Courting Trouble

  Hamilton scowled. The cowboy wasn’t looking at the snake. He was looking at Essie. What the blazes was wrong with her? Couldn’t she see he was all talk? A man with looks like that could want only one thing from a spinster woman.

  Hamilton came out from around the counter, but Mrs. Lockhart intercepted him.

  ‘‘I’ve been suffering from a most troublesome headache, Mr. Crook. Might you have something for me?’’ she asked.

  He hesitated, glanced at Essie in frustration, then changed directions and headed to the medicinals.

  The cowboy from Essie’s childhood dreams had materialized before her very eyes. And, oh my, but he was even more beautiful in the flesh.

  The prairie king ventured from the man’s arm on up to his neck. Its head disappeared momentarily while it circled around only to return again to the front.

  The tail end of the three-and-a-half-foot snake still clung to her neck, effectively tying her to Mr. Adam Currington. The king lifted its head, testing the air with its forked tongue. She reached out and the pet glided across to her hand. Currington moved closer, letting the snake encircle them.

  ‘‘What’s its name?’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘He doesn’t have one yet. We’re in the middle of a naming contest, actually. Would you like to enter?’’

  ‘‘You gonna be the judge?’’

  ‘‘One of them.’’

  ‘‘Is there a prize, too?’’

  She nodded.

  He stroked his finger along the snake’s back where it crossed her shoulder. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I surely would like to play, then.’’

  His hat had left an indention in his blond hair, bringing out a few streaks of brown that matched the brows framing his blue-green eyes. When he smiled, the coppery skin crinkled around their corners.

  ‘‘I’m afraid you’ll be well on your way by the time the winner is announced,’’ Hamilton said, startling Essie into taking a step back.

  She gathered up the snake, which Mr. Currington released reluctantly, then squeezed through her audience of children to place it back in its crate.

  The stranger stuck his hand out toward Hamilton. ‘‘I’m Adam Currington, one of the crew that’s been hired by the Commercial Club to dig a few water wells for y’all.’’

  Disappointment surged through Essie. ‘‘You’re not a cowboy?’’ she asked, placing two rocks on top of the mesh lid.

  He retrieved his coffee and rested his weight on one leg. ‘‘Well, I reckon I am, ma’am. But it gets mighty hot and lonely on the trail, so I decided a change might be nice.’’

  ‘‘You’re a drifter, then,’’ Hamilton said.

  Essie frowned. ‘‘Mr. Currington, this is Hamilton Crook, proprietor of the Slap Out.’’

  ‘‘Howd—’’

  ‘‘Lookit here, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ Jeremy Gillespie hollered, charging into the store with six of his twelve siblings behind him, chattering in excitement. Withdrawing his hands from the large pockets of his jacket, he held two live mice suspended by their tails in one hand, three in the other.

  Sadie Tyner screamed, startling everyone including Jeremy, who loosened his hold on the mice. Three of the five fell with a thump to the floor and scattered in all directions.

  One of the furry critters scampered between Adam’s legs and he jumped back, sloshing coffee onto his sleeve. The judge’s daughter dove for the mouse, stretching out full length on the floor and knocking Adam’s feet right out from under him.

  He pitched sideways to keep from landing on her, spraying coffee in the general direction of heaven. His shoulder clipped a barrel as he hit the floor, knocking over a box of ball bearings. The metal balls scattered onto the wooden floor, pinging with each bounce.

  As he rolled out of their way, he found himself pressed cheek-by-jowl against Miss Essie. The gal had managed to trap one of the escapees in her outstretched hands, then, quicker than a flea, she hopped up and ran with it to the back, giving Adam no nevermind at all.

  The youngsters had taken up the chase like hounds after a fox, barking and squealing and shouting. The scrawny little miss who’d started the ruckus with her scream hadn’t let up. She’d vaulted onto a table of ready-mades, knocking shoes, hats, long johns, and bonnets onto the floor. One of the old beans pushed the girl’s mother behind him, shielding her with his body—as if that was going to accomplish anything.

  Adam sprang to his feet and raced through the store, grasping women by their waists and lifting them onto any available surface, whether it be table, counter, barrel, or chair. The one with a cane he was particularly gentle with, excusing himself even as he placed her on a countertop.

  He heard her sigh like a schoolgirl just before he saw Essie storm out of the back room with a small cage and a black bowl that had a rod attached to it. She set the cage down in front of the teener who’d brought in the mice—and still had two dangling from his fingertips— then thrust the bowl contraption into the hands of a bowlegged old John standing wide-eyed by the checkerboard.

  ‘‘Here,’’ she shouted over the commotion. ‘‘Use this.’’

  ‘‘I see one!’’ one of the youngsters hollered. Essie pushed the man in that direction, then scanned the floor looking for the third mouse. Her gaze halted abruptly and she flew across the room to a small gap between some shelves and a wall of bins.

  The fancy-pants proprietor stood dazed, motionless, and as worthless as a milk bucket under a bull. Adam hurried over to catch the mouse Essie had spotted, but before he could reach her, she knelt down on all fours and squeezed her arm into the crack between the shelves.

  The space was too dark and narrow to look into, so she pressed her ear against it and blindly felt inside.

  ‘‘Need some help?’’ he asked, squatting down beside her.

  ‘‘I have it, sort of.’’

  ‘‘Sort of?’’

  ‘‘The very tip of its tail is underneath my finger. I’m just trying to . . .’’ She clamped her tongue between her teeth, then gasped. ‘‘Botheration!’’

  She leapt up, searching the floor around them. A lump beneath her skirt caught his attention. The pesky thing was climbing her petticoats like a ladder.

  ‘‘Hold still!’’ he hissed. She froze and he flicked up her skirt, sliding his hand between the dark serge and white petticoat underneath before latching on to the varmint.

  When it dawned on him where his hand lay, he glanced up at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. He might have long been floundering in the mire of sin, but she looked like somebody’d shown her a fifth ace in a poker deck.

  A thunder of boots on the wooden floor at the other end of the store drew his attention. The old cuss with the newfangled mouse catcher spun around like a button on a privy door, trying to capture the wily rodent.

  The children shouted. One of the women swooned. A quick survey of the room assured him no one was taking notice of him and Essie.

  Keeping a tight hold on his own mouse, he rotated his hand so his knuckles rested against her leg, layers of soft, ruffled petticoats shielding her skin from his touch. He was in no hurry as he drug his hand down her long, long leg.

  For a moment, her expression turned soft and dreamy. She was a ripe one, all right. But she was the judge’s daughter and possibly Mr. Prissy Pants’ betrothed. She must have remembered this herself, for she suddenly jerked away from his touch.

  He pulled his hand out and dropped her hem, taking in the dips and swells of her landscape as he stood.

  ‘‘Did you . . . did you get it?’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Right in the palm of my hand, sweetheart.’’

  A cheer rose up from the other faction. ‘‘He caught it! He caught it! Mr. Vandervoort caught it!’’

  Adam gave her the mouse and gently squeezed her waist. ‘‘They’re calling for you, Miss Essie. You’d best go see to them.’’

  Essie helped Mr. Vandervoort put the last mouse into the cage while the children all spoke at once. The cowboy lifted
the women by their waists and set them back on solid ground. The sound of his pandering voice, full of false solicitude, turned Hamilton’s stomach.

  The last time he’d experienced this kind of anger was when his older brothers had bent the tip of a willow tree to the ground and told him to grab on with both hands and feet. They let go and left him clinging upside down for what had seemed like hours.

  He still remembered how helpless he’d been, stuck atop that tree with no way of getting down. If anything, this was worse.

  The front door wrenched open and Sheriff Dunn stomped in. ‘‘What in tarnation is going on?’’ His hollering brought silence as quickly as a gavel in a noisy courtroom.

  Dunn was a solid man. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Just solid. His gray, bushy moustache hid his mouth and made Hamilton want to sell him a moustache comb and scissors every time he saw him.

  Gripping his rifle, Dunn scanned the room, taking in the Gillespie boy and then halting altogether on the cowboy.

  ‘‘Uncle Melvin,’’ Essie exclaimed, hurrying toward him. ‘‘There’s no need for distress. Just a little game of cat-and-mouse.’’

  Vandervoort let out an amused bark.

  ‘‘Crook?’’ the sheriff asked, still keeping his attention on Currington.

  ‘‘Everything’s fine,’’ Hamilton answered.

  The tension in the room dissipated with his words, only to be replaced with a resurgence of excitement as Essie, Vandervoort, and the children all started explaining what had happened. The cowboy helped the last two women from their perches without a word, then picked up his hat and slipped out the door.

  Hamilton noted the sheriff missed none of it, though he appeared to be listening to Essie’s explanation.

  ‘‘So you see, it was really my fault,’’ she continued. ‘‘I had told the children that anyone who brought in a mouse for our snake would receive a chance to actually feed it.’’

  With Currington gone, the sheriff relaxed and rubbed his neck. ‘‘Looks like a twister went through here. You catch ’em all?’’

  ‘‘Yes, we did. And I’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time.’’

  He smiled. ‘‘I know you will.’’

  Sheriff Dunn was Mrs. Spreckelmeyer’s brother and a lifelong friend to Mr. Spreckelmeyer. As Essie’s uncle, he held particular affection for her. Hamilton suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, irritated over the sheriff ’s partiality to Essie almost as much as he had been over the cowboy’s easy banter.

  ‘‘Want to see the mice?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I’d rather see the king.’’

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the snake’s crate.

  After a long look, the sheriff whistled his appreciation. ‘‘That’s a beauty, sugar. You catch that all by yourself?’’

  ‘‘She shore did,’’ little Harley said. ‘‘This thing here had me and Emily Wedick scared something awful. But Miss Essie snatched it up with her bare hands and stuffed it in a gunnysack. She didn’t scream or nothin’. And she caught two of them mouses, too.’’

  Dunn chuckled. ‘‘Well, if she keeps this up, I just might have to deputize her.’’

  Some of the women snickered and Mrs. Tyner, who a few moments earlier had been perched on the counter, put her hands on her hips and snorted.

  ‘‘Of all the ridiculous things,’’ she said. ‘‘A woman deputy, indeed.’’

  Sheriff Dunn straightened his spine, having no tolerance for disparaging remarks concerning his niece.

  Old Vandervoort jumped in, waving the bust enhancer in the air triumphantly. ‘‘Well, I’ll tell you something. I ain’t never seen a mouse catcher that works so good as this one. Where’d you get this, Miss Essie?’’

  Miss Sadie Tyner took one look at the thing and gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. Hamilton appraised the girl, comprehension dawning, only to blush profusely when Miss Sadie caught his speculative perusal. Blood drained from her face.

  ‘‘Why, I found it gathering dust in the back,’’ Essie answered. ‘‘Would you like to purchase it?’’

  ‘‘I surely would,’’ Vandervoort replied, tucking it under his arm like a fancy gentleman’s riding crop.

  ‘‘Me too,’’ Mr. Owen said. Followed by seconds from Jenkins and Richie.

  ‘‘Wonderful. Hamilton?’’ Essie turned to him, flushed with pleasure. ‘‘If you’ll write their orders, I’ll start cleaning up this mess.’’

  He snatched the bust enhancer out of Vandervoort’s grasp. ‘‘This isn’t for sale.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Essie replied. ‘‘Well, all right, then. We’ll just order Mr. Vandervoort one, too.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Hamilton said, beads of sweat forming on his brow. If these ladies figured out what this was he’d be ruined.

  Essie frowned at him.

  Shaking, he wanted nothing more than to toss her out on her backside. He cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m afraid . . . that is, I’m sorry, but the firm that made them has . . . has failed.’’

  Miss Sadie pressed a handkerchief to her brow, looking faint, but apart from Hamilton, no one took notice.

  ‘‘Oh no!’’ Essie said. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

  ‘‘Quite sure.’’ Turning his back, he stomped to the storage room and shoved the enhancer back up on the top shelf.

  ————

  Settling herself onto the piano stool in the parlor, Essie allowed her fingers to move across the keys, playing Beethoven’s ‘‘Fur Elise’’ by heart. Since childhood, Essie had whiled away the hours sitting at the keyboard. And this was the piece she always played when she wanted to indulge a particular fantasy—an idyllic afternoon being romanced by her imaginary beau.

  During the prelude, they picnicked beside Two Bit Creek and fed each other bites of egg salad sandwiches. His lips grazed her finger accidentally. She blushed and pulled her hand away.

  As the interlude began, they swung up onto their horses and raced neck-and-neck around Waller’s Bend, their mounts stretching and straining forward. At the last moment, she bent down, urging the horse forward, and pulled ahead of her cavalier. She hadn’t realized, of course, that he had held his horse back, allowing hers to win.

  The piece moved into a crescendo, and she pulled her mount to a stop. He drew his horse next to hers and brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss.

  A knock at the front door interrupted her musings, but not her music. She softened the notes while her mother answered the door.

  ‘‘Hello, Melvin. Sullivan’s back in his office.’’

  ‘‘Actually, Doreen,’’ he said, ‘‘I was thinking to enjoy this mild weather we’re havin’. Would you mind telling him I’m waiting for him on the porch?’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’

  Essie moved into the final lines. Her mother and Uncle Melvin had talked during the part of the music where she married the man of her dreams. Now she and her ‘‘husband’’ sat at a dinner table with a horde of their offspring gathered round. He said a prayer of thanksgiving. For their meal. For their children. And for their everlasting love.

  She left her finger on the final key until all sound faded. This past month, Hamilton had played the part of the gallant in her dreams, but tonight he’d been replaced by Mr. Adam Currington.

  The cowboy embodied the very thing dreams were made of. Exceptional looks. Exceptional charm. Exceptional . . . everything. A man like him would love the out-of-doors. Animals. Riding. Fishing. She closed her eyes, reliving their shared intimacy, feeling once more the tingles that had run down her leg this morning.

  Dusk settled in, but she didn’t light a lantern. Instead, she sat still on the piano stool, unmoving in the growing dark. A breeze fanned the curtains along the front wall, bringing with it Papa and Uncle Melvin’s voices from the porch as they discussed the prophecies of Isaiah. The conversation eventually drifted from Scriptures to town happenings. When Adam’s name was mentioned, though, Essie’s senses came to attention.

&
nbsp; ‘‘You know much about him?’’ the sheriff asked.

  ‘‘He told the Club he’d lived in the desert so long he knew all the lizards by their front names and was ready for a change.’’

  Essie smiled. Sounded like something Adam would say.

  ‘‘Well, he sure had all the ladies at the Slap Out in a twitter.’’

  ‘‘I can just imagine,’’ Papa said with a laugh.

  ‘‘Speaking of ladies in a twitter,’’ the sheriff continued, ‘‘how’s things between Crook and our girl?’’

  ‘‘Strangest thing,’’ Papa said. ‘‘Doreen was so sure Essie was making a fool of herself chasing after him up at his store and all—’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t say she was chasing him, exactly.’’

  ‘‘—but I’ll have you know he approached me after church last Sunday and asked to come speak with me this week.’’

  The creaking of Uncle Melvin’s rocker came to a stop. ‘‘Is he going to make a declaration, do you think?’’

  ‘‘What else could it be?’’

  Essie’s heart galloped.

  ‘‘Think he’s good enough for her?’’ Uncle Melvin asked.

  ‘‘If Essie thinks so, then I don’t see I’ll have much choice.’’

  The rocker started creaking again. ‘‘I reckon so. He was good to his first wife. Runs a clean place.’’ He sighed. ‘‘I hope the young’uns take after Essie, though.’’

  Papa chuckled. Essie slipped from the parlor and up to her room, savoring this momentous news. She pushed all thoughts of Adam Currington firmly from her mind.

  Mrs. Hamilton Crook. Mrs. Esther Crook. Mrs. Crook.

  O Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  chapter SIX

  HAMILTON LOCKED THE Slap Out’s door and let out a sigh, savoring the stillness that came at the end of a busy day. After a pause, he turned to where Essie was tallying votes. The snake-naming contest had brought more trade than any tactic he’d ever tried in the past.

  She sorted the final votes into neat stacks on the barrel that normally held a checkerboard. Banjo, Willie Waddle, Laddie, Colonel, and Butcher were the names still in contention.