Courting Trouble Page 2

  • Bits of chest hair poke up out of his collar

  She snatched her hand away. Maybe she should sleep on it. Pray more about it. And in the morning, she would choose a man and launch her campaign.

  ————

  Essie rapped on the back door of the Slap Out. It was a ridiculous name for a mercantile, but Hamilton Crook refused to call it Crook’s Mercantile. Said it would be bad for business.

  So everyone in town had offered their suggestions until some farmer came through exclaiming he was ‘‘slap out o’ rum.’’ Followed by another fellow who was ‘‘slap out o’ salt pork and powder shot.’’

  One of the regulars had chuckled and said, ‘‘You oughta call this place ‘Slap Out’!’’—never dreaming, she was sure, that the name would stick.

  Essie pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders. The sun had risen, but it was too early for the store to be open. She had wanted to arrive in plenty of time to explain her idea without the risk of customers interrupting.

  She knocked again and sighed. She had always hoped her married name would be something elegant, even regal. Anything was better than Spreckelmeyer, or so she’d thought.

  Now she was beginning to wonder. Going from Essie Spreckelmeyer to Essie Crook had been the biggest drawback to choosing Mr. Crook as her future husband. Hard to say which name was worse.

  The door swung open. Mr. Crook stood in his stocking feet, shirttail out, black hair completely mussed. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer? What is it? What has happened?’’

  Goodness. He looked even younger than she had guessed he was. His youth was the other negative in his column, but she’d thought the gap between them was small. Now, inspecting him up close, she wasn’t so sure.

  A baby cried in a distant room. Mr. Crook stuck his head out the door, looking to see, no doubt, what disaster had brought the town’s old maid to his back doorstep.

  His gaze fixed on her bicycle propped against the building. ‘‘Has your riding machine blown a part?’’

  ‘‘No, no. I just need a short word with you, if you don’t mind.’’

  The baby’s complaints turned from belligerent to downright frantic.

  ‘‘Might I come in?’’ she asked.

  He glanced toward the sound of the baby. ‘‘This is a rather awkward time for me. The store will be open in another hour. Perhaps you could stop by then?’’

  Her immediate instinct was to nod and scuttle away. But she needed a husband and she’d decided Mr. Crook would do quite nicely.

  She pulled the screen door open and stepped inside, forcing him back. ‘‘No, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You go ahead and tend to yourself and the baby, though. I shall wait right here for you.’’

  ‘‘Really, Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’ He frowned, and already she found herself wanting to smooth down the patch of hair sticking straight out from his head. Perhaps it was a sign.

  ‘‘I’m afraid I will be busy right up to store opening,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I understand. Run along now. I’ll be here when you get back.’’

  He hesitated.

  She removed her shawl and hooked it on a hall tree. ‘‘Go on with you. I’ll be fine.’’

  She had to raise her voice to be heard over the baby’s screeches. After another second or two, he turned his back and disappeared up the stairs that led to his personal quarters.

  The closing of a door abruptly cut off the baby’s cries. A baby who desperately needed a mother. She squelched that thought for now. First things first.

  She glanced around the narrow storage area. She’d never been in the back of the store before. It smelled of lumber, leather, soap, and grain. Empty gunnysacks lay piled in a corner. Shelves lined two walls and held a hodgepodge of tools and gadgets, dishes and jars, cloth and brooms. Harnesses, straps, and whips hung from ceiling hooks.

  A couple of crates sat shoved against a wall with sacks of grain leaning against them. A wooden bar bolted the large barn-like door where barrels were delivered. The unvarnished plank floor beneath her feet had turned gray from exposure.

  Mr. Crook’s store was only two years old, the first competition the old Flour, Feed and Liquor Store had seen since opening in 1858. With the Texas Central Railroad now coming through town, businesses were popping up everywhere.

  Essie moved through the curtained barrier between the storage room and the store, stepping onto the stained, varnished, and newly shined floor of the Slap Out. Sunshine seeped in around the edges of the drawn window coverings, filling the store with muted light.

  She took a deep breath. This was her first taste of what her role as Mrs. Crook would be like. The large, still room invoked a sense of peace, tranquility, and rightness.

  She belonged here. She just knew it. Mr. Crook might not have bid on her basket yesterday, but he needed a woman and helpmate. That baby needed a mother. And Essie was the perfect candidate for the job.

  She just wished she could remember whose basket Mr. Crook had bought, but that entire auction was nothing but a muddle in her mind, as fragmented as an unfinished puzzle.

  She strolled behind the counter, her bootheels clicking against the solid floor as she ran her fingers along bolts of wool, dimity, gingham, percale, linen, and lawn cloth. She skimmed her hand across balls of yarn in every color of the rainbow, then tapped one side of a scale, setting it to swinging and causing its brass pans to jangle.

  She picked up a bottle of Warner’s Safe Nervine—reading the label’s claim of healing, curing, and relieving of pain—then set it back down and scanned the vast assortment of tonics, pills, and powders. She’d have her work cut out for her learning which medicine was best for what.

  Beside these items, drawers and bins stretched from floor to ceiling across the middle section of the wall, each carefully labeled compartment filled with spices, coffee, tobacco, candy, buttons, peas, and most anything else imaginable.

  And if she had her way, she would soon be proprietress over it all. But first, she must slip behind the lines, learn the lay of the land, and then take over to the point where Mr. Crook would become almost dependent upon her. Where he couldn’t imagine life in the store without her. Once there, advancing from helper in the store to helper in the home was just a staircase away.

  She smoothed her hand up the nape of her neck. She mustn’t waver from her goal. She must stay strong in her purpose no matter how nervous she felt.

  Still, subtlety would be the order of the day. She didn’t want to scare him off by pushing too hard, too fast. Heading to the readymade clothes section, she removed an apron from one of the shelves. Shaking it out, she tied it around her waist and mentally cataloged the boots, shoes, long johns, hats, bonnets, and handkerchiefs that lined the tables and shelves in this little nook.

  She returned to the back room, picked up a broom and began to sweep the store, starting in the farthermost corner where the stove, chairs, and checkers had been set up. She was nearly finished with the entire floor when Mr. Crook came through the curtain.

  His short black hair had been slicked down and parted in the middle, while square spectacles perched upon his nose. Rosy cheeks graced his oval face, making her wonder if she had been the one to put that color there.

  He grasped the opening of his cassimere coat and tugged, drawing 20 her eyes to the snappy plaid vest he wore along with a four-in-hand tie.

  ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer? What are you doing?’’

  She looked down at the broom in her hand. ‘‘Oh. I just thought I’d make myself useful while I waited.’’

  He strode forward and snatched the broom away. ‘‘That is quite unnecessary. Now, what emergency has brought you to the Slap Out at this early hour?’’

  She clasped her hands together. ‘‘No emergency, sir. I didn’t mean to worry you.’’

  ‘‘Then what is it?’’

  Stay strong. ‘‘I know things have been a bit difficult for you since Mrs. Crook’s passing, and I thought I might ease your burden a bit.’
’

  He smiled warily. ‘‘Well, that is quite thoughtful of you, but Mrs. Peterson watches the baby and takes care of my meals.’’

  ‘‘Oh no. I didn’t mean that. I meant with the store. The other evening I saw you sitting at your desk burning the midnight oil, so to speak, and realized you must do nothing but work and sleep and work and sleep. I thought maybe if you had an extra hand, perhaps you could do some of that bookkeeping during the day.’’

  He rocked back on his heels. ‘‘Are you, uh, asking for employment, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’

  She gasped. ‘‘Good heavens, no. I had no intention of charging you for my assistance. I merely meant to give you a helping hand.’’

  ‘‘I see. Well. I don’t know what to say. That’s very kind of you, but—’’

  ‘‘No need to say anything a’tall.’’ Smiling, she patted his arm. ‘‘I’ll just finish up with this sweeping here, then start dusting the shelves.’’

  She took the broom back and put it to work on the last section of flooring, praying he’d be too polite to refuse her offer.

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer, I really don’t quite know how to say this, but—’’

  “Oh, now, Mr. Crook, no need to thank me. It’s my pleasure.’’

  ‘‘No, you misunderstand. What I was going to say was—’’

  Five succinct hammers sounded on the door. ‘‘Hamilton? You in there?’’

  Mr. Crook withdrew a pocket watch from his vest and popped it open. ‘‘Please, miss. I appreciate your concern and your very generous offer—’’

  She rushed to the door and gave the shade a good yank. It flew up, wrapping itself around a cylinder at the top, flapping as it rotated several more turns than was necessary.

  ‘‘Oh, look,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s Mr. Vandervoort come for his coffee, and the beans are not even ground yet.’’ She waved to the man outside, whose bushy gray brows rose in reply. ‘‘You go ahead and let him in,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll do the coffee.’’ She scurried to the bins, scooped out some beans and poured them into the mill.

  Mr. Crook had not so much as budged.

  She shooed him with her hand. ‘‘Go on.’’

  Vandervoort jiggled the door. Mr. Crook glanced at him, then her, then moved to unbolt the latch.

  ‘‘Wall, what’s all the holdup about?’’ Vandervoort asked, pushing his way into the store. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he said, touching his hat.

  ‘‘Howdy, Mr. Vandervoort,’’ she said. ‘‘We’re off to a slow start this morning, but I’ll have a fine pot brewing in no time.’’

  ‘‘What’re ya doin’ here, woman?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’m just temporarily helping out Mr. Crook. Seeing as he hardly has any time whatsoever to spend with his precious little baby girl and all.’’

  Vandervoort harrumphed, then headed to his usual chair in the back.

  Mr. Crook approached her. ‘‘Really, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I must ask you to stop this foolishness. I do not need any assistance.’’

  Refusing to concede defeat, she girded herself with bravado, grabbed the grinder’s handle and began to rotate the wheel. Little by little, coffee granules dropped into the hopper. ‘‘Well, it looks to me, sir, like you do need some help. Misters Richie, Jenkins, and Owen will be here any moment, and you haven’t even started up the stove yet.’’

  ‘‘That’s because you threw off my entire morning.’’

  ‘‘Pishposh. I did no such thing.’’

  ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer, release that coffee mill at once.’’

  She hesitantly let go and stepped back. ‘‘Well, all right, then.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘‘You’re welcome. I didn’t know grinding up the beans was so important to you. But don’t worry. I’m a quick study. I’ll know your peculiarities in no time.’’

  Without giving him a chance to respond, she bounced over to the stove and began to lay out the wood.

  ‘‘Need any help with that, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’

  ‘‘No, no, Mr. Vandervoort.’’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘‘There is something you can do for me, though.’’

  ‘‘Why, sure, ma’am. What is it?’’

  ‘‘You can do a better job of aiming your tobacco. That spittoon has a nice large mouth on it. Missing it smacks of sheer laziness, and I don’t relish the thought of mopping up all that nastiness day in and day out.’’

  He straightened. ‘‘Why, yes, ma’am. I’ll do right better. Just see if I don’t.’’

  She reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. ‘‘You are such a dear. Thank you.’’

  Hamilton Crook stared at the woman reprimanding his customer. She’d rolled up the sleeves of her olive-colored shirtwaist and wrapped a white apron around her grosgrain skirt. He knew his clothing, and hers were fine pieces. The shirtwaist sported the newest puff sleeves and choker collar while her skirt held tone-on-tone scrolling designs.

  Her pinchback straw hat, however, was another matter entirely. With a wavy-edged top from which tulle poufs protruded, white flowers, fern and willow leaves surrounded vertically wired ribbon loops. Most impractical for store clerking.

  He shook his head, peeking into the grinder to see how many beans were left. Why in the blue blazes was the spinster daughter of the district judge doing charity work in his store? What was wrong with working in an orphanage? Or sharing a meal with old Mrs. Yar-brough? Or helping out with the church bazaar?

  He looked around. To compensate for the name this town had slapped on his store, he made sure he not only kept it in tip-top shape with all the goods organized and grouped, but he also kept it clean and well stocked. Had there been complaints? Or was this do-gooder just a frustrated busybody who had singled him out as her next ‘‘project’’?

  Whatever the case, he needed to politely but firmly inform her that if he wanted help, he could well afford to hire someone. And that someone would not be an old maid who was notorious for wearing outrageous hats and who scandalized the town matrons by riding on a bicycle with her skirts hiked up to her knees.

  chapter TWO

  THE MORNING BROUGHT few customers, giving Essie plenty of time to dust the shelves, polish the scales, wash the windows, and grind the sugar. Mr. Crook sequestered himself in the back corner, nose buried in his papers. Essie hoped the smell of a clean store and a fresh pot of coffee brought a token of pleasure to his tedious task.

  As she worked, Misters Vandervoort, Richie, Jenkins, and Owen took turns sliding checkers back and forth across a grimy board. Sometimes they pondered each move and sometimes they pushed the little discs without any apparent thought, but all the while they debated everything from the destiny of man to the finest bait for catching fish. No matter where the conversation strayed, though, it always came back to the topic on everyone’s mind, the question of Corsicana’s economic future.

  ‘‘Wall, we gotta do somethin’,’’ Jenkins was saying. ‘‘With cotton prices droppin’ ever’ day and Mr. Neblett’s seed house shut down, this town’s gonna shrivel up and die.’’

  ‘‘What about putting up some brick buildings in the square?’’ Owen suggested. ‘‘That would attract businesses to town.’’

  Vandervoort harrumphed. ‘‘Who’s gonna want to build shops in a town with such a pathetic water supply?’’

  The bell on the door tinkled and the Gillespies’ oldest boy ventured inside with a roll of hides under his arm. He wore a tattered corduroy coat with pockets vast enough to hold small game and oversized trousers folded up to reveal worn-out boots with so many holes it was a wonder they offered any protection at all.

  ‘‘Good afternoon, Jeremy,’’ Essie said, making her way to the counter. ‘‘What brings you into town today?’’

  The scrawny teener nodded slightly and doffed his old felt hat from his head. ‘‘Miss Spreckelmeyer. I come to ask
Mr. Crook fer some oatmeal, rice, and cod liver oil, please, ma’am.’’

  She smiled and patted the flat surface in front of her. ‘‘Well, Mr. Crook is working with his ledgers. Why don’t you show me what you have.’’

  Jeremy exchanged nods with the old-timers, then laid his hat on the counter. The checker game resumed and Essie caught a whiff of the young man, coughed a little, then tactfully breathed through her mouth.

  One by one he unrolled his hides the way a fortune hunter might unfurl a treasure map. He smoothed out two raccoon skins, one rabbit, and one possum.

  It was the possum that did it. Wrung out her chest like a tightly twisted mop. For she’d never known anyone to bother with skinning a possum. Most folks scalded them in boiling water, then scraped them hairless. And yet, the Gillespies had sent their eldest to town with an actual possum hide, of all things.

  She fingered the raccoon, careful not to show signs of anything but admiration. She needn’t look at the boy to recall how big his brown eyes looked within his hollowed-out face.

  ‘‘Why, these are mighty nice, Jeremy,’’ she said. ‘‘Did you do the skinning?’’

  ‘‘Yes, miss.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’re quite talented with a knife. I do believe these ear holes are some of the best I’ve ever seen. Should raise the value of these skins by a good twenty cents each.’’ Her fingers moved to the animal’s snout. ‘‘And would you look at that nose button? Still attached and everything.’’

  He straightened slightly. ‘‘It all starts with how you insert the gamblin’ sticks, miss. You gotta grip right firm-like and the tail will slide off the bone slicker ’n calf slobbers.’’

  She stacked the hides carefully. ‘‘You don’t fool me, Jeremy Gillespie. It takes more than tightly clamped sticks to skin an animal this cleanly. Now, how much oatmeal were you needing?’’

  She measured out the exact amount he asked for, not questioning for a moment whether or not Mr. Crook wanted the hides. When she started on the rice, Jeremy wandered over to the gun cabinet, keeping his hands clasped tightly behind his back.