Deep in the Heart of Trouble

  Her expression didn’t so much as flicker. He slid his clothencased fingers down each side of her nose, beneath her cheekbones, and across her upper and lower lips.

  The wet fabric provided no barrier between his skin and hers. She was so soft. As soft as a goose-down pillow. Swallowing, he glanced up and suspended his ministrations. Her blue, blue eyes had cleared and were fixed on him.

  They held waves of royal blue and sky blue and a blue so light it was almost white, all captured within a fine ring of deep navy.

  “Found one,” Sharpley said, entering the room with a glass of water.

  Tony jerked his hand away from her mouth. “Good. That’s real good.” He slid his hand beneath her head. “I want you to take a little sip now.”

  He brought the glass to her lips, tipping it slightly. She swallowed. A tiny rivulet missed her mouth and plunged down her chin and neck.

  He captured it with the handkerchief. “Your color is starting to come back. Do you feel any better?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ve never fainted before in my life. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, it was mine. Are you able to take a proper breath yet?”

  A splash of color momentarily touched her pale face. “Yes, thank you. I’d like to try to sit up now.”

  He placed a staying hand against her shoulder. “Not so fast. There’s no rush.” He looked over at Sharpley. “I think the danger’s passed, son. It would probably be best if you called it an evening, though. I don’t think she’ll be up to training you any further tonight. Were there any laps you needed to do or anything?”

  “No, sir. We usually do the football drill last.”

  “Very well. Report back here tomorrow night as usual unless she sends word otherwise. I imagine she’ll be back to herself within the hour, though.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll make sure she gets home all right?”

  “I will.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Sharpley?”

  The boy paused.

  “You’re not to say a word about this to anyone. As part owner of Sullivan Oil it would cause her a good deal of embarrassment if the boys were to blow this thing all out of proportion. I’ll have your word that you’ll keep your trap shut about both the football match and her fainting.”

  “You have it, sir. I wouldn’t never do nothin’ to hurt Miss Spreckelmeyer.”

  “Thank you, Sharpley.” He gave the youth a nod of approval and listened as he moved to the entrance and let himself out.

  The lantern in the room hissed. Retrieving the water glass, Tony propped her up again. “Let’s have another sip now.”

  She brought her hand to the glass, her fingers resting against his as she swallowed.

  “Excellent.” He laid her down and smoothed the hair away from her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  “Lethargic.”

  “That will pass.”

  “I’m terribly embarrassed. I’m not some weak, simpering female.”

  “And nobody thinks that you are. As a matter of fact, I heard today that you’re one of the best shots in town.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He relayed Crackshot’s story, pleased to see the color return to her lips and cheeks as she smiled over the tale. She had a nice smile, with white teeth and dimples on both sides.

  “If today is any indication, I’m afraid Wilson’s gonna be forever known as Crackshot,” he said.

  She started to push herself up, and Tony reached to support her shoulders.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked.

  “I’m feeling much better.”

  “Sit here on the desk for a minute before you try to stand.” He removed the bloomers propping up her knees and took hold of her calves, gently swiveling her around so her legs dangled off the side of the desk before realizing what he’d done.

  Snatching his hands back, he slid them into his pockets, looked at the floor and discovered he was still barefoot. “Do you recall why you sent for me today?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, catching her breath.

  He glanced up to make sure she wasn’t faint again, but her cheeks weren’t pale, they were burning with embarrassment. He felt his own begin to heat. What in the blazes had he been thinking to manhandle her just now?

  “It was just a small thing, really,” she said, “but I didn’t have time to get out to the fields today and didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

  He said nothing, not sure how to respond.

  “I, um, I wanted to find out the names again of the men who sell those rotary drills and how to contact them,” she said.

  “Baker. M.C. and C.E. Baker. I’m not sure where they are, though. I know someone I can telegraph over in Beaumont to find out if they’re still there or if they’ve taken a job out of town.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “If they are there, do you think you could ask if they would come to Corsicana and give me a demonstration?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Mr. Bryant. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He waited, but she said nothing more.

  That’s it? he thought. That’s all she wanted? All of this for one simple question? He suppressed his irritation, then realized that as a female, she probably avoided coming out to the fields if she could.

  She’d only shown up at his rig once since he’d started, and all work had come to a complete standstill. If she tried to do anything, someone would jump in and do it for her. All the while, Grandpa and Jeremy did what they could to get her away from the patch. He wondered if she was aware of the effect she had on them.

  He curled his toes beneath the hem of his denims. “Do you think you’ll be all right if I go out and get my boots?”

  “Oh yes. I think I’m ready to go now, actually.”

  Frowning, he pointed a finger, stopping her. “No, ma’am. Don’t you move from there until I get back.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Bryant.”

  “I mean it, Miss Spreckelmeyer. I want you to stay put. Tell me you’ll stay put.”

  She shooed him out with her hands. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t budge. “Say it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She sighed. “All right. I’ll stay put.”

  He wasted no time in grabbing his boots and heading back to her office. She’d stayed where he’d left her, as promised.

  Plopping down into a chair, he pulled on his socks and boots, then slapped his hands on his knees.

  “Well,” she said. “I guess we’d better call it a night.”

  He jumped up to help her off the desk, holding tightly to her elbow.

  “I’m really all right, Mr. Bryant. You can let go now.”

  “I’ll just hang on awhile longer, if you don’t mind.”

  When they left the office, he tried to guide her toward the exit, but she tugged in the opposite direction.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  “I need to turn out the lights.”

  “I’ll do it. You want to sit down?”

  “No. And please, all this mollycoddling is not necessary.”

  “Listen, you plum scared the living daylights out of me and I’m not anxious for a relapse. Now, can you stand on your own or do you want a chair?”

  “I can stand on my own.”

  He eyed her skeptically, but her color was better and she seemed to have her wits about her. Still, he wasted no time turning out all the lights except for the one by the front door.

  “Okay, nice and slow, now,” he said, returning to take her elbow.

  At the entrance he lifted her shawl off a hook, draped it over her shoulders, turned out the final lamp and locked the door behind them.

  Essie had become so used to the smell of oil permeating town that she hardly ever noticed it anymore. But now, as she and Mr. Bryant stepped outsi
de the club and the familiar fumes rushed up on her, her stomach lurched and her knees wobbled.

  He pulled her close, allowing her to lean more heavily onto him. “There’s a wagonyard just around the corner,” he said. “Would you like to go there instead and get something to ride home in?”

  “No, thank you. Walking is fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, slowing their pace to a stroll.

  “Yes. I’m positive.”

  Darkness shrouded them. With the sun gone, the worst of the heat had dissipated, but its stickiness lingered, leaving the air thick with humidity.

  Her pride urged her to pull away from Mr. Bryant, but common sense insisted otherwise. She was not as surefooted as she’d pretended, and she didn’t want to risk humiliating herself again. Though his ministrations had been swift and efficient, thrusting him into the role of caretaker had been too unsettling by half.

  She was his boss. His superior. But now he’d beaten her at her own game and had also taken charge of her. To make matters worse, she’d participated in a rather physical match with a man—a barefooted man—and then allowed him to see to her personal needs.

  If anyone found out, there would be the devil to pay.

  His parting words to Mr. Sharpley had surprised her, though. The field men loved telling tales, and tonight’s episode would have been embellished, laughed over, and retold for weeks. It could have damaged her standing in the community and embarrassed Papa. That Mr. Bryant had made certain her privacy and reputation remained intact had taken her completely off guard.

  She risked a surreptitious glance in his direction, but it was too dark to see more than a faint silhouette. Cowboy hat. Straight nose. Defined chin. Powerful chest.

  A few years back she might have pretended they were a couple. A young married couple strolling for the sheer pleasure of enjoying each other’s company.

  But she’d learned the hard way that ill-founded fantasies and manipulations brought nothing but pain and heartache. No, she knew exactly who she was and who she was walking home with and why. She had no illusions whatsoever.

  Still, the man no longer fit so neatly into the mold she’d originally placed him in. “Do you have a family, Mr. Bryant?”

  The muscles supporting her arm tensed slightly, then eased. “Yes, ma’am. A mother and a sister.”

  “In Beaumont?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you lived there all your life?”

  “More or less. What about you? Have you lived here all your life?”

  “Yes. I used to go out to my grandparents’ farm in Quitman every summer as a child. Other than that, I’ve been right here in Corsicana.”

  “Guess it’s changed a lot in the last few years.”

  “Oh my, yes. We went from being a small, struggling cotton community to an overpopulated oil boomtown almost overnight. We are still trying to adjust to the growing pains.”

  To reach her house, they would need to cross through town. Instead of taking her the shortest—and more public—route, Mr. Bryant kept them on the abandoned streets that edged the city limits. It would double their walking time but would keep curious eyes from speculating about her disheveled appearance and her choice of escort.

  “I heard you give shooting lessons to the ladies in town every Thursday morning,” he said, interrupting the quiet. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He said nothing for the longest time, their leisurely footfalls muffled by the dirt in the street.

  “Why would a bicycle club offer shooting lessons?”

  She allowed herself a small smile. “Women are unaccustomed to being without escort or chaperone. I think it wise, therefore, to give my students the skills needed to protect themselves from any threats they may encounter while out bicycling alone.”

  “Threats of the four-legged kind or the two-legged?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Are you telling me, then, that the ladies of Corsicana ride their wheels with six-shooters strapped to their bloomers?”

  “No, of course not,” she said with a short huff of amusement.

  “Then, why learn how to shoot a gun if you aren’t going to carry one?”

  “I never said we weren’t carrying pistols. Just that we don’t strap them to our bloomers.”

  He pulled her to a stop, clearly appalled. “Are you packing a pistol right now?”

  “I am not.”

  He took a moment to absorb her answer. The moonlight behind him silhouetted his head, hiding the nuances of his expression, but it did not disguise his thorough perusal of her. “Where do you put it when you are carrying, then?”

  She shook her head. “I shall not discuss such a delicate matter with you, Mr. Bryant.”

  “Delicate?” he asked, a hint of astonishment in his voice. “You carry it someplace delicate? Do you think that wise? What if it went off?”

  She started toward home again. “I cover safety precautions in my instruction.”

  He caught up to her and recaptured her elbow.

  “I feel steadier now,” she said. “I can walk without assistance.”

  “All the same.” He held her firmly. “Who is allowed to take lessons?”

  “Any of my club members.”

  “Are all your members female?”

  “No, no. I have a vast number of men in my club. But their work keeps them from utilizing as many of the privileges as the women.”

  “What other privileges do you offer?”

  “Our members can receive private instruction on bicycle riding and repair, etiquette, fashion, health, and a number of other things. We also have weekly lectures, monthly group rides, service projects, and an annual ball and supper. We are going to have a huge group ride on the Fourth of July that is open to the public, regardless of membership status.”

  They turned in a westerly direction toward the residential part of town. The clouds hovering earlier in the day had dispersed, leaving a palette of stars too numerous to count.

  “You do all that and run Sullivan Oil, too?”

  She hesitated, wondering if it was surprise or appreciation she detected in his tone. “Papa makes all the major decisions for the oil company. I have more of an administrative role.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  She glanced up at him. “What have you heard?”

  “That you pretty much run the company.”

  “That’s not true. Papa is the majority owner and I couldn’t possibly manage it without him.”

  A scream rent the air. It came from somewhere deep in the woods, a long, piercing wail that stopped Essie in her tracks, then sent her racing toward the sound, skirts lifted just high enough to clear the ground.

  She forgot about her earlier ordeal as a surge of energy shot through her. Whoever was screaming was either terrified or in a great deal of pain—perhaps both.

  She’d spent the better part of her childhood cavorting in these woods and knew them backwards and forwards. The lack of light didn’t slow her down, but she could hear Mr. Bryant stumbling through the underbrush behind her.

  Harley Vandervoort burst through some trees in front of them. “Miss Essie! Brianna got bit by a snake!”

  “Lead us to her,” Mr. Bryant said, catching up to them. Harley wasted no time. He turned and bolted deeper into the forest.

  “What kind of snake?” Essie shouted, racing after him.

  “A rattler!”

  They found the girl writhing on the ground in a damp clearing lit by a full moon. She grasped her wounded leg and kicked out frantically with the other.

  “My foot! My foot!” she screamed.

  Several yards away lay a three-foot rattler with a severed head and a bulge in his middle from a recent meal.

  chapter EIGHT

  TONY KNELT in the damp leaves to lift the girl up. He wasn’t sure exactly how far from town they were, but he’d run the whole way if he had to, wi
th the struggling girl in his arms. He slid his arm under her, but Essie pushed him back.

  “Leave her be,” Essie said.

  She crouched over the girl’s hurt leg, trying to grab the calf, but the little thing kicked free.

  “Hold still!” Essie snapped.

  “I can’t. I can’t.” The girl whimpered, tears coursing down her face, her reddish brown braids mussed and filled with leaves and dirt.

  “Grab hold of her, Tony, and keep her from thrashing.”

  “We’ve got to get her back to town,” he said.

  “There’s no time! Hold her!”

  He pulled the girl onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. “Hush, now,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

  Essie reached across to him. “I need a knife.”

  “No!” Brianna screamed, twisting frantically and almost breaking free of his hold.

  “Keep her still, I said!”

  Anchoring the girl against him with one arm, he quickly pulled his knife from his pocket and tried to open the larger blade, but Brianna kept jostling his hold.

  “Here,” Essie said. “Let me.” She took the knife from his hand and flipped it open.

  Brianna fought with renewed vigor, screaming, squirming, and kicking her feet. A spot of blood stained the girl’s stocking above the ankle.

  “Shhhhh,” Tony said, tucking the girl’s head and knees against his chest. “Hold still, honey, and let Miss Essie have a look.”

  “I’m just going to cut your shoe off, Brianna,” Essie said, her voice a little calmer now that she had the knife in hand. “But you must hold still so I don’t cut you instead.”

  “We were snake hunting,” Harley said, his thin voice choking on the words. “Not fer rattlers, o’ courst, but that’s what we found when we poked under that bush over yonder.”

  “Snake hunting?” Tony asked. “With a girl? And at this time of night? What were you thinking?” And what were her parents going to say when they found out, he wondered, though he didn’t say so aloud.

  Harley puffed out his chest. “The snake wasn’t expectin’ us to go peeking in its hidey-hole or it would’ve warned us away with its rattle. But we didn’t know it was there ’til Bri lifted that branch. She started screamin’ and carryin’ on and scared the blasted thing so bad that it bit her. I killed it right quick, then ran fer help.”