Fish in a Bird's Nest

By F. Elizabeth Hauser

The story of a friendship between two children, one whose parents employ the other's parents, who are of different religious faiths, different cultures, and different races,set in a time during America's history where such friendships were both rare, and not tolerated in society. Their story takes place in rural Southeast Arizona in a remote town that marks the edge between the predominantly white and Mormon-colonized Gila Valley and the reservation of the San Carlos Apaches. The children, one the white daughter of Latter-day Saint (Mormon) cotton farmers, and the other, the son of their Apache farm workers, are inseparable best friends, who in their teen years fall in love. When their parents step in to prevent any romantic relationship from fully blossoming, these young people feel forced to take bold action to ensure their future. The choice they make and the consequences that develop will leave readers turning pages as conflicts develop,tensions rise,apparently resolve, only to be replaced by another type of conflict. This is the story of a love stronger than social bigotry and more enduring than life. A sequel continues the story where this book ends, because their story is far from over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: F. Elizabeth Hauser
• Release date: Apr 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311418500

F. Elizabeth Hauser

Hello, readers! I'm delighted that you've come to my author page. Let me tell you a little about myself. Before I do, let me say, I hope you'll download a sample of my books and like them so much you want to buy them. You can see that they're priced to be accessible to just about everyone. I write for the love of it, not to get rich.I grew up in Lakewood, WA, majored in English at what is now BYU-Idaho, formerly Ricks College. After counseling with a close friend, I changed my major to nursing, with a minor in English when I entered BYU in Provo, UT. I had always wanted to teach high school or Freshman college composition. I was fortunate to have some very influential English teachers in both high school and college that helped to develop that desire to teach young people to appreciate literature of all kinds and learn to communicate well with the written word, in all the various literary forms, from poetry to essays, short stories to novels.After a twenty-five year career in nursing, a vocation I came to understand that I was meant to pursue, I retired and began writing in a way I had never done, or even considered, when I studied literature and composition in college. Once I turned in the direction of nursing and all of the education necessary to achieve that goal, my reading was strictly non-fiction.When I married and began raising a family of five children, I seldom found time to read for pleasure.It was when I joined a book club of a dozen women in our very tiny community in Arizona that I discovered the pure joy of reading fiction. I thrilled to the realization that stories, like movies, transported me into another world. I wanted to enjoy creating those stories and "other world", and I wanted to provide that reading experience for other readers. By the time I began writing fiction, I had plenty of life experience to draw on for my characters, stories, and settings. In each of my books, a smaller part of the setting, if not a major part, takes place in areas that I've actually lived. Describing places where story takes place becomes a pleasant journey into my memories, rich with details that color my stories. In The Homesteaders: Following a Dream, my husband and I owned land on the Siuslaw River in Swisshome, and I saw in my mind the exact place where Caleb was fishing when...oh, I can't spoil the story. Just know that I have seen the rocks, the river, the cliffs, the eagles and ospreys that are part of the setting in the latter part of that first volume. And yes, the blackberries that can only be tamed with goats.I was introduced to the practice of writing a first draft of at least 50,000 words, which now seems like just warming up, in thirty days by the wonderful world-wide-organization for writers, Nanowrimo. Their name is taken from National Novel Writers Month, which is celebrated by thousands of participating writers, including young writers, world-wide every November. For those who just can't wait for November, they sponsor Camp Nanowrimo in June every year. What a supportive community of writers and for writers!I discovered Smashwords when a classmate in a small novel writing community class told me about this wonderful free platform to electronically publish my books. I consider that a true gift. I had used other platforms before, but found Mark Coker's organization, as well as all of his valuable tools and informational help, the easiest and most enjoyable way to accomplish publishing. I hope to keep writing for many years to come, and my goal is to complete at least one each year for the foreseeable future. Twelve months to write a book...easy, huh? For all of those reading this that are fellow writers, you know that bringing that manuscript to a point, after revisions, edits, and more of the same, to a point where you are satisfied that it's ready to make its debut to the world is a lot of work. That's the other thing I LOVE about Smashwords, though. If you later decide that you want to make changes, you can upload a revised edition as many times as you want...FREE. Thank you!I have other interests that make my life a lot of fun, besides writing. Family history research has been very rewarding. I'm an outdoor person at heart, and love camping, fishing, and backpacking when I have time. I'm a confirmed animal lover and my dog and cat are much-loved family members. And speaking of family, there's nothing more rewarding to me than spending time with my grown kids and grandkids. I lost my husband, best friend, and biggest supporter last year, but he will always be an inspiration for my writing.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The mid-May sun beat on the children, like a hot, dry oven on their soft young skin. Five year old Ransom and three year old Emmaline played with their homemade wooden horses in the gritty, powdery sand of the Cluff front yard under a young salt cedar tree. Southeast Arizona was dotted with such scenes of rural life in 1917.

It had taken longer and infinitely more labor to settle the Gila Valley than it had to tame the Great Salt Lake Valley, owing to the smaller numbers of Mormon settlers and an even harsher land. The original pioneers sent to the Gila Valley were charged with the responsibility of making the high desert blossom like a rose. That was a monumental task in the 1880’s. Even now, it still left much to be desired in the way of blossoming, except where irrigation water from the Gila River and the river bottom itself, nourished life. Hay and cotton thrived because farmers could manipulate the water. The only other forms of vegetation that could endure on the high desert were cactus, sage, creosote, and a few other hardy scrub species and wild grasses. In an exceptional year, there would be rain during the winter that encouraged colorful wild flowers to spring up across the desert floor. More moisture in the form of snow in the local and more distant mountains was needed to fill creeks and riverbeds in the spring and summer that would sustain life for another year. Most years it was enough to survive; some years survival was questionable.

Emmaline’s mother hung the wash to dry on a thin cotton rope stretched taut between two heavy iron T-posts buried deep in the hard desert earth. She glanced at the children, absorbed in their play, as she bent into the old woven basket to retrieve a damp twill work shirt, then a pair of her husband’s denim overalls. The work was rhythmic, almost graceful, like a well-choreographed ballet, interspersed with sweeps of Elizabeth’s sleeve across her face to catch the sweat that trickled down her forehead and cheeks. Now and then she called to her daughter or Ransom to keep watch for rattlesnakes. This time of year even they were searching for reprieve from the scorching sun beneath the shade of shrubs and trees.

Another three weeks and the hot sand would force the children to wear their hard-worn leather boots that laced up over their ankles with the toes cut out to render four or five more months of wear, until harvest and cattle sales allowed the annual purchase of new shoes. Without these strange-looking boots, their tender feet would blister and burn on the sand.

At least twice a day the children’s quiet play was interrupted by shouts and shrieking laughter as the two chased, and usually caught, an unsuspecting lizard that dared to dart across the scorching dirt in search of shade. Ransom and Emmaline parted only when sundown forced it. Some days they played in Emmaline’s yard or home, and other days, Mrs. Henry cared for the children at their workers’ shack a quarter mile down river from James and Elizabeth Cluff’s adobe home.

Frances Henry often worked beside her husband, hoeing the endless rows of cotton, turning the irrigation water to the adjoining field, and in season, picking the cotton before sun-up until long after the sun had set behind Mt. Turnbull and the reservation beyond. By the time Ransom’s older sister Ruth was seven, she could prepare the family meals and keep the cabin clean, freeing her mother to work with her father.

While Elizabeth hung the laundry to dry, her mind wandered back to the day the Henrys came to work for them. It was September 1912, the 16th day, to be exact. It was a memorable day for more than one reason. Elizabeth smiled when she recalled her first visit to Frances Henry the morning they arrived five years earlier.

Frances and William had driven up in their wagon with Tommy, George and Ruth, along with their few worldly possessions, about ten o’clock that morning. Two year old Parley was toddling around the yard and chasing chickens when the Henrys’ wagon rolled up the lane past their home. She was hanging out the laundry just as she was doing now. That day, when she finished hanging the clothing, she prepared dinner for the new hired hand and his family. The Henrys had traveled many miles over rough roads in a wagon, and she knew they must have started out very early from Bylas to arrive by ten.

Frances, Mrs. Cluff is here, William announced to his wife, who was busy washing the dust off their dishes, cooking pots and skillets. It seemed like a lot of Bylas real estate had traveled with the family to Ft. Thomas on their clothes, tools, bed linens, and cooking implements. Frances quickly dried her hands to greet her visitor.

Please, come in, Frances insisted.

Good morning, Mrs. Henry, Elizabeth said as she stepped into the cabin from their wagon, carrying a cast iron Dutch oven filled with fried chicken and fresh hot biscuits.

It is very nice to meet you, Mrs. Cluff, Frances said, instinctively reaching to unburden Elizabeth of the heavy oven she carried.

Oh, no, Elizabeth protested. You mustn’t lift such a heavy load in your…condition, she paused, blushing a little. When is your baby coming? she added. Even under the generous gathered skirts and loose flowing blouse of the bright blue Apache camp dress, Mrs. Henry’s pregnancy was not hard to see. She was a short woman, normally petite, but very rounded at this late stage.

About three more weeks, but you know that babies come when they are ready, she smiled demurely. All of my babies have been just a few days later than expected, but that shows how futile it is to expect a baby at a certain time, she smiled. I have delivered hundreds of babies, and they even surprise me now and then.

Oh, you are a midwife? Elizabeth asked.

Yes.

I’m glad to know that. Sister Bigler has delivered babies in our valley for many years, and as far away as Safford. But sometimes there are more babies and mothers than she can help. Your skills will be welcome here, Elizabeth said. I thought it would be a busy and very tiring day for you, just getting settled into your home. I brought dinner for your family. I have milk and home-bottled fruit out in the wagon still. Where can I set this down?

Put it in front of the hearth. William will have our kitchen table brought in soon and we will be able to eat at the table after I wash it. Thank you for the meal. It smells very good. It was very kind of you, Frances said. Elizabeth remembered William introducing himself and the children. Tommy was ten, George was seven, and Ruth was five. Frances told Elizabeth years later that she had lost two pregnancies between Tommy and Ruth.

Tommy was a handsome, athletic boy with thick, shiny black hair that grazed the edge of his shoulder blades. Still a boy, his body was strong and well-muscled like his father’s, but even then Elizabeth expected Tommy would someday be even taller than his father, who looked to her about six feet tall.

Ruth, at five, was the picture of a mythical Indian princess. She was stunningly beautiful. Her black eyes, framed by long sweeps of eyelashes, were alluring even as a child. She was petite with a feminine little figure. She also looked like she would be taller than her mother. Frances’s five foot height would not be difficult to top.

She was polite, soft-spoken, even shy at five. Her shapely lips were lovely, and when she smiled, it surprised Elizabeth to see how straight and pretty her teeth were. She got that from her mother, Elizabeth thought. William was a strapping handsome man, but his teeth had slightly imperfect overlaps here and there.

And George…, just remembering their first meeting caused a broad smile to spread across her face. She could see the mischievous glint in his eye. He was the jokester in the Henry family. A stocky little boy, he favored his mother in his features, in her advanced pregnancy. He was the most outgoing and talkative of the children, always wanting to engage someone in conversation, often to distract the person while he delivered a prank or practical joke. Frances was frequently distraught that George was in trouble at school…again. Not for wicked behavior, just impish mischief that he seemed unable to stifle.

Suddenly Ransom’s laughter broke Elizabeth’s reverie. He’d caught the fat little lizard that was napping under the mesquite shrub several feet south of the salt cedar. Elizabeth remembered that the night the Henrys arrived, she and James had just gone to bed after the long day’s work, when Jake started barking out in the barn. Accustomed to coyotes raiding their hen house, often leaving carnage in their path, James grabbed his shotgun and stood looking out the back door, watching for marauders in the light of the rising moon. Within moments, an urgent knock came on their front door. James set his shotgun down on the kitchen table and went to the door. When he returned, he was pulling on his dungarees and asking Elizabeth to get dressed as fast as she could.

Who was at the door? she’d asked.

It was little Tommy. Tommy Henry. He asked us to come quick. The baby is coming, and Mrs. Henry is having trouble.

Of course, Elizabeth had said, as she pulled on her clothing and shoes. I’ll call Sister Bigler, Elizabeth had said.

I’ll get the automobile. There’s no time to hitch the wagon, James said, and Elizabeth heard the back porch screen door slam behind him as he ran toward the barn. As she slipped her dress over her head and buttoned it, she realized how important James felt this situation was. He only got out the Studebaker for important events. Around the farm and usually in the community, they used the wagon.

CHAPTER TWO

Elizabeth remembered pulling up to the cabin and hearing Mrs. Henry’s soft cries. They knocked on the door and William showed them in.

Thank you for coming, he had said, his voice full of worry. The baby is trying to jump into life with his feet first. She has never had so much trouble delivering babies.

Mrs. Henry, Sister Bigler is coming. I’ll help you all I can, but my experience is limited, Elizabeth said. She spoke to Frances, who was squatted in the corner of the cabin against the adjoined walls, catching a moment of rest. The muscles in Frances’s legs were chiseled even more than her own, she remembered noticing. The hard work that Elizabeth did every day had given her shapely, strong legs. Mrs. Henry had deep bronze thighs and calves that rippled under the strain of bearing her very pregnant body, holding her in a squatting position just above the floor.

There was a towel beneath her that absorbed the blood and water that gushed from her loins. Suddenly she braced again and moaned loudly. Elizabeth knew that Apache women didn’t express pain. She knew Frances was in trouble. She bit her lip, silently praying for Sister Bigler to arrive. Elizabeth drew a ladle of cold water that was pumped from the clear, deep well in the yard. The wells at both houses tapped into the vast network of sweet aquifers that crisscrossed the desert valley deep under the rocky layers. The cold refreshing temperature of the drinking water was testament to the great depth of the subterranean springs. She held the ladle to Mrs. Henry’s lips. As Frances sipped, Emmaline could see her body relax a little and the strain on her face melt.

Before the next wave of pains escalated, James and William heard a wagon and team racing up the lane. They stepped out onto the porch with the lantern and saw Louisa Bigler driving the pair of black horses as fast as they could safely navigate the rutty road. She pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the cabin, and struggled down from the wagon seat, huffing for air, with her black bag in hand. As she lumbered onto the porch, her short portly frame shook the wood veranda. James introduced her to William, and she brushed some stray gray hair from her face with the back of her free hand, then reached out to shake hands with the men. William thanked her for coming to help and showed her in.

Gentlemen, please stay out here. I’ll call you if I need you, she added. Looking around the dim room, she saw Tommy standing in the corner, watching his mother with considerable worry washed over his face. Ruth’s birth had not been like this. Young man, she said to Tommy. You, too. Please step outside with the other men. Your mama will be alright. Go on, now, she directed him. Reluctantly he went outside and closed the cabin door behind him. George was fast asleep in the next room and thus escaped Sister Bigler’s ousting.

How can I help you, Sister Bigler? Elizabeth had asked. She remembered Louisa helping Frances to stretch out on a soft blanket on the floor of the cabin. Her skill as she manipulated the baby inside Frances’s body was magical. Frances cried out just once more, but within moments, the baby was head down and moving into the birth canal.

Help her back to the corner, Louisa had told Elizabeth. Let’s get you back over here, and lean against the walls again, she guided Frances. Looking up at Elizabeth, Sister Bigler nodded, Apache women know that birthing a baby while they squat is the easiest and most efficient way for the baby to move through the birth canal.

The men heard Frances’s cry. William began to sing an ancient Apache prayer. The low, lyrical chant floated out across the autumn night sky where the aroma of creosote shrubs and desert earth mingled with the smoke from the cabin chimney. The fragrance was almost part of the spiritual connection. James bowed his head and whispered a quiet plea to God for Mrs. Henry and the baby. They were both still praying when they heard another loud cry. Only it wasn’t a mother’s cry of labor pain. It was the lusty first cry of a newborn baby. The men grinned at each other, their faces full of relief, and shook hands, grasping each other’s arm affectionately with the other hand.

Congratulations, William, James said, his eyes glistening in the light of the moon.

The cabin door opened, and Sister Bigler stepped out, wiping her hands on the white apron that was smeared with the blood of birth. Come and meet your new son, Mr. Henry. He’s a handsome one, and real healthy. And Mrs. Henry is well, she added as the men pressed through the door into the cabin, with Tommy trailing right behind them.

I have no money, yet, Frances had apologized to Louisa Bigler.

You don’t need to pay me. I was glad to help, Sister Bigler had answered her. You and the baby would probably have died without intervention. Birthing a baby in breech position is very risky.

Over in the trunk, Frances nodded toward the far wall of the cabin in the parlor, as they referred to the room. There are many soft, warm blankets that my sister and I have woven over the years. Other people have told me they are very pretty. Please take the blanket you like the best, she had said.

You really don’t need… Sister Bigler had started, but then stopped short. She realized by refusing to allow Mrs. Henry to give her something special that she would offend her. "You know, we could use a good warm blanket this winter, she smiled. Elizabeth, hold the lantern for me while I look in the trunk," she said.

Gently lifting the edges of the folded wool blankets, she pulled one out carefully so that the remaining blankets would still be neatly stored. This purple and black one is magnificent. It will be beautiful on our bed, and will keep us nice and warm when the nights turn cold. Thank you, Mrs. Henry.

Please, both of you call me Frances, she had told them softly. The baby was already nursing eagerly at her breast. William smiled proudly at his new son. What shall we call this boy? she smiled up at her husband.

Ransom Israel Henry, he said thoughtfully. It reminds me of a phrase I learned and always loved from the Bible, he added.

That’s a good strong name, William. It’s a proud name for a boy to grow into, James said. We will always remember the day you came to work for us as the day this boy almost jumped into the world…feet first, he said. Thanks to Sister Bigler, he didn’t have to jump, he praised their neighbor.

Yes, thanks so much for Sister Bigler, William echoed.

Frances, the sisters in the neighborhood will check in on you this week and bring meals for your family, so you can get more rest, Louisa said.

Elizabeth remembered that Frances had looked puzzled, but pleased. That was when she realized that this was the Henry’s first experience with Mormon neighbors. She would grow accustomed to their ways, Elizabeth thought. And Elizabeth had already learned something about the Apache ways. The birthing, the blanket…just for starters.

CHAPTER THREE

Elizabeth looked over at the children again. She remembered that Ransom had toddled near his mother’s skirts when Emmaline was born. He saw Emmaline’s face before she did. She remembered seeing Ransom’s little two-year old face at the foot of her bed and watching his eyes grow wide and a big smile burst across his face as his mother drew Emmaline from her body like magic.

He had toddled over to the side of the bed and reached his pudgy little hand out to her. His facial expression was clear. She’d held Emmaline close, swaddled in a soft flannel blanket and wrapped in a small patchwork quilt. Ransom wants to see the new little baby girl? she’d asked him. His eyes brightened and he smiled at her. She had turned her precious bundle and lowered the baby closer to Ransom’s level. He’d carefully stroked Emmaline’s soft brown curly hair, still damp from birth. He’d looked up at Elizabeth and uttered pretty. Frances had told her it was his first and only word for many more weeks. Remembering that moment brought the tears back to Elizabeth’s eyes that had filled them in that instant.

Yes, she is pretty, Ransom, she had smiled and cried just a little. It was obvious her tears worried Ransom. It’s okay, Ransom. These are happy tears. I’m not sad; I’m very happy, she’d explained. The little boy accepted her word and toddled back to his mother. They were all alone in the house when Emmaline came into the world. Parley and the Henry children, except for Ransom, were in school. James and William were working in the recently planted cotton fields. The need to check on new calves and their mothers kept them out working even longer than usual.

Children, you play right here and don’t go near the river or the irrigation canal, Elizabeth said. Fond memories closed like a curtain at the same time she hung out the last piece of clothing. I’m going in to make dinner, and I’ll call you in soon.

I’ll keep Emmaline safe, Mrs. Cluff, Ransom promised.

I know you will, Ransom, she said as she carried the empty wicker basket into the house.

Inside the adobe home, where it was relatively cool, Elizabeth wiped her brow on a soft towel in the bathroom. Then she came out to the kitchen, washed her hands, and began slicing the fresh bread that had come out of her oven just after breakfast. It was just warm enough to hasten the melting of the soft, home-churned butter. Elizabeth poured three glasses of milk. The cream was rich on the top of the milk, and she stirred it in with a spoon. Even after skimming the milk to make butter, there was usually enough cream left to create a quarter inch or more on the milk as it chilled in the ice box.

She took three bananas from the bowl on the sideboard, peeled the thick skin from them, and sliced them into bowls, pouring a little cream over them and putting a spoon in each bowl. It was a good noon meal, but if the children were still hungry, she had some boiled eggs in the ice box. She rinsed the sweet banana residue off her hands, and drying them on a flour sack towel, called to the children from the front door.

Come in now, Emmy…Ransom. Dinner is ready. Go wash your hands at the pump and then you can dry them in the house, she admonished them. The children wiped their hands dry on the towel, and scrambled into the wooden chairs at the table.

The food smells good, Mrs. Cluff, Ransom said.

Thank you, Ransom. I know you love bananas. They smell sweet, don’t they?

Yes, ma’am, he agreed. And the bread smells good. The house smells like baking bread. I like that smell. Emmaline, do you want me to cut your bread for you? he asked. The large thick slices dwarfed her little three-year-old hands.

"Yes,