Heaven Sent (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  Taking his pocket knife out and carefully cutting it with about a foot of stem, he decided to carry it home to his pretty wife. It wasn't a bouquet of roses, but theirs was not an ordinary love.

  As he walked to the house, he spotted her. Standing near the back door, she was gazing off into the sunset; her work dress was dusty and several of those precious honey-colored curls had escaped the confines of her neatly twisted plait. She was beautiful, Henry Lee thought. A strong, beautiful woman, so full of heart and love. He truly did not deserve her. He was very glad that men don't always get what they deserve.

  Hannah looked up to see Henry Lee coming toward her and a buzz of excitement fluttered through her. In his hand he carried a sunflower and she knew that he had picked it for her.

  He handed it to her and she held it in her hands as if it were precious and fragile.

  "Oh Henry Lee, this is beautiful. Thank you so much. You are so sweet to me."

  "I wish it were something better, Hannah. You deserve something better than a sunflower and a mixed-breed whiskey peddler."

  She brushed the bright yellow petals tenderly against her lips. "No, Henry Lee," she protested. "I've been a very good girl for so very long. I deserve to have exactly what I want."

  Laying her hands on his shoulders she raised herself on tiptoes and angling her head slightly kissed him with all the expertise she had learned from her whiskey man.

  "Oh Hannah," he whispered moments later. "That's what I want, too."

  Henry Lee slipped his arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms, whirling around in a circle. Her skirt flew in the breeze, giving her a strange surge of wanton freedom and him a tantalizing glimpse of black cotton stockings.

  "Henry Lee, it's still daylight!" she objected half-heartedly as he leaped up the back steps with her laughing and squealing in his arms.

  In answer he tossed her lightly in the air and then clasped her to him tightly.

  "Don't expect me to wait until tonight, Mrs. Watson. Your husband has waited all that he's going to!"

  He whisked her on into the bedroom, whirling her around twice more for good measure, and then leaped onto the bed. He landed on his back with Hannah astraddle him, both laughing like wayward children playing hookey from school.

  As he gently rolled to the side, they faced each other; their bodies close, touching and trembling, they became more serious. Spending a moment just looking at each other, they realized that they were both anxious, both excited, both a little scared.

  "Sometimes it hurts the first time, Hannah," he told her solemnly. "I'll try not to hurt you, but I can't promise."

  "I'm not afraid, Henry Lee. I belong to you, it was meant to be this way."

  He smiled lovingly at her. He'd never felt about a woman like this, and he wanted to make it so good for her.

  "Take down your hair for me."

  Hannah sat up in the bed and quickly undid the braided coil. She handed him the pins and he merely tossed them on the floor, not willing to look away long enough to set them on the table. Hannah giggled at that and then loosened her braid until her hair was a mass of wild curls around her head.

  Henry Lee pulled her toward him and ran his hand lovingly through that mass of hair. Rubbing it against his cheek and offering it a kiss, he wrapped it around his fist like a rope and pulled her to him. Their lips met, gently at first and then with more passion as they both reacted to the fire that blazed between them.

  Henry Lee had to remind himself to go slow as his hands explored her, cherished her. Tenderly he stroked her from her throat to her knees, then back again. He eased open the buttons of her bodice, untied the neckline of her chemise and bared her bosom to his eyes. Whispering words of praise and devotion he lowered his mouth to her firm, white breast. He sucked gently, then with more pressure as his tongue teasingly flicked the turgid nipple. He gave equal attention to the second breast, until both were full, hot, and wet.

  Hannah, gasping for breath, couldn't seem to hold herself still and her reaction delighted Henry Lee. He ran a loving caress down her hip and leg to where her skirts bunched up at her knees. Running his hand underneath her dress he slowly explored the inside of her thigh, bringing the skirts up with him. When he reached the apex of her thighs he covered her womanhood and she immediately raised her hips from the bed, pressing against his hand. He returned the pressure, reveling in the heat and dampness he found there.

  He brought his lips back to hers with fiery little kisses and cooing words, promising release and bliss. He struggled momentarily with the tie ribbon on her drawers, but it gave way and he pulled them down off her legs and threw them from her.

  He sat back on his knees, surveying the abundance before him. Her bodice was spread open and her chemise down as if to frame the work of art that was her generous bosom. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist like a curtain at the theater and the show they displayed, the gentle curve of her belly, the riot of honey-colored curls covering her secrets, the long sturdy thighs, naked until just above the knees where plain white garters held her stockings in place, delighted him.

  Her thighs trembled under his regard. His glance went to her face to see she was looking at him, awaiting his decision.

  "You are beautiful, Hannah. More so than I ever realized." He laid his hand gently upon her belly. "I want to touch you, I love to touch you."

  Hannah sat up in bed taking him in her arms. "I want to touch you, too!" With that she eased the suspenders off his shoulders. With a smile of tender delight, he helped her. He pulled the shirt out of his pants, and without bothering to unbutton it, pulled it off over his head and cast it away.

  Hannah pulled him to her and cried out in rapture as she felt his naked flesh against her own. Henry Lee grasped her naked bottom in his hands and they rolled on the bed, teasing and kissing, stroking and learning the feel of the other. Henry Lee's trousers became not only uncomfortable but an impediment and he quickly loosed himself from them.

  Hannah didn't yet have the courage to look, but she felt him hot and hard and massive against her. Their kisses became hotter and Henry Lee's hands seemed to be everywhere at once. Coaxing, teasing, finding the places that could pop Hannah's eyes open and quicken her breathing.

  He lovingly stroked her hillock of curls and gently parted her, easing his finger a little inside. She jerked responsively at the contact and he knew she was ready.

  To hold himself off, he thought only of her. Her laughing, her dancing, her grinding corn at the mill, singing hymns in his kitchen. He brought himself into position and kissed her repeatedly on the lips, the throat, the eyes. He whispered lovingly in her ear.

  "I love you, Hannah. I'll try not to hurt you, but you're very tight. Trust me, Hannah."

  He entered her then slowly, she was hot and eager, but her maidenhead was strong. When he tried to breach it, she cried out.

  "Easy, Hannah, easy." He gentled her with sweet kisses, trying desperately to maintain control when her hot, tight cavern offered such relief.

  "It doesn't fit!" she cried pitifully.

  Henry Lee couldn't keep the smile from his face and the humor helped rein in his desire.

  "Don't worry, Hannah, we're going to make it fit."

  And he did, slowly stroking, coaxing, kissing, easing his way past her barrier until the pain was swallowed in a maelstrom of desire.

  Hannah lay beneath him crying and pleading for what she didn't yet know. She opened her eyes and saw him above her, the power, the intensity, the glaze of passion in his eyes. Then she could hardly see at all as a red haze clouded her vision and she fell into an abyss of sensual pleasure, screaming his name.

  They lay in each other's arms, still touching, still stroking, not willing to stop even as they waited for their breathing to return to normal.

  "I'm sorry I hurt you." His voice was husky and his breathing labored.

  "Oh, Henry Lee, it was worth it."

  He smiled and planted a kiss on the end of her nose.


  "Is it always like this?" she asked him.

  "Hannah, it has never been like this for me. Nothing I have ever done, no woman I have ever known, has even come close to the feelings I've had with you today."

  She smiled a pleased but weary smile and they held each other close.

  The sun was well up in the sky the next morning as the weary but sated couple woke to the distinct sounds of a wagon coming up the road.

  "Somebody's coming," Hannah screeched, leaping out of bed, grabbing her dress and looking for her drawers.

  Henry Lee only rolled over on his back and looked up at her. They had spent the entire evening and most of the night discovering each other and the meaning of conjugal bliss. Lack of sleep shadowed his eyes and every muscle in his body ached, but he had never felt better in his life.

  "Get out of there and get dressed, Henry Lee! What will folks think if they come here in the middle of the day to find us still in bed."

  "They'll think we are newly wed," he teased, "and they will be exactly right." But with her anxious prodding he slowly rolled himself off of their comfortable nest and began the search for his own discarded clothing.

  "Hurry, they are almost here!" she told him, trying unsuccessfully to tie her drawers and braid her hair at the same time.

  "Don't panic, darlin'. You can take your time getting dressed and I'll go out and keep them busy for a few minutes. It's just Zanola and Jones and they won't be speculating on anything or spreading any, absolutely true, gossip about us."

  "How do you know it's them?"

  "Because I told them to come over this morning, that I'd have the still ready and they could pick it up."

  "The still?"

  "Yep, Zanola's always admired the whiskey from my still, so I decided to sell it to her. I've promised to give her a few whiskey-making lessons and then she's on her own."

  "You've sold your still?"

  "That's right, Hannah." His smile was self-effacing, but he continued in mock solemnity. "It was a business decision. Not everybody drinks whiskey, but everybody sits at a table. For better or worse, the whiskey man is now in the furniture business."

  "Oh Henry Lee, did you do this for me?"

  "No. I did it for our marriage, and our children, and for myself. I want to know if I'm good enough to win even when I play by the rules."

  Hannah went into his arms and laid her head lovingly against his chest.

  "This business is not a sure thing, like whiskey," he whispered gently over the top of her head. "Morelli and I are in a partnership with some land, just south of Tulsa. There's some good wood there we can use. It'll save us from having to buy from somebody else. I've got enough money put by to give us a good start, but I can't promise that you'll be dressing in silks."

  "I'd be looking mighty foolish hoeing my garden in silks!" she said humorously.

  "It won't be nearly as exciting either. I doubt seriously if we'll have even one visit from the Federal marshals."

  "Well, we will just have to find our houseguests elsewhere!"

  They laughed together for a minute, then Henry Lee held her at arm's length to look her directly in the eye. There was no humor in his look. He wanted her to understand the gamble they would be taking and that, success or failure, she would be a part of it.

  "There is always a risk in any business, I want you to realize that. But if we work hard and pull together in this, we have a good chance of making a go of it."

  "I know you can do it, Henry Lee. I said I'd be beside you for better or worse, and I think the worst is already behind us!" She embraced him lovingly, then he raised her chin with a teasing smile.

  "There is one thing I need to do, before we start off on this new business venture."

  "What's that?"

  "I need to build myself a wellhouse. If my wife takes it into her head to venture out at night, I want to make sure she never finds anybody but me."

  Garters Preview

  Winter was still enough of a memory to whip a distinct chill into the morning breeze, and the smoky-gray haze had not been burned off by the sun. Yet on this inhospitable morning Esme Crabb made her way down the mountain, her threadbare coat pulled tightly about her. Her thoughts, however, were not on the weather.

  In the valley below her, through the dark barren trees of winter, she spied her destination, Vader. The tiny little crossroads on the Nolichucky River was the nearest thing to a town that Esme had ever known. Four houses, a church, a livery stable, and the tiny "graded school" that Esme had attended only a half-dozen times were in sight, as was the building that was her destination.

  A false front made it appear two stories high, but from Esme's perspective it was clearly only one floor, built long and narrow. Though she was still too far away to see it, she knew the sign emblazoned on the front read: "M. Cleavis Rhy, Jr. General Merchandise."

  When she reached the foot of the mountain, Esme made a quick stop to right herself. Hiking up her skirt, she pulled at the much-mended black wool stockings that now clung precariously at her knee. After first carefully smoothing the material up her thigh, she rolled it down about two inches. Grabbing one edge of the roll, she twisted it until the material tightened, painfully digging into her flesh. The near-knotted twist was carefully tucked underneath the roll. It was a makeshift solution, not as good as garters, but such trifling matters didn't concern Esme.

  Stockings straight and skirt brushed, Esme raised her chin, proud. She was wearing her Sunday best and bravely assured herself that if she did as good as she looked, she'd do all right. With a determined stride she headed for the store.

  Her sisters had really gotten her into this, she supposed. The twins were now seventeen and, to Esme's thinking, the prettiest girls in the county. Most considered them to be identical—even Pa couldn't tell them apart—but Esme found that difficult to understand. To her they were as different and distinct as any two persons, and they sure to graces had the same shortcomings!

  Presently, both of them were calf-eyed and mooning over Armon Hightower, and a more worthless piece of Tennessee manhood never existed, except maybe for Esme's own pa.

  Ma had been just like the twins, all starry-eyed over a handsome face and broad shoulders. Well, Ma had won her handsome face and broad shoulders, and then she'd worked herself to death for them. Esme was determined that her sisters wouldn't meet the same fate. That's why she was here.

  "Momin', Mr. Tyree, Mr. Denny," Esme said as she stepped onto the porch of the store. The two men sat on the long bench in front of the store swapping stories and spitting tobacco.

  "Who are ya?" Tyree asked, squinting at her as his jaw continued to work its tasty wad.

  "Esme Crabb," she answered simply.

  "What she say?"

  "She said, 'Esme Crabb,'" Denny hollered to Tyree. "You know, she's one of Yo's daughters."

  "She one of the pretty ones?" Tyree asked, squinting again.

  "Nay," was the definitive reply.

  Esme felt herself flushing as she stepped through the door. Being compared unfavorably to her sisters was as common as slugs in springtime, but this morning she needed a bit more of what God had granted the twins so liberally.

  The tiny bell over the door tinkled loudly in the quiet of the store when she stepped inside. He was standing behind the north counter, papers and ledgers strewn before him. He raised his head and glanced politely at her.

  "Good morning, miss. Have yourself a look around. Let me know if you see anything you like."

  His attention immediately went back to his papers, and Esme began to wander as casually as possible around the store. Two long narrow counters ran the length of both sides. On the walls behind them were shelves of tobacco jars, kitchen wares, and canned goods. Near the front there were cupboards full of cloth and ready-mades and drawers with notions and hair tonic, suspenders and fishhooks. Above her, dangling from rafter hooks, were harnesses and baskets, washtubs and chamber pots. In the far corner was a latticework of cubbyholes and a counter
with different plates of ink and rows of carved wooden stamps that represented the official U.S. Post Office of Vader, Tennessee.

  Usually Esme considered a trip to the store an adventure, but today Esme's mission precluded any careless frivolity.

  She looked back toward the man behind the counter. He was tall and lean looking. It was obvious that he didn't spend his life pushing a plow and looking at the back end of a mule. His shoulders were, however, nicely squared in his crisp white shirt and bisected neatly by gray suspenders. His long arms, now resting elbows against the counter, were not heavily muscled, but were thick enough, Esme thought, for him to defend himself in a row. His hair was dark, but not black. A rich brown color, it was parted in the middle with distinctly pomaded curls facing each other across his forehead. As she moved closer, she saw that his pencil was held by long graceful fingers crowned by the cleanest fingernails she'd ever seen.

  "There!" she heard him whisper under his breath as he marked one of the numbers in the long column of figures he was working on. As he made his correction, he smiled, and the sight of his warm smile made something inside Esme go real still.

  "Cleavis Rhy! Are you crazy?" She could still hear her sisters laughing at the suggestion.

  The discussion last night had begun, as had all discussions for the last several weeks, with the name Armon Hightower.

  "The man is strictly up to no good," Esme told the twins sternly. "He's not at all the kind of man I want for either of you."

  "Armon Hightower is the finest-looking man in these mountains," Adelaide protested.

  "Every dang girl in this part of Tennessee is after him. Why shouldn't we be?" asked Agrippa.

  Esme put her hands on her hips and sighed loudly. "Because after all these years of living with Pa, you ought to know that sweet talk and a comely visage don't put beans on the table."

  The two quieted at that. Food was always in short supply this late in the winter, and hunger was not to be taken lightly. Since Esme was the undisputed breadwinner of the family, as well as the brains, what she had to say on any subject, especially about eating regularly, always bore listening to.