Deep in the Heart of Trouble Read online

  Deep in the Heart

  of Trouble

  Books by

  Deeanne Gist

  A Bride Most Begrudging

  The Measure of a Lady

  Courting Trouble

  Deep in the Heart of Trouble

  A Bride in the Bargain

  Beguiled

  Maid to Match

  Deep in the Heart of Trouble

  Copyright © 2008

  Deeanne Gist

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

  system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gist, Deeanne.

  Deep in the heart of trouble / Deeanne Gist.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0524-8 (alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-7642-0226-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Oil well drilling—Fiction. 3. Corsicana (Tex.)— History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.I55D44 2008

  813’.6—dc22

  2008002398

  * * *

  To Gary and Carol Johnson,

  whose contributions to the Christian Fiction genre

  have had an immeasurable impact

  on the furthering of God’s kingdom.

  May He bless you a hundredfold to how you

  have blessed me and so many others.

  DEEANNE GIST has a background in education and journalism. Her credits include People, Parents, Parenting, Family Fun, and the Houston Chronicle. She has a line of parenting products called I Did It® Productions and a degree from Texas A&M. She and her husband have four children—two in college, two in high school. They live in Houston, Texas, and Deeanne loves to hear from her readers at her Web site, www.deeannegist.com.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  chapter ONE

  chapter TWO

  chapter THREE

  chapter FOUR

  chapter FIVE

  chapter SIX

  chapter SEVEN

  chapter EIGHT

  chapter NINE

  chapter TEN

  chapter ELEVEN

  chapter TWELVE

  chapter THIRTEEN

  chapter FOURTEEN

  chapter FIFTEEN

  chapter SIXTEEN

  chapter SEVENTEEN

  chapter EIGHTEEN

  chapter NINETEEN

  chapter TWENTY

  chapter TWENTY-ONE

  chapter TWENTY-TWO

  chapter TWENTY-THREE

  chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  chapter TWENTY-SIX

  chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  chapter TWENTY-NINE

  chapter THIRTY

  chapter THIRTY-ONE

  chapter THIRTY-TWO

  chapter THIRTY-THREE

  chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am so thankful for the support I receive from fellow writers Meg Moseley and J. Mark Bertrand, who see my work in its rawest form, then faithfully critique it for me one chapter at a time. I am forever grateful to you both. Thank you for the time commitment and the sharing of your expertise.

  Once I finish my novel, I have my “go-to” readers who give the manuscript a fresh read from start to finish, then offer excellent feedback and suggestions. They include: my parents, Harold and Veranne Graham; my sister, Gayle Evers, who also thought of the title, Deep in the Heart of Trouble (You go, girl!); and my beloved friend and comrade, Allison Smythe.

  Finally, I humbly turn the manuscript in to my editors, David Long and Julie Klassen, who then take it and put it through a refining fire. How blessed I am to have them.

  Thus, the book you hold in your hands is the offering I give to you and to our gracious God. It is my fervent hope that it be worthy of you both.

  “When I saw you on your wheel, sweet Lenore

  Oh my brain did never reel so before.

  You were clad in knickerbocks

  And you wore such brilliant sox

  I could see ’em twenty blocks, maybe more.

  “I but gave a passing glance, sweet Lenore

  At the natty sawed-off pants which you wore,

  Then the cruel ground I hit

  I had fallen in a fit,

  And I’ve not recovered yet, sweet Lenore.”

  —Anonymous

  PROLOGUE

  CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK

  JUNE 2, 1898

  ESSIE SPRECKELMEYER didn’t have a man, nor did she need one. She had her own arms and legs, a head full of sense, and a hearty constitution. Furthermore, if she’d married and multiplied—thus fulfilling her moral and physiological destiny—then she’d never have been able to travel to New York City alone and enter her bicycle costume in the Herald ’s competition.

  Hundreds of people had gathered to celebrate this first day of New York’s cycling season. The stately grounds of Central Park contrasted sharply with the hustle and bustle of the city’s streets, yet Essie found herself unable to enjoy her surroundings. Moisture collected on her palms, and her stomach tensed, for the newspaper editor on the podium was winding down his speech and preparing to announce the contest winner.

  With one hand, she smoothed the full yellow bodice of her costume, which fastened on the right side under a ruffle of cream lisse. With the other, she plucked at bloomers that drooped deeply upon gaiters of cloth to match.

  Glancing at the crowd of bicycle enthusiasts packed in and around her, she took a deep breath. Her solo train trip across the country had scandalized everyone back home in Corsicana, Texas. If she won this competition, though, it would go a long way in soothing their sense of propriety. There was nothing Texans liked more than to prove they could do things better than their northern compatriots. In Essie’s mind her only real competition was a woman from Boston, whose costume was both appealing to the eye and extremely practical. But the lady’s plain brown hat fell quite short of the mark.

  Essie checked the hat perched atop her tightly twisted blond tresses, hoping the extravagant design of her own invention would tip the scales in her favor. The straw confection held two lines of yellow roses, with a frill of laced leaves towering well above the crown.

  The speaker recaptured Essie’s attention. “So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the New York Herald ’s contest for Best Bicycle Costume goes to … Miss Esther Spreckelmeyer of Corsicana, Texas!”

  At the sound of her name, Essie trembled with a mix of elation and disbelief. Excusing herself, she wove through the murmuring crowd and toward the festooned podium. Heads craned to catch a glimpse of her approach. The masses parted like clouds making way for a tiny beam of light.

  “Congratulations, dear,” said an elegant woman wearing a hat of rose-pink chiffon with a sheer polka-dot veil. A swarthy man in white knickerbockers and matching jacket touched his beret. A young police officer took Essie’s elbow and waved the crowd ba
ck.

  And then she was at the podium, where the newspaper editor, who couldn’t weigh more than a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, handed her the giant first-place wreath. It was half again as big as she and almost as heavy.

  A bouquet of luscious aromas from the roses, gardenias, and carnations decorating the wreath filled her nose.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The editor beheld her prizewinning costume, then turned to the crowd with a flourish of his elegant little hand. “I give you Miss Spreckelmeyer, owner and president of the Corsicana Velocipede Club.”

  Straightening her posture, she slipped the pleated cuff of her gigot sleeve through the wreath and held it to the side so the crowd could take another look at the costume that had been voted to victory.

  Men cheered. Women clapped, their gloved hands sounding like the rapid flapping of birds’ wings. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of an illustrator just as he flipped back a page in his sketchbook.

  He poised his charcoal on a fresh sheet of paper and shouted, “Miss Spreckelmeyer, look this way!”

  Startled, she glanced at him, amazed as he quickly swept his charcoal pencil in large arcs across his pad, his movements culminating in a rough outline of her holding the wreath. The crowd quieted and she returned her attention to the waiting audience.

  The confident words she had rehearsed in her daydreams fled from her mind. In a panic, she looked to her right and left as if she might miraculously discover the content of her acceptance speech hanging from the grand oaks lining the park.

  She cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen wheelers. I, um, I cannot begin to find the words to express how very much this honor means to me.”

  A smattering of applause.

  “I wish to thank—”

  “Hey, lady!” A large man in a black summer jacket, black Derby, and black boots pushed his way to the front. “I’m a member of the Anti-Bloomer Brigade, and we don’t approve of this emancipation movement you lady wheelers are pushing on our female population. We believe that a lady should look like a lady. What are you thinking to parade in an outfit like that, and in front of an assembly like this? Why, you’re shaming God, our country, and the entire fair sex.”

  The crowd hushed and the illustrator hastily flipped over a new page, sketching the heckler.

  “I do not belong to any special dress-reform movement, sir,” she said. “I simply wear bloomers because they are the most sensible attire for a lady cycler.”

  “Well, you might as well be wearing men’s trousers!” He leaped up onto the stage.

  Essie stumbled back. Gasps rose from the crowd.

  The diminutive editor-in-chief would be no match for the burly man, and she saw no sign of the officer who had escorted her to the podium.

  “I’ve taken an oath,” the man said, lumbering toward her. “An oath to do everything I can to put a stop to this immorality. And I intend to do just that!”

  He grabbed Essie’s arm. Three men standing close to the front scrambled onto the platform.

  “Now, see here,” shouted one of them. “Unhand that woman!”

  His words had the effect of a battle cry. And the most defining moment of Essie’s cycling career reduced itself into an all-out brawl.

  chapter ONE

  BEAUMONT, TEXAS

  ONE WEEK LATER

  THE YEARS hadn’t been good to Norris Tubbs. His back curved like a bow. Long white hairs grew from his ears in a tangled mess. His nose had increased in width and depth. And his eyes were glassy—but earnestly focused.

  “Your father told me I could have Anna,” he said.

  “Have Anna?” Tony Morgan asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Yes. As my wife.”

  Tony sucked in his breath, taking the coffee down the wrong pipe, choking himself and burning his throat.

  Tubbs thumped him on the back. “Everything was settled.”

  “Everything?” he asked, eyes watering.

  “Except for informing Anna, of course.”

  “Of course.” Still regaining his composure, Tony scanned the group of mourners filling his family’s parlor and caught sight of his sister accepting condolences from the governor of Texas.

  Though she wore black from head to foot, the cut and style of her gown was anything but harsh, particularly on her. A modest hat sat upon piles of dark hair, and the form-fitting bodice accentuated her feminine assets.

  Tony sighed. With her nineteenth birthday just a week or so away, he wasn’t surprised his father had been considering offers for her hand. But, Norris Tubbs?

  Tubbs followed Tony’s line of vision. “I assume you will honor your father’s wishes?”

  Pulling his attention back to the part owner of the H&TC Railroad, Tony tried to rein in his exasperation. Once his father’s will was read, he expected to be placed at the helm of Morgan Oil while his older brother ran the more profitable Morgan interests. Therefore, it wouldn’t do to alienate Tubbs.

  “Dad never said a thing to me about this.”

  “No? Well, I’m sure he intended to, but he just didn’t figure on dropping dead last week.”

  Tony smoothed the edges of his moustache. “No, I imagine he didn’t. Nevertheless, Anna will be in mourning for a year, so there’s no need to rush into anything.”

  “Now, Tony, it’s almost the twentieth century. Folks aren’t nearly as particular as they used to be about that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe some folks aren’t,” he said. “But I am.”

  Tubbs stiffened. “Well, perhaps it’s Darius I should be speaking to about this anyway. He’s the oldest, after all.”

  Tony set his cup on the tray of a passing servant and reminded himself there was more than one railroad coming through Beaumont.

  “You can speak to Darius all you want to, Norris,” he said, “but you’re forgetting that he is only her half brother. I’m her full brother, and I can assure you that her hand will not be awarded to anyone without my express permission.”

  The Morgans’ longtime friend and family lawyer, Nathaniel Walker, murmured a few words of condolence to Mother, then ushered her inside his office. Tony led Anna by the arm, leaving Darius to bring up the rear. His half brother crossed to the far side of the room and installed himself in a wing chair. Tony, along with his mother and sister, made do with a small, uncomfortable black-andwhite cowhide settee. Horns from about six steers acted as a cushion for their backs.

  Walker fished his watch from a vest pocket, confirmed the hour, then pulled a sheaf of pages from a drawer in his grand mahogany desk. The silence, while he fixed a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles to his nose, was awkward and charged.

  “I will now read the Last Will and Testament of Blake Huntley Morgan,” he announced.

  He began in a strong, even voice, but the farther he went, the slower he read. After a while, the words began to recede into the background, supplanted by the thumping in Tony’s head.

  “There must be some mistake,” he finally blurted out, interrupting Walker.

  The lawyer looked up. “I’m sorry, Tony. There’s no mistake.”

  “But what you’ve read makes no sense. It sounds as if Dad only married Mother to have someone to take care of Darius. Like Anna and I don’t even matter. Or Mother either.”

  “Yes,” Walker said softly.

  Mother whimpered. Anna placed a black handkerchief to her mouth.

  The smell of leather, musty books, and tobacco pressed against Tony’s lungs. He caught his nails against the grain of the settee’s coarse hair. Darius shifted in his chair but showed no visible reaction to the news.

  “I don’t understand,” Mother whispered.

  Walker cleared his throat. “Leah, you will be allowed to reside in the mansion and awarded a generous stipend for the duration of your life. Anna may also remain at home until she weds, at which time she will receive a respectable dowry.”

  “What about Tony?”

  “I was just getting to
that.” Peering through his spectacles, he looked down at the papers on his desk and took a deep breath. “ ‘I bequest to my son, Anthony Bryant Morgan … nothing. No portion of my estate, real, personal, or mixed is bequeathed to him.’ ”

  Nothing? Tony thought. Nothing?

  Mother squeezed his hand. Bit by bit, her grip tightened until he was sure her wedding band would leave an imprint on his fingers.

  “ ‘Anthony will be endowed with the most valuable gift of all: an education. I charge him to take his knowledge and go higher and farther than even I have.’ ”

  The windows were barely cracked, leaving the room stuffy and hot. A droplet of sweat trickled down Tony’s back.

  “ ‘I hereby declare that after Anthony has reached his majority, my wife is not to share her bequest with him or she will forfeit all monies and inheritance provided herewith.’ ”

  After he reached his majority? At twenty-eight, he was well past that.

  As Walker read on, Tony tried to comprehend how his father could have intentionally left him penniless. Unless his brother died, that is, in which case Tony would be the subsequent beneficiary. But the likelihood of that happening anytime soon was extremely improbable. Darius was thirty-one and in excellent health.

  Tony glanced at his mother, noting a fine sheen of moisture around her graying hairline. Both she and Anna had worn black serge suits. Mother was prone to fainting, and given the situation and the extreme heat, he was surprised she’d not succumbed already.

  Walker finished, turned over the last page of the will and looked at Tony. “Are you all right, son?”

  Tight-chested, he kept his voice calm and level. “When? When did he change it?”

  Walker straightened the stack he’d made in front of him on the desk. “He didn’t change it. It has been like this for years.”