Della_Bride of Texas Read online

  Floyd was a bear of a man whose first impression was always intimidating to others until they got to know him. He was actually a gentle, soft hearted man, but his 6-foot, 3-inch height, paired with his 275 pound weight and booming voice belied his gentleness and caring for others. Hank watched many men flinch when Floyd Hensley walked into the Starlight Lounge. He walked with a determined and focused gait and groups parted to let him walk through. But the women loved him. He was always generous with them and treated them all with respect.

  Floyd was a frequent visitor at the Starlight Lounge for years—whenever he was in town, that is. From the time Hank was a small boy, Floyd had always paid attention to him—whether it was tossing a coin or two his way as a tip, mussing his hair with his big hand, or simply acknowledging his existence in a roomful of people who looked right through him.

  There were rumors that Floyd was Hank's father, but nobody really knew for sure. It could have been anybody. He was the closest thing Hank had to one, though—and on the day he offered sixteen-year old Hank the chance to leave Kansas City and work for him in a new frontier town called Fort Worth, the boy whose mother saw him as nothing more than a thorn in her side suddenly became the young man who was worthy of respect and admiration. After all, Floyd Hensley chose to take a chance on him—something no one else had ever done.

  "Did you tell her goodbye?" Floyd asked when he stopped to pick Hank up the morning they left.

  "She don't care ‘bout me none," Hank said.

  "Son, you get in there and say goodbye like a man," Floyd said in a voice that Hank knew meant business. "Just because someone treated you poorly doesn't give you an excuse to do the same."

  Hank resolutely set his bag down beside Floyd’s wagon and turned to reenter the Starlight Lounge. The dimly lit room was quiet in the early hours, but the stale stench of tobacco and strong liquor loomed from the night before. Vera had just come down the stairs and was daubing her lips with red tint in the mirror.

  “I come to say goodbye,” Hank said in a small, timid voice, standing behind her. At sixteen, he now towered over her, but only in a physical sense.

  Vera continued applying her lip color as Hank waited for a reply. When she was finished, she turned away and went back upstairs as if she hadn't heard a thing. There were no tears. No display of emotion. No begging him to stay. He was sure she'd at least show some sign of affection, since it was the last time she'd ever see him. But he was wrong about her, and from that point on, he found it hard to trust his instincts about anyone.

  "Get it done?" Floyd said as Hank walked out of the Starlight Lounge, shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

  "Yeah," Hank said.

  "Yes sir," Floyd corrected. "If you're going to start your life over, and take my last name, then we're wiping the slate clean—from the way you talk to the way you make people respect you."

  "Yes sir," Hank replied, unable to put a finger on what he was feeling—a mix of rebellion at being told what to do and happiness that someone finally cared enough to set him straight and lay down some rules.

  The next two years of Hank’s life were the best he’d ever known. When they arrived in Fort Worth, Hank assumed Floyd would be opening a saloon down in Hell’s Half Acre, the area filled with gambling halls, saloons and houses of ill repute. It was the only place Hank had ever seen Floyd—in a saloon setting—and it was all he knew. But Floyd knew everything there was to know about construction—and that’s how he planned to make his mark on the fledgling town in north Texas.

  “This is where you reinvent yourself, kid,” Floyd said. “You’re my son as far as these people know, and we’re two of the most upstanding citizens this town has ever seen. But that means we have to act like it.”

  Hank loved the idea of being known as Floyd’s son. No one had ever claimed him as their own before. Everyone knew from gossip that Vera was his mother, but the way she ignored him, you wouldn’t be able to tell if you saw them in a room together.

  Floyd never told Hank how he made his money or where he was from originally, and Hank knew better than to ask. All that mattered was that he was generous with Hank and taught him what he needed to know about life. Floyd helped him learn to speak properly, dress appropriately, and use manners to impress the townsfolk. He hired a tutor to catch him up on studies and although Hank had already been working as bar help since he was about ten, Floyd put him to work in his construction business to help him sharpen his work ethics and learn about building things.

  By the time Hank was eighteen, he and Floyd were well established in the town. Floyd had opened several other businesses, and left Hank in charge of the Hensley & Son Construction Company. The two attended church every Sunday, helped their neighbors and contributed to the community. And most importantly—they stayed out of Hell’s Half Acre.

  “Hank, you’re doing real well for yourself now, son,” Floyd said one day as he walked into Hank’s office.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you,” Hank said, offering Floyd a seat.

  “I can’t stay,” Floyd answered. “I just came to say goodbye.” He held his hat in his hand, and Hank could tell he was struggling to look him in the eye.

  “What do you mean goodbye?” Hank asked. A familiar feeling of abandonment washed over Hank and he searched Floyd’s eyes for some type of answer.

  “I never said I’d be around for good,” Floyd said. “This was just temporary—until you got yourself settled in. I have commitments elsewhere I have to tend to. I’ve sold off the other businesses, and I’m leaving this one to you.”

  “Where are you going?” Hank asked, knowing better than to question a man like Floyd, but unable to let him leave without answers.

  “That’s not important,” Floyd said. “What is important is that you remember why we came here—and what you’re capable of becoming.”

  “I can come with you, you know,” Hank implored, his voice taking on the sound of a small boy begging for something and on the verge of tears. “We’re like family.” Hank was desperate to hang on to the only sliver of kinship he’d ever known.

  “Now son,” Floyd said, “you know that’s not how it’s going to be. Don’t make this harder than it already is.” With that, he put his hat on, and turned to walk out the door.

  It had been nine years since Hank laid eyes on Floyd Hensley. But for some reason, Hank was able to forgive him for abandoning him—because at least he’d given him a taste of what he craved most—attention. Not only that, but Floyd had given him a sense of belonging, both to a family and a community. Hank would never forget that. Vera had never given him a second thought, and Hank couldn’t shake the feeling of resentment that surged through his body whenever Pastor Littlejohn spoke of forgiveness and letting go. He may end up in hell because of his inability to forgive, but right now that was impossible.

  Pastor Littlejohn’s booming voice pulled Hank back to the present, and as the sermon came to a close, Hank took a deep breath and pigeon-holed the memories of Vera and Floyd away deep in his mind, where they would remain sealed until he was forced or chose to reexamine them.

  As he looked around the room, Hank noticed a few of the single ladies glancing at him from around the room, giggling. At twenty-seven, most of the eligible bachelors were walking down the aisle, but Hank hadn’t found anyone he was willing to take a chance on, even though plenty of women wanted to take a chance on him. Hank was considered quite a catch, if you could get him to settle down, of course.

  Beneath the Stetson hat he wore was a thick, but well-cut head of dark brown hair that matched the dashing and well-groomed Chevron mustache he took such pains with to make sure each hair was trimmed to perfection. When he took his hat off in church, he took on the look of a smart and successful businessman who knew exactly where he was going and how to get there.

  Hank’s hands weren’t rough and calloused like many of the men who worked in and around Fort Worth, and he dressed neatly in the typical Western clothing of the frontier. But anyo
ne who first saw Hank Hensley would never take him for anything less than a man worthy of respect and admiration.

  Hank now preferred spending his days working on one of his many businesses and his evenings over in Hell’s Half Acre—the very place Floyd told him not to go. But Floyd wasn’t here anymore and it didn’t take Hank long to revisit the type of place where he seemed more comfortable—where there were no expectations of him. It was a place where he could be in the company of an endless supply of whisky, countless card games in the gambling halls, and the women who were just like his mother—except now the women offered him all the attention he wanted. He refused to use the women for his personal pleasure, but he spent money on them and found he enjoyed getting attention from them, the way his mother used to dote on her visitors at the Starlight Lounge.

  This behavior was certainly frowned upon by Pastor Littlejohn and the rest of the congregation. But they turned a blind eye to it because Hank Hensley was now one of the wealthiest men in Fort Worth, Texas, and he spent more money growing the community and setting up charities than he did on his seedy little habit in the after hours.

  “One last note of importance,” Pastor Littlejohn shouted from the pulpit, trying to herd everyone’s attention before they exited the church house. “I would like to see Milton Tidwell in my office immediately after the service, please.”

  Hank watched as Milton Tidwell, his banker, filed into the small office. Hank figured it was news of the Massachusetts situation that Pastor Littlejohn had tried to rope him into. Hank had been approached with the idea of allowing a woman to come to the area as a prospective bride for him. For a few years, Pastor Littlejohn had been enjoying quite the success with his little matchmaking operation—bringing God-fearing women to town to settle down with the numerous bachelors. And it was working! Hannah had saved Samuel from self-destruction, Millie the midwife ended up with Hank’s best friend, Sheriff Lockhart, and Annabelle, the teacher, had married single father, Lee Collins, not too long ago, thanks to the good pastor. But Hank wasn’t about to roll the die with his future by being blindly matched with a woman he’d never met. He enjoyed his life too much to take that chance.

  That sort of thing might be acceptable for men like Tidwell. Milton Tidwell was the town banker and perfectly fit the stereotype—constantly pulling out his pocket watch from the long, gold chain attached to his vest and flipping the cover to check the time. His pointed features and pursed lips made him consistently appear as if he saw or smelled something bad and he donned a top hat rather than the cowboy fare that most Fort Worth men wore. Yes, Hank thought, Tidwell probably decided he needed a wife to complete the perfect picture.

  Tidwell’s black, oily and slicked back hair wasn’t exactly inviting to a woman’s touch and his stiff demeanor and dour personality made it difficult to get to know him. He wasn’t the type of man that women were clamoring to marry.

  Hank’s lifestyle wasn’t attractive to respectable women, either. He knew people gossiped behind his back—especially the women. They talked about his drinking and his frequenting of the saloons in Hell’s Half Acre. Even though they had no idea how he really lived his days and nights, they assumed he was a hellion in his private life. That didn’t keep the women from flirting, though.

  “Well, hel-l-l-o, Hank,” said Frieda Simmons as he walked out the door of the church. “Where have you been keeping yourself? You broke my heart when you weren’t at Sally’s party last weekend.”

  Hank tipped his hat and grinned. “Well, Miss Simmons,” he drawled. “I must have been left off the invitation list. I’m sure it was just an oversight by Sally’s mother, don’t you?”

  Frieda twirled her parasol as her mouth fell open at the bluntness of Hank’s answer. “Well…I…I’m sure I…”

  “It’s okay, Miss Simmons,” Hank smiled, enjoying her squirming. “I found other things to keep me busy.” Hank glanced in the direction of Hell’s Half Acre and returned his gaze to Frieda.

  “Well…I…,” Frieda continued, shocked even more by what he was insinuating.

  Hank laughed aloud as he saw Frieda’s mother heading their way—lips pursed and eyebrows knitted together in a frown—coming to pluck her daughter from the company of the lecherous Hank Hensley. “I see you’re about to be wanted elsewhere, ma’am. Good day,” he said, tipping his hat again and abruptly walking away just in time to avoid the formidable Mrs. Simmons.

  Milton Tidwell may be desperate, but Hank certainly wasn’t. He didn’t need someone to marry him. He hadn’t needed anyone in a long time and he was perfectly happy getting attention from those he knew best and who accepted him for exactly who he was.

  Chapter 3

  The last day of travel by train went by fast for Della Owens. She had befriended an older gentleman by the name of Carl Walton, who was passing through Fort Worth on his way farther out West.

  Carl was dressed neatly in the fashion of the day for men with a bowler hat and vest worn beneath a traveling coat. A gold pocket watch chain crossed his chest and the watch was neatly tucked into its pocket. Carl walked with a cane, but his frailty didn’t seem to slow his mind. He was as interesting a man as Della had ever met and she thought he must have been quite dapper and handsome during his younger years.

  He and Della spent the hours sharing their rations and chatting about his interesting life—and the one she was just beginning.

  “You have a mighty adventure ahead of you, young lady—one that I envy,” Carl said as he smoothed his short, trimmed beard—obviously deep in thought. “Everyone should be so lucky to arrive in a frontier town where they can decide their own destiny.”

  “I just don’t like surprises,” Della admitted. “It makes me nervous going through my days not knowing what to expect. Too many disappointments in the past for me to embrace change—and here I am going to a new town, with no kin, no money, and no idea how it will turn out.”

  “Ah,” Carl said. “The life you’ve just described is what most people crave—especially on their deathbeds. They wake up day after day knowing there’s nothing new to look forward to—nothing exciting to bring joy to their heart. Welcome this moment, dear Della. Don’t allow the decisions of those from your past determine how you view opportunities for your future. During the war I watched friends perish in battle or lose limbs and they’ll never have a chance to discover what their lives might have been.”

  As Della watched the East Texas pines roll by, she let the words of the wise old man sink in. She’d never looked at this trip like that before. In fact, she’d hardly attempted to see any positives in it at all—just a way to survive. She’d been too busy focusing on how everyone had wronged her, and how fate seemed to enjoy disrupting her plans and seeing how she fared.

  She allowed herself to daydream about the possibilities her new future offered, intentionally thinking about them in an optimistic manner. A banker’s wife, she thought as she pictured all that would entail. Financial stability. Responsible provider. Respected community member—trustworthy for certain, since he deals with peoples’ money. To Della, the title of a banker’s wife seemed to suit her just fine. She would focus on providing a happy, loving homestead as he went off to work each day. There would be times when she’d surprise him with a picnic at midday to show him how much she cared. Della giggled at the thought of her embracing surprises. But it did sound fun—the unexpected romance and loving gesture.

  As the locomotive pulled into the Fort Worth depot, Carl stood and insisted on walking Della to the exit. As she turned to say goodbye to her new friend, Carl gently lifted her hand and gave it a respectful brief kiss before stepping back, tipping his hat, and saying, “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” Della curtsied, feeling as if she’d just been given the key to a new perspective on life. She stepped off the train and onto the platform of the train station. The Texas wind kicked up and blew her loose bun apart, strands of hair falling all around her shoulders.

  “Miss Owens?” she heard
as she saw a man walking toward her.

  “Yes,” Della said. “I’m Miss Owens. You must be Mr. Jennings. So glad to meet you.” Della and the man shook hands and he nodded in the affirmative.

  “How was your trip?” Roy asked, walking alongside Della to the baggage area where a porter handed him her belongings.

  “It was wonderful,” Della said as they walked along the platform toward the street. Della paused and took one last glance back at the train and waved at Carl, who was sitting by the window, smiling back at her.

  “You need more time?” Roy asked, realizing she had stopped.

  “No, I’m ready,” Della said, inhaling the fresh air and marching into her new life with a newfound confidence.

  “We’ll put your bags in the wagon,” Roy said. “I have to make a quick stop at the General Store to close up for the night. Then we’ll head home so you can get settled.”

  “That’s great!” Della said, excited to see where she’d be working.

  Roy brought the wagon to a halt just down the street in front of Hensley’s General Store. As she stepped up onto the uneven planks of wood jutting out from the storefront, Della took a look at her surroundings.

  “Watch your step,” Roy said.

  “There sure are a lot of businesses with the Hensley name on them,” Della remarked, noticing two or three other establishments of the same name.

  “They’re owned by the same man—Hank Hensley,” Roy said, matter-of-factly. “You’ll see him stop by just about every day. I’ll introduce you when he comes tomorrow.”

  Della looked forward to meeting Mr. Hensley. She admired those who worked hard and set down roots, and the fact that his name was on everything he owned meant he showed pride in his accomplishments.