The Envelope Read online

The Envelope

  An inspirational novel

  by

  Emily Josephine

  “Texas Hearts”, Book One

  Copyright 2012 by Emily Josephine.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover design by Miss Mae, https://www.themissmaesite.com.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite online e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Free gift for you

  Chapter 1 Of Novel

  Last chapter of novel

  Other books by Emily Josephine

  About Emily Josephine

  Free Gift For You

  Thank you for downloading my inspirational romance novel, The Envelope. I would like to offer you inspiration on a somewhat different track.

  If you are not completely satisfied with your life, or you are struggling to achieve goals and move toward your dreams, my e-book, Take Back Your Life! 3 Steps To Designing The Life You REALLY Want will help you. It’s free! Just go to my blog https://liveyourdreamswithemily.com and click the link to the freebies.

  Also click the envelope icon you see in the top right sidebar to get instantly notified of new blog posts, including announcements of my latest publications.

  And now, onto the story…

  CHAPTER 1 - May, 1993

  “Next stop, the Sierra Madres.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Come on, Hank, you love this and you know it.”

  Hank Johnson gave a weary smile to his tormentor, Barbara Alvarado. She was right. He had been going on missions trips since high school, when he heard the call to “go into all the world.” He couldn’t imagine a more exciting, more fulfilling way to live.

  Barbara, two years his senior at age twenty-five, had joined his church when she was twenty-two, and since had gone on several mission trips with him. Hank, with his garrulous, fun-loving manner, had many friends, but none as close to him as Barbara. In the past three years they had shared numerous triumphs and frustrations, from seeing people healed of AIDS to experiencing sweltering temperatures while trying to plant gardens in near-drought conditions, and their common experiences had created a bond between them as tight as any brother and sister.

  “If he’s as sore as I am,” Kelly Williams declared, “he’s got every right to complain.”

  Hank looked in surprise at Kelly, who had earned the nickname “Gentle Ben” because of his large muscles and quiet manner. “You? Hurting?” he teased.

  “Hey, don’t say it so loud. You might ruin my reputation.” This was the third mission trip for the thirty-four-year-old contractor, who had volunteered to oversee construction whenever the church sent a crew to a developing nation to raise up a church building.

  “Ssh!” Barbara interrupted, pointing at the eldest member of their missionary team, forty-one-year-old Martin Lopez.

  Overcome by exhaustion, he had fallen asleep within minutes of boarding the small aircraft. His head lolled to one side, and a line of saliva dripped out of one corner of his mouth.

  Silence fell in the tiny cabin. Sleep was a tempting idea, since they had spent the last three days helping a small congregation outside of Santa Ana, Honduras, to erect a church. But the plane was small, and they were in for a bumpy couple of hours. At least they would have a good meal and a few army cots waiting for them in Guatemala.

  “Everybody ready?” The pilot, a somber man in his thirties, appeared before them.

  Barbara regarded his reddened face with a frown. “Wow, Peter, you really got burned. Need some aloe vera?”

  “I’m okay.” Peter shrugged. “Gotta get this delicate Minnesotan skin used to the climate.”

  It was the closest thing to humor he had expressed the entire eight days they had been together, and probably the most words he had spoken at one time. The other four came from the same church in Austin, Texas, and had known each other for several years. Peter Rossman, on the other hand, had answered a call over the Internet for missionary pilots from his Minnesotan home. He had seemed pleasant enough when they met him in Houston at the beginning of April, but if asked about his family or his past he gave terse answers and changed the subject.

  Two days into the mission, Barbara had whispered, “Maybe he’s not really saved.”

  “Nah, he’s just an introvert,” Kelly replied in a rare moment of assertion. “You know, it took me a while to warm up to you guys.”

  Hank wondered if Peter’s sudden and unsolicited comment indicated that he was coming out of his shell. He smiled to himself as a picture of the pilot’s head emerging from underneath a turtle shell popped into his mind.

  Peter returned to the cockpit and started the engine, and the three missionary passengers that were still awake settled back in the hard-cushion seats as relaxed as they could get. Hank, amused at Martin’s childlike position, stole another glance at his friend. A yawn escaped his mouth as he let his gaze travel to the floor next to Martin’s seat, where an envelope lay.

  Hank tapped the seat in front of him. “Hey, Kelly, is that somebody’s letter lying on the floor next to Martin?”

  Kelly turned to his right, leaned over, and picked up the envelope. “Looks like it.” He glanced at both sides. “But can’t tell whose it is. Barbara, you write this?”

  Barbara shook her head, and Kelly passed the envelope back to Hank. Only the addressee’s name appeared on the front. Determining to ask Martin and Peter about it later, Hank thrust the envelope into the front pocket of his khaki shorts, then leaned his head back as the nose of the plane tilted up, taking the missionary crew off the ground.

  He watched the clearing below shrink into an increasingly smaller rectangle, then disappear as the plane flew over a forest that looked like an undulating mass of dark green for miles around. Turning his head back to face forward, he glanced over to where Barbara was sitting. Last night they had sat next to each other during their simple supper of rice and beans, and Hank had become acutely aware of her closeness. Twice their hands had brushed together, and both times he experienced a tingling sensation. Hank had never thought of Barbara as more than a friend, and although he’d never had a serious girlfriend he realized that the feelings awakening within him indicated a deeper interest in Barbara than a friend. Much deeper.

  Now, watching her as she sat with eyes closed, he couldn’t help wondering if she was beginning to feel the same way. It was something he would have to explore when they got back to Texas.

  His mind began to wander, thinking about the task that lay before them in Guatemala, feeling more and more groggy as he prayed for the pastor and congregation they were about to meet. Shortly after that, he must have dozed off, because his eyelids suddenly flew open as a violent motion jolted him awake. When he was nearly thrown off his seat the next moment, he believed the plane had run into a bank of turbulence.

  “Jesus, help us,” Barbara cried. She was gripping both sides of her seat with white knuckles.

  The plane began to shake like a leaf in a tornado. Cold fingers of dread wrapped themselves around Hank. Choking, suffocating. He tried not to panic, but knew there was something more than turbulence at work. He looked
around at the others. Barbara stared at him, eyes wide with terror. Kelly had begun praying loudly. Amazingly, Martin still slept, although his head was now hanging over his lap.

  “Peter!” Hank yelled. “Hey, Peter! What’s going on?” He would have jumped up to go talk to the pilot, but walking on the plane’s floor would be like trying to walk on stormy seas whose waters raged with angry white waves.

  The voice that answered was filled with uncertainty. “I—I don’t know. I think—I think we’ve been hit.”

  “Hit? What do you mean, hit?” Hank was using every ounce of control not to pepper his questions with curse words.

  Peter started to answer, but Barbara finally found her voice and interrupted him.

  “Hank, I think something is wrong with Martin.”

  Hank looked at her. “Wrong?”

  “The first time the turbulence—or whatever it is—hit the plane, when you woke up, it—” She cut herself off with loud, gasping breaths.

  “It’s okay, Barbara.” Hank willed himself to be strong, vaguely aware that Kelly was now reciting Psalm 91. “Go on.”

  Barbara took a deep, tremulous breath. “Martin’s head was still turned to the side, but when the plane lurched, his head jerked in the opposite direction.” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, Hank, I know I heard something snap.”

  Jesus, no. Oh, God, please, no, Lord. Martin sat in the seat just ahead of Barbara, and Hank determined to make the shaky walk across the aisle. He managed to make the few steps without falling, and grabbed the back of Martin’s seat as soon as he reached it. Kneeling down, he gently picked up Martin’s wrist, and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  But then, the entire plane was racked with such convulsions that Hank might not have been able to get a pulse if his friend’s heart were throbbing. Hank swallowed, then dared to get a glimpse of Martin’s neck.

  Up until that moment, terror had been a meaningless word to him, a concept out of the reality of his experience. He had had to suffer hunger and thirst, face illness and hostile foreigners, and brave all sorts of weather during his time out on the mission field. But he’d never felt that things were out of control. Never felt fear. Exasperation, yes; anger, occasionally, but not fear. Now, it struck his heart like a poisoned arrow. On both sides of Martin’s neck the skin jutted out, as though someone had placed sharp, triangular objects just under the skin.

  His neck was broken.

  Hank felt his head begin to spin, and struggled against a rising wave of nausea.

  From the cockpit, Peter’s voice shouted, “I’ve lost control! We’re going down!” Kelly’s recitation began booming at full volume while Barbara wailed hysterically. For a split second, Hank’s mind and body were paralyzed. We’re going to die. Lord Jesus, please, we’re going to die. Then, his survival instinct kicked in.

  “Get into fetal positions!” he bellowed, turning toward Kelly and Barbara. They continued their respective litanies as if they were deaf.

  There was no time to repeat the words. Hank, raised in the tradition of Southern chivalry, aimed for Barbara first. “I said get down!” He pulled her from her seat with ease, and she did not fight him as he arranged her limbs in a self-protective posture, squatting with her face to the floor and her arms crossed over the back of her head.

  Then he went for Kelly. He might as well have tried to move a stone wall.

  “Kelly, get down,” he urged, frantically and uselessly pulling on his thick arm.

  “God will deliver us He has not given us a spirit of fear no weapon formed against me shall prosper—”

  “Kelly, for God’s sake, get—” A strange noise made Hank look out the window, and he saw that the left wing was on fire. The next instant, the plane was skimming the jungle trees. Hank had no time to lose.

  He threw himself on the floor next to Barbara, kneeling with his legs tucked under him and his arms over his head. He heard the sickening crush of metal as his body was thrown against the back of Martin’s seat. Barbara screamed. Then the world fell silent.

  * * *

  Hank awakened flat on his back, surrounded by silence except for a soft humming somewhere in the background. For a moment, he thought he was back in the small shack he had stayed in while working in Honduras, and couldn’t figure out why his entire body was sore, though he lay perfectly still.

  Then he remembered. The turbulence. Martin’s neck. The wing on fire.

  If it weren’t for the pain, Hank would have thought he was in heaven. But spiritual bodies can’t feel pain, he reasoned, so he realized he had survived the horrible ordeal. Lord, what about the others? He only knew that Martin had died before the crash, and a desperate need to find out what had happened to his other friends overtook him. Wherever he was—he decided it must be some kind of hospital, though he had no idea where—somebody around must know the outcome of the crash.

  He tried to lift himself up on one elbow to call for help, but as he did an excruciating pain shot through his chest and back like someone had thrust him with a red-hot sword. He groaned in agony, easing himself back down on the bed.

  “Señor, you are awake, yes?” The heavily-accented female voice sounded relieved.

  Hank focused his groggy eyes, and saw a dark-complexioned, overweight woman dressed in white approach his bed. “You should no move,” she continued. “You break two ribs and crack others. You be in lot of pain for a few days.” As she replaced the sheets back over him, he was suddenly aware that the right side of his face was covered with gauze. He reached up to touch it, his eyes questioning the nurse. “You get big gash, but will be okay. You still be a handsome man, yes?”

  By then, Hank realized he was in some hospital in Central America, and addressed the nurse in Spanish. “Where am I? Does my family know I’m here? What about my other friends in the plane? Did they make it?”

  The nurse switched to her native tongue as she replied, “This is Peter of Betancourt’s National Hospital near Antigua, Guatemala. Your parents have been contacted, yes. They will be here tomorrow.” She stopped short and turned to leave after checking the I.V. in his arm.

  “Wait. What about my friends? What happened to my friends?”

  The nurse did not stop, did not look at him as she walked out of the room saying, “I’ll go get the doctor.”

  Hank closed his eyes in despair. If Kelly, Barbara, and Peter had survived, the nurse wouldn’t have ignored his question. Oh, God, please, no. He’d known the risks of becoming a missionary when he started six years ago at the age of sixteen. He’d heard all the horror stories about native uprisings against foreign missionaries, about beheadings and burnings and shootings, as well as deaths from Third World diseases.

  But he’d always reasoned that somewhere, the faith of those missionaries had failed. They hadn’t prayed for God’s protection often enough; they hadn’t dispatched angels; they didn’t believe the whole Bible.

  But no one could accuse Hank of falling into those pitfalls. Every morning and evening he prayed all the right prayers and read the Bible. He believed that God would bless him because he endeavored to obey Him with all his heart.

  His friends couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t. God wouldn’t allow it. Maybe the nurse hadn’t answered because she had misunderstood him. After all, his Spanish wasn’t the best. Or maybe she didn’t know the answer.

  Now that the searing pain in his chest was beginning to subside, he felt a dull throbbing in his head. Stop worrying, he admonished himself. Focus on the positive.

  Hank heard footsteps enter the room, and he managed to pull his heavy eyelids open just enough to see a man wearing a stethoscope come toward him. The doctor. He must know something. . . .But he could no longer hold his eyes open, and slipped into a deep slumber.

  When he awoke again, the headache was gone, and he opened his eyes with ease. The room was semi-dark, an eerie glow emanating from the vital signs monitor and the soft humming of machines continuing around him. He turned his head to the left, ex
pecting to see the bare side table and empty chair as he had during his last brief waking episode.

  But this time, there were two glasses of water on the table, and two chairs, occupied by two shadowy figures, one of whom had its head leaning on the shoulder of the other. Both pairs of eyes were closed, and one of the figures was snoring.

  It was a sound Hank had heard his whole life, every time his father would doze in front of the T.V.

  “Mom? Dad?” His voice was weak and hoarse from disuse and thirst, not nearly strong enough to penetrate the ears of any sleeper.

  With utmost caution, he stretched out his left arm. He felt a slight stabbing pain near his heart, but it was not enough to keep him from reaching out to jab his finger in his mother’s side.

  Brenda Johnson stirred, lifting her head off her husband’s shoulder, as Hank withdrew his hand back to his side, feeling winded by the minute gesture. Blinking, Brenda shifted in her chair and yawned.

  “Mom,” Hank managed to croak out. The last thing he wanted was for her to fall asleep again.

  Brenda’s eyelids flew open, and she stared at Hank with a relieved smile. She got off the chair, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. “My dear son. Thank You, Jesus.” She pulled back to shake her husband’s arm. “Randall, Hank’s awake. Randall.”

  Hank’s father snorted as he straightened up with a jerk. “What? Praise the Lord, son. You had your mother worried sick.” He picked up Hank’s hand in both of his while his mother shot him a look.

  “Excuse me? Don’t listen to your father, Hank. He was the one who flew into a panic as soon as we got word, and didn’t stop praying until we got to the hospital.”

  Hank tried to smile, tried to reply, but could do neither. “Water,” he managed, and in a flash his mother was holding his head up with one of the glasses of water to his lips. It was tepid, but soothed his mouth and throat as he greedily gulped it down. Then he said to his mother, “And you were the picture of calm, weren’t you?”

  “Of course she was,” Randall rejoined, releasing Hank’s hand. “In between the buckets of tears she was crying.” He put his arm around Brenda and hugged her to him, and she jabbed him with an elbow.