Courting Trouble

  Mr. Crook joined Essie. ‘‘What do you think you are doing, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’

  ‘‘Lower your voice, Mr. Crook. I’m filling Jeremy’s order. What does it look like I’m doing?’’

  ‘‘It looks like you are giving away the store.’’

  ‘‘He brought in a trade.’’

  Mr. Crook flipped through the hides. ‘‘These hides are worthless. I’ll not trade good merchandise for—Great Scott!’’ He flung back the top three and stared aghast at the fourth. ‘‘What is that?’’

  ‘‘It’s a possum.’’

  ‘‘A possum?’’

  ‘‘Hush,’’ she whispered, tying a knot around the top of a small burlap sack filled with rice. ‘‘Can’t you see his family is starving? Just look at the boy.’’

  Mr. Crook began to roll up the hides. ‘‘No. Absolutely not. I will not trade for these ridiculous skins. Go return those items to their appropriate bins. I will handle this.’’

  She grabbed his arm. ‘‘Don’t. Please, Hamilton.’’

  His jaw slackened and it took her a moment to realize she’d used his given name. She’d been thinking of him in her imaginings as Hamilton, and it had accidentally slipped out.

  Her face burned, but she remained firm. ‘‘Surely this one time will not hurt.’’

  ‘‘The Gillespies have been charging all their purchases against this year’s crop, and cotton is now at five cents on the Exchange and dropping. I cannot afford to extend any more credit to anyone. Especially not the Gillespies.’’

  ‘‘How much for this rice and oatmeal, along with a vial of cod liver oil?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘He wants liver oil, too? Ridiculous.’’

  ‘‘How much?’’

  He picked up the two small sacks of oatmeal and rice, judging their weight in his hands. ‘‘Two seventy-five for these, plus twenty-five cents for the liver oil.’’

  She quelled her reaction to the extravagant quote. Her family bought their grains by the barrel. She had no idea small portions cost so much.

  ‘‘And the hides?’’ she asked. ‘‘How much credit for the hides?’’

  He held her gaze. ‘‘None.’’

  He made to move past her, but she tightened her grip on his arm. ‘‘I’ll replace your rice and oatmeal tomorrow from my own personal stock and pay for the liver oil with cash.’’

  ‘‘Absolutely not.’’

  ‘‘Why? What possible difference could it make?’’

  He leaned close. Whiffs of his shaving soap teased her nose. ‘‘I do not know what you think you are doing here, Miss Spreckelmeyer, but you are coming perilously close to overstaying your welcome.’’

  She lessened the pressure on his arm, changing it to more of a caress, then softened her tone. ‘‘I’d like to purchase those hides you have for three dollars even, please, sir.’’

  He studied her over the rim of his glasses. ‘‘You will have to buy them from Jeremy, then. I would not lower myself to carrying possum hides.’’

  ‘‘It would wound his pride and embarrass me. Please. Just this once?’’

  He hesitated in indecision, then slowly straightened. ‘‘All right, Miss Spreckelmeyer. I will award the Gillespies three dollars credit for the hides . . . just this once.’’

  ‘‘I’ll pay you back.’’

  ‘‘No. No you won’t. But leave me out of the negotiations and make sure Jeremy understands not to set foot in here again with any more hides. Is that clear?’’

  For a moment she imagined what it would be like once they were a couple. She would fling her arms about him and thank him effusively for his consent. For now, she simply let the warm feelings flow freely through her eyes and smile.

  She rubbed her thumb against his stiffly ironed sleeve. ‘‘Thank you. I’ll always remember your kindness.’’

  He jerked his arm away. She scooped up the sacks and called for Jeremy, asking him to bring her the liver oil. While she poured some into a small vial, she explained that he was fortunate to have brought those skins in when he did, for after today they wouldn’t be taking any more hides for trade. Seemed Mr. Crook would no longer be stocking them.

  ————

  Essie ruined three hats that first week at the Slap Out. This morning a wall-mounted bracket lamp snagged the chiffon ribbon on her latest hat, bringing her up short like a dog on a leash.

  ‘‘My stars and garters,’’ she murmured, unhooking herself from the bronze sconce, then stuffing the trim back up into her Evangeline hat. ‘‘Here they are, Mrs. Quigley.’’

  Essie laid ribbed hose, wool hose, leather stockings, and plain stockings on the counter. ‘‘This is our selection of boys’ hosiery, the leather being the best, of course, giving fifty percent more wear than any of the others.’’

  Mrs. Quigley picked up the plain cotton stockings.

  ‘‘Those are some of the most satisfactory, ma’am. See the wide elastic hem at the top? That will help keep them from sliding down.’’

  Mrs. Quigley squinted for a closer examination.

  ‘‘They have double-spliced heels and toes, as well,’’ Essie continued, ‘‘and are thirty-five cents each.’’

  The Quigleys lived on the south side of town in a neatly kept house with a wide front porch. Mr. Quigley worked in the gristmill and had fathered a whole passel of youngsters. Three of them stood solemnly beside their mother, but Essie knew full well their behavior at school was less than pristine.

  ‘‘And who is to be the recipient of these fine stockings?’’ Essie asked the boys.

  ‘‘Grundy,’’ the older one said. ‘‘He’s always runnin’ around without his boots on, tearing up his hose.’’

  ‘‘Am not.’’

  ‘‘Are too.’’

  Mrs. Quigley silenced the boys with a look.

  Essie smiled. ‘‘Well, I suppose we’ve all made a muck of our hosiery a time or two.’’ She turned her attention to Mrs. Quigley. ‘‘Have you seen our new magic darner?’’

  She retrieved the little loom-like machine that would mend hosiery, silk, wool, or cotton. ‘‘It’s small enough to fit inside your sewing basket and so easy to use, even the children could operate it.’’

  By the time Essie was done, she had sold them three pairs of stockings, the magic darner, a pattern for a five-gored skirt, and several remnants of cloth.

  After the Quigleys left, Hamilton joined her behind the counter and held up a satin rosette. ‘‘Did you lose this, by any chance?’’

  Her hand flew to the right side of her hat and discovered a gap. ‘‘Oh my. I seem to catch my trim on something every time I turn around.’’ She took the rosette and tried to return it to its proper place but could not make it stay.

  He chuckled. ‘‘Here. Let me.’’

  She held herself perfectly still while he secured the flower back onto her hat. Her nose was mere inches from the buttons on his double-breasted fancy wash vest and the knot on his silk necktie. She breathed in the scent of his shaving soap, along with a hint of mustiness.

  Her gaze veered to his raised arm and the damp stain on his shirt. The intimacy of seeing such a personal thing did queer things to her stomach. Blindly, she grabbed the counter to steady herself.

  ‘‘There,’’ he said. ‘‘That should hold, for a while, anyway.’’

  She lifted her chin, the brim of her hat revealing his jaw, cheeks, and nose one linear inch at a time. She moistened her lips. The brown eyes behind his square spectacles were as warm as hot cocoa and at very close range.

  ‘‘You have quite a knack for sales, Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’

  ‘‘It’s nothing, really,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I just know everybody and what kinds of things they need, is all.’’

  His mouth hinted at a smile. ‘‘That may be true, but there is a difference in knowing a thing and actually making the sale.’’

  He stepped back and began to roll up the selection of hosiery Mrs. Quigley had decided against. ‘‘I have to a
dmit,’’ he said, ‘‘having you here this past week has been wonderful.’’

  Her lips parted. ‘‘For me, too.’’

  ‘‘Well, perhaps we should make the situation a bit more permanent?’’

  She sucked in her breath. ‘‘Yes. Oh yes.’’

  He glanced at her and smiled. ‘‘Well, then. I shall pay you two dollars and fifty cents a week, starting now.’’

  She blinked. ‘‘No. I mean, that’s not necessary.’’

  ‘‘Of course it is.’’ He handed her the leather stockings and started on the wool. ‘‘You have a ribbon hanging down the left side of your hat.’’

  She stuffed it back up. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome.’’ He handed her the rest of the hosiery and headed to his desk in the corner.

  ————

  July gave way to August, and the hot summer sun broiled Collin Street. Hamilton forced himself to smile and nod from the Slap Out’s front porch as horses, wagons, and townsfolk scurried to his competitor’s establishment, causing dirt to surge upward in constant turmoil.

  Word had spread early this morning that Charlie Gillespie and his boys had brought in a big black bear hide and traded it to the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store. Hamilton struggled to hide his chagrin.

  The Slap Out faced east at the corner of Eleventh and Collin, offering him a clear view of the Pickens’ place one hundred yards down on the opposite side of the road.

  He squinted into the sunlight. Jeremy Gillespie bounded out of the Feed Store and headed down the street, straight toward him.

  ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer!’’ the boy hollered, waving his hand high in the air. Essie had busied herself all morning dragging various goods outside in hopes of luring a few customers in, but even Vandervoort and his cronies had failed to make an appearance.

  She turned at the sound of her name, then leaned far out over the railing, waving back. The unladylike position hoisted up her hems, exposing her petticoats and a pair of well-worn boots. Her backside poked out in an ill-mannered fashion.

  ‘‘Hullo!’’ she yelled back.

  The Widow Yarbrough, passing by, jerked her gaze toward the spectacle, then raised a disapproving eyebrow at Hamilton. He cringed with embarrassment.

  Miss Spreckelmeyer’s toes left the plank flooring, and for one horrid moment he thought she might tumble right over the side, but she managed to keep her balance and land safely on the porch, showing no distress over her near mishap.

  ‘‘We caught us a bear,’’ Jeremy exclaimed.

  ‘‘I heard!’’ she answered. ‘‘You must tell me all about it.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you gotta see her to believe her. I’d have brought her to the Slap Out first, but last month you done said Mr. Crook’s got more hides than he needs.’’

  ‘‘And so he does,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Not bear hides,’’ Hamilton growled. ‘‘One can never have too many bear hides.’’

  She glanced up at him, a confused expression crossing her face. ‘‘Well, we have no one but ourselves to blame, Mr. Crook. ‘The miser is as much in want of what he has as of what he has not.’ ’’

  He stiffened. ‘‘There is no ‘we,’ Miss Spreckelmeyer. Furthermore, I am not a miser. And that black bear would have been mine if not for you.’’

  Jeremy whipped off his hat. ‘‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Crook. It weren’t Miss Spreckelmeyer’s fault Pa took the bear to old Mr. Pickens.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘Oh, but I’m afraid it is, Jeremy. I didn’t specify earlier that we are quite interested in large-game hides. It’s only the small ones that we no longer stock.’’

  Jeremy glanced between the two of them, then began to back up. ‘‘Wall, I’ll be sure to tell Pa to bring the next one straight to you.’’

  Like there will be a next one, Hamilton thought.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said.

  The Gillespie boy replaced his hat, then turned and hustled back to the Feed Store.

  ‘‘I’m so happy for them,’’ she said. ‘‘They’ll have food a-plenty now.’’

  Hamilton pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘‘Do you have any idea how much money you have cost me?’’

  She blinked. ‘‘Nonsense. No one is going to actually purchase that bearskin. Why, it would cost a fortune.’’

  ‘‘That may be so, but folks far and wide will go to the Feed Store to have a look at it, now, won’t they? And while they are there, they will make other purchases and then have no reason to come to the Slap Out.’’

  ‘‘Hmmm. I see what you mean.’’ She thrummed her fingers against her skirt. ‘‘Well, we will simply have to come up with something better.’’

  ‘‘Better than a black bear hide?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ She hooked her hands behind her, throwing her shoulders back and calling attention to the pale blue dimity shirtwaist she wore. It was a ready-made that he kept in stock and he’d easily sold three times the number he normally did. He felt certain it was because the style suited Miss Spreckelmeyer, and other women thought it might flatter them, as well.

  She took a few lazy steps toward him, her head cocked to the side, a blond wisp escaping her coif. ‘‘Any ideas?’’ she asked.

  He frowned. She stood close, so close that he could see each and every nuance of color in her blue eyes and smell the hint of clove she used for fragrance. He could even hear her breath coming and going in regular intervals.

  ‘‘Perhaps we should have a contest,’’ she murmured.

  His frown deepened. ‘‘There is no ‘we.’ ’’

  ‘‘Or a tournament.’’

  Hamilton studied her. He knew full well she was after a husband and he had no interest whatsoever. He hadn’t meant to encourage her. Had not, in fact, realized until it was too late that when he praised her for her performance, she took it in a much more personal manner.

  But in the month since Essie had forced herself on him and the Slap Out, his sales had soared—at least until she’d sent his business across the street to gawk at a bearskin.

  Never had he seen such a salesclerk, though. She sold leather preserver to the carriage and harness dealer. Sold books on midwifery to the doctor. Sold fancy goods to the ladies.

  And even though she freely squandered inventory on those in need, his profits had soared.

  As a shopkeeper she would do, but as a wife? Never. Hamilton knew he could do much better than the town spinster. Still, he had to tread carefully.

  He was an outsider to Corsicana, and though the townsfolk tutted behind their hands over Miss Spreckelmeyer’s unorthodox tomboyish ways and her ridiculous hats, she was a local and they were quite fond of her. Treated her much like they did Cat, the town stray.

  If the tabby showed up on their porch, they’d give her warm milk. If a storm was brewing, they’d give her shelter for the night. If mischievous boys were mistreating her, they’d interfere on her behalf. But their sympathies did not extend to the point of actually taking her home and calling her their own.

  No. Miss Spreckelmeyer was the town spinster and he, for one, deserved better.

  She noticed his scrutiny and her eyes brightened. ‘‘A checkers competition. What do you think about that?’’

  ‘‘I think, Miss Spreckelmeyer, that you and I need to have a talk.’’

  Her face softened. She took another step forward. He took one back.

  ‘‘All right, Hamilton. When would be a good time for our . . . talk?’’

  That was another thing. Calling him by his given name when he’d not given her leave to do so. No wonder the men of this town had shied away when she came calling. Never had he met a more forward, unpredictable and impulsive woman. And from such a good family, too. For their sake and for the sake of his good standing in the community, he would be sure to let her down gently.

  ‘‘Tomorrow evening,’’ he said. ‘‘After store closing. Would that suit?’’

  A soft sigh escaped her lips. ‘‘Yes. Yes, it
most certainly would.’’

  —————

  Essie could not believe her good fortune. Had she known how easy it was to bring a man to heel, she’d have done so years ago. But then, perhaps it had nothing to do with ‘‘fortune’’ and everything to do with God’s plan for her life. Finally—finally—His plan was bearing fruit.

  She laid her new summer skirt and shirtwaist across the back of her bedroom window chair, careful not to crease or wrinkle the freshly ironed garments.

  She knew how much Hamilton liked it when she wore readymades from their store, and she wanted to be sure to please him tomorrow. For tomorrow, after store closing, he was going to declare his intentions.

  Oh, how she wished she could wear one of her lovely hats, but she’d given up on trying to wear them in the store. If she were to don one now, it might spook him.

  She laid a white linen detachable collar and matching cuffs on her toilet table, the only concession to extravagance in the ensemble she was preparing. Glancing in the mirror, she caught her reflection. The reflection of the soon-to-be Mrs. Hamilton Crook.

  chapter THREE

  ESSIE GROANED, CLUTCHING her stomach and curling up tightly on the bed. Mother dipped a cloth in cool water, then wrung it out. Essie eyed the array of clothing hanging limp on the chair so far away.

  Mother draped the cloth across Essie’s forehead.

  ‘‘I have to get up. Mr. Crook is expecting me.’’

  ‘‘You cannot. You’re too sick. Besides, you’ve no business forcing yourself on that poor man. I cannot imagine what you have been thinking to make such a spectacle of yourself. It’s downright embarrassing.’’

  ‘‘Please, Mother. You’ve made your opinion on this crystal clear, but I haven’t changed my mind. I’m going to continue working at the Slap Out for as long as Mr. Crook will have me.’’

  Her insides gurgled and she slapped a hand over her mouth. Mother pulled the chamber pot from under the bed, uncovered it and held it while Essie emptied her stomach again.

  There was nothing for it. She’d have to send word to Hamilton that she would not be in to the store today. Nor to their little tête-à-tête afterward.

  ————

  ‘‘I’m telling you it is here. Miss Spreckelmeyer said so. She knows how I have been waiting and waiting for that book. You must locate it straightaway, sir. I insist.’’