Heaven Sent (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  Hannah did not remain idle. Her hands eagerly explored the powerful muscles of his back, caressing and investigating the strength of the man she loved. Touching him was such pleasure, but not nearly enough. Her body ached with desire. She wanted to feel him against her. She remembered the heat of his rigid eagerness pressed against the juncture of her thighs and she wanted to feel him again. She wanted to lie here on the wellhouse floor and have him cover her body with his own, to press against her. Her hand strayed from his smooth, sleek ribs to his thigh, where her quest continued. When her inquisitive fingers discovered his hard, heated manhood, they instinctively curled around it.

  "Hannah!" Her name was a gasp on his lips. Henry Lee clenched his teeth and held himself perfectly still as he struggled for control. He knew he should take her hand and move it away from him, but he could not. No skilled harlot or experienced widow had ever given him the pleasure he felt as her hand simply held the object of her desire. In another minute he would go off like a green kid. He had meant only to kiss her, not to lose control. With abject regret, he eased her out of his grasp and took her hand in his own, bringing it to his lips.

  "Oh, Hannah, if you knew how much I want to have you right here, right now, you'd be running in terror back to the house."

  Hannah's eyes, still glazed with desire, assessed him lovingly and her lips pressed a small tender kiss on the side of his mouth.

  "I'm not running, Henry Lee. I'm not running from you ever again."

  A surge of joy poured through Henry Lee at her words. She was not running. She was his for the taking. Had he proved to himself that he was worthy of such a gift? Would pulling her skirts up and having her now prove just the opposite?

  Assembling all his wit and control, Henry Lee concentrated on steadily breathing in and out. After a moment he felt stronger and he laid his forehead playfully against hers.

  Looking down into her eyes he teased, "Your father may have forgiven me for one indiscretion in his wellhouse. I'm not sure he would be so forgiving a second time."

  She laughed delightedly. Henry Lee loved that deep throaty laugh. If he could have his heart's desire, he would want to hear that laugh every day for the rest of his life.

  Putting his arm around her, he drew her close beside him, touching her only lightly. They were not yet willing to part, but they needed to cool the fire that was burning so brightly between them.

  Wanting to store the sound of her laughter for the silent days to come, he quietly told her all the amusing anecdotes that came into his mind. Surprisingly, she had a few of her own to offer. They talked together until quite late, but never once mentioned the trouble between them, or the walls that continued to keep them apart.

  It was after midnight when Henry Lee finally walked her back to her front porch. Will had ridden out long ago and the household was already in bed.

  Standing beside her in the moonlight, Henry Lee didn't know exactly what to say. They had not resolved the problems in their marriage, but he knew now that they could. He hoped she would say something, ask him back tomorrow, anything. But she seemed to be waiting for him to speak. What could he say, his offer was the same it had always been.

  Hannah waited. She waited for him to tell her to come home. She waited for him to say he wanted her to be his wife. As the silence dragged on, she became afraid. The perfection of the night could be marred by words misspoken or conclusions drawn too quickly.

  Rising on the tips of her toes, she quickly planted a kiss on his warm, firm lips.

  "Good night, Henry Lee. I hope you know that I love you."

  She hurried into the house, shutting the door behind her. Henry Lee stared after her, replaying in his mind the words she had just spoken. She had said she loved him. Hannah, his Hannah, the woman that gave his life sunshine and purpose, actually loved him. He suddenly felt as if he were a giant, ruler of the universe, master of his own fate. Hannah Bunch Watson was in love with him, and she had said so right to his face.

  He knew she stood on the other side of the closed door. With a smile of triumph, he leaned up against the door and spoke just loudly enough to make himself heard.

  "Good night, Mrs. Watson. I love you, too."

  With his face brimming with smiles, he leaped off the porch like a young colt and headed to his rig. He wanted to laugh and dance and shout his excitement to the world. But he managed to contain his dignity until he had made his way down the road out of earshot of the house. Then he sent a whopping "wahoo" to the heavens.

  He laughed at his own foolishness. Then as he calmed, he became more serious. Being given Hannah's love was not just a prize to be accepted with delight, it was a responsibility that he needed to live up to. A gift to be treasured and secured for safekeeping, he could not just accept it and be done. Hannah, his Hannah, deserved a better man than him. But it was him that she loved and she wasn't a woman to give her love easily.

  Throughout the trip home, he brooded and planned. His future with Hannah was the only thing that mattered. Summer would turn to fall and winter, some would be born, some would die. Henry Lee would put food on their table and keep the wind from the chinks in the cabin.

  Life, his life, was with Hannah. Without her, it was only existence.

  As he stepped up to his back porch he saw a piece of paper hanging against the door. He carefully took it down and carried it inside the cabin with him.

  Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, he unfolded the paper and laid it out on the table. He stared at the ink marks on the paper for a few moments; then, as if it were a map, he turned it ninety degrees. When it still failed to make sense, he turned it again. Finally recognizing some of the letters, he knew it was the right direction.

  He cursed his lack of schooling. He knew some of the letters on the page, but they meant nothing to him. He would just have to wait until he saw someone to read it to him. He pulled his suspenders down from his shoulders and started to walk away. He was tired and wanted to lie in his bed and think about the future. One last look at the paper honed in on an unusual letter. There at the bottom of the page, the first letter of the word was "z."

  A strange feeling of dread washed over him. There was only one word that he could think of that started with "z" and that was Zanola. If she had bothered to come all the way up to his place at night, something must be terribly wrong.

  He shrugged tiredly; surely whatever it was could wait for morning, he thought to himself and started to continue with his undressing. Then he went to stand and stare at the paper again, worried and wishing that he could make sense of it. With a sigh of self-disgust, he readjusted his clothes, shoved the rumpled note into his pocket, slammed his hat on his head, and went out to hitch a fresh horse to the buggy.

  The night train pulled into the station at Ingalls. Seven men got off. Three were Indians; dressed in beat-up hats and stained clothes, they appeared to be dirty and unkempt, but their movements were sober and sure as they made their way across the platform. With them were three lawmen, heavily armed and wary-eyed. The seventh man followed behind them. His face was totally void of emotion. No anxiety or fear or excitement was going to cause him to make a mistake. He was experienced and experience had taught him to be careful. Train robbers, murderers, hired guns, and bloodthirsty lunatics, he had seen them all. If a lawman wanted to live long enough to die in his own bed, he needed to expect the unexpected. He was prepared for anything, except failure. Tom Quick had arrived at the border to take care of Henry Lee Watson, once and for all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hannah pulled her father's rig to a stop underneath the big red oak outside Henry Lee's cabin. She was surprised that he didn't seem to be around. She couldn't imagine where anyone might be on Sunday morning, unless it was church, and she would have passed him on the road if he had headed that way.

  Admittedly, she didn't know a good deal about what non-churchgoers did on Sunday morning. But today she was going to find out for herself. When she told her father that she intended to m
ove back to Henry Lee's house this morning, she had half expected him to tell her to wait until after the service. He hadn't and she was glad, because she didn't think she could have.

  She had tossed and turned most of the night, before she finally got up and went out to sit on the porch. Her decision had not been easy, but there was no other choice. She loved Henry Lee, despite what she knew about him, maybe even because of what she knew about him. She loved him. And last night, through the door, he had said he loved her, too. Two people who loved each other and were married to each other should be together. There was just no other way to figure it.

  Hannah unloaded her things near the back door and then led the horse to the barn to unhitch her. It felt good to be home, she thought. This place was hers now, as well as Henry Lee's.

  Working with the horse, she thought about the family that she had left behind. Her father had been proud of her decision, though he hadn't said a word. She had finally realized that he was right, but at least he'd had the good grace not to say ''I told you so."

  Violet's warm hug and encouraging smile gave her comfort. It was amazing what a rock of strength Violet had turned out to be. More evidence, Hannah thought ruefully, that Hannah Bunch Watson did not know as much as she thought she did.

  Myrtie had been bubbly and excited for her as she helped her pack. "So you talked it all out, and got your troubles squared away last night?"

  "No," Hannah answered her with a light laugh. "Our troubles are still as big as Texas and nothing was solved last night. But I love him and I can't just stop loving him because I think that I should. He's still a moonshiner and I can't approve of that, but he's my man and I'm going to be right next to him, disapproving, for as long as we both shall live."

  Hannah thought of those words as she headed back up toward the house. She'd heard a story once about Bill Dalton. How he'd courted his wife and won her before she realized he was an outlaw. Hannah had always wondered why she hadn't left him when she'd found out. Now she knew.

  A woman can't change a man. She can't make him what he's not. But if she can see the good in him, she can nurture that. It's like working in the garden. The weeds grow right along next to the carrots. People do their best to encourage the carrots; if not, the weeds will just take over.

  The cabin was clean, as she knew it would be. Henry Lee wasn't a man to let things go. She was anxious, however, to scrub it herself. After a trip to the creek for two buckets of water, she began to make it her house again. The work was not drudgery, but pleasant. Making a home for Henry Lee and herself was a pleasure. A tune came to her lips and she began to sing as she worked.

  Tom Quick and his men arrived only shortly after Hannah. But, unlike her, they did not approach the house at first. Staking out their horses about a half mile down the creek, Quick sent Pathkiller to check out the house while he went over the plan one more time. He wanted no slip-ups, no mistakes.

  Pathkiller returned shortly. "Watson's not there."

  Tom Quick muttered an obscene expletive.

  "Only the woman is there, she's cleaning the house and singing up a storm."

  "The woman is there?" Quick had heard the woman had left Watson. That had pleased him. A criminal didn't deserve such a fine female. When he'd learned she had walked out on Watson, he'd considered her just the proper woman. But maybe she was not. Pathkiller had said she was drinking whiskey at the Ambrosia Ballroom, and the story told about their wedding indicated that she was no better than she should be.

  Quick leaned back on his heels, studying the situation. If she was there in the house, then Watson would obviously be returning pretty soon.

  "Is she cooking anything?" he asked Pathkiller.

  "Yep," the Indian replied, "smells like turnips."

  Quick smiled.

  "Then she expects him back for dinner. If we wait any longer, it will be hard to believe that these three have been out drinking all night and just run out of liquor."

  The men nodded in agreement.

  "We'll proceed with the plan," Quick announced.

  He turned his attention to Pathkiller and the other Indians. "If she doesn't sell you the whiskey, just plant yourself in the yard, take a nap or whatever and wait for her man to come home. I'll be watching and I'll have you covered."

  His gaze moved to the deputies. "You can spend the time combing these woods looking for that still. It has to be fairly close to the house. I want every inch of ground within a half mile covered."

  The deputies set out on foot and Tom Quick followed the creek to get himself into position. He found a bluff, not far from the cabin, with a couple of toe holds up high enough to have a clear view of everything that went on.

  The ledge he was sitting on was not much, but it gave him a good perspective. He looked above him and saw an outcropping with a larger ledge, but he knew that was too high. He'd be too easily spotted. So he settled down right where he was, content, not realizing that Watson's still was in a cave hidden not ten feet above him, behind the ledge he thought was too high.

  The Indians mounted up and taking a circuitous route approached the cabin from the west, riding fast and hollering.

  Hannah heard the racket and was momentarily startled. She hurried to the door to see the three Indians riding up hell for leather and yelling in an obvious state of intoxication. Slightly fearful, she was dismayed at her haven being invaded by whiskey-wild Indians. But, she remembered Harjo as a friend of both Henry Lee and herself and she stiffened her spine and walked to the back door.

  Pathkiller saw her at the back door and recognized her apprehension. He immediately dismounted and spoke sharply to the others in their native tongue, warning them not to overplay their hand. He walked toward the back door but stopped before he got too near. Doffing his hat, he gave her a low bow that he hoped was a parody of politeness.

  “You are Mrs. Watson," he said to Hannah, his voice was cultured, but his words were slightly slurred.

  Hannah nodded. “We've come to do some business with your husband," he said. "Is he at home?"

  Hannah shook her head. "He had an errand to run this morning, he should be back anytime," she answered, hoping that it was true.

  The Indian accepted this, but then after turning to his cohorts for a consultation, came back.

  "Perhaps you can help us, Mrs. Watson. My friends and I have been having a little celebration, and it seems that we've run out of one of the necessary ingredients." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar gold piece. "Could you sell us a couple of jugs of Mr. Watson's fine corn liquor?"

  Hannah knew that this was why they had come to the place, but it still angered her that they would think her a party to this evil whiskey business.

  "No, sir, I could not," she answered sharply. "You should take yourself and your business elsewhere." She turned and went back into the house, slamming the door primly.

  Pathkiller hesitated a moment, a little surprised by her reaction. Then he shrugged. There was really no understanding women. That was one certainty.

  Calling through the door he told her, "We'll just wait out here in the yard until your husband returns, ma'am, don't mind us. We're not going to be a minute's trouble to you."

  The Indians tied their horses to the hitching post and sat down in the shade of the red oak and waited for Henry Lee Watson.

  Tom Quick, in the woods within earshot, lay his rifle across his knees and settled himself also for the long wait. Waiting was one thing a lawman had to learn to do a lot, and Tom Quick was a master at it. Watson would return and sell the Indians the liquor. By that time, the deputies would have found his still and Quick would see that he stayed locked up for twenty years. Tom Quick smiled to himself, justice would be done.

  As the morning stretched longer, Hannah continued her work in the house. She no longer sang, and a good deal of the joy had gone out of her return home. She didn't want to go outside, because the Indians were still waiting there under the tree. And their presence was a constant remin
der of the distance still unbridged between herself and Henry Lee.

  She tried to concentrate on the decisions she had made last night and this morning. How she would learn to tolerate the whiskey business, while continuing to disapprove of it. She would not be a part of it. Somehow, having those men waiting around to buy liquor from her husband made her feel that she was a part of it. That she did condone it. It made her ashamed. She shouldn't be simply ignoring the existence of those men, she should be encouraging them to give up their sinful devotion to strong drink.

  Realizing her duty, Hannah filled the coffee pot and put it on the stove.

  Pathkiller and his men sat together, occasionally talking, but mostly just trying to outlive the boredom of the moment. Watson could return anytime and they needed to be ready, but he might not return for hours, so they remained relaxed yet alert. Nothing could have surprised them more than Mrs. Watson suddenly appearing at the back step.

  "I'm sure you gentlemen are getting tired and hungry," she said sweetly. "I've got a batch of butter cookies just coming out of the oven and some fresh brewed coffee. Why don't you come in and have some?"

  The men were stunned. After her earlier behavior, they didn't figure she would have a word to say to them. Now she was inviting them into the house. The cohorts looked to Pathkiller for guidance.

  He quickly considered his options. To refuse would look strange. No man would turn down coffee and food if he was just sitting around, especially if that food was prepared by a woman. And cookies were something that a man couldn't make over a camp fire. They were not a thing to be sneered at.

  Pathkiller rose and the other two with him.

  "That's plainly nice of you, ma’am. We'd be pleased."

  The three tromped into the house and Hannah had them sit at the kitchen table. She poured a cup of coffee for each of them and placed a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of milk in the middle of the table and urged them to help themselves. The kitchen smelled wonderfully and the men found themselves forgetting the seriousness of their mission as she handed each of them a plate with at least a dozen cookies for each man.