Deep in the Heart of Trouble (12 page)

Essie lifted her chin. “The lady stands on the left side of the machine and puts her right foot across the frame to the right pedal, which at the time must be up.” Her skirts were far too long and full for riding. She’d never meant to actually mount, just to take the women through the steps verbally. But her entire speech had gone awry.

Giving him a brisk nod, she shooed him away. “You may see to your wheel now, Mr. Bryant.” She edged the hem of her skirt up so it wouldn’t get caught in the spokes or chains. “The lady rider starts ahead.”

She pushed the right pedal, causing her machine to start and then with her left foot in place began to move forward. “She must go slowly at first, in order to give her cavalier time to mount his wheel, which he will do in the briefest possible time.”

She glanced over her shoulder, hoping against hope that he would be slow and clumsy. But he was already upon his bike and taking up his position on her left side.

They kept to the perimeter of the seated assembly. She clutched at her skirts to keep them from becoming entangled. He made no effort to avert his gaze from the show of her ankle.

Halfway around the circle, she turned her attention to her members. “When the end of the ride is reached, the man quickly dismounts and is at his companion’s side to assist her.”

The women twisted and turned, trying to keep Essie and Tony within their view. Approaching the final leg of her journey, she prepared for dismounting.

“The most approved style of alighting from one’s machine is when the left pedal is on the rise, the weight of the body is thrown onto it, and the right foot is crossed over the frame of the bike. Then, with an assisting hand, the rider easily steps to the ground.”

Before she had finished speaking, he was there. Hand out, seeing her smoothly to the ground.

They stood facing each other, the silence in the room palpable.

He grazed her gloved knuckles with his thumb. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Spreckelmeyer.”

A collective sigh issued forth from the audience.

Essie snatched her hand from his. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

He took her machine, parked it next to his and returned to his seat. The women started chattering at once, sharing their thoughts on what they’d seen and learned.

Essie reached the lectern and noted with a start that Tony’s attention had never strayed from her. Mrs. Lockhart was speaking to him, but he paid her no heed. Instead, he stared intently at Essie.

It was not a flirtatious look he gave her. Or even a suggestive look. It was the look he’d given her when they played tug-of-war with her hairpin.

She swallowed and tugged her gloves more securely onto her hands. One thing was certain: His intentions toward her, honorable or otherwise, would be discernable soon enough.

chapter ELEVEN

MRS. LOCKHART pedaled her bike slowly, allowing Tony to keep up as he walked her home.

“So, Mr. Bryant,” she said, her bloomers rustling, “why did you
really
come to the bicycle club tonight?”

He shot her a glance. “I had some business to discuss with Miss Spreckelmeyer.”

“Business?” The wheels of her machine crunched against the gravel and dirt. “What kind of business?”

“Oil business.”

“At such a late hour?”

“I work until sundown, ma’am. By the time I clean up, eat, and walk out to the club, the hands on the clock have done some spinning.”

“Why not speak with the judge?”

Tony adjusted his hat. He wasn’t sure if the townsfolk knew exactly how involved Essie was in the running of things. “I probably should have done that, now that you mention it.”

A smile flitted across her face. “No. You did the right thing. Whatever you wanted, I’m sure Sullivan would have told you to go ask Essie.”

They took a right on Decatur Street. A door closed in the distance. As they passed a house on the corner, the lantern hanging in its window went out.

“You like Essie, don’t you?” Mrs. Lockhart asked.

He missed a step. “Uh, yes, ma’am. The Spreckelmeyers are good folks.”

“That’s not what I meant, sir.”

He remained silent, wondering how much farther it was to her home.

“Well, then, where are you from, Mr. Bryant?”

“Beaumont.”

“Beaumont. A very nice town. Do you still have family there?”

“Yes, ma’am. A mother and sister.”

“I have family there, too. A daughter and a son-in-law.”

He smiled in acknowledgment.

“I don’t rightly recall any Bryants, though.” She squinted her eyes, searching her memory. “Of course, there’s Leah Bryant. You know, Blake Morgan’s widow?”

He kept his face carefully blank.

“Would you be related to those Bryants?”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his neck. “I imagine we’re all related one way or another. What’s your daughter’s married name?”

“Otter. Mrs. Archibald Otter.”

His heart began to hammer. Archie Otter was Morgan Oil’s tool pusher. His wife, Leslie, was an intimate friend of Anna’s, and the couple often sat with Tony’s family on the porch while Archie picked his banjo.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have opportunity to visit your daughter very often?”

“Yes. Quite often. Her husband works for the Morgans. Who did you work for while you were there?”

“The same.”

“Really? Then you must have known Archie.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very high up in the company, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am. Everybody knows who Mr. Otter is.”

She hit a hole in the road, causing her bike to wobble.

He reached out and steadied her.

“My son-in-law was always singing the praises of Tony Morgan, one of Mr. Morgan’s sons.” She sighed. “According to Archie, though, Mr. Morgan disappeared after being disinherited by his father. Actually, that happened right about the time you arrived in town.”

He studied her face, trying to decide if she was baiting him.

She slowed in front of a hipped-roof bungalow surrounded by a white picket fence. “I shall have to tell Archie I’ve made your acquaintance.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “He never forgets a name or face.”

She knew who he was. No question about it. Perhaps they had even met when he was with the Otters, but he could not recall one way or the other.

He assisted her off her bike.

“Won’t you come in for a refreshment, Mr. Bryant?”

He handed her cane to her and opened the gate. “I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am. It’s awfully late and I have to be out on the fields at first light.”

She walked through, then waited while he retrieved her bike and brought it inside the yard.

“Where would you like me to put this?” he asked.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

The grass crunched beneath his boots as they headed to the back of her house.

“Are you returning to the club to discuss …
business
with Essie?”

“I might swing by on my way home and see if she’s still there.”

Mrs. Lockhart nodded. “She wears her spinsterhood like a suit of armor, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’ll take a man with great skill to find the chinks.”

He stopped, but the old woman kept going. She was much more intuitive than he’d given her credit for and in order to keep her quiet about his identity, he would need to cultivate a relationship of some sort with her.

That aside, he was willing to admit he wanted to find the chinks in Essie’s armor but didn’t think it wise. Not while his family relied on the goodwill of Darius. Instead, he should be working his way up through Sullivan Oil, learning everything he could about the business.

He’d been working hard during the day, sleeping hard at night. He’d been keeping an eye out for men who would make good partners and good investors. He’d been saving every penny he earned. And when the time was right, he planned to branch out on his own, build up his business and send for his mother and sister.

But that would take months yet. Years, even. His mother would probably be all right, but what about Anna? He decided to write another letter home. His sister must observe the customary year of mourning. Not just because it was the respectful thing to do, but because her very future depended on it.

“Take Monday, for example,” Mrs. Lockhart said, pulling Tony back into the present. He quickly caught up to her.

“If you were wanting to escort Essie to the Fourth of July celebration, you’d certainly have your work cut out for you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

They rounded the house and came face-to-face with the silhouette of a giant derrick in her backyard. For houses in these parts, derricks had become as common as chimneys over the past few years—he’d seen the same thing happen in Beaumont, though he was a little surprised to find Mrs. Lockhart living under the shadow of such a monstrosity.

“You can prop Hilda right there,” she said.

Hilda? He leaned her machine against the derrick’s legs. The familiar smell of oil enveloped them. He figured he could find every derrick in Corsicana blindfolded just by sniffing for fumes.

“Are you going to ask our Essie to the celebration?”

A rabbit leaped from underneath a bush, then disappeared into the tree line. He cupped Mrs. Lockhart’s elbow and helped her onto the back porch. “I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Perhaps you should.”

He considered her suggestion. Essie was already disrupting his schedule and his efforts to remain focused. He thought about her constantly. And tonight she’d looked so, well, pretty. Maybe taking her to this one event would relieve some of his pent-up tension.

“You think Miss Spreckelmeyer would tell me no?” he asked.

“I’m sure of it.”

He removed his hat. “You have any suggestions?”

Mrs. Lockhart smiled. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Would you like to come in?”

He hesitated. “Only for a minute, ma’am.”

After such an unsettling evening, Essie wanted nothing so much as to be alone, so she had sent Shirley home. Without help, it would take twice as long to close up, but the quietness of the club at night never failed to soothe her.

She loved the vastness of the room and the way it magnified even the slightest of sounds. In the lamplight, the vaulted roof seemed closer somehow, and the stillness reminded her of church. Staying here when everyone else had gone gave her a sense of keeping vigil, and she loved sharing her thoughts with God when no one else was around.

One by one she began to extinguish the sconces along the far wall, each sputtering as she snuffed out their amber glow. At the sound of the door opening, she turned. Tony stepped through, searched the shadows until he found her, then pushed the door shut behind him. The latch clicked into place.

Light from the remaining lamps glazed the left side of his silhouette with gold. He tipped his hat back, then swaggered toward her, his footsteps echoing through the building.

As he approached, he studied her from hat to head, shoulder to waist, waist to toe, and back up again. The slow survey awakened in her long-forgotten—and certainly forbidden—desires.

He came to a stop just inches from her.

Not wanting to be in the dark with him, she twisted the metal knob on the lamp at her shoulder until the hissing flame bathed them both in light. His eyes shone, his whole face seemed to glow.

“I didn’t expect to see you again this evening,” she said. “Was there something you needed?”

“I received a telegram from the Baker brothers.”

He spoke quietly, his words saying one thing but the look on his face another. She hardly knew which overture to answer.

“What did it say?” she asked.

He slipped his hand behind his lapel, digging inside his shirt pocket. The blue cotton stretched tight across his chest, until he found and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.

Pinching the edge with one hand, he unfurled it between the thumb and finger of his other, one slow stroke at a time. The parchment crackled, opening like a flower.

“M.C. is going to come in a few weeks,” he said, handing her the telegram.

She took hold of the message, but when she tried to draw it near, he didn’t let go. She waited, eyes down. He’d released her hairpin that night on Brianna’s porch. Surely he would release the paper now.

But he did not.

She tugged again.

“Essie?” he whispered.

She let go and took a step back.

He held the telegram suspended between them before finally reaching for her hand. He pressed the crumpled paper in her palm and gently squeezed before releasing her.

She curled her fist around the telegram, the paper rough against her skin. “What else does it say?”

“Read it.”

She opened her hand, but the note remained crumpled. Placing it against her stomach, she flattened it, then made the mistake of looking up.

She wished she’d left the lantern off. Tony’s eyes were dark. Intense. His nostrils flared.

She held the telegram up to the light, confirming that M.C. Baker would be here the fourteenth of July. “Thank you for arranging this.”

“You’re welcome.”

She handed him back the telegram. “Would it be too much to ask you to accompany me to the train station when he comes? That way you could point him out and make the introductions?”

He folded the paper into fourths, creasing each fold between thumb and fingernail. “It would be my pleasure.”

She moistened her lips. “Yes. Well. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome again.”

He tucked the paper back into his shirt pocket.

She waited, but he said no more.

“Was there something else?” she asked.

He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Is anyone taking you to the Fourth of July celebration?”

Her lips parted. “No.”

“I’d like to take you, Essie. Will you go with me?”

She ran her fingers along the skirt pleats at her waist. “My father usually escorts me to such events.”

He removed his hat, then tapped it against his leg. The light caught and highlighted the richness of his hair.

“Tony, I … How old are you?”

He lifted his brows. “Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Because I am a good deal older than you.” She gave a quick twist to the knob of the lamp, plunging them into darkness. “I’m afraid I must respectfully decline.”

She headed to the next sconce.

He followed. “I’m only six years younger. That’s nothing.”

She spun around. “How do you know my age?”

“Mrs. Lockhart told me.”

“Mrs. Lockhart told you? Why would she do a thing like that?”

She started toward the sconce again, but he touched her arm, stopping her. “She said you still have plenty of years left in you.”

“Mr. Bryant!”

He held up his hands. “She said it, not me.”

She yanked on her cuffs. “The two of you gossiped about me?”

“Not in the way you mean. Mrs. Lockhart has a way of getting a fella to spill out more information than he has a mind to. By the time I got her home, she’d learned I was planning to ask you to the festivities.” He pulled on his ear. “Once she found that out, she gave me all kinds of tips and advice.”

Essie stiffened. “Like what?”

“She said you’d hide behind your spinsterhood—”

“I’m not hiding!”

“She said you’d worry over what people would think—”

“Well, of course I’d worry what people would think. I have a business to run and a reputation to uphold. I can’t be acting like a schoolgirl. Every one of my business acquaintances will be there.”

“She said you’d not want to step out with an employee—”

“And she’s absolutely right! That would be the height of stupidity.”

“She said your eyes shoot out sparks when you feel passionately about something.” His voice dropped and he took a step closer. “I can see she’s right.”

Essie retreated a step. “The answer is still no. Thank you for asking.”