Courting Trouble

  ‘‘I didn’t want to be in the way.’’

  He flicked a quick glance at Jeremy. ‘‘I’m thinkin’ it’s the boy that’s in the way right now.’’

  Me too, she thought.

  He looked her over again. ‘‘You have any idea how bad I wanna kiss you?’’

  Yes.

  ‘‘We’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that. I can’t keep going days and days without seein’ ya, and then havin’ to mind my manners when I do.’’

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Jeremy yelled. ‘‘Y’all comin’?’’

  Adam removed his hat and made a low, courtly bow. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer? Will ya do me the honors?’’

  He held out his arm, and she hooked her hand inside his elbow. Tucking his arm in, he covered her hand with his and walked her toward the tree. Instead of keeping the requisite distance between them, she leaned into him. With each step her body brushed his upper arm. He ran his thumb over her knuckles.

  Jeremy had found the cloth she’d brought and had spread it out for them to sit on. ‘‘She brought us some sandwiches.’’

  ‘‘What kind?’’ Adam asked, helping her settle.

  ‘‘Fish, looks like.’’

  She smoothed her skirts. ‘‘One moment, Jeremy. I’m sure Adam will want to say grace first.’’

  Jeremy retracted his hand.

  Adam looked a bit startled, then bowed his head. ‘‘God bless the grub. Amen.’’

  ‘‘Amen.’’

  Essie frowned at his abbreviated, awkward prayer. Even hungry, he should have taken time to properly thank the Lord.

  The boys didn’t seem concerned, though, and dove into the food, drinking deeply of the tea and wasting no time in finishing off all that she had brought. For the most part, they restricted their conversation to expressions of appreciation. But that was just fine with her.

  A married woman might receive such compliments often enough to take them for granted, but for Essie it was a rare occasion. Even when she did receive a kind word on her cooking, she usually had to share the credit with her mother. But these Friday lunches were all her own making, and watching Adam devour them was a special pleasure.

  ‘‘You goin’ to the Harvest Festival, Miss Essie?’’ Jeremy asked, slowing down. Once dessert was the only thing left, he usually tried to delay the return to work as long as he could.

  ‘‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.’’

  ‘‘I heard they’re gonna have a tightrope walker this year. Is that what you heard?’’

  ‘‘Papa told me he was a peg-legged man and that he’s going to walk the rope with a cookstove strapped to his back.’’

  ‘‘No foolin’? Did ya hear that, Adam?’’

  ‘‘Shore did.’’ He had finished and lay on his side, propped up on his elbow. He made no secret of studying her.

  ‘‘The Commercial Club’s done asked Adam if he’ll do some ropin’. He’s gonna be part o’ the show, too.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’ She shot Adam a questioning look. ‘‘Well, I hadn’t heard that.’’

  ‘‘Yep. He’s been practicin’ ever’ day now.’’ Jeremy sank his teeth into a molasses cookie. ‘‘Why don’t ya show Miss Essie some o’ yer tricks?’’

  A slow smile crept onto Adam’s face. ‘‘Would you like that, Essie? Would you like to see some o’ my tricks?’’

  ‘‘Say yes, Miss Essie,’’ Jeremy said. ‘‘You’ll take a shine to it. I know ya will.’’

  A warmth spread inside her. ‘‘I believe you’re right, Jeremy. I believe I’d like it very, very much. Please, Adam. Will you show me?’’

  ‘‘It’d be my pleasure, ma’am.’’ But he didn’t move. ‘‘Why don’t ya go get my rope, Jeremy.’’

  The boy jumped up and headed over to the rig.

  ‘‘How much longer ’til Election Day?’’ Adam asked her, lowering his voice.

  ‘‘Not until after the festival.’’

  ‘‘I can’t keep this up for another month. I wanna see ya tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.’’

  Her pulse began to race. What was he saying? That he wanted to speak to Papa before the election or that he wanted to meet secretly with her on a more frequent basis?

  Jeremy returned with what looked to be a twenty-foot rope. Adam coiled it loosely and stepped out from beneath the tree. The moment he cast the rope, it began to whirl, never once touching the ground.

  He didn’t look at what he was doing but kept his attention on her. The rope responded to the merest flick of his wrist. He kept his loop low and parallel to the ground, spinning it around the outer perimeter of his body—round the front, the side, the back. Then he switched hands and spun the rope to the other side and back to the front, where his right hand once again took over.

  Keeping the spinning loop low and in front of him, he jumped in and out with both feet. At one point he stayed inside the loop and brought it up over his body until he had it twirling high above him. He did figure eights to the side. He made the loop larger and larger and even larger before bringing it back to a more normal circumference. He rolled it over his left leg just above the knee and then under.

  He spun it high above his head and held it there for so long that she lowered her gaze from the rope to him. With a start, she realized he was still looking at her.

  ‘‘Come here,’’ he said.

  She could no more resist than if he were the Pied Piper himself. She rose and stood before him.

  ‘‘Closer,’’ he said.

  She took a step forward.

  ‘‘Closer,’’ he whispered.

  She moved into his space.

  The rope came down, encircling the two of them and trapping them inside its magic.

  ‘‘I want to see you,’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘When?’’

  ‘‘Tonight.’’

  ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘The Opery House?’’

  She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘‘Too risky.’’

  ‘‘The creek?’’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘‘Jeremy and some of the other boys fish out there at night.’’

  He paused. ‘‘The magnolia tree?’’

  Her heart began to hammer. ‘‘What time?’’

  ‘‘Eight o’clock.’’ He whipped the rope back up above them, and she returned to the blanket.

  ————

  She sat in corset and drawers, staring at herself in the toilet table’s mirror. This was not like going to the show. At the Opera House, she could pretend they’d gone with the intention of watching the performance.

  But there was only one thing to do beneath the shelter of that magnolia tree. And heaven help her, she wanted to . . . and she didn’t.

  Perhaps it was more a question of how much she wanted to do. She loved the kissing. The feel of his arms wrapped tightly around her. The smell of his soap. The texture of his hair. The exclamations of marvel he made when they were sharing intimacies.

  Yet each time, his hands had become more bold. And instinctively she knew that this time, if she went, he might not be satisfied with touching her through her gown.

  She smoothed her hands down her figure. Clarabel may have allowed it. Other girls in Corsicana may have allowed it. But could she allow it? And if she didn’t, would she lose him, along with her chances for marriage?

  But he’d not spoken of marriage. Nor of what he would do to support them. Nor had he spoken of love.

  Perhaps they should discuss those things tonight. First. And then what? What if he spoke of marriage and commitment and love? What then?

  She ran a brush through her hair. Then he should be willing to wait.

  So why was she trying to decide whether or not to wear the corset cover in her hope chest? The one she’d made herself all those years ago and put away for her wedding night?

  Setting the brush down, she removed her everyday corset cover from a drawer in her wardrobe and determinedly buttoned it on.
br />   ————

  Slipping away from the house had been no trouble. Mother and Papa had invited the mayor and his wife over for a game of dominoes.

  She’d told Papa she was going to do some night fishing at the creek, and she fully intended to do so. After she met with Adam.

  Wearing an old, worn skirt and shirtwaist, appropriate for fishing, soothed her conscience. She’d not taken any pains with her hair or her toilet. She wore no hat.

  And she wore her ugliest and most threadbare underclothes. She’d die before she let anyone see them. That ought to keep her honest.

  The oil field was abandoned and dark. The crickets clattered so loud they almost drowned out the other trilling insects. But the frogs gave them some serious competition, and a thrush that had yet to go to bed played its flutelike song.

  Essie’s boots crunched across the brown grass, her fishing rod and tackle box gripped firmly in her hand. Taking a deep breath, she bent beneath the magnolia’s branches and pulled up short.

  Adam stood leaning against the trunk of the tree, but it was the blanket and pillows he’d spread out on the ground that drew her attention.

  ‘‘How did you get those here without someone seeing?’’ she whispered.

  He stepped forward and took her rod and box. ‘‘Are we going fishing?’’

  ‘‘I am. A little later, that is.’’

  He set the items on the ground and led her to the blanket. ‘‘I didn’t want ya to have to make explanations if your gown got dirty, so I brought us a blanket.’’

  ‘‘And the pillows?’’

  He gave a rakish smile and shrugged.

  She swallowed. ‘‘Adam, I—’’

  ‘‘Shhhh. Sit down and tell me about yer week. I want to know what ya did ever’ minute you were away from me.’’

  They sat on the middle of the blanket, facing each other, Indian style.

  ‘‘But our voices will travel,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Someone might hear and come investigate.’’

  ‘‘We’d hear them long before they’d hear us. But we can whisper if it’d make you feel better,’’ he said, taking both her hands in his.

  ‘‘Yes, please.’’

  ‘‘So, what’d ya do last week?’’ he whispered. ‘‘Start with what happened when the sheriff hauled you home.’’

  She lowered her chin. ‘‘He was very concerned.’’

  ‘‘ ’Bout what?’’

  ‘‘About me attending the ten-cent show.’’

  ‘‘He’s only tryin’ to protect ya.’’

  ‘‘I know. I just wish they’d all leave me alone.’’

  ‘‘Did he say anythin’ about me?’’

  ‘‘No. I’m sure it never crossed his mind that we had gone to the balcony to, um, be alone together.’’

  He smoothed a tendril of hair from her face. ‘‘I’ve relived our time in the Opery House a hundred times in my mind.’’

  ‘‘You have?’’

  ‘‘Well, shore. Haven’t you?’’

  She slowly nodded her head.

  He raised their clasped hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. ‘‘I remember the honeyed taste of yer lips.’’ He bit the tip of her finger. ‘‘The smell o’ cloves in yer hair.’’ Next finger. ‘‘The feel of yer hands on my shoulders.’’ Third finger. ‘‘The feel of my hands on yer—’’

  She flung herself free, grabbed his cheeks and pulled his lips to hers.

  He moved her to his lap. ‘‘Ah, just as sweet as I remembered,’’ he mumbled.

  There was no him. No her. Only them. It lasted forever. It didn’t last long enough.

  ‘‘Oh, Essie. You’re killing me, darlin’,’’ he breathed.

  She tried to see his eyes in the dark, but couldn’t. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I’m wantin’ you something fierce, girl.’’ He cupped her chin. ‘‘Do ya know what that means?’’

  ‘‘I think so.’’

  ‘‘Lemme show you.’’

  She said nothing.

  ‘‘Please.’’

  ‘‘We’re not married.’’

  They were still whispering. The sounds of the night creatures paled in comparison to the roaring inside her as right and wrong waged war.

  ‘‘But we will be,’’ he said.

  ‘‘We will?’’

  He grasped her shoulders and leaned back where he could see her. ‘‘Well, o’ course. What’d you think?’’

  Euphoria bubbled over inside her. ‘‘You never said anything.’’

  ‘‘Maybe not with words, but I’ve sure as shootin’ shown ya.’’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘‘Oh, Adam. I love you.’’

  He clamped his mouth to hers and they tumbled to the ground, stretching out on the blanket. It was much, much later before she realized he’d never said he loved her, too.

  chapter SIXTEEN

  MELVIN HEADED TO Twelfth Street, an unlit lantern in one hand, a rifle in the other. He’d meant to get out there much sooner, but he’d been held up by two bar fights and a runaway horse.

  He pulled his hat low. He was gettin’ too old for this.

  The night was unseasonably warm for October but still cool enough to be comfortable. He’d seen Currington earlier this evening with a pouch slung over his shoulder and thought the drifter had decided to move on without tellin’ the judge. So Melvin followed him.

  And what he’d discovered was much worse than if the cowboy had skipped town. What he’d discovered was that no-account preparing himself a little love nest.

  Melvin wondered who the poor, gullible thing was this time. He’d seen girls fall a hundred times before and would probably see a hundred more before he was through. But it never ceased to rile him.

  He pictured the young gals in town who had been flirting with disaster lately—Ruth Smothers, Carrie Quigley, Lorna Wedick. There were plenty right now for Currington to choose from. Girls whose parents were blind to what their ‘‘little angels’’ were up to.

  And it always fell to him to be the bearer of bad news. Blast Currington for putting him in this position. He’d planned on being inside their hidey-hole before the couple had shown up.

  That way, he’d avert the disaster; he’d make sure the gal knew she’d be better off standing in a nest of rattlers than giving herself to a no-good drifter; and he’d run Currington right outta this town.

  It’d be too late for that now. Instead, he’d be taking Currington and his girly home to her mama and papa. He hoped it wasn’t the Smothers girl. Her mama had enough vipers in her brood already with those boys of hers without having to deal with one of the girls.

  He slowed his pace and approached quietly, but he needn’t have bothered. The two of them were making enough noise to wake the dead. He paused right outside the tree, disgusted at the sounds coming from inside.

  ‘‘Currington?’’ he barked, readying his rifle.

  A gasp and a scramble.

  ‘‘Get out here.’’

  No response.

  Melvin set the lantern on the ground, struck a match and lit the wick.

  ‘‘I’m comin’,’’ Currington answered.

  He stepped out from beneath the tree, shirttail hanging and an unfastened silver belt buckle peeking from between the shirt’s opening.

  Melvin’s insides started to churn. ‘‘Who you got in there?’’

  ‘‘How’d ya know we were here?’’ the boy snarled. He was blazing mad.

  Well, good. That made two of them.

  ‘‘Who you got in there?’’ Melvin repeated.

  Currington eyed the rifle and clamped his mouth shut. Melvin could hear frantic movements coming from inside the shelter. Whoever it was evidently had some repairing to do.

  ‘‘Come on outta there,’’ Melvin said, none too gently.

  More scrambling.

  ‘‘Who is it, Currington?’’

  The boy refused to speak.

  ‘‘Either you come out here on your own, gi
rl, or I’ll come in there and drag you out.’’

  She whimpered.

  ‘‘Give her a minute, Sheriff,’’ Adam said, his tone more threatening than respectful.

  Melvin checked his impatience, then after another moment decided he’d waited as long as he was gonna. ‘‘That’s it.’’ He pulled back the branches.

  Squealing, the girl curled her knees up under her skirts, wrapped her arms around them, and bent her head. Long blond hair flowed loose down the back of her worn shirtwaist. She rocked herself.

  Squinting his eyes, he studied her. The girl was familiar, but with her face hidden, he couldn’t quite place who it was. Grabbing the lantern, he held it high. Evidence of lost innocence spotted the blanket.

  Blast.

  ‘‘Come on,’’ Melvin said, more gently this time. ‘‘Come on out.’’

  She raised her head. Air rushed out of his lungs. No. No! Not Essie.

  Distress, humiliation, and stark terror played in rapid succession across her face.

  He plunked down the lantern, then dropped the branches and rifle. ‘‘You son of a—’’

  Currington took a step back, bringing his fists up, but not fast enough. Melvin threw a punch, sinking it hard into the boy’s jaw.

  ‘‘No!’’ Essie screamed.

  Adam started to fall back, but Melvin grabbed his shirt, hauled him upright and hammered him another one. This one had a satisfying crack accompanying the blow and sent the cowboy flying.

  ‘‘Stop it! Stop it right now!’’ Essie screeched. ‘‘I mean it!’’

  She threw herself at Melvin and tried to hold him back.

  He grabbed her shoulders. ‘‘Did he force you?’’

  Her eyes widened. ‘‘No, no. Of course not.’’

  ‘‘You can’t mean that, Essie.’’

  ‘‘It’s true.’’ She hung her head, avoiding his eyes.

  He glanced behind her. Adam knelt on the ground, holding his face, blood leaking from his nose.

  Melvin hauled her against him, hugging her tight. ‘‘What the blazes were you thinkin’? Sneaking off to meet some good-for-nothin’ drifter? He’s not worth two hairs on your head. What possessed you to do such a thing?’’

  She was crying. Hard. He was nearly crying himself.

  ‘‘I love him,’’ she said. ‘‘We’re going to be married.’’