Deep in the Heart of Trouble (5 page)

So instead of coming home a reigning queen, she had slinked back with her tail between her legs. But it had been almost three weeks now. She decided it was time to quit her cowering. Steeling herself, she faced her peers.

“Life in a corset is one long suicide,” she began. “But nothing short of death will get us to admit it.”

The fidgeting stopped. As if everyone were playing a game of freeze tag, no one breathed, or even blinked.

“Ours is a living death, though. Fainting. Indigestion. Restriction of movement. Shortage of breath.” She placed a hand against her stomach. “Worse, it can endanger not only a woman who is quickening, but it can harm her unborn child, as well.”

She paused to make eye contact with several women in the audience. “Is an hourglass figure really worth all that?”

The murmuring started in the back, and before long many of the women were leaning sideways to whisper with a neighbor. Shirley pretended not to notice and gave Essie another encouraging smile.

Usually, Essie addressed this topic individually with her students during private lessons. Never before had she spoken so openly to the group.

Whether their rumblings were due to the injustice of the corset or the boldness of the topic, she did not know.

“Dr. Weller Van Hook of Chicago recommends cycling for women because it requires the discarding of ‘the murderous corset,’ as he calls it.”

She heard an audible gasp. Glancing over, she saw Mrs. Bogart, the retired preacher’s wife, turning an alarming shade of red.

“I’m not suggesting we throw our corsets out altogether,” Essie continued. “I do, however, strongly recommend the use of a modified corset while riding.”

She reached into her basket and held up a white eyelet bicycle corset. At the sight of the garment, several matrons in the audience covered their mouths and lowered their eyes. Mrs. Bogart sat rigid with shock.

Essie paid them no mind. “Notice its shortened length for easy bending at the waist?” She pulled until the side panels began to stretch. “See that? These panels are made of a new stretchable fabric called elastic, so it’s even more flexible. The American Lady Corset Company is offering free bicycle accident insurance for every garment purchased.”

At the sound of a bargain, some of the murmuring stopped and a couple of the ladies in the back craned their necks for a better look.

Essie continued as if she were discussing something as ordinary as how to fry a chicken. She unfurled a new advertising poster that read, “Pretty Women Who Ride Should Wear Smith’s Corsets.”

She quoted excerpts from medical journals cautioning women not to cycle in traditional corsets. She even went to the dress form she’d brought from the back room and demonstrated how to lace the corset so it wouldn’t cut off the wearer’s breath.

“An article in
Lady Cyclist
last week cautioned that a host of sufferings arise from ‘interference with the circulation of the blood and the prevention of the full play of the breathing organs,’ ” she said.

In conclusion, she offered ten percent off any bicycle corsets purchased at tonight’s meeting. By the time the evening was over, she had sold a half dozen new corsets.

Mrs. Lockhart approached her afterward and gave her a pat on the arm. “Quite an informative lecture, my dear.”

A few short years ago, the petite, elderly widow had worn unrelieved black from head to toe. A more traditional lady couldn’t have been found. Since learning to ride the bike, however, she had embraced the modified corset and split skirt—going so far as to wear them even when she wasn’t out cycling.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Essie said.

“What do you plan to discuss next week?”

“Bicycle Etiquette for Courting Couples.”

“Excellent. I shall look forward to it. And how is our young racer coming along?”

Essie smiled. “Splendidly. Mr. Sharpley trains with me five evenings a week. He is quite proficient on the wheel and I think this might be the year for Sullivan Oil to claim the trophy. Wouldn’t it be something if Corsicana’s hometown oil company won?”

“The townsfolk would be ecstatic. Might even name a street after you.”

Essie flushed with pleasure.

Mrs. Lockhart paused in the midst of pulling on her gloves and peered at Essie over the rim of her glasses. “But you’re training Mr.

Sharpley five evenings a week, you say? That is quite a bit of time to be spending with a young man without chaperone.”

“He’s barely eighteen,” Essie said, reining in her exasperation.

“I hardly think it qualifies.”

Mrs. Lockhart buttoned her gloves thoughtfully. “Jeremy married our little Shirley this year, and he’s eighteen.”

“And Shirley is twenty,” Essie whispered, hoping none of the other ladies could overhear. “I, as you well know, am almost twice that.”

“Tut-tut. You’re merely thirty-three. Plenty of time left yet for breeding.”

Essie rolled her eyes. She’d turn thirty-four next week but did not feel inclined to mention that fact. “Good night, Mrs. Lockhart.

I shall see you later in the week for your lesson.”

After the last of the women shuffled out, she and Shirley began to place the chairs against the wall. They’d barely cleared the first row when Jeremy stuck his head inside the door.

“Is it safe?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper that echoed off the cavernous walls.

“Jeremy!” Shirley squealed, hurrying to him. “We were just straightening up.”

The young man strode in with a cocky grin and eyes for nothing but his bride. “I came to walk you home.”

“How long have you been out there?”

“Long enough to be glad I wasn’t in here with all them harpies.”

Shirley swatted his arm. “For shame. Those ladies are the life and soul of this place. Now, come help me and Miss Essie.”

“Howdy, Miss Essie,” he said, tipping his mud-caked hat. As an oilman’s point of honor, his hat stayed filthy, but the rest of him was clean as could be. His starched and pressed blue cotton shirt fit taut across his wide shoulders. He’d cinched his denim trousers with a store-bought belt—which was a good thing, since there was nothing in the south end of his frame to hold those pants up. With the young man’s help, they quickly finished storing away the tables and chairs.

“I’ll do the sweeping,” Essie said. “You two go on.”

“Are you sure?” Shirley asked.

“Of course.”

“Thank ya, Miss Essie,” Jeremy said, grabbing Shirley’s hand.

“Good night.”

She watched the two hurry out, a smile on her lips. Such an unlikely couple. One just never could tell.

Humming to herself, she began to sweep the yawning floor when the hinges on the door squeaked once more.

“Did you forget something?” she asked, looking up.

But it wasn’t Jeremy or Shirley or even one of her club members in the doorway. It was the new toolie her father had hired the previous week.

chapter FOUR

“WHY, MR. Bryant. What brings you here?” Essie asked.

The new hire stood in the threshold of her clubhouse, dressed much the way Jeremy had been, but the effect was entirely different.

Jeremy had the shoulders, but this man had the chest, forearms, and legs to go with it.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

Closing the door behind him, he took off his hat and revealed a thick mat of brown tousled hair. She noted that this past week in the sun had added a bit of color to his face.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

He glanced over the rink as he moved toward her, obviously impressed by the size of the place. His black boots tracked mud across her floor, but she knew better than to scold him. Oilmen put as much stock in slush-marked boots as they did their hats.

At least she hadn’t swept that part of the floor yet. Perhaps she’d make him do it. The thought made her smile.

He took stock of her Parisian toque hat and the cherry velvet bows decorating her chest, elbows, and waist. Stopping at the edge of her skirt with its full four-yard sweep, he tapped his hat against his thigh.

“Miss Spreckelmeyer, are you aware your operation is just about ready for the boneyard? All the boys in Pennsylvania have switched from cable-tool rigs to rotary drills. If you don’t make improvements, you’ll be obsolete before the year is out.”

Her lips parted.

“I’ve already spoken to your father about it,” he continued, giving her no chance to reply. “But he said you were in charge of deciding what supplies he needed and when. So I’ve come to discuss it with you.”

Staring at him, she had no idea how to respond.

He put his hat back on his head and rested his hands on his hips.

“You do know what a cable tool and rotary drill are, don’t you?”

Good heavens. “Mr. Bryant. How on earth did those Morgans let a man of your qualities slip through their fingers?”

“They shouldn’t have.”

She arched a brow. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but last time I checked, you were a toolie with no field experience.”

“It doesn’t take much experience to see the obvious.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious to me that a newly hired employee with nothing to recommend him should know better than to challenge the boss his first week on the job.”

“It’s not the boss I’m talking to,” he said. “It’s his daughter. Besides, this isn’t a challenge. I’m trying to help you.”

She drew up to her full height. “I regret to inform you, sir, that I am not only your boss, I am also part owner of Sullivan Oil and have all the power that goes along with it. Furthermore, we don’t need any help.”

“You need more than help,” he said, looking her over from top to bottom. “You could use an entire overhaul.”

She clenched the broom handle. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that a rotary can drill almost a thousand feet in three days.”

A thousand feet? In three
days
? Impossible. It took their cabletool rigs at least three weeks to go that deep.

“How would you know?” she asked.

“I’ve seen them.”

“In Pennsylvania? You’ve been to Pennsylvania?”

“No. I saw a demonstration down in Beaumont.”

“A demonstration. I see. And what guarantee would I have that this rotary could drill into the black Corsicana soil? It’s nearly unbreakable and gummy, to boot.”

He shrugged. “Those Baker boys up in the Dakotas have been using rotaries to drill for water in all that hard rock they call ground.

I don’t know how successful they were at finding water, but I can tell you they were plenty successful at drilling.”

“And what magical principle makes this rotary drill bore so quickly?”

“A mule.”

“A mule?”

“Rotaries are completely different from cable tools,” he explained. “It’s kind of like a giant screw. Here, give me your broom.” Plucking it from her hand, he clamped his fist around the handle. “You attach a gripping device to a very strong rod with a cutting tool at its tip.” Spinning the broom upside down, he ground it against a knot in the floorboard. “Then rotate it. The tip cuts into the ground as it turns.”

“Where does the mule come in?”

“You put an extension on the rod, then attach it to the mule. The mule goes round and round and round in the same small circle. Basically, he rotates the cutting tool.”

What he said made sense. Her grandfather used to have a maple syrup mill that ran much the same way. And she could see Bryant believed in this new method. But a thousand feet in three days? That was awfully hard to take seriously. “How much are they?”

“Around six hundred dollars, I believe.”

“Six hundred dollars! Do you have any idea how many wells Sullivan Oil has? We can’t replace all our cable tools at that price when there is absolutely nothing operationally wrong with the rigs we have.”

“If you don’t, then you’re done for. Morgan’s just a couple hundred miles away with money and slow-producing wells. If he commissions the Baker boys first, his wells will start producing at a rate you couldn’t possibly compete with. But if Morgan hasn’t hired them yet, you could. Morgan’s oil isn’t as pure as yours, and if you convert to rotaries, you’ll leave him and everybody else in the dust.”

She pursed her lips. With her trip to New York and then the accompanying scandal, she’d had her mind on other things recently. Sullivan Oil’s competition had never been a big concern and, therefore, made his dire predictions rather hard to believe.

She studied his face. For all his exasperating presumption, he at least seemed honest. But for a clerk to hire on for field work, then come back a week later with news like this … something just didn’t add up.

“And why exactly are you so bent on Sullivan Oil having the upper hand?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Because it’s in my best interest for you to succeed.”

“Oh really?”

“Keeps my belly and pockets full.”

“Well, if we spend all our money and have to borrow more just to buy all these new drills, then more bellies than yours will go empty. Pockets too.”

“Don’t you understand what I’m saying? This decision isn’t something that can be put off. It could make or break Sullivan Oil’s entire future.” He tunneled his fingers through his hair. “I cannot believe your father is leaving this up to you.”

“Be careful, Mr. Bryant, lest you find yourself with no job at all. Then what will happen to your belly and pockets?”

“What’s the matter? Is your feminine constitution too fragile to take a business risk?”

“That is quite enough, sir.”

He stepped back, letting go of the broom. Too late, she reached out to catch it, but it slapped to the floor, the sound echoing off the walls.

“You’re the one trying to move within a man’s world,
Miss
Spreckelmeyer. And men don’t sugarcoat the facts or run away from a chance to grow and expand their businesses. We face challenges head on. And we do so without fear of losing our jobs. If you don’t want to take this small-time operation and turn it into something that rivals the companies up in Pennsylvania, then get yourself back in the kitchen where you belong.”

She bent down and snatched up the broom. “I won’t be going back to the kitchen, sir, but you will be looking for a new employer. You’re fired.”

His eyes darkened with anger. “Now, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You let a woman wear the britches and she gets way too big for ’em.”

She took a step forward, but he did not retreat. “I will have you know, Mr. Bryant, that Sullivan Oil is the largest producer of oil in this entire state.”

“Not for long. Not if you refuse to recognize progress when you see it.”

“Get out.”

“No. You need me. Now, get off your high horse and let’s talk about this—man-to-man.”

“You don’t seem to have grasped the situation, sir. You are no longer an employee of Sullivan Oil. So there is no need for us to talk. Man-to-man or otherwise.”

He stared at her for several seconds. The patch of skin under his sunburned nose was burned more than the rest of his face, making him look like a child who’d drank too much cherry juice.

But there was nothing childlike about his thick neck. His piercing gaze. His lips and square jaw. Nor the hollow beside his mouth that formed a deep groove when he smiled.

He heaved a sigh, his animosity falling away like a collapsing crinoline. “I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“You should have thought about that earlier.”

“Your father is too busy with his judicial duties to give the oil company the attention it needs, and you spend most of your time in here,” he said, stretching his arm out in a gesture that encompassed everything from the wooden floor to the rafters above.

“You’ve worked in the fields for one week, Mr. Bryant. You barely even look the part. How can you possibly presume to know enough to advise me?”

“And just how many hours have
you
worked in the field?”

Ignoring him, she returned to her sweeping.

“It’s not only the rotary drills, Miss Spreckelmeyer,” he continued, following behind her. “There’s other changes that need to take place, as well. And soon.”

“My stars and garters,” she mumbled.

He gently clasped the broom handle, stopping her. “Don’t let your pride stand in the way of the good of your father’s company. ‘Dare to be wise.’ ”

Was he quoting Horace to her? Surely not.

“ ‘It is not wise to be wiser than is necessary,’ ” she responded.

He raised his left brow. “ ‘Some folks are wise and some are otherwise.’ ”

Jerking the handle away from him, she touched the bristles of her broom against his boots as if she could perhaps sweep him away. “The door is that way, Mr. Bryant. Good night.”

He bucked the bristles with his foot, a tick in his jaw setting up a rapid pace. After the slightest of hesitations, he strode to the door and slammed it behind him.

The following afternoon, Sheriff Melvin Dunn and Deputy Billy John Howard stepped through Essie’s back door and into the kitchen.

“Hey, darlin’,” the sheriff said. “How’s my girl?”

Cracking an egg into a small bowl, Essie looked at her uncle. “I’m all right. I suppose you came by to check on Papa?”

“I did. How’s he holding up?”

She began to whip the egg, thinking of how surprised the lawbreakers would be to discover their big, husky sheriff had a heart as soft as butter. It was the two-year anniversary of Mother’s death, and grief over her passing continued to plague Papa. And though Uncle Melvin came by on the pretense of seeing him, she knew he grieved for his only sister as well.

“He’s sequestered himself back in his study,” she said.

He hung his hat on a peg, revealing a head of hair with more gray than brown. “Something smells mighty good in here,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “How come you’re doing the cooking?

Where’s Mrs. Carmichael?”

“Her rheumatism was bothering her again, so Papa sent her on home. I was just whipping up some veal soup. Would you like to stay for supper?”

He patted his belly, which had grown rounder over the last couple of years. “Better not. I’m watching my girlish figure. Besides, Verdie’s expecting me home any minute.” He headed toward Papa’s study. “Be back in a minute.”

The clacking of her eggbeater sounded loud in the sudden quiet. She knew she should acknowledge Deputy Howard, but she was loathe to encourage even polite conversation.

He stood just inside the door, tracking her every move. He was small in stature and had the face of an angel, but in the six months since Uncle Melvin had deputized him, he’d enjoyed the power of his badge just a little too much for her liking.

Her uncle was blinded to the deputy’s shortcomings, though, for Billy John Howard was grandson to a close friend—who also happened to be the Texas secretary of state.

Without bothering to remove his hat, Deputy Howard sauntered to the stove and lifted the lid off her cast-iron pot. “Ummmm. I sure do love veal soup.” He dipped his finger in the broth, then licked it off. “And I’m not growing soft in the middle like your uncle.”

The thought of his grimy finger fouling her supper curdled her stomach. She strode to the stove and poured the egg into the pot, ignoring his attempt to finagle an invitation.

He leaned in toward her and inhaled deeply. “I do believe I smell dessert. I always like a little something sweet after my meals, don’t you?”

She placed her fingertips on his chest and pushed. “You’re crowding me. Do you mind?”

Capturing her hand, he brought it to his lips. “Not at all. I don’t mind in the least little bit.”

She snatched her hand out of his grasp. “Deputy Howard, you are making me uncomfortable.”

“Call me Billy John. Come on now, sweetheart, let me hear you say my name just once.”

“That is quite enough!”

“Uh-oh,” Uncle Melvin said, coming back through the archway. “What’ve you gone and done now, Billy John?”

Deputy Howard took a casual step back and removed his hat. “Oh, I’m just teasin’ her some. Telling her how a bowl of veal soup would cure me of my ailment, but she got mighty prickly about it.”