Courting Trouble (3 page)

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.

Mr. Crook joined Essie. ‘‘What do you think you are doing, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’

‘‘Lower your voice, Mr. Crook. I’m filling Jeremy’s order. What does it look like I’m doing?’’

‘‘It looks like you are giving away the store.’’

‘‘He brought in a trade.’’

Mr. Crook flipped through the hides. ‘‘These hides are worthless. I’ll not trade good merchandise for—Great Scott!’’ He flung back the top three and stared aghast at the fourth. ‘‘What is that?’’

‘‘It’s a possum.’’

‘‘A
possum
?’’

‘‘Hush,’’ she whispered, tying a knot around the top of a small burlap sack filled with rice. ‘‘Can’t you see his family is starving? Just look at the boy.’’

Mr. Crook began to roll up the hides. ‘‘No. Absolutely not. I will not trade for these ridiculous skins. Go return those items to their appropriate bins. I will handle this.’’

She grabbed his arm. ‘‘Don’t. Please, Hamilton.’’

His jaw slackened and it took her a moment to realize she’d used his given name. She’d been thinking of him in her imaginings as Hamilton, and it had accidentally slipped out.

Her face burned, but she remained firm. ‘‘Surely this one time will not hurt.’’

‘‘The Gillespies have been charging all their purchases against this year’s crop, and cotton is now at five cents on the Exchange and dropping. I cannot afford to extend any more credit to anyone. Especially not the Gillespies.’’

‘‘How much for this rice and oatmeal, along with a vial of cod liver oil?’’ she asked.

‘‘He wants liver oil, too? Ridiculous.’’

‘‘How much?’’

He picked up the two small sacks of oatmeal and rice, judging their weight in his hands. ‘‘Two seventy-five for these, plus twenty-five cents for the liver oil.’’

She quelled her reaction to the extravagant quote. Her family bought their grains by the barrel. She had no idea small portions cost so much.

‘‘And the hides?’’ she asked. ‘‘How much credit for the hides?’’

He held her gaze. ‘‘None.’’

He made to move past her, but she tightened her grip on his arm. ‘‘I’ll replace your rice and oatmeal tomorrow from my own personal stock and pay for the liver oil with cash.’’

‘‘Absolutely not.’’

‘‘Why? What possible difference could it make?’’

He leaned close. Whiffs of his shaving soap teased her nose. ‘‘I do not know what you think you are doing here, Miss Spreckelmeyer, but you are coming perilously close to overstaying your welcome.’’

She lessened the pressure on his arm, changing it to more of a caress, then softened her tone. ‘‘I’d like to purchase those hides you have for three dollars even, please, sir.’’

He studied her over the rim of his glasses. ‘‘You will have to buy them from Jeremy, then. I would not lower myself to carrying possum hides.’’

‘‘It would wound his pride and embarrass me. Please. Just this once?’’

He hesitated in indecision, then slowly straightened. ‘‘All right, Miss Spreckelmeyer. I will award the Gillespies three dollars credit for the hides . . . just this once.’’

‘‘I’ll pay you back.’’

‘‘No. No you won’t. But leave me out of the negotiations and make sure Jeremy understands not to set foot in here again with any more hides. Is that clear?’’

For a moment she imagined what it would be like once they were a couple. She would fling her arms about him and thank him effusively for his consent. For now, she simply let the warm feelings flow freely through her eyes and smile.