the metal folding chair.

Over by Beaver Lake. You know the lake with all those floating homes and the giant houses along the shoreline. That’s where I would build it, said Doc matter-of-factly, basking in the attention of the rest of the men. With a giant fishing boat…maybe one of those pontoons I see on the Fishing Channel all the time…and a hot tub. I would definitely have a hot tub.

Doc, you can’t have a hot tub on a pontoon boat, interrupted Jules from across the table.

The hot tub wouldn’t be on the boat, answered Doc. It would be at the house…the giant mansion I would build with my winnings.

Dotty and I went to that lake a few years ago for her family’s reunion, and there wasn’t anything but party boats and girls in bikinis, chimed in Leeland. Doesn’t seem like your kind of crowd, Doc.

With the mention of Leeland’s late wife, Dotty, all the men sat in a saddened moment of silence before Doc answered with a wink. You never know, Leeland. That might be just my kind of crowd.

What about you, Bryson? Dick questioned. What would you do with two hundred fifty million dollars?

How many dollars? asked Bryson as he cupped his hand behind his right ear.

TWO HUNDRED FIFTY MILLION, enunciated Doc in the direction of his friend.

Well, when you put it that way, I would probably start by buying hearing aids, said Bryson jokingly.

Bryson was the classic example of the Felix Springs pedigree. He had been born and raised in Felix Springs, as had both his parents and all four grandparents. Except for four years he spent at Nebraska State College and one year working construction on the East Coast for a cousin, Bryson had spent most of his life within a five-mile radius of the tiny town. His great-grandfather had homesteaded in the late 1800s, his grandfather had expanded the farming operation, his father had expanded the cattle operation, and Bryson had inherited some of both enterprises. His five years outside the county lines had taught Bryson two things: one, he didn’t like living outside Liberty County, and two, the outside world didn’t like him. After returning to Felix Springs as a young man, he married the smartest girl he knew, Judy Nimms, and began his life as a slave to two masters—farming and ranching. Now, his three daughters were all grown and gone—married to successful men with consistent paychecks and well-maintained lawns more than a day’s drive away. They visited on occasional holidays and three-day weekends, but with his grandchildren getting older and their schedules getting busier, the visits were becoming fewer and fewer. Judy spent most of her free time traveling between her daughters’ households, but Bryson was tied down to his cattle and never felt like he could leave his farm for more than twenty-four hours. The boys at coffee had tried to convince him to take on a hired man to help take care of his livestock and free him up to travel more with Judy, but the agriculture economy had taken some hard hits in the last ten years, and Bryson wasn’t convinced he could afford the help. Plus, if he did happen to find help, Bryson wasn’t convinced he had the time to train someone from outside the family’s operation.

Mostly, Bryson spent his days alone. Even when Judy was not on one of her long trips, her time was usually divided between ladies’ club, volunteering at church, and working as a fill-in at a neighbor’s in-home daycare. Fortunately, their marriage had not been built on words but acts of admiration, and what lacked in communication was made up for in mutual respect and unconditional love. Bryson’s daily trips into town for coffee at the local senior center were the only acts of socializing he was comfortable in upholding, and the friendly banter and local gossip provided enough entertainment to get him through the long days of solitude.

On this brisk late winter morning at coffee, after the joke about the hearing aids, the conversations among the large group of men broke off into