Deep in the Heart of Trouble

  Groaning, he pulled back. “Will you still marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  Reaching across the table, he grabbed the diamond ring sitting on his papers. He slipped it onto her finger, then kissed it. “I don’t ever want you to take that off again. Not ever.”

  “I won’t.”

  When their kisses were no longer enough to satisfy her, she pulled away and stood. His eyes were dark, his breathing heavy. Every fiber in her body wanted to return to his arms.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “If I don’t put some distance between us, I’ll have a hard time doing what I promised myself I’d never do again—at least, not until I’m officially wed.”

  “Then go get Ewing and let’s get this thing done.”

  She widened her eyes. “And what would we tell our children when they asked where we got married?”

  He smiled. “That they were conceived in the jailhouse?”

  Her lips parted.

  Chuckling, he grabbed another chair and pulled it next to his.

  “I’m jesting. Sort of. Now come sit down.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied.

  She took the seat on the opposite side of the table. He moved his around next to hers.

  “How have you been?” he asked, grabbing her hand. “What have you been doing all this time? Tell me everything.”

  She watched him bring her hand to his mouth and kiss each finger individually.

  “I’ve been trying to keep from thinking about you,” she said, “but didn’t have much success. What have you been doing?”

  “Writing poems.”

  She smiled. “They were lovely. I’ll treasure them always.”

  “You will not. You will throw them away immediately. If anyone ever sees them, my reputation in the oil patch will never recover.”

  “Well, since your reputation in the patch directly affects Sullivan Oil’s productivity, your secret is safe with me.”

  He hesitated. “Essie, honey, you do realize that if I’m freed I can’t work for Sullivan Oil anymore, don’t you?”

  Shock struck her motionless. “What?”

  “I’m head of the Morgan estates now. I’m no longer the second son. I’m the only son. I have to go back to Beaumont. We both do. Permanently.”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight.

  “I can’t run Morgan Oil or any of the rest of it from here,” he continued. “Surely you realize that.”

  “But … but I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “I know. And we’ll come back. Often. It’s only a train ride away.”

  “My father.”

  “He and I have talked at length. He fully expects this, and if you’ll think back, ever since we started courting—which was right about the time we began converting to rotaries—he started taking over the running of Sullivan Oil again.”

  “My uncle.” She swallowed. “I don’t know anyone in Beaumont. I’ll be an outsider. An interloper.”

  “Folks are a little different in Beaumont. They don’t expect you to have been born and bred in their town. New people come in all the time and are accepted as if they’d lived there all their lives.”

  “But …” Tears began to sting her eyes. “What about …” She took a trembling breath. “What about my bicycle club?”

  His face filled with compassion. “I’m sorry, Essie. You can maintain ownership of it, but you can’t bring it with you. You’ll have to leave it behind.”

  She placed a fist against her mouth, blinking rapidly. But she could not hold the tears at bay.

  He reached for her waist and pulled her back onto his lap. “I’m sorry, love. I’m truly so very sorry.”

  She turned into him and sobbed.

  “It may never happen,” he said, stroking her hair.

  She hiccupped. “W-what?”

  “There’s a good chance I’m going to hang on behalf of whoever killed Darius.”

  She sat up. “You can’t believe that.”

  “It’s a very real possibility, Essie. And you should prepare yourself for it.”

  She shook her head, swiping moisture from her eyes. “No, I won’t. I refuse to. You are innocent.”

  “Innocent people are hanged all the time.”

  “Not in my world, they aren’t.”

  “Nevertheless, there’s no sense in worrying about moving to Beaumont or even saying our vows until after the trial is over.”

  Her body began to tremble. “Are you saying that if you’re convicted, you won’t marry me?”

  “I can’t, Essie. Don’t you see?” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms to calm her. “Even if I didn’t hang, you would be marked as the wife of a criminal. You’d have to deal with that stigma the rest of your life.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do.”

  “But you haven’t done anything!”

  “That won’t matter if I’m convicted.”

  Giving up her club and moving to Beaumont suddenly seemed trivial compared to the possibility of losing Tony. Refusing to even consider it, she pressed the butt of her palms to her eyes to dry them. “Then we need to make sure that you’re not convicted.” Squaring her shoulders, she focused on that very matter. “Now, can you think of any reason Finch would want to kill Darius?”

  “My cousin Finch?” he asked, surprise lacing his voice. “He would have nothing to gain by Darius’s death. Only mine.”

  “Yours? Why yours?”

  “Because Finch is next in line to inherit after me.”

  “Finch is? But what about Anna? Or your mother?”

  Tony shook his head. “The will was quite clear on that. Dad wanted his fortune to remain in the hands of a man. A Morgan man, that is. Not whoever married Anna. Her husband was to receive a dowry and Mother was awarded a stipend, but neither were to inherit.”

  Uncle Melvin knocked—actually knocked—on his own office door before coming in.

  But Essie hardly noted it and instead jumped to her feet. “My stars and garters.”

  Melvin moved to the cell and unlocked the door.

  “What is it?” Tony asked.

  “I’ve got to go, love.” She leaned over and pecked him quickly on the lips.

  “Your hat,” he said.

  “There’s no time.” Then she ran out the door and into the rain.

  chapter THIRTY-THREE

  SOAKED WITH rain, Essie burst into the Velocipede Club. Shirley was giving a group bicycle lesson to five older girls from the State Orphan’s Home.

  She took one look at Essie, then turned back to her pupils. “Please practice mounting and dismounting by riding from wall to wall five times. You may begin.”

  Essie tried to wipe her face with her handkerchief, but it was just as soaked as she was.

  “What’s happened?” Shirley asked, escorting her into the privacy of the office.

  Essie grabbed a towel from the shelf and pressed it against her face and neck. “I think Finch killed Darius and made it look like Tony did.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “If something happens to Tony, Finch is next to inherit the Morgan fortune.”

  Shirley took a moment to process Essie’s words. “Are you saying that Finch killed Darius in hopes that Tony would be the one hanged for the deed, leaving him as sole heir?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t know, Essie. It sounds awfully risky. What if he went to all that trouble and then Tony wasn’t implicated?”

  “Finch made sure he was.”

  “How?”

  “By using Tony’s knife.” Essie shook out her skirts, splattering water onto the floor. “He was standing right there that night when Harley gave Tony his knife back and Mr. Mudge asked to see it. He could have easily slipped it into his pocket after Tony left and Mr. Mudge laid it down.”

  “Darius wouldn’t have been an easy man to stab.?
??

  “No. But remember, he had suffered a beating in addition to those dizzy spells and things that he’d complained to Dr. Gulick about.”

  “What about the arsenic?”

  “Like Anna said, Finch and Darius were ‘inseparable,’ which would have given Finch plenty of opportunity to sneak the poison into Darius’s food, drink, or whatever was handy.”

  “We also know Finch purchased some arsenic and soap to ‘rid himself of bedbugs,’ ” Shirley added.

  “As well as buying the cigarette case found in Darius’s coat pocket,” Essie said. “Perhaps it had been a congratulatory gift for winning the race. Except, Finch laced the cigarettes with arsenic. Darius accepts the gift and smokes one of his new cigarettes. The poison weakens him even further. Finch kills him with Tony’s knife and then leaves it where it would be found.”

  Shirley stared at her for a moment. “That’s an awful lot of ifs. I’d hate to be hasty and accuse him unjustly.”

  “So would I. But you must admit, it fits.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I think we take what we know to Uncle Melvin.”

  “I agree,” Shirley said. “Do we wait until after our meeting tomorrow?”

  “No. I think we need to do it now. Today.”

  “Should we call an emergency meeting first?”

  Essie pulled the pins from her hair and toweled it off. “If we do that, I’d have to publicly accuse Finch. And if he didn’t do it, I will have done him a grave injustice.”

  Shirley took a deep breath. “You’re right. I guess it would be best to let the sheriff do the accusing.”

  Tony listened from his cell as Essie tried to convince her uncle that Finch was Darius’s murderer. She laid out the means by which he did it, along with his motive and opportunity. Tony’s initial reaction had been denial, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea had merit.

  Melvin leaned back in his chair. “What do you think, Morgan?”

  Essie turned toward him. Her hair was plastered to her head from being caught in the rain earlier. And though the bad weather had passed, her gown had to weigh thirty pounds as wet as it was. As far as he could tell, she didn’t even realize her state of dishevelment. Her face was earnest, her cheeks rosy. Her eyes were alive with hope and trepidation.

  Tony leaned against the bars. “When our family’s lawyer brought me papers to sign after Darius’s death, Finch had asked him to change them so that he would have the authority to run the Morgan estate while I was incarcerated.”

  “Doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “No, but he’s had two wives die in two years. Both of gastric fever, which is just a fancy way of saying a swollen stomach. Doesn’t arsenic inflate a person’s stomach?”

  “Yeah,” Melvin drawled. “Matter o’ fact, it does. But Darius was stabbed.”

  “He was also poisoned,” Essie said.

  “True, but it was the stabbing that killed him. You think Finch has the constitution to do something like that?” Melvin asked Tony.

  He rubbed his mouth. “Not really. I’d be mighty surprised.”

  “Where are the cigarettes?” Essie asked.

  Melvin cocked his head. “How is it that you know about the cigarettes?”

  She swallowed, then stood up straighter. “I looked through your notes.”

  He dropped his chair legs onto the floor. “And just when did you do that?”

  “This morning. Mrs. Lockhart shared them with me.”

  Jumping to his feet, he leaned forward. “What’s she doin’ with them, and who else has had a gander at my notes?”

  Essie didn’t respond.

  “Answer me, young lady!”

  The steps outside creaked and Harley burst through the door, skidding across the wood floor and stopping just short of Melvin’s desk. “You gotta do somethin’, Sheriff! We got trouble.”

  Melvin frowned. “What kinda trouble?”

  “A lynch mob.”

  Essie gasped. Tony stiffened.

  “A lynch mob?” Melvin asked, his tone questioning. “Corsicana hasn’t seen one single lynching in its entire history.”

  “Well, look out yer window if you don’t believe me.”

  Melvin stepped to the window. “Sweet saints above.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” the boy asked.

  Hurrying to Tony’s cell, Melvin closed its door and locked it. “Harley, go to the church and tell Preacher Wortham what’s goin’ on. Tell him to round up as many men as he can and to get over here lickety-split.”

  Tony’s heart jumped into his throat as Harley scurried out the door.

  “And stay away from that mob!” Melvin hollered just before the door slammed shut. He grabbed his rifle and scooped up some spare bullets from his desktop. “You need to get outta here, Essie.”

  Yanking open the top drawer, she grabbed a key and unlocked the storage room. She disappeared momentarily, then came back out. “Where are the extra rifles?”

  “Quit wasting time, Essie,” Tony said, gripping the bars. “You’ve got to move. Now.”

  “I can’t just up and leave y’all here. Not with a mob coming.

  Now, where are the rifles?”

  “That blasted roof started leaking again and I had to move them out,” Melvin said. “Now, I need you to go find your pa, just in case he hasn’t already heard, and have him round up the Sullivan Oil men.”

  Standing in indecision, she glanced at Tony.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  Melvin gave her a push. “Go on, girl.”

  She tripped across the threshold, then ran down the steps as he bolted the door behind her.

  He and Tony locked eyes.

  “You won’t be able to hold ’em, you know,” Tony said.

  “I’ll hold ’em. Ain’t nobody lynching no prisoner of mine.”

  chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  ESSIE PUSHED several cartridges into her rifle. “Find as many of the women as you can, Shirley, and meet me by the hanging tree.”

  “You can’t go out there alone,” Shirley said, handing Essie another cartridge from the box.

  “Nor can I spare the time it would take to get the girls.” She cocked the lever, seating a round. “If we’re lucky, the mob won’t make it to the cottonwood tree. But if the men can’t stop them at the jailhouse, I want to be waiting for them at the other end.” She placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “Don’t let me down, Shirley.”

  “I won’t, Essie. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Tony heard the crowd of men well before they reached the jailhouse. The sheriff positioned himself at the window, his rifle aimed at the crowd. “They’re here, son,” he said over his shoulder, “but don’t worry. Help’s a-comin’.”

  Before Tony could respond, a voice from outside pierced the air.

  “Give us your prisoner, Sheriff!”

  “You know I won’t do that, Howard,” Melvin hollered back. “I’m under orders to protect him and I aim to do just that. Now, you boys just go on home before somebody gets hurt.”

  “We’re takin’ him, Sheriff. We’re takin’ him and seein’ that justice is served.”

  The crowd hollered and cheered.

  Melvin cocked his gun. “Not another step, Howard, or you’ll be the first to go.”

  “That wouldn’t be very smart, Sheriff, shootin’ the grandson of Texas’s secretary of state.”

  Melvin looked down the site of his rifle. “My prisoner isn’t going anywhere.”

  Footfalls rushed up the steps. Melvin opened fire, startling both Tony and the crush outside. The pack fell back for a moment, leaving Howard writhing in agony on the stoop.

  Word quickly passed through the throng in front of the jail and down the street that the former deputy had been shot. Then, as if an unseen flag had been dropped signaling the start of a race, men stampeded the jailhouse. Some jumping through the window, others busting through the door.

  Melvin fired, woun
ding at least a dozen before the mob seized him by the shoulders, disarmed him and hurled him back.

  The screams of the injured echoed in Tony’s ears, blood pouring from their wounds. Melvin was cut off from Tony’s view as the mob surged forward, stepping on and over the fallen men as if they were sacks of potatoes.

  At first it seemed as if the crowd of roughs were strangers to Tony, but as they dragged him from his cell, he saw their leaders were from Morgan Oil. Men who’d done Darius’s dirty work for him. Many with shady pasts. Darius had provided a haven for men of their ilk—roughs who were loyal to his brother, even if it wasn’t for edifying reasons.

  Tony could smell the alcohol on their breath. He fought and kicked and bucked but was only rewarded with beatings and rougher treatment as he was dragged down the street toward the big cottonwood tree on the outskirts of town.

  The two armed riders waiting for the mob gave them pause. Tony’s left eye was swollen shut, but his right still worked fine and shifted to a man and a woman on horseback. On the left was Russ O’Berry, the best friend Tony’d ever had, sitting atop a horse at least eighteen hands tall. He sported a pistol in one hand and a bullwhip held casually within his other. To his right was Essie Spreckelmeyer, aiming a loaded rifle at the hearts of Tony’s captors.

  His stomach clenched. What the blazes did she think she was doing here? The crowd slowly drew to the base of the tree, becoming unusually quiet in order to ascertain the dangers posed from this unexpected quarter.

  Russ scanned the crowd. “Afternoon, Horace. Norman. Paddy. I reckon you know Tony here hasn’t had a trial yet?”

  The mob was supposed to provide anonymity. This recital of specific names caused a disconcerting murmur to pass through the crowd.

  “Our argument ain’t with you, Russ,” one of the roughs called out, “so just git outta the way ’fore we string you up, as well.”

  Faster than a striking snake, Russ stung the rowdie across his cheek with the bullwhip, leaving him with a red mark but no broken skin.

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Russ said, controlling his horse with his thighs. “And if anybody makes a move, my whip’ll slice a whole lot deeper.”

  The man’s eyes blazed while he touched his cheek, but he remained silent.