A Mist in the Pines: Jesse's Quest (The McCann Family Saga Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Jeanie Freeman-Harper

  All rights reserved:

  May not be reproduced or reprinted without permission of author with the exception of quotes used for reviews.

  ISBN: 1481912240

  ISBN-13: 978-1481912242

  A work of fiction:

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a product of the author’s inspired imagination and do not factually represent actual persons and/or events.

  A sequel to:

  Jesse McCann: The Journey

  Chapters

  I: A New Day

  II: A Misty Haze

  III: The Shaman

  IV: Unrest at Pine Crest Mill

  V: A Mysterious Death

  VI: A Secret Ceremony

  VII: The Funeral

  VIII: A Deep Dark Place

  IX: Katie’s Celebration

  X: Missing

  XI: Desperation

  XII: An Unexpected Visitor

  XIII: The Final Search

  XIV: Boy Meets Challenge

  XV: Destruction!

  XVI: Birth and Rebirth

  XVII: Resolutions

  XVIII: Homecoming!

  XIX: A Bright Future

  Preface

  This novella is the second of two. Book one began with the story of a naive young man who went in search of the father he had never known: a man missing for years and declared dead in a court of law. Yet the boy's dream was that his father was alive, and he wanted desperately to know him. So began a journey that would lead to the discovery that became the basis for the story of Jesse McCann.

  The first book was set in 1888, in an East Texas fictitious saw mill town, a composite of several actual places. It seemed natural for me, taking into account I grew up in East Texas . The rough and tumble environment also added drama.( Early saw mill workers were noted for their boisterous ways. I neither condemn nor condone. I merely tell the story. )

  And so Jesse McCann: The Journey, was born and was published November, 2012. Somehow the characters in book one became almost real to many readers. The question became “What happened next?” It seemed the characters had taken on a life of their own.

  That question led the book you hold in your hands: A Mist in the Pines: Jesse's Quest. The story springs forward to 1913 to find the same main characters overcoming adversity, to become the people they were meant to be. The story may have more continuity if the reader has read the first in the sequel, but I have made an attempt to connect the two.

  My purpose for each book was to entertain, yet there are layers to both that are open to interpretation. I hope you come away with your own perspective. Most of all, I hope you enjoyed the story....JFH.

  I: A New Day

  On a steamy July day in 1913, Buck Hennessy hand cranked his brand new Model T, while balancing on his one leg. The engine coughed and sparked to life. The grizzled old logger wiped the sweat from his brow, heaved himself into the driver's seat and pulled his wooden leg in afterward. The Tin Lizzy sputtered and jolted at his awkward attempts to maneuver the pedals ; but soon it came careening down from the hills toward Morgans Bluff, along side the railroad tracks. A train loaded with tons of lumber steamed away from the saw mill, as it had done day after day for years ; Buck honked his horn, and the engineer blew the whistle in reply. Ah yes, Morgan Mills had made great strides since the early days when Buck was a rough and tumble lumberjack in the great East Texas wilderness.

  “Those were the glory days...when a man was a man,” Buck declared out loud; for in his advanced years, he had decided he was his own best listener. “But now I'm just an old racehorse put out to pasture without a mare.”

  Yet on that day, he drove a motor car for the first time; and Buck Hennessy felt as powerful and whole as any two-legged man. As he barreled onto Main Street, the East Texas Ladies' Temperance Society, led by Beulah Birdwell, marched ahead of him, and behind the matrons marched the rag-tag Salvation Army Band. The ladies held high their signs denouncing the evils of alcohol and the demand for prohibition, while the band played a bad rendition of “ Jesus Take My Hand.”

  Buck jerked the wheel hard. Good Lord above, don’t let me run down these poor misfits in this here machine. Guide my foot to the right pedal, Lord.

  Dust mixed with exhaust emissions in an overpowering fog, until at last, the Model T lunged to a stop and died in front of Clancy's Barber Shop.

  Well, Lizzy, I see you have a mind of your own. Yes, you're right. I do indeed need a hair cut.

  Inside the shop were customers lined up on cane bottom chairs: men of substance, pillars of the community, most of whom were taking advantage of the woman-less respite by puffing cigars and telling tall tales. Buck quickly spotted the man who was like his very own son: Jesse McCann, General Manager of Morgan Mills. It was a sign of prosperity to visit the barber rather than sport the “chili bowl” cut of the homemade trim. But plenty of men in that East Texas woodlands wore that same crude hair cut like a badge of poverty or indifference, having never set foot in a barber shop.

  The bell above the door jingled as Buck walked in. The barber looked up from his customer and nodded as his scissors clicked deftly at the tips of a handle bar mustache. Everyone else had turned to watch the temperance march as it passed. Jesse McCann grasped his old friends hand and guided him into the chair next to him. “About time you came to get that mane of yours sheared, old man.”

  “No choice, son, Ain’t no bowl big enough to fit over this head and no lady to trim me up”

  Jesse smiled and ran fingers through his own thick blonde locks. He peered into the mirror, surprised to see that in the morning light, his face was finely etched, for he was now in his forty- fifth year. Life had written its story on his face. Yet his shoulders had broadened over time, and his eyes were still bright blue, (“the mark of a McCann” his grandmother Kessler had once declared). Jesse looked much more of a man than the twenty–year old West Texas greenhorn who rode into town looking for his father.

  Now, twenty-five years later, Jesse was head of mill operations that, with the coming of the railroad, had exploded into a far reaching Texas timber bonanza. The challenge of overseeing an empire had seasoned him inside and out; with his manly looks and powerful position, women were drawn like “cats to cat-nip” as Buck once said. But Jesse's eyes never strayed, as his heart stayed home with Annie and the gift she had given him twenty years ago: his beloved Katie. Life was good and peaceful at last.

  But serenity seemed a commodity in short supply in Morgans Bluff. Breaking through Jesse's euphoria came the sudden sound of shattering glass, followed by a rock as big as a cantaloupe flying toward Jesse; had he not moved his head, he would have ended up stone cold senseless. The men stared at the floor where the missile of malice had just landed, and then at the window whose pane lay shattered on the barber shop floor. A boy of about nine was high-tailing it across Main Street.

  Mr. Clancy took off after the culprit, though still in his barbers jacket and apron, unaware of scissors still in hand. Right on his heels was Jesse, while Buck hopped along behind them. Before they could cross the street, the ladies and their band came marching back from the other direction at the worst possible time. As the men scrambled around the marchers and reached the other side, they were met by a shopkeeper who held the boy by his shirt collar. “Gentlemen, meet Calvin Conner, Leroy Conner's boy...you know...from Shanty Town?”

  “What made you throw that rock through my window, boy?” shouted Mr. Clancy.” Don’t you know you almost hit Mr. McCann?”

&n
bsp; Calvin Conner set his jaw and glared at Jesse.

  “Is this about me? What problem do you have with me?” Jesse asked.

  “You ain’t common folks like us, Mister. Your wife owns the mills, and you run 'em.. and you live in the biggest house in town. Papa says you fired him. 'Cause of that, he got soused and got to fightin' in the road like a cur dog….and ended up in jail...and we got no way of fending for ourselves. Mama ain’t doin' no good neither.” Calvin paused to catch his breath.

  Jesse tried to absorb the boy's words through the rush of butchered grammar and nasal twang some called the “Boggy Slough Brogue”. Experience caused Jesse to weigh his words before speaking them, knowing their possible impact on a little boy.

  But never one to stand on propriety, Buck Hennessy fired away:“Look here, young man, if not for Jesse McCann, your Shanty Town would be nothin' but a memory. Jesse forced Mr Morgan's hand...God rest his soul...so that your house was rebuilt, after a she-devil burned it down...and then he saved your land from the railroad take over...before you were even a glint in your pappy’s eye.”

  Jesse placed a hand on Buck's shoulder to staunch his torrent of words: “You're right Calvin, I did fire your father. The saw mill is no place for drunkenness. If a big saw can slice up a hardwood tree, what do you think it could do to flesh and bone? I suggest you do after school chores to repay Mr. Clancy for a new window pane. Annie will come take a look at your mama this afternoon. Be nice to her, because her mother was from your neighborhood long ago. Now go on home...and if you throw another rock, you'll answer to me.”

  “I would think you would have better things to do than bargain with a boy from the loins of a ne'er- do- well such as Leroy Conner.” The men looked up to see that Beulah had stopped marching long enough to listen and put her two cents in.

  “The only difference between me and that boy was my mother back in West Texas,” said Jesse. “Kathryn Kessler McCann had a steady hand and a sense of values... a bit like you, as a matter of fact. My father, as you surely remember, was your so-called minister at the Full Gospel Church, living under an assumed name. He was a horse thief and a bigamist who pretended to be a man of God and pillar of the community. So I didn’t exactly have a model father myself. Fact is I didn't have a father. This boy is nothing more than a misguided child. You are promoting temperance, are you not?”

  “Nevertheless…his father drinks...whiskey! At least our preacher was no sot.” Beulah Birdwell spat out that last word as if it were poison . Jess looked into the face of a woman who wore a mask of piety like a coat of armor. She could have been a nice looking woman had she allowed herself any softness of manner and expression. No man rejoices in summer's plums over a dish of winter’s prunes , as Buck had once said.

  “Nothing much worse than a shyster like Clinton McCann, even if he is my father... with all due respect, Mrs. Birdwell.”

  “It's Miss, if you please.”

  “That there's the problem,” mumbled Buck.

  The woman ruffled up like a wet hen, turned on her heel and marched back in step with the East Texas Ladies Temperance Society. Then she stopped in her tracks, as if she had lost something irreplaceable: “Where is our tuba player?” she whined at the man with the trumpet.

  “Ducked into Percy's Tavern, ma'am...tuba and all.”

  Since Mr. Percy had disappeared over two decades ago, the barkeepers came and went, and half the time the place was unattended. That's where most of Morgans Bluff's troubles began.

  The lady crusader shook her head but continued her mission minus one lost soul: a tuba player who would never qualify for the celestial band. Beulah Birdwell would no more walk though those swinging doors to fetch a lost soul than she would voluntarily enter the gates of Hades. So the procession marched on, out of step and out of tune, while the citizens of Morgans Bluff stood outside their shops and gawked. Behind the impromptu parade, stray dogs trotted, wagging their tails and barking. Barefoot children followed and sang along as the Salvation Army Band cranked out I got the joy, joy, joy, joy... down in my heart...down in my heart to stay.

  “What do you recon causes it to be this way?” asked Buck as the men watched through the barber shop's broken window. What do you recon it is about this here town that makes it so unpredictable...and so unpeaceable?”

  Jesse raised his brow and widened his eyes in feigned innocence: “Too many Irishmen?”

  “If that don't beat all!” shouted Buck. “No sir! Better Irish than that old cold German blood running through your veins. It's only your Irish half that keeps you from being an intolerable stiff-neck! By the way... what was your good news? Just before the rock came flyin' through the window, you said you had good news.”

  “I do. You’re going to be a godfather again. Katie’s finally going to have a little brother or sister. We thought it was a little late for Annie to conceive again but...”

  “Well I'll be!” Buck fairly hollered with glee and made an attempt to bear- hug a squeamish Jesse. “What took you so long?”

  “Must have been that old cold German blood...as you so elegantly described it, Mr. Hennessy.”

  “But your hearty Irish blood finally rose to the rescue,” came Buck's ready reply.

  The two long-time friends, so dissimilar in age, looks, and temperament chuckled at their private joke, as they began removing the remaining shards of glass from Mr Clancy's window. Looking out, Jesse realized Calvin Conner, whose dirty face was streaked with tears, had not gone home but was aimlessly kicking a can down Main Street. The sight of it brought Jesse flashes of memory . At that age, he also had no aim, no purpose, other than playing “kick the can” to the point of idiocy. The boy reminded Jesse of himself ; and the father's heart trumped the business man's mind:

  This boy needs a strong and caring papa...just as I did...once upon a time.

  After boarding up Mr. Clancy's window, Jesse walked over to his office in the back of the Mercantile, and Buck roared off in his Lizzy, forgetting about the hair cut, deciding to let his hair grow long like Buffalo Bill Cody. Why not? Buck Hennessy, an aging cripple, had been set free by his new Tin Lizzy. He had crashed that gate that kept him out to pasture.

  After all, peaceful pastures were highly overrated.

  II: A Misty Haze

  Annie Morgan McCann awakened feeling full of life and was anxious, after weeks of bed rest, to enjoy an outing before the heat of the day set in. The nausea that had consumed her had vanished overnight, and she just knew everything was alright.

  She treasured the wind in her face and the feel of the horses' immediate response to the reins she held lightly between her fingers—a feeling she preferred to the motor car any day. The first thought when she had awakened was to hitch up for a leisurely ride to the logging camp. Jesse was already there, having left at sunrise to check on the timber operation—an occasional escape from his office downtown. Annie had decided to surprise him by bringing a mid-day meal in a picnic basket.

  As she crossed the bridge over Dead Man's Creek, the clickety-clack of the wagon alerted the children of the mill camp, and they swarmed out to run along side . “Miss Annie! Miss Annie!” they called out, dust flying beneath their bare feet. Annie greeted each by name, as she had doctored all of them at some time in their young lives and had delivered several into the world when there was no money for Dr. Pritchett.

  The children followed her back into the logging camp that was their home. There, many of the old weathered and dilapidated tents from the eighteen hundreds had given way to simple frame houses. Finally, there was relief for the loggers from the deadly “'northers” of winter. Yet nothing eased the cloying heat and humidity of an East Texas summer. In defense against the mugginess, mill workers had constructed dog trots through the center of the houses to serve as breezeways to funnel an occasional breeze coming inland from the Gulf of Mexico.

  Annie was excited that life had improved for the mill families. Still, the farmers and trappers along the Boggy Slough in Shanty Town were m
ore destitute than ever. It seemed time had stood still for them.

  Lately, visiting that impoverished world of misery shook Annie's usual serenity. The women there struggled through one pregnancy after another, while malaria and malnutrition ravaged their bodies. They often died at mid-life in childbirth or the effects of it. Their husbands sought younger women to marry and care for their motherless children. And the second wife often met the same fate. It was still somewhat “a woman's lot in life”—even in 1913. Annie herself was in mid stage of a late second pregnancy, and she dared not think what her own fate might be. She was forty-two, an age when she should have looked forward to grandchildren and been done with childbirth.

  She brushed troubling thoughts aside to focus on a simple goal of delivering to Jesse the basket of fried chicken and biscuits she herself had cooked. Even though she was half owner of several mills across East Texas, she lived her life without pretense. She “did for herself” as people said. She never forgot who she was: the outcast granddaughter of the founder of Morgan Mills. After all, her father Jerod was Reese Morgan's not so secret son by Minna, the Caddoan grandmother who had raised her.

  Yet now Annie was a respected member of society by one solitary, unexpected twist of fate: the change in Reese Morgan's will on the day he dropped dead. The old timber baron had excluded his daughter Lorena—with good reason—leaving Annie and his widow co-owners of his mills. The loss of it all, the rejection, was the tipping point that had flung Lorena over the deep cliff of sanity. Her hatred of Annie knew know bounds, but “Aunt Lorena” had been locked away in the state mental facility for many years— to the relief of many.

  As Annie proceeded toward camp, a stretch of towering pines shaded the road from the sun which broke into dappled patterns within the sycamores and sweet gums. It was then she caught side glimpses of a gray presence as it flashed for a moment and vanished into the dark interior of the woods .