If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  She blushed with pleasure as she thought back on the night he had come home drunk. She was still embarrassed and amazed at the feelings Henry Lee could invoke in her. She remembered the look on his face when he had exposed her breasts. She crossed her arms as if to shield herself from his eyes. She wondered why she had not felt the need to do so that night. Somehow it had seemed so wonderful to be exposed to him. She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to want her, to touch her again like he had that night.

  Her body was suddenly suffused with a quivering warmth that was part remembrance and part anticipation. She was tempted to give into the feeling, but quickly shook it off. She had work to do and no time for daydreaming, no matter how pleasant.

  Henry Lee worked steadily in the cave, breaking up the sweet mash with warmed spring water. It was very important to thin the mash thoroughly or it wouldn't ripen. The smell and the feel was reassuring. It seemed that this was to be an especially good batch, which pleased Henry Lee more than it should have. He had come to think of it as the "wedding whiskey" and somehow he thought having it turn out well would be a good omen for his marriage.

  When it was finally a consistency that met Henry Lee's expectations, he carefully smoothed it back into the barrel. It should not be packed tight, but with just enough room to breathe. Like a mother tucking in her little ones, he carefully sheltered the mash with two inches of rye malt to seal off the air. He covered the barrel and breathed a sigh of personal satisfaction. It would take several days for the sweet mash to sour. The sugar in the fermented corn would turn into alcohol and carbolic. Henry Lee knew that all that was needed now was patience. When the barrel began to sound like rain on the roof or side pork frying in the pan, it would be time to start it cooking.

  He was whistling as he left the cave. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three riders approaching in the distance. Although he couldn't make out the faces, he could see that they were native, and that meant they'd come for whiskey. Henry Lee hurried, hoping that they would not state the nature of their business to Hannah before he could get there. He had to tell her himself; he couldn't let her hear it from someone else.

  Hannah had the corn cooking on the stove and had filled almost a dozen quart with black-eyed peas. The jars cooling on the sideboard with the lids carefully setting askew gave Hannah such a sense of purpose and accomplishment that she no longer minded the intense heat of the kitchen.

  She set aside a bowl of the black-eyed peas to feed Henry Lee his noon meal and had just begun to stir up a batch of cornbread when she heard the approach of horses outside. Thinking that it might be her father again, she left the cornbread makings and hurried out the door.

  Hannah was slightly startled to see three native men in the yard. She recovered herself quickly. She was not a fearful woman or easily intimidated. And she was, after all, living in the Indian Territory, right in the corner of the Creek Nation. She should expect to see native residents, although none had ever ventured into her yard at Plainview Church. As a preacher's daughter, she'd been taught that there is no such thing as a stranger, only potential converts.

  She called out a pleasant "good morning" as the three men stopped to observe her. They were all of middle years, but the one who seemed to naturally take the position of leader was somewhat younger than the other two. Although they were big men, with their rounded faces and somewhat rotund bodies they did not seem at all menacing.

  They just sat on their horses and stared at Hannah for a few excruciating minutes as she became more and more uncomfortable. Finally the leader spoke up.

  "I want to see Watson."

  Hannah felt herself relax. Obviously the men were here on some purpose and not just wandering about, preying on unsuspecting households. She opened her mouth to tell them that he was working out in the fields somewhere, when suddenly Henry Lee emerged from among the trees.

  "Good morning!" he called out as he hurried to meet them. Hannah saw that he was very anxious to see the visitors and she assumed that they were friends.

  "It’s good to see you," Henry Lee told the visitors as he urged them to dismount. As they loosened the cinches on their saddles to give their horses a rest, Henry Lee shook the hand of the leader and spoke to him.

  "Harjo, I was wondering when you'd show up," Henry Lee said to the leader and then glanced back at Hannah. He needed to get these customers away from Hannah before they said something to give him away.

  "Come down and take a look at my hogs, they are better looking than any in the territory."

  If Harjo seemed a bit taken aback by the offer to view the hogs, he covered it admirably and motioned to the other two to follow as he walked with Henry Lee.

  As they moved away, Hannah couldn't help but notice the limping gait of the leader. On horseback he looked completely in control, but moving on his own two legs was obviously awkward and uncomfortable.

  Hannah felt an immediate surge of sympathy, followed by starry-eyed admiration for her husband. Again, he had surprised her. Most men were hesitant to socialize with the lame or afflicted, as if those "thorns of the flesh" might be contagious. Her husband, however, chose his friends where he would. Proudly, she acknowledged that he was a man of deep feeling and open mind.

  If only the people in the church realized what a fine man he was. She was sure the only reason he had not become a part of the church community in the past was because of his own modesty and his family background. He had been simply keeping his light under a bushel. She remembered only a short time ago she had considered him totally frivolous. It was obvious she and the rest of the community were going to have to dig a little deeper to discover what a fine Christian Henry Lee Watson was.

  Satisfied, Hannah returned to the kitchen. If Henry Lee had three friends visiting, she certainly wanted to offer more than just black-eyed peas and cornbread. She resolutely commenced dinner preparations.

  As the men approached the pigsty, Henry Lee turned to Harjo. "So, how much whiskey are you looking to buy?"

  The leader looked at him with an amused question in his eyes. "Maybe I'm not here to buy whiskey. Maybe, I've come to look at your hogs, Whiskey Man."

  Henry Lee felt a flush stealing up his cheeks. One problem he had never suffered was shyness, but it was embarrassing to be caught in such a fouled-up concern.

  "I recently got married," Henry Lee stated, not quite able to look Harjo in the eye. "My wife is a very religious woman, a preacher's daughter." Henry Lee began to rush his words as if saying them more quickly would make them easier. "She doesn't know that I make whiskey, and probably wouldn't approve if she did."

  Harjo stared at Henry Lee as if he expected him to say more.

  “I would appreciate," Henry Lee said, "if you wouldn't say anything about whiskey around her. And please, don't call me Whiskey Man. I'm going to tell her myself, I just haven't got around to it yet."

  Harjo continued to remain totally still and to stare at Henry Lee for nearly a full minute, then he suddenly howled with laughter. Turning to the other two men he quickly translated Henry Lee's words into the Muscogee tongue and all three began laughing uproariously. Their laughter was contagious enough to bring a smile to Henry Lee's face, though he no longer found his situation particularly amusing.

  As Harjo took a short breathy break in his laughter he said to Henry Lee, "Whiskey Man, you have what all men want, a woman who believes the lies that you tell her."

  That brought fresh laughter to the group and even Henry Lee joined in half-heartedly, but he was bothered by the implication. He had lied to Hannah. She had lied to him also, but for good purpose, his conscience argued, to give a child a name. He had lied out of spite.

  Henry Lee gathered up the jugs of whiskey for the three and together they walked upstream about a quarter of a mile and hid the jugs in the bushes. The Creeks continued to laugh at Henry Lee's painstaking attempts at subterfuge.

  They headed back to the house and Harjo turned serious as he spoke of the news from the Indian Ter
ritory. Now that it was flourishing, Tribal politicians were talking about entering the union as the forty-sixth state.

  "It's to be an Indian state," Harjo told him, "a land for us controlled by us."

  "It sounds too good," Henry Lee warned him. "Do you think it can really happen?"

  Harjo shrugged. "First they have to write a constitution, then the people in the territory have to vote. After all have agreed, only the President of the United States can stop it."

  "Would he be on our side?"

  "Who knows?" he questioned abstractly. "But change is already in the wind. The big men are trying to put on a very civilized appearance for the lawmakers in Washington."

  Henry Lee nodded. Corralling crime and corruption until after the declaration of statehood had been passed would be very important to the territorial leaders.

  "So many people still think of us as the "wild Indians," Harjo complained. "It's almost impossible to make the folks back East understand that in the territory, the natives are better educated and more financially independent than their white neighbors."

  Henry Lee nodded understanding. "And the outlaw problem hasn't helped us," he said. "Washington believes the Nations have a tolerant attitude toward crime, just because every thief and murderer from the surrounding states chooses to hide out here."

  "That's right," Harjo agreed. "Winning over the Congress would mean cracking down on crime. And that means the Federal marshals."

  Rolling his eyes, Henry Lee said in disgust, "The Federal marshals, out of Fort Smith, act like the people of this territory are either naughty children or dangerous madmen."

  Harjo was not totally in agreement. "You have to admit," he told Henry Lee, "that when Hanging Judge Parker ran the court, the tradition of swift and severe punishment for lawbreakers kept the criminal element either in hiding or on the run. The marshals have done a lot of good, ridding the territory of the worst of those mongrels. Chasing down and rooting out the gunslingers and outlaw gangs has brought us a long way toward catching up with the rest of the country and preparing the Nations for the new century."

  "Now, Harjo," Henry Lee said shaking his head. "You make it sound like the marshals are a bunch of starry-eyed heroes. Most I've met are just regular family men, who needed to make a living. And getting shot at by professional gunfighters and train robbers for lousy pay is not what most of them want to do. They'd rather earn their money arresting counterfeiters, con men, horse thieves, and poor hardworking whiskey peddlers, like myself."

  The last was spoken with a laugh and Harjo slapped his friend on the back. "That's another problem," Harjo declared. "The law concerning selling intoxicating beverages to persons of tribes is unjust and should be changed."

  "It's not going to happen," Henry Lee told him. "Those lawmakers in Washington are convinced that alcohol makes Indians prone to riot, assault, and murder. And the more they try to tell us we aren't allowed to drink, the more young boys are going to decide that drinking illegal whiskey is the way to prove their manhood."

  Harjo nodded in agreement. "The young men think that spending time in jail is a symbol of courage, just like bringing down their first deer."

  "It's a shame," Henry Lee admitted, then added sarcastically, "but, as far as my business is concerned, I couldn't have asked for a better law. As long as whiskey is illegal for the red man, I will be making a dang good living."

  The two men could only chuckle at the absurdity.

  "The marshals are raiding the whiskey once again," Harjo told him. "Last week they pulled in Pally Archambo." He said, shaking his head sadly, "Broke Pally's still to pieces. Now he waits and rots in Fort Smith jail. They say he may do ten years at hard labor."

  Henry Lee nodded solemnly. He had always been aware of the risks of his business. It kept the price of whiskey high and the competition manageable. He had never worried much about it before. He knew if he were caught he would do his time and start over when he got out. Now, he suddenly realized he had new responsibilities to concern him. What would happen to Hannah if he went to jail? And the child she carried, how would she manage to provide for the child alone?

  Harjo turned a stern look to Henry Lee. "Be very careful, Whiskey Man. I don't want that to happen to you."

  His concerned visage was suddenly replaced by a smile. "You make the best whiskey in the territory, you do us no good in jail!"

  The two laughed and Henry Lee forced his darker thoughts to the back of his mind. "Do you think statehood will be a good thing for us?"

  The Indian considered for a few minutes.

  "Maybe," he answered finally. "Washington is always chipping away at our rights. Every time that Congress seems to notice the T.T. they try again to break down the working, prosperous Indian nations."

  The two men stood still as Harjo allowed his gaze to wander across the horizon, as if memorizing the land in case it disappeared.

  "Dissolving the nations of the Five Civilized Tribes, dividing the land into pieces for each member, has turned brother against brother and fathers against sons. Those who see down the long road know that breaking it up into allotments that can be bought by white speculators is like a cancer eating away at the body of the nations."

  "That's true," Henry Lee admitted. "Think of when they paid the Cherokees for their western holdings, giving little bundles of cash to everyone right in the middle of town at high noon. Fast-talking white men swarmed like wasps after a rainstorm. A whole lot of Cherokees went home that night with no more than they had that morning."

  Harjo shook his head sadly. "I don't know what we will become. My children grow up in a world that has nothing of their grandfathers. They cannot learn the old ways, because they must live in the world of the whites. I understand this," he told Henry Lee, "but I cannot like it."

  Harjo shook his head, as if shaking off the gloomy thoughts, and cracked a smile at Henry Lee. "So, my friend, I drink to forget," he said mischievously. "And that is good news for my friend the whiskey man."

  By the time they reached the cabin, the two men had exhausted the subject of territorial politics. Harjo and his companions were anxious to get on their way, pick up their whiskey and begin what they hoped to be an exciting period of drunkenness. As they approached the split rail fence where their horses were tied, Hannah came out of the house and walked down to them. Her hair was more tidy, and she'd put on a clean apron. Her smile was so warm and friendly that the men were slightly taken aback.

  "I've got your meal ready to serve," she announced. "But it’s so hot in the kitchen. I've spent the whole morning canning," she told them, gesturing to her appearance as if she needed to make some sort of apology. "If you would like, we could move the table out under the tree here and I could serve you outside."

  She looked at her husband for approval.

  Henry Lee was so surprised at the idea that she would serve a meal to his customers, that at first he only stared at her. Recovering himself, he assured her that an outdoor luncheon would be perfect and enlisted the help of Harjo's two companions in moving the table.

  The meal Hannah set before the men was a virtual banquet. The men, who had been anxious to get on with their planned amusement, had grumbled among themselves about having to eat a meal they didn't want, just to keep the whiskey man's wife from finding out his business. However, when they sat down to a feast of territorial delicacies, they quickly changed their minds.

  They ate eagerly and even accepted second helpings as Hannah endeavored to be charming and gracious to Henry Lee's friends.

  She wondered what they thought of her. How had Henry Lee explained his sudden marriage? She hoped that he had not told them about the trick she had played. Immediately after having that thought she discarded it. Henry Lee was a man with honor. He would never embarrass his wife in such a way. She was certain that no matter what he had told them, it would not have been anything unkind.

  Henry Lee was inexplicably pleased with the meal she had prepared. She always fed him well, of course, b
ut this was their first company dinner. He knew it was no small task to kill, clean, dress, and fry three chickens in such a short time. It was important, among farming people, for a man's wife to set a good table. It meant that the man was a good provider and enhanced his reputation. Henry Lee instinctively realized that somehow Hannah was paying him a very high compliment and he wanted to return the favor.

  "My wife is a pretty fine cook, wouldn't you say?" he prompted Harjo.

  The man smiled broadly and wiped his hands on his napkin. "Wish you could teach my wife to cook like this."

  Hannah blushed with pleasure at the compliment and Henry Lee beamed with pride in his new wife.

  "Mr. Harjo," she asked him politely, "do you and your wife have children?"

  "Yes, ma'am, we've four."

  "Girls or boys?"

  "Three boys and a girl."

  "Oh, I know she must be special to you," Hannah continued. In her nervousness, Hannah found it difficult to meet the gaze of Henry Lee's friends. Even as she talked to them, she kept her eyes either on her plate or on Henry Lee. She would look quickly in the direction of the guests, but her glance didn't linger there, afraid of what she might see. She was afraid that they might wonder at Henry Lee's choice of bride.

  In fact, her shyness was working in her favor. The Creek men and women normally did not look each other in the eye unless they were married. The straightforward gaze of white women was usually disconcerting. This white woman married to the whiskey man, however, seemed modest and unassuming and she certainly set a good table. While Hannah might have thought Henry Lee's friends were surprised at his choice of wife, Harjo was actually thinking that it was obviously a love match. The two seemed well suited to each other, and the way the eyes of each seemed to be drawn time and time again to the other, no other explanation was necessary.