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Authors: Deeanne Gist

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Deep in the Heart of Trouble (11 page)

BOOK: Deep in the Heart of Trouble
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“It’s the deputy!” Harley exclaimed. “See?” He took the carving from Tony, holding up the smiling side. “This is how he acts in front of the sheriff and the ladies.” He flipped it over. “But this is what he’s really like. Ain’t he, Pa?”

Vandervoort shot a stream of tobacco into a spittoon. “It’s just a carving, son. Not meant to be anybody in particular.”

Harley’s face registered shock. He started to say something, then must have thought better about contradicting his father.

“Where’d ya get a knife like that?” Vandervoort asked.

“My father gave it to me.”

“How come the top of it’s shaped like a dog bone?”

Tony hesitated, recalling the long-ago day a mean-looking dog had chased him home from school. After outrunning the beast, he’d burst into his father’s study with tears streaming down his face.

“Come ’ere,”
his father had said, laughing at the tale and motioning Tony forward. He rummaged through his desk and produced the oddly shaped knife.
“Here’s a weapon fit for you, Dogbone.”
He chuckled at the nickname, amused at his own joke.
“If that dog comes looking for you again, you can throw this at him.”

Tony fingered the memento in his pocket. “My dad liked unusual things, I guess.”

Vandervoort spit again. “Well, I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”

Tony nodded. “Me neither, sir. Me neither.”

“Guess what I did, Mr. Tony?” Harley asked.

“What’s that?”

“I got to watch Miss Essie train Mr. Sharpley.”

“That a fact?”

“Sure is. And you should see ’im. He takes off like the first rattle outta the box. Everybody’s saying we’re gonna win the race this year, ain’t they, Pa?”

Vandervoort cracked his knuckles one at a time. “If what the peddler man says is true, then we just might have a shot.”

“The peddler man said the fella over at Alamo Oil is purty fast,” Harley explained, “but he thinks Sharpley might have the edge on him.”

Owen jumped his opponent’s checker, then looked up from his game. “The boys have a kitty going if you want in on it, Bryant.”

Tony smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

Jenkins rubbed his bald head and slumped back in his chair, having lost his last checker. “Well, that’s it fer me.”

He and Owen stood.

“Y’all leavin’?” Vandervoort asked.

“Reckon so.”

Vandervoort pushed himself into a standing position. “We’ll go with ya.” He looked at Harley. “You ready?”

“I was hopin’ to play a game with Mr. Tony first. Can I stay a little longer?”

“I dunno, son,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Yer ma’s gonna want ya home soon.”

“I won’t go easy on him this time, Pa, so it won’t be a long game.”

Tony frowned.

“Well, all right, then,” Vandervoort said, patting Harley’s back. “But come straight home when yer finished.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

The men shuffled out and Harley began setting up the game.

“How’s Brianna?” Tony asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Madder ’n a hornet.”

“Mad? What about?”

“Her pa ain’t gonna let her go to the Fourth of July celebration.”

Tony settled into the ladder-back chair. “That’s a pity. How’s she doing otherwise?”

“Okay, I guess. She doesn’t have to do no chores.”

“Ah. A silver lining.” Tony took a sip of coffee.

Harley moved first. “I still feel bad for her. The whole town will be there and we’re gonna have sack races, a marble contest, and everything.”

“Brianna plays marbles?” Tony asked, pushing his piece forward.

“Naw. She’s all upset about that dumb box-supper auction. You know, where the fellers buy up food they could get fer free if they’d just eat with their ma instead o’ some girl?”

Tony chuckled. “Isn’t Brianna a bit young to be putting her box up?”

“Oh, she don’t do it yet, but she wants to somethin’ fierce. She still likes to see who buys whose, though. It’s all her and her sisters been talkin’ about.” He jumped two of Tony’s pieces.

“Maybe you could bring a bit of the celebration to her.”

“How do you figure that?” Harley asked, moving onto Tony’s king row.

“Well, you could ask your mother to help you make a box tied up with some little gewgaw of Brianna’s. Then, when the auction starts, you could take it to her house, pretend like it was hers, bid on it, and then share it with her.”

Harley smiled, positioning his king so that it threatened three of Tony’s pieces. “She’d like that fer shore. And I bet my ma would like makin’ a box, too.”

Tony refocused on the checkerboard, dismayed to see any move he made would put him in harm’s way. He looked at Harley.

The boy shrugged. “You gotta learn to talk and play at the same time.”

In the next few minutes of silence, Harley claimed all of Tony’s pieces.

chapter TEN

WITH A telegram from driller M.C. Baker in his pocket, Tony headed to the Corsicana Velocipede Club. He’d sent a message to Russ and received a reply from Baker himself. The brothers were still in Beaumont and free to come to Corsicana in a couple of weeks.

He lengthened his stride, wondering what kind of paces Essie was putting Sharpley through this time and if he could coax her into letting him participate.

He’d thought of her often over the last few days and had tried to glean a bit of information by covertly pumping the boys in the patch.

But he hadn’t learned anything new, other than a few specifics that confirmed what he already suspected. If the judge was head of the company, then Essie was its hands and feet.

Reaching the club, he knocked, then pushed open the door. Instead of Sharpley, though, he found a group of about twenty-five women gossiping around a table with cookies and punch. Some were young and in their twenties, but most were matrons. Essie was not among them.

He scanned the building and spotted her up on the bandstand, flipping through a sheaf of papers. She wore a blue gown with poofy sleeves that narrowed sharply to a skin-tight fit outlining elbows and lower arms. An extremely wide sash hugged her tiny waist, emphasizing curves both above and below. The brim of her hat protruded well past her forehead, while the back was pinched up, her blond hair piled underneath with a collection of curls at its center.

With her head bent over her papers, he noted for the first time the length of her long, lovely neck.

“Well, now, who have we here?” a petite, elderly woman asked, approaching with a cane.

He stifled his surprise at the woman’s attire. She was wearing bloomers rather than a gown. Her trousers were baggy at the knees, abnormally full about the pockets, and considerably loose where one strikes a match.

He doffed his hat. “I was wanting to speak with Miss Spreckelmeyer, ma’am.”

“Were you, now?” Through wire-rimmed spectacles, she looked him up and down with frank appreciation.

He felt his cheeks warm. “I can see she’s busy, though. I’ll just come back another time.”

“Are you a member, Mr… . ?”

“Bryant.” He nodded. “Tony Bryant. And you are?”

“Mrs. Penelope Lockhart.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Lockhart. And, no, I’m not a member.”

“Would you like to be?”

He hesitated. “I’m … Is it … Are visitors allowed?”

Her skin folded like an accordion as she smiled. “Indeed they are. But in order to attend a meeting, you must come as a guest of one of the members.”

“Well, I didn’t really come to attend the meeting.”

“Of course you did.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. “But we’re supposed to register our guests ahead of time,” she whispered. “We could just pretend I forgot all about that. Would you like to attend as my guest?” Her eyes were alight with appeal.

Despite his better judgment, he found himself responding to her less-than-subtle petition. “Won’t your husband mind?” he asked in mock undertone.

She looked at him over her spectacles. “Not likely. He’s been dead almost twenty years now.”

He choked back a laugh, having no notion of what to say.

“Tonight’s topic is Bicycle Etiquette for Courting Couples,”

Mrs. Lockhart said, then leaned in close. “I do not believe Miss Spreckelmeyer has ever discussed this particular topic in front of a, um, mixed crowd.”

The touch of mischief in her eyes was unmistakable. He glanced again at Essie. She was giving lessons on
etiquette
? But the woman on the stage was not the ball-playing, snake-hunting, disheveled tomboy he’d walked home earlier this week. This Essie was every inch the proper, elegant, refined lady, and he found himself wondering what this side of her was like.

Returning his attention to the old woman before him, he offered her his arm. “It would be my honor to have such a lovely lady at my side this evening, Mrs. Lockhart.”

Her eyes lit up. Hooking her cane over her elbow, she placed her hand on his arm. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the girls.”

Satisfied with the arrangement of her notes on the lectern, Essie decided it was time for Shirley to call the meeting of the Corsicana Velocipede Club to order. As she looked for Shirley, the sound of deep male laughter filled the room.

She moved her attention to the refreshment table. Tony, with a coffee cup in one hand and Mrs. Lockhart on his arm, stood surrounded by the ladies of the Velocipede Club.

He looked up, caught her watching him and telegraphed her a private hello. She experienced a quick rush of pleasure.

After careful consideration over the last few days, she finally realized why Tony had bucked her authority before. When she’d looked at him, all she’d seen was a toolie, not a man.

She smoothed the hair at the nape of her neck. She admitted to herself that she’d definitely noticed the
man
the other night, though.

And she was sure he knew it—just like she knew he’d taken notice of her. At the moment, Mrs. McCabe, the coroner’s wife, held Tony’s attention. She was a jolly, large-chested woman with a wicked sense of humor that did not suit her husband’s occupation. Essie could not hear what the woman was saying, but her eyes were glowing and when she finished speaking, she whipped open her fan and put it to rapid use.

Tony threw back his head in laughter. The younger ladies giggled, though their eyes were downcast. The matrons, chuckling goodnaturedly, exchanged knowing looks with one another.

Essie quickly left the stage and headed toward the group.

“You’ll find Mr. Bunting a fine, civic-minded banker,” Mrs. Blanchard, secretary of the bicycle club, interjected. She was a stout woman of fine form and looked as if she’d come right out of a Rubens painting. “Now, were you to visit Mr. Delk’s bank, he’d say that he’d be happy to help carry the load. But what he means is for you to carry the piano and him to carry the sheet music.”

Tony smiled. “Sounds as if Mr. Bunting’s bank is the place to entrust my money, then?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Lockhart, “here comes our teacher.”

The ladies made room for Essie.

“My dear, this is my guest, Mr. Bryant. Mr. Bryant, this is the owner of the Velocipede Club, Miss Spreckelmeyer.”

He tipped his head. “I’ve had an opportunity to become acquainted with Miss Spreckelmeyer already, as I’m a roustabout for Sullivan Oil.”

The women
ahhhhed
in understanding.

“Hello, Mr. Bryant,” Essie said. “Was there something you needed to see me about?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Lockhart answered for him. “He is considering membership in the club and wanted to attend tonight’s lecture on bicycle courtship.”

Essie looked at him in surprise. Mrs. Lockhart was a consummate matchmaker. Had she decided he would do nicely for one of the younger girls and brought him here to promote her agenda? Was he party to her shenanigans?

“I don’t recall seeing any guests listed on the register,” she said.

“Oh my.” Mrs. Lockhart brought a gloved hand to her lips. “I confess I completely forgot to sign him up in advance. Will you forgive me, dear?”

Something wasn’t quite right, but Essie couldn’t determine what it was. “Of course. Had I known he was coming, though, I might have chosen a more suitable topic.”

He covered Mrs. Lockhart’s hand with his. “Perhaps it would be best if I came another time.”

“No, no,” the woman responded. “We wouldn’t hear of it. Would we, Essie?”

“Don’t answer, Miss Spreckelmeyer,” he said. “I have no wish to make you uncomfortable.” He kissed Mrs. Lockhart’s cheek. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Tony,” Essie said, stopping him before he could withdraw.

“Don’t be silly. You are more than welcome to stay.”

He shook his head. “Thank you, but—”

“I insist.”

Mrs. Lockhart latched on to his elbow. “There. All settled.” She gave Essie a pointed look. “Isn’t it time we start?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She made eye contact with Shirley, and the girl hastened to the stage.

Tony glanced at Essie and, with a pained look, mouthed,
I’m sorry.

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, but Mrs. Lockhart had already commandeered his attention as she directed him to the spot she sat every week. Right on the very first row.

Having a gentleman in the house electrified the women. Some tittered, some preened, while others laughed a little too loud. The younger women cast inviting glances Tony’s direction, but he had eyes for Mrs. Lockhart alone.

Leaning much closer than was proper, he whispered something in her ear, earning himself a wicked chortle and a halfhearted slap on the arm.

Essie’s stomach fluttered. How on earth would she convey tonight’s message with Tony sitting directly in her line of vision? He towered almost a foot above the women.

She sighed. It could be worse, she supposed. He could have come to last week’s lecture on corsets. She felt ill just thinking about it.

A spattering of applause commenced and Shirley looked at her expectantly. Essie jumped to her feet. Good heavens. She’d missed her own introduction.

Stepping up to the lectern, she silently read the first line of her notes. She believed her opening statement would set the tone for the entire evening and she’d given careful thought to its wording.

The charming and fascinating power of serpents over birds is as nothing compared with what a woman can wield over a man.

She couldn’t say that now. Not with Tony sitting right there. She scanned down to the next paragraph.

A woman who once starts a man’s love can get out of him, and do with him, anything possible she pleases.

Warmth began to bedevil her cheeks. She’d lifted that statement right out of the Social Manual her mother had given her. But how could she, a thirty-four-year-old unmarried woman with more failed relationships than she cared to admit, present such an argument?

She’d thought nothing of it before when she wrote her speech. But having a man present changed everything.

Perhaps she should skip the introduction and move directly to the point at hand. She flipped her first page over. The ladies began to fidget, disrupting the stillness of the vast room with a slight fluttering of skirts as they shifted in their chairs.

Panicked at how long she’d been standing there without saying a word, Essie simply picked a sentence and started. “Marriage very rarely mends a man’s manners.”

Good heavens. She took a calming breath and pressed forward. “Goldsmith says that ‘love is often an involuntary passion placed upon our companions without our consent, and frequently conferred without even our previous esteem.’ ”

She knew only too well that statement was true.

“The first point to be considered on this subject is a careful choice of associates, which will often, in the end, save future unhappiness and discomfort.”

Memories of the drifter who had stolen much more than her heart the summer of ’94 swept through her, giving an urgency to her message. There were young, impressionable girls in her audience who could become the next ne’er-do-well’s victim.

“An unsuitable acquaintance, friendship, or alliance is more embarrassing and more painful for the woman than the man. Wealth, charm, and genius mean nothing if the character of the man is flawed.”

She looked from her papers to her club members. “The bicycle is responsible for much promiscuous acquaintanceship. Many elderly chaperones find it too difficult to keep up with their young charges. And if we are not very, very careful, the people lobbying to have bicycling outlawed for females will get their way.”

She had them now. Every eye was focused on her. No outdoor pastime could be more independently pursued than bicycling. None of these women wanted to give up that freedom.

Tony, however, gazed back at her, not with rapt attention but with a touch of amusement, and it hurt her feelings, then ignited her sense of injustice. Men could walk away unscathed from a licentious relationship. Women were left ruined. Stripped of their reputations, their options, their very virtue.

“Just remember this, ladies,” she said. “You cannot come to any harm unless you get
off
your bicycle.”

Murmurs of agreement flitted through the room. Faint laugh lines formed at the corners of Tony’s eyes.

Had she been wrong about him? Was he, in fact, simply passing through town, looking for a woman desperate enough to believe his quiet words and soft gestures?

Old wounds long since buried rose to the surface, surprising her with how swiftly and painfully they struck.

She made her next statement looking straight at him. “A man’s duty to the woman who rides could be turned into a long sermon. But long sermons are never popular. So I will briefly state that he must always be on the alert to assist his fair companion in every way possible.”

Mrs. Lockhart looked at him and he nodded at her with mock sobriety.

“He must be clever enough to repair any slight damage to her machine. He must assist her in mounting and dismounting. Pick her up when she has a tumble. And make himself generally useful. Incidentally ornamental. And quintessentially agreeable.”

He chuckled. Not out loud, of course, but he bit the insides of his cheeks, and his shoulders shook. Mrs. Lockhart gave him a stern frown.

Essie gripped the lectern. “Lastly, he is to ride at her left in order to give her the more guarded place.”

She stomped down from the bandstand and grabbed one of the two bicycles she’d had waiting in readiness for her demonstration.

The wheels stood side by side, center front.

Originally, Shirley had agreed to assist her, but now that they had a bona fide “gentleman” in their midst, there would be no need for Shirley’s help.

“In mounting, he holds her wheel.” She thrust the machine toward him. “Mr. Bryant? Would you be so kind?”

He jumped to his feet. “It would be my honor.” He turned to Mrs. Lockhart. “Please excuse me.”

Mrs. Lockhart nodded and he stepped to the front, taking hold of the bike’s handlebar.

BOOK: Deep in the Heart of Trouble
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