Courting Trouble

  Thank you, she mouthed to Ewing.

  He winked.

  The gesture so startled her, she dropped her scissors. He grinned and did it again.

  ‘‘You ever cut a fella’s hair before?’’ Harley asked.

  ‘‘What? Oh. Yes. Of course. I’ve cut my father’s many a time. Now, sit still.’’

  She picked up the scissors and concentrated on her task. She couldn’t fathom why in the world Ewing would wink at her. That would be like, like Jeremy winking at her. She shook her head. Ewing might have grown up some, but she couldn’t think of him as anything other than a tagalong that never shut up.

  ‘‘I hear you’ve been drilling oil wells,’’ Ewing said.

  ‘‘Yes. Papa has a rig over on Twelfth, though it has yet to produce.’’

  ‘‘How far down are they?’’

  ‘‘I’m not really sure.’’

  ‘‘Who’s working the rig?’’

  She pulled a section of Harley’s hair up with her comb, trapping it between her fingers before snipping off its ends. ‘‘Jeremy Gillespie and a man by the name of Cal Redding.’’

  ‘‘Redding? Who’s that?’’

  ‘‘He’s new to town. Only been here a month or so.’’

  ‘‘Who worked the rig before that?’’

  ‘‘A drifter.’’

  ‘‘Adam, that cowboy I was tellin’ ya about,’’ Harley piped in.

  Essie froze, wondering what Harley had said about Adam. She caught herself with idle hands and immediately resumed her cutting.

  The silence was heavy and uncomfortable. But no, she was just imagining it. Ewing had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary about Adam. The girl washing the windows headed back to the kitchen with her bucket and rag.

  ‘‘Tell me about him, Essie,’’ Ewing said, his voice soft.

  She glanced at him briefly, then began to cut a section around Harley’s ears. ‘‘There is nothing to tell, really. He was a drifter. Came to town, worked for a while, then left.’’

  ‘‘Golly, Miss Essie, that ain’t true. He petted Colonel. He helped us catch them mice. He bought me sarsaparillas. He could rope anything that moved. And you ran over him with your wheeled feet. Remember?’’

  She swallowed. ‘‘Put your chin down, Harley, and quit talking so I can even out the back.’’

  She cut the back, the silence worse now. Much worse.

  ‘‘Okay. You can raise your chin.’’

  He lifted his head and she parted his hair, combing it to one side.

  ‘‘There,’’ she said. ‘‘All done.’’ She untied the sheet from around his neck.

  Harley jumped off the stool. ‘‘How do I look?’’

  ‘‘Handsome,’’ she answered. ‘‘You look very handsome.’’

  ‘‘Handsomer than Adam?’’

  Her lips parted. ‘‘Yes.’’

  He puffed out his chest. ‘‘Thank ya, Miss Essie. Can I go now?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  He raced out the door, letting it bang closed behind him. She stared at it, the sheet hanging limp in her hand.

  ‘‘Adam was handsome?’’ Ewing asked.

  Essie lowered her gaze. ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered.

  He stood. ‘‘I’ll go get the broom so we can sweep up this mess.’’

  chapter TWENTY-TWO

  IT FELT FUNNY ENTERING the Slap Out from the front door instead of the back. Essie paused a moment just inside the threshold, inhaling the familiar scent of molasses, leather, and grain. She took in the store and the changes that had been made.

  The corner shelf and table she had once arranged to hold sewing and millinery items now held a hodgepodge of goods—sewing notions, cookware, even farming supplies. The medicinals were no longer grouped according to ailments, nor even grouped alphabetically. She could not tell if there was any rhyme or reason whatsoever to their order on the shelf.

  No items had been set out on the front porch to lure customers in, nor did the windows hold anything of particular interest.

  The stove at the back was still there, though, with a hot pot of coffee and cups hanging in invitation. Huddled over a barrel, Mr. Vandervoort jumped his black disk across the checkerboard, spit into a spittoon, then gloated while Mr. Owen crowned him. Hamilton displayed an array of grommets for Mr. Bunert, the harness maker. Heads together, Katherine and Sadie Tyner studied the catalog.

  Essie took a close look at Sadie and wondered, not for the first time, if she was the mysterious owner of the ‘‘mouse catcher.’’ If she was, it hadn’t done the girl much good.

  ‘‘Essie,’’ Hamilton exclaimed, looking up. ‘‘It’s good to see you. Come on in. You know where the coffee is.’’ He smiled. ‘‘And I guess you know where everything else is, too. Katherine or I will be with you in a moment.’’

  ‘‘I’m fine, Hamilton, take your time.’’ She glanced at Katherine.

  The petite woman, wearing a stiff white apron Essie had donned many a time, was whispering to Sadie. The girl giggled and glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to Katherine, leaning close to give her response.

  ‘‘Miss Essie,’’ Mr. Vandervoort boomed. ‘‘This is the third time today I’ve beaten Lafoon. Come over here and give me some competition.’’

  She draped her cloak on a hat rack, then wove around barrels, crates, and tables. ‘‘Is he cheating, Mr. Owen?’’

  ‘‘I believe he is, Miss Essie, I just cain’t quite figure out how. He always straightens up when you come round, though. So maybe my luck will improve now.’’

  She picked up the coffee kettle, but only the dregs remained. She moved to the coffee grinder, poured in some beans and cranked the handle, the potent aroma soothing and familiar.

  Katherine hurried to her side. ‘‘That’s my job. If you’ll just wait until I’m through with Miss Tyner, I will take care of this.’’

  Essie released the grinder and took a step back.

  ‘‘Oh, let her do it, Katherine,’’ Hamilton said from across the room. ‘‘Nobody can brew a pot of coffee the way Essie can.’’

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ Katherine hissed.

  ‘‘Some fabric.’’

  She waved her hand in the general direction of the cloth. ‘‘Well, when you find what you are looking for, I will cut it off the bolt. Is that clear?’’

  ‘‘Certainly,’’ Essie said, averting her gaze. ‘‘Please, excuse me.’’ She moved to the alcove housing the cloth. The selection had diminished considerably. Replacement bolts should have long ago been ordered.

  Katherine returned to help Sadie. The men resumed their game. Hamilton filled out a credit slip for Mr. Bunert.

  A few moments later, the bell on the door jingled and the harness maker left. She fingered a corner of some black India lawn.

  ‘‘Find what you’re looking for?’’ Hamilton asked softly, slipping up behind her.

  ‘‘Didn’t we used to have some brown worsted wool?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Why, yes.’’ He scanned the stacked bolts. ‘‘Hmmm. I don’t see any, but I’d have ordered it if we’d been low.’’

  He rummaged through the cloth, lifting up a bolt here and there.

  Finally, he straightened and sighed. ‘‘I’m sorry. We must be out. I had no idea.’’

  ‘‘It’s all right.’’

  ‘‘It’s not all right. This never used to happen when you were here.’’ He flashed a glance at Katherine, then stepped farther into the alcove and out of his wife’s view. ‘‘Would you consider coming back, Essie? Things haven’t been the same since you left.’’

  ‘‘It’s not even been a full three months, Hamilton,’’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘‘Give her some time.’’

  ‘‘It didn’t take you more than a week to have this place running like clockwork.’’

  ‘‘She’s had a lot to adjust to. A new husband, a new baby, a new town. You must be patient.’’

  ‘‘But look at this place. It’s a mes
s.’’

  ‘‘Hamilton, please. You’re embarrassing me.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Katherine said, causing both of them to jump. ‘‘Isn’t this cozy?’’

  The woman stood just outside the alcove, her body stiff, her lips pursed.

  ‘‘Where’s the brown worsted wool?’’ Hamilton snapped.

  ‘‘Why don’t you ask Miss Spreckelmeyer? She seems to know where everything is, now, doesn’t she?’’

  Hamilton’s cheeks flushed, and Essie felt the heat rising to her own, as well.

  ‘‘I believe the men are in need of coffee,’’ he said. ‘‘Why don’t you go and make it, Katherine?’’

  She jerked loose the strings behind her waist and yanked off her apron. ‘‘Why don’t you?’’ She shoved the apron against his chest. ‘‘I’m going upstairs to check on Mae and Mrs. Peterson.’’

  She marched away, leaving the two of them alone in the alcove. Her bootheels cracked against the wooden floor, heralding her path from the store to the stairs, until finally a door slammed in the distance.

  ‘‘Do not ever put me in such an awkward position again, Hamilton.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ His glasses magnified his brown eyes and the distress within them.

  ‘‘Comparing your new wife with another is the height of foolishness.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t said anything.’’

  ‘‘You’ve done nothing but sing my praises since the moment I walked through the door. I’d thank you not to let it happen again.’’ She stormed to the front, grabbed her cloak, and left without even saying good-bye to the men in the back.

  Furious, Essie strode toward the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store. She could not decide who she was more irritated with—Hamilton for being so clumsy or Katherine for being unhappy with the man she had stolen right out from under Essie’s nose.

  Crossing the street, she dodged horse droppings, swatted at flies, squinted against the dust kicked up by traffic, barged into the Feed Store, and ran smack into a solid male body.

  ‘‘Whoa!’’ the man said, encircling her with his arms to keep them both from falling. He quickly released her and stepped back. ‘‘Why, Essie. Are you all right?’’

  She took a deep breath. ‘‘I’m sorry, Ewing. I wasn’t watching where I was going.’’

  ‘‘Well, if I’d known it was you, I might not have let go so fast.’’

  She frowned. She understood exactly what he was implying but couldn’t reconcile the fact that it was Ewing talking to her this way.

  The teasing glint in his eye was not at all patronizing, but instead glowed with obvious male interest. Her first thought was exaspera tion, followed by a bit of panic. There was simply something amiss about being admired by a man whose nappies she used to change when his mother was too busy.

  ‘‘I think you must have jarred something loose in our collision,’’ she said.

  He chuckled. ‘‘I assure you, ma’am, I am in full use of my faculties.’’

  She gave a short huff.

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he asked. ‘‘Is it anything I can assist you home with?’’

  ‘‘No, I was just going to pick up some wool. I wanted to make Harley a few pairs of pants and a shirt or two before winter set in.’’

  ‘‘Did you, now? How very good of you.’’

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘‘He’s a sweet boy. Now, if you will excuse me?’’

  He tipped his hat. ‘‘Of course. Good afternoon.’’ He opened the door, glanced back at her and winked.

  She gave him a frown, but he smiled in return—completely unrepentant.

  ————

  Essie stepped into the kitchen, cold from the walk home but anxious to start on Harley’s trousers.

  Mother came around the corner, pulling up short when she saw Essie. ‘‘Where have you been?’’

  ‘‘At the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store,’’ she said, setting her cloth and cake on the table. ‘‘Then I stopped by Mr. Weidmann’s bakery. What’s the matter?’’

  ‘‘Your father wants to see you.’’

  She paused in the unbuttoning of her cloak. ‘‘Why?’’

  Mother unfastened the final button for her, then slipped the cloak from Essie’s shoulders. ‘‘Go on, dear. He said to send you in the moment you arrived home.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘You never used to question me when he wanted to see you.’’

  ‘‘He hasn’t asked to see me since Adam’s desertion and since he banished me from the oil fields.’’

  ‘‘Nevertheless, you’d best not tarry.’’

  Essie turned around.

  Papa stood in the archway separating the hall from the kitchen. ‘‘I need to speak with you,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘Please.’’

  Was he going to reinstate her in his oil business? He’d mellowed somewhat since he’d been reelected, but she hadn’t expected him to give into her wishes quite so soon.

  He stepped back from the archway, allowing her to sweep past and precede him into his office. When the door clicked shut behind him, he placed his hands on one of the upholstered chairs designated for guests and pulled it back slightly.

  She sat, expecting him to circle around his desk. Instead, he sat in the matching chair beside hers.

  For a long time he said nothing. She did not squirm. Nor did she make eye contact, choosing instead to look straight ahead in an effort to appear nonchalant.

  ‘‘Ewing Wortham came by to see me.’’

  She whipped her head around. Ewing? Papa called her in here to talk about Ewing?

  ‘‘It’s not public yet, but our church board has asked him to be its pastor as soon as Preacher Bogart retires at the beginning of the year. Now that Ewing has a means of support, he asked me for permission to court you.’’

  She didn’t know which alarmed her more—the idea of Ewing being her pastor or of Papa giving him permission to court her. ‘‘You told him no, I trust?’’

  ‘‘I did not.’’

  She sucked in her breath. ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘Because he’s a good man.’’

  ‘‘Which is precisely why you should have refused his request.’’ Her eyes widened. ‘‘Please do not tell me you accepted on my behalf? Surely, if you did not refuse him outright, you told him you would think about it, knowing full well you would refuse him later?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t need to think about it.’’

  She shot up from her chair. ‘‘Papa, what are you saying? Are you saying you said yes?!’’

  ‘‘He came all the way back for you.’’

  ‘‘He what?’’

  ‘‘He came back home from Tennessee because he wanted you. He said he’d been confident God would keep you available for him.’’

  She shook, unable to believe this was happening. ‘‘If I have remained unmarried all these years because that snotty-nosed brat has been praying that I be here for him when he returned, then I will personally go and wring his sorry neck!’’

  ‘‘Come now, you can’t be surprised. He’s been infatuated with you since he was ten. He’s written you every quarter since his departure and you’ve answered his letters.’’

  ‘‘His letters were no more than two paragraphs long and I only answered him three times. And I only did that out of courtesy. Out of friendship. Never once did he intimate any romantic feelings for me. I thought he’d outgrown all that!’’

  A hint of humor touched Papa’s face. ‘‘Apparently not.’’

  ‘‘This is not the least bit funny. Have you forgotten that I am ruined? Ruined.’’

  Papa surged to his feet. ‘‘You are nothing of the kind.’’

  ‘‘How can you even say that? You know I am.’’

  ‘‘You made a mistake, as has many an innocent girl.’’

  ‘‘I’m not a girl. I’m a full-grown woman and I certainly am no longer innocent!’’

  ‘‘God is merciful. He gives
second chances.’’

  ‘‘Well, God is not asking to court me.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure?’’ Papa set his jaw.

  Heaven help her, he could not be serious. ‘‘Think, Papa. Ewing is going to be a preacher. A preacher. That would make me a preacher’s wife. A preacher’s wife does not go to her marriage bed soiled!’’

  He slammed his fist on the desk. ‘‘Do not speak of that again.’’

  ‘‘But it happened. You cannot pretend it didn’t simply because you want to.’’

  ‘‘You have been forgiven. In God’s eyes you are as pure as snow.’’

  She pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘‘Perhaps that is so, Papa. But in Ewing’s eyes, I’d be used goods.’’

  ‘‘Enough!’’ he roared. ‘‘I gave him permission to court you. He will be here at five o’clock to take you for a ride.’’

  ‘‘Well, I hope you and he enjoy your little outing, then, because I am not going.’’

  He took a menacing step toward her. It took every bit of self-control she had to hold her ground.

  ‘‘You are going, Esther Spreckelmeyer. Make no mistake. Your bread, your butter, and the clothes on your back are provided by me. And if I say you go, you go. Do you understand?’’

  An overwhelming fury consumed her.

  ‘‘Do you?!’’ he shouted.

  Mother burst into the room.

  Essie whirled toward her. ‘‘Did you know about this?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘And you agreed?’’

  ‘‘I did.’’

  ‘‘How could you?’’

  ‘‘Because your father is correct. You have every right to be courted by a man.’’

  ‘‘I do not! I gave up that right to Adam Currington. Are you suggesting I conceal that truth from Ewing? That I, in essence, lead him on some merry chase all the while knowing he thinks I’m untainted?’’

  ‘‘Well, no, of course not. But there’s no need to be rash. No need to put the cart before the horse.’’

  ‘‘And what happens if the cart and horse line up? What happens if the courtship progresses to the point that he makes an offer? What then?’’

  Mother wrung her hands. ‘‘Your father will handle that when the time comes.’’

  ‘‘I won’t do it.’’ Essie rushed past her mother. ‘‘I’m not going,’’ she cried, running up the stairs and slamming herself into her bedroom.