Courting Trouble (17 page)

He ducked out into the field, and she listened to his rapid footfalls splashing through the puddles until they were no more.

Adam said nothing, just looked at her. The tension inside her built. She thought of how bold she’d been earlier and felt herself blush. What in the world had she been thinking?

He picked up a corner of her skirt and gave it a gentle tug. ‘‘Come here.’’

And so she had her choice. She could take her bicycle and leave or she could scoot over next to Adam and learn some new and unsearchable things. Things she might never have another chance to experience if she didn’t seize this opportunity.

Stiff. Stern. Old maid. Spinster
.

That’s what she was and what she would continue to be unless she secured this man’s interest. And if that meant allowing him to steal a kiss or two, so be it. In fact, she found the idea more than a little thrilling.

She shuffled over on her knees. As soon as she was within reach, he caught her to him and brought them both to the ground.

‘‘I was so afraid you were gonna say no,’’ he said, then covered her lips with his.

Her hat forced her head into an uncomfortable angle. His belt buckle dug into her. Her shoulder landed in a small puddle. None of it mattered.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with everything she had. He held her tight, one hand between her shoulder blades, the other at the small of her back.

An explosion of thunder from far away slowly faded like a music box that winds down. A moment of silence as the earth stilled in anticipation of once again being quenched of its thirst. A gradual tapping of water on the leaves above and the ground outside increased in sound and speed, culminating in a waterfall from heaven. So much.

So fast. The soil could not absorb it all at once.

‘‘Your hair,’’ he said. ‘‘Can I see your hair?’’

Wrenching the pin from her hat, she flung them both to the side and sat up. She tugged at her pins until her hair fell down her back, then ran her fingers through it, savoring the freedom of having it loose.

He sat up and cradled her face with his hands, his eyes smoldering. ‘‘You are beautiful.’’

He kissed her again with an exquisite gentleness that undid her more than the earlier impatience. He tasted every inch of bare skin he could. And when he’d finished with her face and neck and hands and fingers, when he’d finished smelling and stroking and worshiping her hair, he placed her hand over the buttons of her double-breasted jacket and left it there.

If she removed it, her modesty would still be intact, with her vest and shirtwaist remaining. She slowly undid the buttons. He pushed the jacket off her shoulders and down her arms. Then waited.

She unhooked her vest.

He freed her of it, then unfurled her tie and slipped it from her collar. Nothing they’d removed allowed him access to more than he’d had before. But the act of disrobing made her feel vulnerable. Wanton.

He kissed her again. His hands took liberties and she allowed it. Relished it. Wanted more of it. And that’s when she heard Papa’s voice.

‘‘He and Jeremy must have run for shelter,’’ Papa said, ‘‘but if I know Adam, they’ll be back. He doesn’t waste a moment of daylight.’’

Essie gasped. Adam touched a finger to her lips, then held her still against him. When had it quit raining?

‘‘Well, I have to confess, you were right and I was wrong. Currington looks to be on the up-and-up.’’

It was Uncle Melvin. She felt Adam tense. Panic filled her. If they were caught, Papa could be reasoned with. But Uncle Melvin always swung first and asked questions later.

The two men discussed the progress of the well and what they’d do if they hit a gusher. What they’d do if they didn’t. How far they were in the drilling. How much farther they had to go still.

Adam’s thumb made a circular motion on her waist. His breath tickled her hair. After what seemed a lifetime, Papa and Uncle Melvin left the field, passing right by the tree.

She and Adam stayed still and huddled together for several minutes. When they were sure all was safe, Adam pulled back but did not release her.

‘‘You all right?’’ he asked.

‘‘I think I’m going to cast up my accounts.’’

He smiled. ‘‘Me too.’’ He pecked her lips. ‘‘Come on, I’ll help you with your things.’’

He did not allow her to do anything for herself. He hooked all the hooks, buttoned all the buttons, and tied all the ties. By the time he had finished, they were both as worked up as they’d been before.

He threaded his hands through her hair, cupped her head and kissed her. Thoroughly.

‘‘By jingo, but you are sweeter than a honeybee tree.’’ He kissed the end of her nose. ‘‘I’m afraid you’re gonna have to put your hair back up. That’s one thing I can’t do for ya.’’

‘‘My mother is going to know.’’

He searched for her scattered hairpins and plucked them from the ground. ‘‘No, she won’t. I’ll make sure ya look as prim as a preacher’s wife before ya leave.’’

She took more care with her hair this time, tucking it into a French twist. Adam watched unabashedly, handing her pins as she needed them. She picked up her hat.

‘‘Wait,’’ he said, pulling her to her feet. He drew her against him and kissed her again. ‘‘Come to the show with me.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘There’s a ten-cent show at the Opera House tonight.’’

She sucked in her breath. ‘‘A ten-cent show? But those are the low-comedy shows. I’ve never been to one in all my life. Besides, I thought you said we couldn’t openly court.’’

‘‘We can’t, but we could meet there. Like it was an accident or somethin’.’’ He rubbed his thumb along her jaw. ‘‘Please?’’

She vacillated, afraid of what would happen if she went. Afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. She might very well lose him if she refused. And to lose him now would be unbearable.

Her mother’s words once again droned through her mind.
‘‘No one’s going to bid on your basket . . . not a prospect in sight . . . spinster . . . old maid.’’

‘‘I’ll be there,’’ she whispered.

He kissed her again, helped her get her hat on straight and sent her on her way.

chapter THIRTEEN

ESSIE HAD NO IDEA what to wear to a ten-cent show. When Papa took them to the Opera House to hear a concert or soloist, she and Mother always dressed in their finest. Surely that would not be the case for the low-comedy shows.

By the same token, she wanted to look nice for Adam. It was their first official outing, clandestine though it was. She threw yet another dress on her bed and reached for a pale blue crepe de Chine. It was made in princess effect and covered with black chenille polka dots. The waist was tight-fitting and the vest would show white lace at the neck, which would be duplicated at the edge of the sleeves and in a flounce at the bottom of her skirt.

She put it on, turning around and looking over her shoulder into the mirror. She could wear her hat of blue tulle with black chenille dots and a black bird-of-paradise. She’d had it specially made to match the gown.

‘‘Essie?’’ Her mother tapped on the door.

‘‘Come in.’’

Mother opened the door, glancing at the clothing heaped on the bed, draped over the chair, and slung over the footboard. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘I’m going to play piano with the orchestra at the Opera House before tonight’s performance and then again between acts.’’

‘‘Play at the Opera House? But why? What happened to Mr. Graham?’’

‘‘He’s playing the cornet between acts, and reverting to piano during the actual program.’’

‘‘I don’t understand. You’ve not played for them in years.’’

‘‘No, but you know how Mr. Creiz has been trying to persuade me to become a permanent member of the staff orchestra ever since Mrs. Graham has taken ill and Mr. Graham has been hinting at retiring.’’

‘‘Well, yes, but you’re not actually considering it, are you?’’

‘‘No, no. I’m just helping him out tonight.’’ Essie picked up a brown velveteen and slipped it on a hanger.

‘‘I thought you were going to the card party in Pinkston with us tonight.’’

‘‘I’m afraid that will no longer be practical,’’ Essie said. ‘‘I’d have to go on horse now since you’ll have the carriage and by the time I arrived, there would only be an hour or so before it was time to turn around and head home.’’

‘‘Well, for heaven’s sake. I wish you’d checked with me first. Your father is campaigning. It’s important the entire family attend these socials.’’

Essie placed a ribbon collarette in her drawer and slid it closed. ‘‘I’m thirty years old. An old maid. Remember? Perhaps I should start acting like one.’’

Mother stiffened. ‘‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’’

A breeze from the window sent a starched linen cuff flitting to the floor. ‘‘Old maids don’t check in with their mothers. They make their own plans. Live their own lives. You know. Like Aunt Zelda.’’

‘‘Don’t be ridiculous.’’ Mother picked up the cuff and slapped it back onto the toilet table. ‘‘Zelda’s eccentricities shamed the entire family. She was a constant source of embarrassment.’’

‘‘Was she? I always remember her as being a great deal of fun.’’

‘‘You are still living in my home, young lady,’’ Mother said, stepping to the window and yanking the gossamer curtains together.

‘‘I’m not a
young
lady anymore.’’

Mother frowned. ‘‘Nevertheless, you will do me the courtesy of checking with me before you make any plans.’’

Essie folded a corset cover. ‘‘I will do you the courtesy of
telling
you my plans when I’ve decided what they are.’’

‘‘I don’t like your tone, Esther.’’

Essie straightened. ‘‘Don’t you? Well, please forgive me.’’

Mother narrowed her eyes. ‘‘What is the matter with you?’’

‘‘Nothing. I guess your little lecture a couple of weeks ago has me considering exactly what my role is now. And my responsibilities.’’

‘‘Nothing has changed, dear.’’

Essie smoothed a piece of fur trimming one of her cloaks. ‘‘You’re mistaken, Mother. Everything has changed.’’

————

Essie guided Cocoa to the left when she reached Tenth Street and headed to Molloy’s Livery. Remembering what Adam had said about not making his stories wider than they were tall, she had gone straight to the Opera House after leaving the oil field that afternoon. She’d asked Mr. Creiz, the leader of the orchestra, if she could play with them this evening.

He’d immediately agreed. She’d explained she didn’t want to play during the actual performance, since she’d not rehearsed with them, but instead just at the beginning and during the interludes. He had been delighted.

She pulled Cocoa to a stop just inside the livery’s gate. A lad of twelve or thirteen rushed out to help her dismount.

‘‘I’m not sure how late I’ll be,’’ Essie said.

‘‘Don’t matter none, miss,’’ he said. ‘‘She’ll be here when you get back, no matter what time it is. What’s her name?’’

‘‘Cocoa.’’

‘‘I’ll take good care o’ her.’’

Essie slipped him a coin, then went around to Hunt Avenue and approached the front entrance of the Opera House just as the orchestra, in full regalia, came out, all talking at once. The swarm of men wore deep blue suits and hats with light blue braid and a red sash tied about their waists.

She stopped the trombone player, a large man always ready with a smile. ‘‘Mr. Collier?’’

‘‘Oh, howdy, Miss Spreckelmeyer. Tony says you’re gonna play with us tonight.’’

‘‘Just during the in-betweens. What are you doing out here?’’

‘‘We’re fixin’ to parade up and down Beaton Street.’’

‘‘You are? Why, I didn’t know you did that.’’

He leaned in and whispered, ‘‘We always do that before the girlie or minstrel shows. Helps get the attention o’ folks on the street and brings in a bigger crowd.’’

Essie flushed. ‘‘I had no idea. I . . . I’m afraid I was unprepared for that.’’

He laughed. ‘‘Oh, we don’t expect our guest players to do that.

Just us regulars.’’

When they reached Beaton Street, Mr. Creiz signaled for attention, raised his baton and gave a count. They started in on ‘‘Sweet Rosie O’Grady’’ and set off down the street. Essie stood back, unsure of what to do.

Mr. Crocket’s drum kept the rhythm, while the piercing notes of the brass carried above all the other instruments. They passed the barbershop, the jewelers, and the hardware store. Men poured out of the Bismarck Saloon, yelling encouragement to the orchestra and hooking up behind them.

Her social circle was so small, she often forgot about this side of town. The side where churchgoing women rarely went. And never without escort. She didn’t recognize one single person, other than the orchestra members. And they had always been just this side of respectable.

She began to question the wisdom of her plans. Perhaps she needed to go back to the livery and ride Cocoa out to Pinkston after all. Instead of meeting Adam tonight, she could play cards with men and women her parents’ age. A few were her age, too—but they all had spouses and children and homes of their own.

‘‘A penny for your thoughts.’’

She turned. Adam stood close behind her, freshly pressed and smelling of Yankee soap. His crisp white shirt contrasted sharply with the deep golden hue of his skin. His cowboy hat could not shade the brightness of his clear blue-green eyes.

She still couldn’t quite believe that just hours ago she’d been wrapped in his arms and he in hers. How she looked forward to the time when they could openly court. When she could walk into church on the arm of the handsomest man in town. Her. Essie Old-Maid Spreckelmeyer.

‘‘Hello,’’ she said, a bit of shyness creeping over her.

He removed his hat. ‘‘You look mighty nice.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’
So do you
.

He stood silent. Serious. ‘‘I’ve been thinkin’ about ya all day.’’

She warmed at his words.

‘‘Wonderin’ if you were gonna come. Wonderin’ if you didn’t, how I’d not even wanna stay for the show. Wonderin’ if you did, how I’d keep my hands to myself.’’

Her pulse picked up.

‘‘I didn’t expect you to get here before me. Have ya been waitin’ long?’’