Deep in the Heart of Trouble

  She smoothed her bodice of blue accordion-pleated mousseline de soie and straightened her fancy straw hat. It held a cluster of red roses on the left side, surrounded by loops of blue ribbon and white lace.

  The club was filled to capacity. Looking out at the crowd, she saw new members, established members, and plenty of adventurers, too, willing to give the bicycle a try just this once. The bleachers burst with spectators in an array of colorful attire, calling down cheerfully to the riders as they prepared.

  The Collin Street Bakery provided refreshments at a table in the back. Bicyclers stood about the rink visiting with each other as they waited for the music to start. Attendance this year was even higher than the last. She decided she would most likely have to hold two public rides in ’99.

  “The band’s about settled there on the platform,” Uncle Melvin said, his sheriff’s badge winking. “You ready to get this thing goin’?”

  “I’m ready,” she said, tucking her hand into his elbow and noting he’d curled and waxed the ends of his bushy gray moustache.

  He assisted her onto the stage, then let out a piercing whistle that cut through the crowd, silencing them.

  “Here’s the rules,” Uncle Melvin shouted. “No chewin’. No spittin’. No walkin’ across the rink. Food and drinks are free. If you’re of a mind to give one of these machines a twirl, then don’t cut anybody off. Don’t run anybody over. And don’t park in the middle o’ the track. Any questions?”

  None were forthcoming.

  “Essie-girl?” he said. “You got anything you wanna say?”

  She stepped to the front. “Welcome to the Fourth Annual Corsicana Velocipede Club’s Group Ride. We’re so very glad you’re here.”

  She turned to the band director. “Mr. Creiz?”

  The conductor held up his baton, bringing the band to attention, then commenced on the downstroke, starting the event off with their traditional “Bicycle Built for Two.”

  The wheelers mounted their bikes and began whizzing around the track, singing to the music while friends and family joined in from the bleachers. Mr. Peeples, an employee of the Anheuser-Busch Brewing Company, wobbled back and forth on his machine, had a near miss but, to his credit, kept his balance and avoided taking a spill.

  “You go on ahead, honey,” Melvin hollered in her ear. “I see Deputy Howard signaling me.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek, then headed to the other side of the stage. Lifting her skirts, she started down the stairs, accepting a hand that shot out to assist her before realizing it belonged to Tony.

  His appearance made her pause. Gone were the blue denim trousers, rawhide boots, and cowboy hat. In their place stood a gentleman in the very latest of summer fashions.

  He wore a blue pincheck four-button coat that fit his broad shoulders so well it could not possibly have been borrowed. She’d developed an eye for such details after working in Hamilton Crook’s mercantile.

  She noted at once that the fine dress shirt, celluloid collar, and cuffs Tony wore were of the very best quality. The silk tie around his neck had been knotted by an experienced hand. Even the brown Derby on his head seemed particularly fine. How could a roustabout afford such fine clothing? What’s more, how could he wear them with such ease?

  He said something to her, but the music swallowed his words.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Peeples accidentally cut off Mr. Davis. Essie couldn’t catch Mr. Davis’s words as he swerved to the side, but she had an inkling as the man’s face turned red and he shook his fist.

  Mr. Peeples smiled and waved, fully confident in his newfound ability.

  She continued down the steps, then stood before Tony. His gaze traveled over her hat, her new gown, her face.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, bending close so she could hear him.

  “Thank you.” She kept her voice neutral.

  “Will you ride with me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve hostess duties to attend to.”

  As if verifying the truth of her words, a loud shriek, followed by a sharp, “Look out!” caused her to whirl around.

  Mr. Peeples jerked his handlebars sharply to the left to avoid running into one matron, only to, instead, broadside another.

  Lifting her skirts just above the toes, Essie hurried to the collision.

  Tony stood on the periphery of the bicycle club watching Essie welcome guests, soothe ruffled feathers, manage crises, calm drunks, enroll new members and sell bicycle accessories. He was content to watch her work until Deputy Billy John Howard approached her.

  The crowd drifted away as the deputy moved in. People in Corsicana tended to give the small man a wide berth. All the rumors Tony had heard about Howard came back to him.

  He was surprised at how familiar the man was with Essie. As a protégé of her Uncle Melvin, it was natural that they’d be acquainted, but the way she stiffened as he hovered near her—and the way she bobbed and weaved to avoid his covertly straying hands—put Tony on his guard.

  What was the deputy playing at? If he’d been courting Essie, Mrs. Lockhart would have said, and it was obvious from Essie’s reactions that Howard’s attentions were unwelcome.

  Several times, Tony started forward to intervene, then stopped himself. It was none of his business, after all. And if Essie was a distraction from his purpose, then trouble with a deputy was even worse.

  Howard settled his hand on Essie’s waist, and all Tony’s reasoning evaporated. He headed toward them. She twisted from Howard’s touch, but he immediately returned it to the curve of her back and leaned over to whisper something in her ear.

  He couldn’t tell what the man was saying, but whatever it was caused Essie to flush.

  The band finished up the last chorus of “A Hot Time in the Old Town.” Spectators clapped. Wheelers continued to ride.

  “ … so what do you say?” Howard asked.

  “If you would excuse me, I have things to attend to,” Essie said in undertones, once again shoving aside his hand.

  He grabbed her wrist, careful to keep it hidden in the folds of her skirt. “You listen here, missy. I’ve had just about enough—”

  “Miss Spreckelmeyer?” Tony said, joining them. “Mrs. Gillespie needs your assistance.”

  The deputy puffed out his chest, making sure Tony saw the star pinned to his vest. “She’ll be along in a minute.”

  “She’s needed now.” Tony kept his posture relaxed but allowed a bit of steel to enter his voice.

  Howard narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve—”

  “Billy John,” said Preacher Wortham, stepping to their circle and extending his hand.

  The deputy had no choice but to let go of Essie or leave Wortham’s hand hanging in the air.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the appalling amount of liquor consumed within our town,” the preacher said, placing a hand on Howard’s shoulder and turning him toward the door. “You don’t mind if I steal the deputy for a moment, do you, Essie?”

  Tony saw a look pass between the preacher and Essie, leaving him no doubt as to Wortham’s motivations. The preacher had done what Tony could not.

  “Mr. Bryant here said Shirley was in need of me.” She turned to Tony. “Lead the way.”

  Cupping Essie’s elbow, Tony escorted her toward a table in the far corner where a German man and his partner were giving out slices of fruitcake.

  “What was all that about?” Tony asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me. How long has he been bothering you?”

  “Just a bit longer than you have.”

  He let go of her. “You view me the same way you do him?”

  She paused, looking startled at the suggestion. “No, of course not. I meant no offense.” She looked around. “I don’t see Shirley over here.”

  Taking a deep breath, he decided to ignore the sting of her careless remark. “Mrs. Gillespie doesn’t need you. I made that up.?
??

  “Did you?” She took a moment to study him, her guard slipping a bit as she considered his gesture. “Well, thank you, then—for coming to my assistance. I appreciate it.”

  He picked up a slice of fruitcake, broke a piece off and handed it to her.

  She popped it into her mouth. “Ummm. That’s good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  He started to ask her about Howard again but realized this wasn’t the place.

  “Well.” She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I see Mrs. Tyner is waving me over.”

  He nodded his head in acknowledgment, but she had already walked away, slipping him as quickly as she had the deputy.

  Beneath an old wooden pavilion, Tony strolled past the tables lining the auctioneer’s dais, each of them bowed with the weight of box suppers. Not a one of them held frippery to match Essie’s outfit. Tony once again surveyed the collection of baskets, ribbons, bunting, bows, and gewgaws. Where in the blazes was her box?

  “Quite a selection, isn’t it?” the preacher said, joining him. “Do you see one that takes your fancy?”

  “Not just yet, I’m afraid,” Tony answered.

  The preacher stuck out his hand, and Tony clasped it.

  “Good to see you again,” Wortham said. “What did you think of the service on Sunday?”

  “I enjoyed it very much.”

  The preacher wasn’t the only one of Essie’s patrons to have arrived at the red-white-and-blue-festooned pavilion. Most of the others, having concluded their group ride, milled about the fairgrounds with other locals in anticipation of the box-supper auction.

  “So,” Wortham said, “are you looking for any basket in particular?”

  “Matter of fact, I am. What about you? Is your wife’s box somewhere in here?”

  Wortham smiled. “I’m afraid hers might be a bit difficult to find seeing as how I haven’t got a wife.”

  Tony nodded, remembering Grandpa had mentioned that the time Wortham and Harley came out to the patch. Tony didn’t think he’d ever met a preacher with no wife. Those two things just went together like ham and eggs.

  “Which one are you going to bid on, then?” Tony asked.

  “Oh, I don’t have a particular one in mind this year. What about you?”

  Tony scanned the box suppers. “I was looking for Miss Spreckelmeyer’s.”

  “Were you, now?” Wortham lifted his brows. “Well, what do you know about that. Is she aware you want to bid on it?”

  “She might have some inkling. How much competition do you think I’ll have?”

  A mischievous smile grew on the preacher’s face. “Considering who she’s been sharing her basket with for the past four years, I’d say you have some mighty big competition.”

  Tony’s chest tightened.

  Chuckling, Wortham slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry.

  It’s nobody you need concern yourself with.”

  “It’s not the deputy, is it?”

  “Goodness, no.” Wortham’s frown made his distaste for the deputy plain, but he disguised it quickly enough.

  Tony rubbed his mouth. “Do you know what was going on this afternoon when you interrupted Howard and her?”

  “I aim to find out.”

  “You interested in Miss Spreckelmeyer?” Tony asked, narrowing his eyes.

  The preacher gave him a long look. “I was at one time. But she turned me down.”

  She seemed to make a habit of rebuffing suitors, Tony thought. He wondered if Wortham had given up on her yet.

  “You bidding on her box supper today, Preacher?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Tony released a pent-up breath. He’d never been one to share his thoughts with strangers, even if they were preachers, but he figured Wortham could answer some of the questions rattling around in his head. “So how long have you known her?”

  “Essie? A long time.” Wortham smiled. “We’ve been friends for as far back as I can remember.”

  “That so?”

  “She was a grand playmate. She taught me how to fish, shoot, swim, climb trees, and gig frogs. I was half in love with her before I ever reached adolescence.”

  Gig frogs? “So what happened?”

  “She turned me down flat. Said I was too much like a little brother. Kinda takes the starch out of a fellow, if you know what I mean.”

  Tony smiled. “Well, don’t feel bad. She’s fighting me tooth and nail, as well.”

  As soon as he said the words, he regretted them. He hadn’t meant to make light of his feelings toward her, even if he didn’t exactly know what they were.

  The preacher picked up on the false note in Tony’s voice. The man’s posture never changed, but his tone turned colder than a well chain in December.

  “Just make sure you don’t hurt her, Bryant, or else you’ll answer to me.”

  Tony shook his head. “I’d never hurt her, sir.”

  For the first time, he sized Wortham up as a man, not a preacher. He was short, but he was no weakling. The way he filled out his jacket was nothing to scoff at. Tony figured he could throw a good punch if he had a mind to.

  The crowd had grown in anticipation of the auction, gathering tightly within the pavilion. A group of young ladies clustered together, giggling and trying hard not to see if the fellow of their choosing was lingering nearby. Essie was nowhere in sight.

  Wortham took Tony by the shoulders and turned him so he was facing east. “She’s up there. Under that big oak tree.”

  A couple hundred yards away on the crest of a green hill, a massive oak tree dwarfed Essie while providing an abundance of shade beneath its outstretched branches.

  “And her basket isn’t for sale,” he added. “It’s been off the market for a long time. If’n you want to share it with her, you’ll have to do some mighty slick talking. Good luck.”

  Pushing the rim of his hat back, Tony took in the sight. Young boys rolled down the slope, racing to see who could reach bottom first, with no regard for the clumps of yellow wild flowers they crushed along the way. But Essie kept her head down, paying them no attention.

  He wove through the crowd, greeting several of the men he worked with. To his surprise, many of the women he’d met at the Velocipede Club last week stopped and introduced him to their husbands. Mrs. Bunert was married to a harness maker. Mrs. Fowler, the blacksmith. Mrs. Garitty, the Opera House president. And Mrs. Whiteselle, the mayor. By the time he made it to Essie’s hill, the auction in the pavilion was in full swing.

  The farther up the incline he moved, the better he could see. With her white skirt billowing out around her, she scribbled in a journal of some sort that she’d propped on her lap. Beside her lay her gloves, hat, and box supper. She’d decorated her basket to match the ribbons in her hat and the bows on her skirt.

  As he drew closer, he half expected to be overtaken by a rival. He looked around and saw no one, but his imagination still ran rampant. What would he do if a man stepped out from behind the tree and took his place beside Essie, neatly edging Tony out?

  A blue-checkered cloth covering her meal had been nudged aside, and she occasionally removed bits and pieces of the basket’s contents, absently nibbling on them. So caught up was she in her writings that she didn’t hear him approach. Didn’t know he was there until his shadow fell across her blanket.

  Shading her eyes, she looked up. “Mr. Bryant!” She slammed her journal shut. “I didn’t expect … I thought you were …” She took a deep breath. “How do you do?”

  He removed his hat. “How do you do?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the blanket.

  “Well, um, actually, I was, um, saving it, sort of.”

  “Saving it?” He looked around. “For whom?”

  She placed her pencil atop her journal. “For the person I usually share my box supper with.”

  Disappointment gripped him. “A
nd who would that be?”

  “Christ.”

  He blinked. “Christ? You mean, Jesus Christ?”

  “The very same.”

  “You share your box supper with Jesus Christ?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Relief poured through him. No suitor would intercept him, after all. He knelt on the blanket, then settled down beside her.

  “As it happens,” he said, “the Lord and I are very close. I’m sure He wouldn’t mind if I were to join the two of you.”

  “I’m sure He wouldn’t.”

  He placed his hat next to hers.

  “I, on the other hand, mind very much.”

  He froze.

  “I cherish this time I spend with Him. The nice thing about all this is that if you would like to take your meal with Him, He can be in two places at once.”

  He could not believe he was having this conversation. “Essie, it’s you I want to have supper with.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps if you hurry, you can acquire one of the boxes up for auction.”

  “I don’t want any of those boxes. I want yours.” He sighed. “Is my company really that repulsive?”

  She looked away. “It’s not you personally, Tony.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You’re my employee. It would be unseemly.”

  Couples began to trickle out from the pavilion as suppers were auctioned off. Mothers put their youngsters down on blankets for naps. A group of older men sharing stories and a liquor jug clustered together on the edges of the fairgrounds. Up on the hill, it all seemed so far away.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced at her lap. “What were you writing?”

  She kept the pages of her journal firmly closed within her grip. “Nothing.”

  “Something, surely?”

  “Nothing that need concern you.”

  His stomach growled. He glanced at her supper. “You know, I was really looking forward to today because I haven’t had anything to eat since I arrived other than the fare Mr. Castle serves up in his drugstore.”

  Her brow crinkled for the briefest of moments.