by Pamela Morsi
Heaven Sent
Pamela Morsi
Kiel Publishing
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Also by Pamela Morsi
About the Author
For my husband who cooked all the meals, my son who washed all the dishes, and my daughter who reminded all her dolls to "be quiet, Mama's writing her book."
Prologue
The first gray light of dawn illuminated the white clapboard house that sat like an island in a sea of corn near the border of the Indian Territory. The Reverend Farnam Bunch stepped out his back door, bucket in hand, and headed down to the wellhouse.
He was a simple man who loved the country. He drank in the smell of the early morning air, anticipating the prospect of a fresh day. He had come to the Oklahoma Territory from Kansas five years earlier, seeking a new challenge and a new church. He wanted his family to be a part of the territory, where they could grow and the future was bright.
Today the future seemed to be just dazzling out on the horizon as he whistled the catchy melody to "There shall be showers of blessings."
As he opened the door to the wellhouse, his whistling stopped. He stood frozen, contemplating the shocking sight. On the floor of the wellhouse, a young couple lay wrapped in each other's arms. He knew them both, and yet surely he was mistaken. He threw open the door wide, hoping that the meager morning sunlight would show his error. It could not be true. Even as his mind denied it, rage boiled up in him like a volcano and came spewing out in a torrent of angry words.
"You trifling, no-account scoundrel! By God, I'm going to send you to hell!" he thundered. The preacher had never been a man to curse. He struggled, his hands shaking at his side, with the vile language that rushed to his lips. The situation didn't call for civilized discussion.
In red-eyed fury he yelled back to the house, "Violet! Bring me my gun!"
Inside the wellhouse, Hannah Bunch woke from her warm, pleasant dream, startled to hear the sound of her father's angry voice. Disoriented at first, she quickly realized that everything was going as expected. This was a crucial part of her plan, a difficult part, but one that was essential. Her father would be understandably angry, she had known that from the beginning. But it was her father who had taught her that nothing worth having was achieved without sacrifice. A few embarrassing moments could hardly be counted against a lifetime of contentment.
People came running from every direction. The whole community had camped at the Bunch farm the previous night for the church raising and all of them had heard their preacher's angry cry.
Hannah had never seen her father in such a rage. His face was a vivid red and his teeth were bared like an animal's as he spat thunderous blasphemies into the doorway of the wellhouse. She knew that more than one couple from the community had anticipated their wedding night, and rather than condemning them her father had always been understanding and forgiving. She had counted on that spirit of forgiveness, but there was no mercy in him right now. He was furious and he seemed to Hannah to be talking crazily, directing his anger to the man who stood silently behind her.
"People told me not to trust you, that you're a heathen with no morals, a son of a drunken squawman. But I said a man must be judged on his own merits! The more fool me! I invite you into my home, feed you at my table, and this is how you repay me, by ruining my daughter!"
The preacher's deep booming voice was raised to a pitch that surely made it audible halfway to Guthrie. "Violet! Where is my gun?"
Hannah was frightened. Her brothers drew close at the door behind her father, their angry words more hateful and vile than her father's. They would not hesitate to come to blows on Hannah's behalf. She had to calm the situation, and quickly. She'd expected it to be difficult, but she hadn't thought her father and brothers would be beyond reason. And she was shocked at the things they had to say about Will. They had always seemed to like him. She couldn't bear such hard feelings among the family. She could feel his presence behind her and she wished he would say something. Clearly, she must make an explanation and she must make everyone watching believe it.
"Papa, please don't be angry," she pleaded, leaving the door of the wellhouse and walking toward her father with her arms outstretched, entreating him. "I love him, Papa, and I think that he loves me," she lied.
Her father's look, if possible, became even more murderous. Her brother Leroy snorted an obscenity in protest. She grabbed her father's clenched fists and brought them up to her face in supplication. "He's a good man, Papa. You know that as well as I."
The crowd of people stood watching in shock as Violet, who had heard the commotion and her husband's call for a weapon, came running with his old squirrel gun, as though she'd thought some rabid animal had got shut up in the wellhouse. Seeing her stepdaughter, clad only in her thin cotton nightgown, she stood stunned in disbelief, but retained the good sense not to give her husband the weapon.
"Papa, we want to be married," Hannah pleaded, praying silently that Will would not dispute her statement. "Please, we want your blessing."
Her brothers exchanged looks of furious disbelief and righteous indignation. "You're a dead man!" Rafe, the youngest, threatened.
Hannah was tempted to go over and box his ears.
"Give me that gun!" Ned ordered Violet, but she gripped it tighter.
Hannah's patience with the whole group was wearing thin. It wasn't as if she were a green girl, she was a grown woman of twenty-six and was thoroughly entitled to make her own mistakes.
"I love him, don't you understand?" she lied. "I want to be with him."
"That low-down snake doesn't deserve the likes of you, Miss Hannah!" a voice just to the right of her father shouted in anger. "What's got into you messing with a decent farmer's daughter?" he yelled at the man behind her.
The voice captured Hannah's immediate attention. She turned toward it, shocked. Will Sample, the man she planned to marry, was standing in a group of men staring angrily at the wellhouse.
With a feeling of unreality, Hannah turned toward the object of their anger. In the doorway of the small building, with his hands upraised like a captured bank robber was Henry Lee Watson, a man Hannah barely knew.
Chapter One
Practical problems have practical solutions. Hannah May Bunch had always believed that. Perhaps that was why, with only the merest twinge of guilt, she had set herself upon the plan. As a solution, it would have been good for all parties concerned. It had seemed perfectly reasonable, and except for some of its slightly underhanded aspects, it was essentially biblical.
Or it had seemed so yesterday.
She had begun the previous morning at first light, leaving her bed and her still-sleeping younger sister to start the morning fire. It was no longer her job, but years of habit forced her to be the first to rise. In the kitchen she opened the grate on the stove and stirred the ashes.
This is the day, she thought. The day that will change my life.
She'd finally decided that her situation was not going to get any better. She needed to take action. Action t
o get what she wanted, or more specifically who she wanted. Moving to the water pitcher, she lifted it and poured half into the bowl and began washing. Hearing movement behind her, she glanced back, offering her father a pleasant “good morning," which he answered with a yawning "hello" as he headed for the wellhouse. Water drawn the night before was fine for washing, but Papa insisted that his morning coffee be made with freshly drawn water.
A well close to the house was the nearest thing to a luxury that one could find on the prairie. Most farmers either lived next to the small creeks and streams of the territory, or built the difficult and undependable cisterns to collect rainwater. Finding water right next to the homestead was such a stroke of good luck that it could only be considered a gift from heaven. Hannah's father was very proud of his well. So proud in fact, that he built a house for cooling and washing right around it. Wellhouses were common in Kansas, but here in the territory they were rare.
Checking first to see that the fire was going to catch, Hannah returned to her bedroom to dress and awaken her younger sister.
"Myrtie, you better get up," she ordered the rounded pile of bed linens. "The sun will be up any minute and there is a world of things to do this morning."
Myrtie snuggled deeper into the covers and made an unintelligible answer.
Hannah pulled her blue gingham from the hook in the wardrobe. It was her most attractive work dress. She reasoned that looking her best today could be important. For her plan to work, the entire community might need to believe that she was capable of attracting the opposite sex.
"Come on, Myrtie, everybody in the country will be here in an hour. You don't want them to catch you with your hair a mess."
Myrtie sighed loudly and moved to rise. Hannah knew that prodding her sister's vanity was the one sure motivator. Myrtie was about the prettiest girl in the territory, everybody said so. Even if she was just sixteen, there was not a doubt in anybody's mind that she was something to see. Unlike many sisters who, being older and less attractive, might have struggled with sibling jealousies, Hannah was proud. Maybe it was because she felt more like a parent than a sister.
At fifteen, Hannah had taken over the job of raising two-year-old Myrtie and her three brothers, even before her mother had died. The vicious, painful cancer that had slowly choked the life out of her mother had caused young Hannah to put away her childish things forever.
Hannah had no regrets. Her brothers were all married now. They had their own places and a start in the world. She was an aunt twice over already. And seeing young Myrtie—pretty, sweet, all primed to run a house, the most sought-after girl in the territory—was evidence of a job well done. But the job was over now, and it was time she made a life of her own.
She examined her reflection in the small glass that had belonged to her mother. The gingham dress did nothing to disguise the broad shoulders and sturdy appearance that Hannah had inherited from her father. It was a simple and rather severe style and was not exactly blue anymore. Lack of bluing on the prairie generally, and in the territory particularly, meant that most everything faded to a dull gray that seemed to be almost a part of the landscape. Hannah had often prided herself on being a practical, hardworking woman. This day, however, with the task she had set for herself, she wished she had just a fraction of the dainty, dimpled appearance of young Myrtie.
In fact, Hannah was pleasant enough to look at. She was tall and strong, the way a farm girl should be. Her features were comely, and her figure was definitely female. Her hair, which she considered her best feature, was an in-between color, not quite brown, but not quite blonde. It was a riot of thick natural curls that she kept tightly braided and wrapped at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds over a lake, but with none of the foreboding.
Now they settled on her sister, who had yet to move from her comfortable cocoon. "Come on, Myrtie, all those sweet-looking boys are going to be disappointed if you're not down there to greet them."
Throwing back the covers, Myrtie sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes still closed, trying for that last minute of a long night's rest. As her sister finally began her morning ritual, Hannah hurried out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
Her stepmother, Violet, was seated at the table rolling out biscuits, the water already steaming on the stove.
The two women greeted each other cordially. Hannah went to the coffee tin and measured a pot's worth into the grinder.
"Have you taken care of everything for the meal?" Hannah asked. "These men are going to be very hungry and you can't count on the other women to bring enough."
"Oh, there'll be plenty," Violet answered, with a smiling confidence that Hannah didn't possess. "I've never yet been to a community dinner where there wasn't twice as much food as needed."
Hannah started to suggest that was true because the women always planned ahead, but she managed to hold her tongue. "I suppose," Hannah suggested instead, "if things start to run out I could come in and fry up some of that ham. It won't be as good as the other, but if you're hungry you can eat anything."
Violet smiled at her stepdaughter. "I'm so excited about the new church, I could hardly sleep all night," she told her. "I just kept imagining all the angels in heaven cheering and singing for joy that a new house for the Lord would be going up in the territory."
Hannah could not imagine lying awake in the bed thinking about the doings of angels. It was one of the things that was so difficult for her to understand about her stepmother—her flights of fancy.
"We'd best get those biscuits in the oven," Hannah muttered dryly, "or do you think the angels might send us breakfast from heaven?"
Violet's laugh was tinkling, like a little bell. "They just might!" she replied, her eyes bright with mischief. "Do you think your father would prefer grits this morning or manna?"
The air was still cool as Hannah hurried out to do her chores, but there was no doubt that it was going to be a hot day. That would fit in perfectly with Hannah's plan. By now, she had convinced herself that she was doing the right thing. After all, the idea had come to her from the good book.
One evening during her father's daily scripture reading, when her mind wandered from his droning voice, she'd gotten the idea. At first, it seemed quite daring and sinful, but after examining it more closely, she had decided that it was, in fact, very sensible. Men married women for many reasons and most of those turned out to be terribly shortsighted. This was a very practical solution, not done up with hearts and flowers perhaps, but one that would offer a measure of happiness and security for both of them . . .
As she gathered the eggs, her father hailed her on his way back from the bam.
"Looks like a perfect day for building a church," he said, glancing toward the road as if he couldn't wait to begin. "Figure those boys will be heading in anytime now, you better hurry up and help Violet, she's not used to feeding a crowd."
"I will, Papa," Hannah assured him. Her father's choice in a second wife continued to be a mystery to Hannah. Violet was sweet and loving and very unlike the type of woman her father needed. Her faith was childlike and her experience at making a home almost nonexistent. Hannah found it hard to understand how her straightforward sensible father could find happiness with a woman who seemed more Myrtie's contemporary than his own.
"I'll take care of things, Papa," she said. "But it's best if it looks like it's Violet's spread." Hannah was well aware that a woman's place in the community was judged by the way she set a table. It was true that most of the congregation seemed to accept Violet's peculiarities, but Hannah didn't think it would do any good for the women to think that it was Hannah who continued to keep her father's house.
Hannah glanced up at the rise on the east side of the house. A foundation of sandstone, quarried from the local hills, was surrounded by fresh timber, just waiting for the hands of carpenters.
"It's going to be a wonderful church, Papa."
"Yes, I think it will," he said, beaming at his oldest
daughter.
Reverend Farnam Bunch had waited five long years to have a church of his own. He might have waited even longer if his new wife, Violet, hadn't encouraged him. The grassy prairie that had appealed to farmers because it lacked the stumps and roots that they had had to remove in former homesteads, meant that lumber was hard to come by. It also meant that homes and barns and other necessary buildings had to be raised before using precious lumber for a meetinghouse. Now, finally, he had convinced the congregation that they were ready to build a church. With everybody helping out, two days would be plenty of time to see his dream become a reality. His eyes rested warmly on Hannah.
"I like it that you are so pleased about the church. You didn't seem to much like the idea when Violet came up with it."
"I explained all that, Papa," she sighed. "I just thought that if we built a bigger barn, which we really need, we could make do with the old barn as a church."
His frown admonished her as he spoke deliberately. "The house of the Lord shouldn't be in a barn, Hannah. Violet's right about that."
"Yes, I'm sure she is," she admitted and then lifted her chin in mild defiance. "But, we do need a bigger barn."
He laughed. "Don't forget what the Bible had to say about building bigger barns, you can get yourself in a peck of trouble there, sister."
"You're right, of course, Papa." Hannah shook her head at her father's attempt at humor.
"Anyway," he said wrapping his arm around her, "aren't you about ready for a nice, clean, little, white church, like the ones we left behind in Kansas? I thought all ladies liked nice, clean, little, white churches."
Hannah smiled. What would her father say if she told him she planned to be married in that nice little church tomorrow. He would be shocked. Hannah had never had a regular beau. It wasn't that she lacked interest in men. But she'd had a house to keep, a farm to work, and the children to raise. Gentlemen callers were a luxury for which she had no time. When she was prime age for men to be giving her a long look, she knew that her father and her brothers and sister needed her too much to leave them.
