Courting Trouble (8 page)

The last time he’d experienced this kind of anger was when his older brothers had bent the tip of a willow tree to the ground and told him to grab on with both hands and feet. They let go and left him clinging upside down for what had seemed like hours.

He still remembered how helpless he’d been, stuck atop that tree with no way of getting down. If anything, this was worse.

The front door wrenched open and Sheriff Dunn stomped in. ‘‘What in tarnation is going on?’’ His hollering brought silence as quickly as a gavel in a noisy courtroom.

Dunn was a solid man. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Just solid. His gray, bushy moustache hid his mouth and made Hamilton want to sell him a moustache comb and scissors every time he saw him.

Gripping his rifle, Dunn scanned the room, taking in the Gillespie boy and then halting altogether on the cowboy.

‘‘Uncle Melvin,’’ Essie exclaimed, hurrying toward him. ‘‘There’s no need for distress. Just a little game of cat-and-mouse.’’

Vandervoort let out an amused bark.

‘‘Crook?’’ the sheriff asked, still keeping his attention on Currington.

‘‘Everything’s fine,’’ Hamilton answered.

The tension in the room dissipated with his words, only to be replaced with a resurgence of excitement as Essie, Vandervoort, and the children all started explaining what had happened. The cowboy helped the last two women from their perches without a word, then picked up his hat and slipped out the door.

Hamilton noted the sheriff missed none of it, though he appeared to be listening to Essie’s explanation.

‘‘So you see, it was really my fault,’’ she continued. ‘‘I had told the children that anyone who brought in a mouse for our snake would receive a chance to actually feed it.’’

With Currington gone, the sheriff relaxed and rubbed his neck. ‘‘Looks like a twister went through here. You catch ’em all?’’

‘‘Yes, we did. And I’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time.’’

He smiled. ‘‘I know you will.’’

Sheriff Dunn was Mrs. Spreckelmeyer’s brother and a lifelong friend to Mr. Spreckelmeyer. As Essie’s uncle, he held particular affection for her. Hamilton suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, irritated over the sheriff ’s partiality to Essie almost as much as he had been over the cowboy’s easy banter.

‘‘Want to see the mice?’’ she asked.

‘‘I’d rather see the king.’’

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the snake’s crate.

After a long look, the sheriff whistled his appreciation. ‘‘That’s a beauty, sugar. You catch that all by yourself?’’

‘‘She shore did,’’ little Harley said. ‘‘This thing here had me and Emily Wedick scared something awful. But Miss Essie snatched it up with her bare hands and stuffed it in a gunnysack. She didn’t scream or nothin’. And she caught two of them mouses, too.’’

Dunn chuckled. ‘‘Well, if she keeps this up, I just might have to deputize her.’’

Some of the women snickered and Mrs. Tyner, who a few moments earlier had been perched on the counter, put her hands on her hips and snorted.

‘‘Of all the ridiculous things,’’ she said. ‘‘A woman deputy, indeed.’’

Sheriff Dunn straightened his spine, having no tolerance for disparaging remarks concerning his niece.

Old Vandervoort jumped in, waving the bust enhancer in the air triumphantly. ‘‘Well, I’ll tell you something. I ain’t never seen a mouse catcher that works so good as this one. Where’d you get this, Miss Essie?’’

Miss Sadie Tyner took one look at the thing and gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. Hamilton appraised the girl, comprehension dawning, only to blush profusely when Miss Sadie caught his speculative perusal. Blood drained from her face.

‘‘Why, I found it gathering dust in the back,’’ Essie answered. ‘‘Would you like to purchase it?’’

‘‘I surely would,’’ Vandervoort replied, tucking it under his arm like a fancy gentleman’s riding crop.

‘‘Me too,’’ Mr. Owen said. Followed by seconds from Jenkins and Richie.

‘‘Wonderful. Hamilton?’’ Essie turned to him, flushed with pleasure. ‘‘If you’ll write their orders, I’ll start cleaning up this mess.’’

He snatched the bust enhancer out of Vandervoort’s grasp. ‘‘This isn’t for sale.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ Essie replied. ‘‘Well, all right, then. We’ll just order Mr. Vandervoort one, too.’’

‘‘No,’’ Hamilton said, beads of sweat forming on his brow. If these ladies figured out what this was he’d be ruined.

Essie frowned at him.

Shaking, he wanted nothing more than to toss her out on her backside. He cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m afraid . . . that is, I’m sorry, but the firm that made them has . . . has failed.’’

Miss Sadie pressed a handkerchief to her brow, looking faint, but apart from Hamilton, no one took notice.

‘‘Oh no!’’ Essie said. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

‘‘Quite sure.’’ Turning his back, he stomped to the storage room and shoved the enhancer back up on the top shelf.

————

Settling herself onto the piano stool in the parlor, Essie allowed her fingers to move across the keys, playing Beethoven’s ‘‘Fur Elise’’ by heart. Since childhood, Essie had whiled away the hours sitting at the keyboard. And this was the piece she always played when she wanted to indulge a particular fantasy—an idyllic afternoon being romanced by her imaginary beau.

During the prelude, they picnicked beside Two Bit Creek and fed each other bites of egg salad sandwiches. His lips grazed her finger accidentally. She blushed and pulled her hand away.

As the interlude began, they swung up onto their horses and raced neck-and-neck around Waller’s Bend, their mounts stretching and straining forward. At the last moment, she bent down, urging the horse forward, and pulled ahead of her cavalier. She hadn’t realized, of course, that he had held his horse back, allowing hers to win.

The piece moved into a crescendo, and she pulled her mount to a stop. He drew his horse next to hers and brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss.

A knock at the front door interrupted her musings, but not her music. She softened the notes while her mother answered the door.

‘‘Hello, Melvin. Sullivan’s back in his office.’’

‘‘Actually, Doreen,’’ he said, ‘‘I was thinking to enjoy this mild weather we’re havin’. Would you mind telling him I’m waiting for him on the porch?’’

‘‘Not at all.’’

Essie moved into the final lines. Her mother and Uncle Melvin had talked during the part of the music where she married the man of her dreams. Now she and her ‘‘husband’’ sat at a dinner table with a horde of their offspring gathered round. He said a prayer of thanksgiving. For their meal. For their children. And for their everlasting love.

She left her finger on the final key until all sound faded. This past month, Hamilton had played the part of the gallant in her dreams, but tonight he’d been replaced by Mr. Adam Currington.

The cowboy embodied the very thing dreams were made of. Exceptional looks. Exceptional charm. Exceptional . . . everything. A man like him would love the out-of-doors. Animals. Riding. Fishing. She closed her eyes, reliving their shared intimacy, feeling once more the tingles that had run down her leg this morning.

Dusk settled in, but she didn’t light a lantern. Instead, she sat still on the piano stool, unmoving in the growing dark. A breeze fanned the curtains along the front wall, bringing with it Papa and Uncle Melvin’s voices from the porch as they discussed the prophecies of Isaiah. The conversation eventually drifted from Scriptures to town happenings. When Adam’s name was mentioned, though, Essie’s senses came to attention.

‘‘You know much about him?’’ the sheriff asked.

‘‘He told the Club he’d lived in the desert so long he knew all the lizards by their front names and was ready for a change.’’

Essie smiled. Sounded like something Adam would say.

‘‘Well, he sure had all the ladies at the Slap Out in a twitter.’’

‘‘I can just imagine,’’ Papa said with a laugh.

‘‘Speaking of ladies in a twitter,’’ the sheriff continued, ‘‘how’s things between Crook and our girl?’’

‘‘Strangest thing,’’ Papa said. ‘‘Doreen was so sure Essie was making a fool of herself chasing after him up at his store and all—’’

‘‘I wouldn’t say she was chasing him, exactly.’’

‘‘—but I’ll have you know he approached me after church last Sunday and asked to come speak with me this week.’’

The creaking of Uncle Melvin’s rocker came to a stop. ‘‘Is he going to make a declaration, do you think?’’

‘‘What else could it be?’’

Essie’s heart galloped.

‘‘Think he’s good enough for her?’’ Uncle Melvin asked.

‘‘If Essie thinks so, then I don’t see I’ll have much choice.’’

The rocker started creaking again. ‘‘I reckon so. He was good to his first wife. Runs a clean place.’’ He sighed. ‘‘I hope the young’uns take after Essie, though.’’

Papa chuckled. Essie slipped from the parlor and up to her room, savoring this momentous news. She pushed all thoughts of Adam Currington firmly from her mind.

Mrs. Hamilton Crook. Mrs. Esther Crook. Mrs. Crook.

O Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you
.

chapter SIX

HAMILTON LOCKED THE Slap Out’s door and let out a sigh, savoring the stillness that came at the end of a busy day. After a pause, he turned to where Essie was tallying votes. The snake-naming contest had brought more trade than any tactic he’d ever tried in the past.

She sorted the final votes into neat stacks on the barrel that normally held a checkerboard. Banjo, Willie Waddle, Laddie, Colonel, and Butcher were the names still in contention.

‘‘Doesn’t look like the Willie Waddle stack is doing too well,’’ she said.

‘‘Thank goodness. I can’t imagine how such an undignified name made it into the top five.’’

She smiled. ‘‘There’s no accounting for taste.’’

He refrained from commenting.

She wore a navy-and-white shirtwaist with novelty buttons and puff sleeves. Her blond hair had begun to loosen from its pins, but ever since the catastrophe with the escaped mice, she’d curbed her behavior some and, for the most part, conducted herself with total propriety.

The woman might be unconventional. She might be too outdoorsy. She might be plain looking. But she sure could bring in the customers.

The stairs creaked and a moment later Mrs. Peterson peeked in. Alarm flashed through him. She’d been looking after baby Mae since his wife’s death and never disturbed him unless it was urgent.

‘‘Mrs. Peterson?’’ he said. ‘‘Is everything all right?’’

The frumpy woman entered from the storage room, carrying Mae in her arms. ‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot stay late tonight. My grandson turns two today and my daughter’s having me over for the celebration. Had you forgotten?’’

Relief poured through him. ‘‘Well, yes, I’m afraid I did. But you go ahead, of course.’’ He took Mae and saw Mrs. Peterson out the door.

The baby kicked her legs and waved her plump arms up and down. At some point in the last seven months, Hamilton had gone from being angry at the child for Eleanor’s death to treasuring her for the link she provided to his late wife.

‘‘Oh, Hamilton,’’ Essie said, staring at the baby. ‘‘Look how big she’s gotten.’’

‘‘Has she? It’s hard to tell when you see her every day.’’

Shifting in her chair, Essie opened her arms. ‘‘May I?’’

‘‘Certainly.’’ He handed her the baby.

Essie smiled and stroked Mae’s cheek. The baby turned her head and took Essie’s little finger into her mouth. ‘‘Oh, my goodness. I can see you’re a hearty eater.’’

Watching Essie coo and cuddle Mae brought an unexpected tightness to Hamilton’s chest. Mrs. Peterson was an old woman. Fifty, at least, maybe older. She looked nothing like Essie when she held the baby.

Essie looked soft and womanly and, for the first time ever, downright attractive. The tightness in Hamilton shifted slightly into something he’d not felt in quite a while.

Mae grabbed a piece of Essie’s hair and yanked, freeing it from the pins. Essie laughed and bent over, rubbing noses with his baby.

‘‘Ummmmm,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s nothing quite so yummy as a baby’s neck.’’ She nibbled on Mae’s neck, eliciting a squeal of delight from the baby.

Hamilton swallowed.

‘‘She smells like oatmeal,’’ Essie said, then looked up when he didn’t respond.

Mae pounded and pushed against Essie’s chest, molding the fabric of the shirtwaist to her curves. Tendrils of hair fell across her shoulder and down her back. Her blue eyes, framed with what he now realized were exceedingly long lashes, shone with joy. Dimples framed her mouth.

Bending down, he placed one hand on the back of her chair and the other on top of the barrel, and kissed her while she clutched his baby in her arms.

It was a fleeting kiss, the barest of touches, really. But when he pulled back, he pulled back only an inch. Just enough to see her lips, smell her scent, feel her breath.

He acknowledged his desire, then cupped Essie’s chin and kissed her again. This time with the intention of finding out just exactly what the town spinster was made of.

Mae began to protest and Essie pulled back. ‘‘Hamilton,’’ she whispered, ‘‘I’m not at all sure this is proper.’’

He felt a quick pang of guilt. Whether it was due to feeling desire for a woman he didn’t love or for feeling desire at all, he didn’t know.

‘‘You’re right,’’ he said, straightening and pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘‘My apologies.’’

A look of confusion crossed her face. ‘‘Oh, please don’t apologize. Never tell me you’re sorry, Hamilton. Are you?’’

He lifted Mae into his arms. ‘‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you tally these votes tonight, Essie. Perhaps we could do it in the morning?’’

She rose, concern etched onto her face. ‘‘Are you angry with me?’’

‘‘Not at all.’’

‘‘You’re acting angry.’’

‘‘No, I’m not. You know what I’m like when I’m angry and this is not it.’’

She tucked her hair back up into her pins. ‘‘I see. Well, then, I’ll just, um, let myself out. Good night, Hamilton. Good night, Mae.’’

————

Essie reread the paragraph for the umpteenth time, but still her thoughts wandered. She glanced at her mother, envying her ability to sit calmly in her parlor chair stitching an ornate
S
on the corner of her handkerchief, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if it were only another ordinary Sunday afternoon.