Deep in the Heart of Texas
Boxed Set
BOOK ONE: Hurricane
BOOK TWO: Mismatched in Texas
BOOK THREE: Christmas at the Crossroads
By
Janice Thompson
Hurricane
Book One in the “Deep in the Heart of Texas” series
By
Janice Thompson
Hurricane
© 2015 by Janice Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of those who gave their lives in this, the most catastrophic event of the 20th century. Their heroism motivates us. Their song, still sung by those who remember, brings us hope. This story of bravery is also dedicated to the memory of my dear friend Alix Silguero, who managed to keep her head above water no matter how high the tide seemed to rise. You will forever be a hero in my eyes, Alix.
“Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown!
Isaiah 43: 1b—2
The Nation's Deadliest Cataclysm
Within the last two or three years, people have begun to think that the islands and peninsulas along the Texas and Louisiana Coast are unsafe for human abiding places. And Galveston Island is but a waif of the ocean, liable at any moment of being engulfed and submerged by the self-same power that gave it form.
-- Braman's Information About Texas, 1858
Chapter One
Tuesday, September 4th, 1900, 11:45 a.m. Aboard the GH&H Railroad
I am going home.
Home—a place I scarcely know, and yet know as well as my own name. A place of sweltering heat and gritty, salt-stung eyes. A garden of wispy oleanders and steep green palms dancing in soft evening breezes. A sandy retreat for sundials and sand dollars, angel wings and star fish. A hallowed habitat for speckled trout and flounder, red snapper and bluefish. A sanctuary for pesky mosquitoes and wide-eyed immigrants, both an unwelcome source of irritation to the locals. A pavilion where sweethearts, young and old, dance at open-air concerts. A leisurely place where rickety wooden piers tip-toe out onto the reaches of the warm, murky waters of the Gulf of Mexico... brown, rolling waters that stretch for miles against the backdrop of a soft, powder blue sky.
I am going home—to Galveston, the island of my youth. It draws me back as the tide pulls the restless waves to the shoreline, and yet I resist just as they do when they have had enough and wish to be released to the sea once again. Galveston Island. Every corner of my mind is clouded with memories, though I push them away with a vengeance. I don’t want to remember. My conscience is seared with the guilt of trying to forget.
Six years in New York have put the past behind me, and yet it lies ever before me. I left a boy, a dreamer. I return a man, a realist. Perhaps there is more of my father in me than I’m ready to admit.
“Hey, Mister! Whatcha writin?”
Brent Murphy looked up from his tablet into the sharp olive green eyes of the little boy sitting across from him on the train. “I, uh...” Brent tried valiantly to collect his thoughts, leaving his scribblings behind him. “Not much, really.” What was he writing, after all—his wishes, his fears? He couldn’t possibly share those things with a child, a perfect stranger.
“You a writer, Mister?” They little boy’s eyes were playful, inquisitive. They danced in the direction of his tablet, as if wanting to snatch it up and read it.
Brent pulled it a little closer to himself. “Well, yes,” he answered. “Sort of, anyway...” After all these years, it was still a difficult question to answer.
“Gee willikins! Do you write books?” The boy’s sparkling green eyes widened with excitement. Brent discovered himself in those eyes – a young man enthralled with the world of a writer.
“No, not books. I’m a reporter, a journalist.” As he laid the tablet down on his knees, Brent couldn’t help but notice the wrinkles in his trousers. Days of travel had left him looking a little less like a reporter and a little more like a vagabond.
“Man, oh man!” The little boy sat up straight and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Lucas, son, sit still and don’t bother the nice gentleman,” the boy’s mother, a woman with stern brown eyes, scolded.
“Oh, he’s no bother,” Brent said. “No bother at all.”
“Do you live in Galveston?” Lucas asked, unable to hold himself still for more than a moment.
“Yes, well—I used to.”
“I’m gonna visit my Grandpa Frankie.”
“Joseph Franks,” his mother explained. “He’s a deputy sheriff on the island. Do you know him?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t,” Brent said. “But I’ve been away for awhile. Six years.” Six wonderful, terrible years.
Lucas turned his attention to something outside the window, and Brent returned to his ponderings. The flatlands of Southeast Texas rolled by—stark and dry. A drought had left the tall grasses as brown as autumn. The warm air wafted through the open window. Brent pulled at his collar, deep in thought. The gentle clacking of the train against the tracks lulled Brent back into a hypnotic state. He began to jot words down, almost uncontrollably:
We pulled out of Houston half an hour ago, headed south on the GH&H line—a railroad I know well. During the Civil War, the Galveston, Houston &Henderson crossed this very spot with Confederate troops and munitions; their goal—to reach the Island to break a Union blockade. My mission pales in comparison.
Houston has grown to an almost unrecognizable level. She will surpass Galveston’s greatness if Islanders are not careful. Perched on the brink of industrial eminence, the city that brought General Sam Houston fame is now overwhelmed with the scent of oil, industry and new money. Houses are springing up all around the place—wood framed with indoor plumbing and electric lights—all the modern conveniences. It is difficult to believe Texas won her freedom in this once-barren place. Fifty years have brought a lifetime of change. Time changes everything—and nothing—all at the same time.
Within another hour we’ll cross the trestle over the Galveston Bay. From there I will be within moments of home.
Home.
Galveston, to my understanding, is much the same as when I left—bustling with streetcars and tourists, though surely not many remain this late into the season. What draws them back? The Island, in its own mysterious way, seems to lull them, year after year. I will soon join them. When I get home...
Here Brent paused, looking up from his tablet to reflect. What should he write? How could he even begin to predict the future when he still had so much trouble dealing with the past?
***
Tuesday, September 4th, 12:30 p.m. The Murphy Villa
“Douglas, dear, do you really have to go?” Gillian Murphy forced the saddest face she could muster. Years of experience had turned her into a better than average actress. She knew how to play a role when the script called for it.
“Gillian, we’ve already discussed this.” Her husband’s stern face left nothing to the imagination.
“But we’ve got such a grand party coming up this weekend, and there’s so much work to be done. I’m simply lost without you.” She turned t
o check her appearance in the mirror as she tucked a loose hair behind one ear. He didn’t answer for a moment, and fear gripped her. She did depend on him, perhaps more than she wanted to admit. She turned to give him another pout.
“You’ve got Pearl,” her husband mumbled as he straightened his jacket. “And I’ve got to work.”
“Work, work—that’s all you ever do.” Gillian pouted. How could he argue the point? In their thirty years of marriage, the couple had rarely taken so much as a well-deserved vacation. Douglas was driven to succeed. His years at GH&H railroad had proven that. Forty-six miles of track from Galveston to Houston was all that lay between Gillian Murphy and her husband.
“I don’t see you complaining about the home we’re living in, or those expensive clothes you’re wearing.” He pulled a gold watch from his pocket and checked the time.
It was hardly fair to bring that up. “Yes, but...”
“Just how do you think we’re going to pay for this little shin-dig anyway?” Douglas asked as he ran a comb through his jet-black hair. He used his fingertips to straighten the sharp edges of his carefully manicured moustache then stared at his reflection carefully in the hall mirror. “You’re liable to bankrupt us with this party of yours.”
Gillian’s heart gave a quick flutter. Surely he jested. She gauged his expression for confirmation. A bit of a twinkle in his dark gray eyes let her know that he was not completely serious.
“Pish-Posh!” she responded with a snicker. “You know perfectly well we’re not hurting for money. Now don’t scare me by saying things like that. It’s completely unfair of you, Douglas.”
Her husband reached over and gave her a light peck on the nose. “For a middle-aged woman, you certainly still act like a silly schoolgirl.”
“I’m not middle-aged,” Gillian said defiantly. “I’m barely forty-six.”
He brushed some lint from his jacket, then turned to face her. “Forty-eight.”
“Forty-seven!” she said stubbornly. She glanced in the mirror at her reflection once again. Her clear, white skin barely carried a hint of sun, let alone a wrinkle. She had swept her soft brown hair up off her neck with an ivory comb, a Christmas gift from Douglas. There were a few streaks of gray in amongst her dark locks, she noticed as she peered a little closer – but not enough to rank her middle-aged. Her hazel eyes were more blue than green. There was still plenty of youthful vitality in them, though the finely tuned wrinkles that had crept up alongside them argued the point.
“Gillian, dear. You were twenty-two when our son was born—were you not? He’s twenty-six now. That would make you...”
Gillian turned, feeling her heart begin to swell. Why did he have to bring up their son now, just when things were going so well?
“Twenty-six years of misery with the laziest son a man ever had,” Douglas said, his face turning red. “If only he had been born with half the work ethic I have, we might be singing a completely different song today. Of course, there’s good reason why he isn’t much like me, isn’t there dear...?”
Gillian’s heart raced. This was not way to say goodbye. “Darling, let’s don’t do this...”
“I’m just saying that things might have been completely different if you hadn’t...”
Gillian had to turn this around. She had to. “Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m forty-eight years old,” she said. “Now, can we change the subject?”
“Maybe,” Douglas said with a hint of a smile, “if you’re ready to admit you still act like a giddy school-girl when it comes to hosting those ridiculous parties.”
Her thoughts drifted back to the subject at hand. The party. “Oh, but this is going to be the gala of the century! Everyone will simply be mad with envy.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Douglas said. “I suppose we’ll have to cancel.”
His thick eyebrows furrowed, and her heart fell. But only for a moment. Gillian looked into his eyes. “Oh, you’re teasing. I knew you were.”
“Teasing or not, there’s work to be done, and I’ve never been one to slack off.”
No, he certainly wasn’t. And now that rumors of oil ran up and down the coast, his zeal for the railroad played second fiddle to the possibility of making a strike in the near future. That meant she now came in third, in the grand scheme of things.
“I’ll be back on Saturday afternoon.” He turned toward the door.
Gillian pouted, half-angry, half-disappointed. “Miss me?”
“Chin up!” Douglas turned to leave. “I’ll be back soon.”
The door slammed behind him, echoing the hollow emptiness of the large home, fashioned in the new Victorian style. Gillian dropped into a chair, deep in thought. Her husband was a strong man, stronger in so many ways than she would ever be. It was a man’s world, or so he told her all the time.
“That may very well be.” She shook her head. “But when it comes to throwing parties, it’s a woman’s world.” She grinned as she stood, and readied herself for the day ahead. There was much work to be done, and she would never let it be said that Gillian Murphy wasn’t up to the task.
***
Tuesday, September 4th, 2:35 p.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
Sister Henrietta Mullins reached up with the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration from her brow. Her habit, dark and cumbersome, clung to her petite frame like a second skin, choking the very life out of her. Of course, she had no one to blame but herself. She had chosen this life; only she could take the credit or the blame.
Henrietta’s commitment to the Sisters of Charity had taken her far from home in rural Virginia, far from those she loved. And yet it was clear she felt God’s call on her life. She had known it from the time she was a young girl, weeping at altar’s edge.
At the tender age of twenty-one Henrietta had taken her vows with no hesitation. And when her superiors had assigned her to work at the beloved St. Mary’s Orphans Asylum in Galveston just one year later, she had gone willingly. What a difference a few months could make. They had changed everything. Now she stood as a testament to her faith, though she felt at any moment she might cave under the pressure.
The heat didn’t help things, either. Even with the breeze off of the gulf, she still felt as though she might suffocate. “I’m only in Texas,” she wrote home, “but feel like I’m halfway to Hades already.”
Henrietta longed for the cool autumns of Virginia, her home. There was nothing as beautiful as the turning of the leaves, their reds and gold’s melting together into dizzying shades of orange. There, the cool, crisp fall breezes whipped through the trees, teasing the leaves and eventually coaxing them down from unwilling limbs. All of her life she had romped and played in the woods of Virginia. Among those trees she had first felt the tug that would eventually bring her to Galveston Island.
“It’s not so bad,” she said, looking about. The two dormitories of St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum lay on the outskirts of town, well out of reach of the Yellow Fever epidemic that had swept the island a short time ago. The Infirmary was nearby. Henrietta had made it her mission to keep the children in good health—spiritually and physically. Many of them had lost parents in the epidemic. Others had been abandoned at birth by parents who did not have the necessary means to care for them.
She had no right to complain about her life. After all, she had made her own choices. Her biggest struggle, at least at the moment, was this bulky habit and its constricting white collar.
“Look on the bright side,” she whispered to herself. “At least I don’t have to wear a corset.” A smile made its way up her cheeks. Small waistlines had become ridiculously painful over the past few years with those tightly laced, strictly constructed corsets in the picture. Though they posed countless health risks, any woman who considered herself fashionable wore one to embellish her female physique. A corset provided the coveted curves, naturally, but it also constricted the abdomen so that women could barely eat or sit down comfortably. How wonderful to be rid of that agony!
“I’ll take the good with the bad.” Henrietta said, suddenly determined. “Learning will come with time and much patience.” Heat or no heat, she must learn to endure. Her calling required it.
Had she known how difficult everything would turn out to be, she might have requested a different calling.
Chapter Two
Tuesday, September 4th, 5:30 p.m. The Tremont Hotel
“Room for one, please.” Brent dropped his bag on the floor of the Tremont Hotel lobby, exhaustion setting it.
“Name, Sir?” The clerk looked down his nose at him a bit.
“Mr. Brent Murphy.” He glanced about at the beautiful lobby. Large overstuffed chairs in soft mint cream linen lined the wall and an elaborate chandelier hung over the center of the room provided a soft glow of light.
“How long will you be staying, sir?”
“Hmmm.” A good question. Brent looked into the eyes of the hotel clerk. An older man, he had a somewhat comical face that seemed to resemble a carnival caricature—a long, exaggerated chin and protruding brown eyes that seemed too large for the rest of him. Even in his tailored suit and high button collar, the gentleman proved to be an amusing contrast to the elegant room.
“I’ll probably only stay a day or two.” Brent tried not to stare. “Certainly not much longer.”
“That won’t be a problem, Mr. Murphy. Have you ever stayed at the Tremont before?” The man looked up from his writing to gauge Brent’s response.
Stayed at the Tremont? The Tremont had been a proud part of the Murphy heritage. Why, if only this fellow knew. Brent’s father had been in attendance back in 1861 when then Governor Sam Houston addressed a Galveston crowd from the second floor Tremont balcony. There the great general had taken a strong stand against joining the Confederacy. Brent had heard the story most of his growing-up years. Of course, that was the old Tremont. The original building had burned to the ground in 1865. Still, this newer, fresher version of Galveston’s finery seemed an old friend. Brent had played at its doorstep as a child.
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