Courting Trouble

  Outside, the sun was so bright Essie shaded her eyes. Adam glanced back over his shoulder at the blacksmith’s shop, shaking his head.

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Currington.’’

  ‘‘Call me Adam. And it was my pleasure,’’ he said, winking as they headed down Eleventh Street.

  ‘‘Shall we go see about the stirrups?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘We can do that, but Mr. Weidmann’s kitchen is one block over on Collin Street. How ’bout we take a detour and have us some o’ that fruitcake he makes? I can smell it clear from here.’’

  As he said the words, her nose registered the delectable aroma of fresh bread and something indefinably sweet.

  ‘‘It’s still morning. Won’t you spoil your dinner?’’

  ‘‘No, ma’am. I’ve found there’s never a bad time for a visit to Mr. Weidmann’s bakery.’’

  Town activity had picked up with the advancing morning. Wagons trundled up and down the street, stirring up dust, horses cutting between them. The stray tabby, Cat, darted past Essie and Adam. Men conversed about everything from the price of cotton to the November election to the abandoned seed house.

  Being the judge’s daughter, Essie knew most everyone, so they were forced to stop and chat a few times along the way. She introduced Adam as one of the artesian well drillers, explaining he’d decided to stay in town awhile longer.

  The townspeople looked at him askance, displaying forced politeness.

  ‘‘I don’t believe the folks of your town like me very much,’’ he whispered after they broke away from a conversation with the school superintendent and the wainwright.

  ‘‘It’s not that. They would simply prefer it if you had been born here.’’

  ‘‘How long you reckon it’ll take before they forgive me for that slight?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I would think twenty years should do the trick.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘More like forty, you mean.’’

  They shared a smile, and he opened the bakery door.

  ‘‘Ach, look at this fine German mä dchen who comes to see me.’’ Mr. Weidmann circled around his table to take hold of Essie’s shoulders and kiss both her cheeks. ‘‘Wie geht es Ihnen, Fräulein Spreckelmeyer?’’

  ‘‘I’m fine, Mr. Weidmann. And you?’’

  ‘‘I am good. Very, very good.’’ He turned, grabbing Adam, and gave him the same greeting he’d given Essie, bringing a shade of red to the cowboy’s cheeks. ‘‘You watch out for this one, Fräulein. Eternally hungry for my fruitcake, he is. Pesters me night and day.’’

  ‘‘Is that so, Mr. Currington?’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid it is, ma’am,’’ Adam said, patting his stomach.

  ‘‘Ja,’’ said Mr. Weidmann. ‘‘I will get you some.’’

  The bakery was more of a kitchen than anything else, but it had a small table pushed into one corner. Adam pulled out her chair and she sat, relishing the smells of vanilla, apricots, dates and pineapple.

  Mr. Weidmann brought them each a large slice of cake resting on brown paper. ‘‘I am sorry, but I have no plates or forks.’’

  ‘‘It’s all right. This will be fine.’’ Essie broke off a portion with her fingers, while Adam lifted his entire piece and took a large bite.

  ‘‘So tell me, Mr. Currington, how does a cowboy end up drilling water wells?’’

  ‘‘Just decided to do somethin’ different, I guess.’’

  ‘‘But why?’’

  He took another big bite, slowly chewing the confection, his carefree manner diminishing. ‘‘It happened a while back.’’

  Mr. Weidmann washed and chopped cherries on the other side of the room, paying them no mind. So for now, the two of them had the place to themselves.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I grew up on a ranch. My pa was a cowboy and my grandpa before him. So I been steer ropin’ since I was ankle-high to a June bug.’’

  She took another nibble, waiting.

  ‘‘A couple of years ago, a big ranchman in Gonzales County asked me to be the trail boss for his yearly drive from San Antonio to Abilene, Kansas. It was my job to plan the route, to decide when to stop, where to bed down, where to cross creeks, that kinda thing.’’

  ‘‘I’ve heard that only the top cowhands make those kinds of trips.’’

  ‘‘I reckon that’s so.’’ He picked at a splintered piece of wood on the rough table. ‘‘We had two point men ridin’ up front directing the lead steer, then the swing and flank boys along the sides, with the tail riders bringin’ up the drag.’’

  ‘‘How many were in the herd?’’

  ‘‘Eighteen hundred. Everythin’ went fine ’til we reached Waco. Then a gully washer came. It rained ’nough to have everybody wishin’ they’d grown fins instead of feet.’’

  ‘‘What did you do?’’

  ‘‘All that rain made it too dangerous to cross the Brazos. We had no choice but to wait ’til the river went down. We lost so much time, I decided we’d go east to Shreveport instead o’ Kansas. Last thing I wanted was to get stuck in the middle o’ winter. Some o’ the other fellas disagreed, so I told ’em I’d get the herd there in good shape or I’d take off my spurs and never make another roundup.’’

  She rested her hands in her lap, no longer interested in the fruitcake before her.

  He scratched the top of his head, causing his blond hair to stand up a little on the right. ‘‘We got across the Brazos okay, but then Spanish Tick Fever took hold of the herd and the farther we went, the more we left behind. Dead.’’

  ‘‘Oh no.’’

  ‘‘By the time we hit the Trinity River, we only had five hundred left.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘And when we reached Shreveport, we had fewer than a hundred.’’

  ‘‘But that wasn’t your fault.’’

  ‘‘I was the trail boss, and I’d given my word. So I sold my horse and saddle.’’

  She gripped her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. A cowboy’s horse was more than a source of transportation. It was his constant companion. A friend he could talk to and confide in.

  More than his mount, though, the cowboy prized his saddle— and quite often it cost more than the horse itself. It was undeniably the very last thing he parted with.

  ‘‘I’m so sorry, Adam.’’

  He pushed the crumbs of his fruitcake around with his fingers.

  ‘‘You gonna eat that?’’ he asked, indicating her abandoned piece.

  She slid it toward him. ‘‘Is that when you started drilling?’’

  ‘‘No. I got a job on a wagon train carryin’ goods to Memphis, Tennessee. Then I started loadin’ and unloadin’ merchandise for the riverboats. Did that ’til about six months ago.’’

  ‘‘What happened then?’’

  ‘‘A showboat pulled in and I met up with Pugh and Upchurch.’’

  The last of the cake was gone. She folded her paper in half, then in half again, trapping the crumbs inside. She did the same for his, wondering what his father’s and grandfather’s reactions had been.

  If they had taught him everything they knew, how could they have let him give up something he so clearly loved? But to ask would be intrusive.

  A woman came in to place an order with Mr. Weidmann. Adam dropped a coin on the table, then he and Essie slipped out. This time Essie didn’t reprimand him when he took her elbow and stayed close enough to smell the cloves she used in her bath and for her to smell the Yankee shaving soap they sold at the Slap Out.

  chapter TEN

  WATCHING ADAM CONSTRUCT the rig these last few weeks reminded Essie of her embroidering. Just as every stitch she took revealed more of the final picture, each piece of lumber Adam added gave more definition to the rig.

  She suggested they hire Jeremy as helper. If scrawny Mr. Upchurch could manage it, then Jeremy certainly could. Adam protested, though, saying the teener was nothing but a farm boy.

  Her crossed arms betrayed her determina
tion. ‘‘You’ll have to train him, then.’’

  Jeremy was eager and hardworking, as she knew he would be, and so proud of earning ten whole cents a day. For all his previous bluster, Adam set about training the boy as if he hoped to make a top hand out of him, never hazing or harassing, always answering his questions patiently and offering plenty of encouragement.

  Adam tightened the second stirrup they’d hung on the spring pole. ‘‘You ready to give it a whirl, Boll Weevil?’’

  Jeremy grabbed on to the pole. ‘‘You say when.’’

  ‘‘Go!’’

  They jumped into the stirrups, and the pole bowed down and up, responding to their lead. The shade of a bois d’arc tree in the corner of the field didn’t quite reach the workers. Some of its bright yellow leaves fell to the ground—many blowing into a freshly dug oil sump next to their new rig.

  Essie watched the man and boy bounce a few more times, then clapped. ‘‘It’s working! All we need now are the cable tools.’’

  They stepped out of the stirrups.

  ‘‘How long before Mr. Fowler’s got ’em ready?’’ Jeremy asked. He looked as if he’d grown four inches over the summer, but only in a vertical direction. He’d not added any meat or muscle to his spindly frame, and his loose clothing made him look even thinner.

  ‘‘He said he’d have the tools by first o’ next week,’’ Adam answered.

  The three of them admired their handiwork before Essie finally stirred herself. ‘‘Well, Jeremy, I guess you’ll have yourself a few days off before the real work begins.’’ She handed him his first wages.

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ Adam said. ‘‘And come Monday, you be ready to sweat like a hog butcher in frost time.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be here and ya won’t hear me complainin’ none.’’ Jeremy palmed the bag of coins, testing its weight. ‘‘Fer now, though, I’m gonna go over to the Slap Out and get the young’uns a sassperilly candy. Boy, won’t they be surprised!’’

  He took off running, shirttail flapping, skinny legs pumping. They watched him disappear across the open field, down the dirt road and on into town.

  ‘‘You sure were right about him, Essie. He works hard as any I seen and was all swoll up like a carbuncle just now, wasn’t he?’’

  ‘‘He did seem pleased. I wish I could see the expression on those children’s faces when he comes home with candy. I imagine it’ll be their first.’’

  ‘‘First? They ain’t never had candy?’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t think so.’’

  Adam loosened the bandanna from around his neck, wiped his face, then looked at the now-empty road. ‘‘Yes, sir, that boll weevil ’uld do to ride the river with.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘Well, would you like to follow me to the house and I’ll give you your wages, as well?’’

  Mischief transformed his face. ‘‘Actually, ya know what I really wanna do?’’

  She found herself shaking her head.

  ‘‘I wanna ride your wheeler. Would ya mind?’’

  Glancing at Peg, she worried her lip. ‘‘It’s not as easy as it looks. You can’t just swing into the saddle and say ‘giddy-up.’ ’’ ‘‘So teach me.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Teach me.’’

  ‘‘Here?’’ she squeaked.

  He scanned the area. ‘‘No, we probably ought to go out there where you practice on your wheeled feet when you think nobody’s lookin’.’’

  She took a short breath. ‘‘How do you know about that?’’

  With a shrewd smile, he took her elbow and steered her toward her bike. ‘‘I already done told you, I notice everything about you.’’

  ————

  ‘‘The knack of balancing is really all that needs to be learned,’’ Essie said, holding Peg by her handlebars. ‘‘The rest comes with patience, perseverance, and practice.’’

  Adam stood with one hip cocked, his arms crossed in front of his chest and an indulgent smirk on his face. The breeze stirred up a few fallen leaves and shook more from the branches above them.

  ‘‘You’re not taking this with the proper amount of seriousness,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.’’

  ‘‘Just show me how it works, Essie.’’

  He rolled up the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt, then made sure it was securely tucked in to the denim trousers hugging his hips. Dust dulled the shine of his big silver belt buckle, but it still managed to capture a glint from the setting sun. She could tell how proud he was of it by the way he hooked his thumb behind the belt.

  She wondered if he ever wore suspenders like the other men. If he had, she’d never seen him.

  ‘‘Well, first,’’ she said, ‘‘I’m going to have you coast down this gentle slope. When you take your seat and proceed, don’t grasp the handles too tightly, and never lean on them.’’

  The sun blazed onto the grass-covered incline, but the ground was still a bit moist from recent rains.

  Adam straddled the vehicle, grabbing the handles as if they were horns he had to wrestle with.

  ‘‘It’s not a bull, Adam. Relax your grip.’’

  He complied.

  ‘‘Now, if you lose your balance and start to fall, touch the ground with your toe on whichever side the machine is falling to right yourself again.’’

  He nodded.

  ‘‘Remember, don’t use the pedals. The incline will give you plenty of speed for balancing and steering.’’

  ‘‘Relax my hands and no usin’ the stirrups.’’

  ‘‘Exactly. Are you ready?’’

  An excited smile spread across his face. ‘‘My heart’s beatin’ faster ’n a grasshopper in a chicken yard.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to try it, Adam.’’

  ‘‘Step aside, ma’am. I got some dust to churn up.’’

  Releasing the handlebars, she backed away. In one fluid motion, he spread his legs wide and rolled down the hill in perfect balance, as if he’d been riding for months.

  It had never occurred to her that he would manage to stay balanced so long. But he had, and in another couple of yards the slope would turn into a full-fledged hill.

  ‘‘Whoooo-wee!’’ he hollered, his momentum picking up. He stayed aright even as he accelerated before finally hitting a rut and flying through the air, bicycle and all.

  He tightened his grip and tried to hug the machine with his body the way a person would when jumping a horse.

  ‘‘Don’t lean!’’ Essie cried. ‘‘Angle your legs out! Keep the wheels straight!’’

  But he curled into the bicycle as if man and machine were one, then crashed to the ground. The crunch of metal blended with his gasp as the jarring contact of wheels and ground knocked the wind out of him.

  He swerved out of control, fell in a tangled mess and slid down the hill before slowing to a stop just feet before he’d have collided into a tree stump.

  Essie hiked up her skirts and raced to him, slipping on the grass. ‘‘Oh my goodness!’’

  He lay motionless on his back, his silver buckle winking in the sun.

  ‘‘Adam, Adam!’’ She skidded to a stop and fell to her knees. Moisture seeped from the damp ground through the fabric of her brown skirt and petticoats where she knelt. ‘‘Can you hear me? Are you all right?’’ She touched his forehead, brushing hair out of his eyes.

  Groaning, he tried to spit a leaf out of his mouth. She snatched it away.

  ‘‘That saddle o’ yours hit me in the caboose and sent me fer a flight to Mars.’’

  ‘‘Don’t move,’’ she sighed in relief. ‘‘Just tell me what hurts.’’

  He opened one eye. ‘‘I’m achin’ in a lot o’ new places.’’

  She swept a quick glance down the length of him but saw no obvious injuries. ‘‘Anyplace in particular?’’

  Both eyes opened. The sun reduced his pupils to mere pinpoints. The rays of his blue-green irises were like the spreading of peacock fea
thers.

  ‘‘You gonna kiss it and make it better?’’ he asked.

  Her hand stilled, but her heart thar-rumped. ‘‘I’m serious, Adam.’’

  ‘‘You think I’m not?’’ He turned his head and gently nipped the inside of her wrist, prompting a reaction in places far removed from her hand.

  She snatched it away. ‘‘You mustn’t say—or do—things like that.’’

  ‘‘Why? Because I’m the hired hand and you’re the boss’s daughter?’’

  ‘‘Because I’m a woman, you’re a man, and only engaged couples do such things.’’

  ‘‘That ain’t so, Essie. Lots o’ couples do it, and not ’cause they’re engaged, but because they like each other. And it feels real nice. And it chases away the loneliness. You ever get lonely, Essie?’’

  Yes.

  He recaptured her hand, nuzzling it like a horse searching for a sweet, the stubble on his cheek abrading her palm.

  ‘‘Them married folks,’’ he said, ‘‘they never think about us. What it’s like to go without bein’ touched. Without bein’ loved.’’ He raised himself up into a sitting position. ‘‘You ever been kissed?’’

  Once.

  ‘‘I’d shore like to kiss you, girl.’’

  And try as she might, she could not deny her interest in kissing him, too. How could she not? She’d never seen a more beautiful man. And never had one made her insides jump the way he did. Certainly Hamilton hadn’t. Not even once.

  And Adam was right. She did grow tired of relying on stray animals and the occasional child for a scrap of affection. She longed for more. Much more. But no matter what he said, contact of a personal nature was not done unless the man had spoken to the woman’s father first.

  But she’d let Hamilton kiss her and he’d not spoken to Papa . . . or to her. So perhaps couples did share such intimacies without parental permission.

  She reviewed in her mind some of the young courting couples in town. Shirley Bunting and Charlie Ballew. Flossie Shaw and Dewey Taylor. Lillie Sue Gulick and Hugh Grimmet. Every single one of those girls had been looked at the way Adam now looked at her.

  He placed a hand at the base of her head, tunneled his fingers into her hair twist, and pulled her toward him. She did not resist.