by Deeanne Gist
“They shouldn’t have.”
She arched a brow. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but last time I checked, you were a toolie with no field experience.”
“It doesn’t take much experience to see the obvious.”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious to me that a newly hired employee with nothing to recommend him should know better than to challenge the boss his first week on the job.”
“It’s not the boss I’m talking to,” he said. “It’s his daughter. Besides, this isn’t a challenge. I’m trying to help you.”
She drew up to her full height. “I regret to inform you, sir, that I am not only your boss, I am also part owner of Sullivan Oil and have all the power that goes along with it. Furthermore, we don’t need any help.”
“You need more than help,” he said, looking her over from top to bottom. “You could use an entire overhaul.”
She clenched the broom handle. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that a rotary can drill almost a thousand feet in three days.”
A thousand feet? In three days? Impossible. It took their cabletool rigs at least three weeks to go that deep.
“How would you know?” she asked.
“I’ve seen them.”
“In Pennsylvania? You’ve been to Pennsylvania?”
“No. I saw a demonstration down in Beaumont.”
“A demonstration. I see. And what guarantee would I have that this rotary could drill into the black Corsicana soil? It’s nearly unbreakable and gummy, to boot.”
He shrugged. “Those Baker boys up in the Dakotas have been using rotaries to drill for water in all that hard rock they call ground.
I don’t know how successful they were at finding water, but I can tell you they were plenty successful at drilling.”
“And what magical principle makes this rotary drill bore so quickly?”
“A mule.”
“A mule?”
“Rotaries are completely different from cable tools,” he explained. “It’s kind of like a giant screw. Here, give me your broom.” Plucking it from her hand, he clamped his fist around the handle. “You attach a gripping device to a very strong rod with a cutting tool at its tip.” Spinning the broom upside down, he ground it against a knot in the floorboard. “Then rotate it. The tip cuts into the ground as it turns.”
“Where does the mule come in?”
“You put an extension on the rod, then attach it to the mule. The mule goes round and round and round in the same small circle. Basically, he rotates the cutting tool.”
What he said made sense. Her grandfather used to have a maple syrup mill that ran much the same way. And she could see Bryant believed in this new method. But a thousand feet in three days? That was awfully hard to take seriously. “How much are they?”
“Around six hundred dollars, I believe.”
“Six hundred dollars! Do you have any idea how many wells Sullivan Oil has? We can’t replace all our cable tools at that price when there is absolutely nothing operationally wrong with the rigs we have.”
“If you don’t, then you’re done for. Morgan’s just a couple hundred miles away with money and slow-producing wells. If he commissions the Baker boys first, his wells will start producing at a rate you couldn’t possibly compete with. But if Morgan hasn’t hired them yet, you could. Morgan’s oil isn’t as pure as yours, and if you convert to rotaries, you’ll leave him and everybody else in the dust.”
She pursed her lips. With her trip to New York and then the accompanying scandal, she’d had her mind on other things recently. Sullivan Oil’s competition had never been a big concern and, therefore, made his dire predictions rather hard to believe.
She studied his face. For all his exasperating presumption, he at least seemed honest. But for a clerk to hire on for field work, then come back a week later with news like this … something just didn’t add up.
“And why exactly are you so bent on Sullivan Oil having the upper hand?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Because it’s in my best interest for you to succeed.”
“Oh really?”
“Keeps my belly and pockets full.”
“Well, if we spend all our money and have to borrow more just to buy all these new drills, then more bellies than yours will go empty. Pockets too.”
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying? This decision isn’t something that can be put off. It could make or break Sullivan Oil’s entire future.” He tunneled his fingers through his hair. “I cannot believe your father is leaving this up to you.”
“Be careful, Mr. Bryant, lest you find yourself with no job at all. Then what will happen to your belly and pockets?”
“What’s the matter? Is your feminine constitution too fragile to take a business risk?”
“That is quite enough, sir.”
He stepped back, letting go of the broom. Too late, she reached out to catch it, but it slapped to the floor, the sound echoing off the walls.
“You’re the one trying to move within a man’s world, Miss Spreckelmeyer. And men don’t sugarcoat the facts or run away from a chance to grow and expand their businesses. We face challenges head on. And we do so without fear of losing our jobs. If you don’t want to take this small-time operation and turn it into something that rivals the companies up in Pennsylvania, then get yourself back in the kitchen where you belong.”
She bent down and snatched up the broom. “I won’t be going back to the kitchen, sir, but you will be looking for a new employer. You’re fired.”
His eyes darkened with anger. “Now, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You let a woman wear the britches and she gets way too big for ’em.”
She took a step forward, but he did not retreat. “I will have you know, Mr. Bryant, that Sullivan Oil is the largest producer of oil in this entire state.”
“Not for long. Not if you refuse to recognize progress when you see it.”
“Get out.”
“No. You need me. Now, get off your high horse and let’s talk about this—man-to-man.”
“You don’t seem to have grasped the situation, sir. You are no longer an employee of Sullivan Oil. So there is no need for us to talk. Man-to-man or otherwise.”
He stared at her for several seconds. The patch of skin under his sunburned nose was burned more than the rest of his face, making him look like a child who’d drank too much cherry juice.
But there was nothing childlike about his thick neck. His piercing gaze. His lips and square jaw. Nor the hollow beside his mouth that formed a deep groove when he smiled.
He heaved a sigh, his animosity falling away like a collapsing crinoline. “I can’t afford to lose my job.”
“You should have thought about that earlier.”
“Your father is too busy with his judicial duties to give the oil company the attention it needs, and you spend most of your time in here,” he said, stretching his arm out in a gesture that encompassed everything from the wooden floor to the rafters above.
“You’ve worked in the fields for one week, Mr. Bryant. You barely even look the part. How can you possibly presume to know enough to advise me?”
“And just how many hours have you worked in the field?”
Ignoring him, she returned to her sweeping.
“It’s not only the rotary drills, Miss Spreckelmeyer,” he continued, following behind her. “There’s other changes that need to take place, as well. And soon.”
“My stars and garters,” she mumbled.
He gently clasped the broom handle, stopping her. “Don’t let your pride stand in the way of the good of your father’s company. ‘Dare to be wise.’ ”
Was he quoting Horace to her? Surely not.
“ ‘It is not wise to be wiser than is necessary,’ ” she responded.
He raised his left brow. “ ‘Some folks are wise and some are otherwise.’ ”
Jerking the handle away from him, she touched the bristles of her broom again
st his boots as if she could perhaps sweep him away. “The door is that way, Mr. Bryant. Good night.”
He bucked the bristles with his foot, a tick in his jaw setting up a rapid pace. After the slightest of hesitations, he strode to the door and slammed it behind him.
The following afternoon, Sheriff Melvin Dunn and Deputy Billy John Howard stepped through Essie’s back door and into the kitchen.
“Hey, darlin’,” the sheriff said. “How’s my girl?”
Cracking an egg into a small bowl, Essie looked at her uncle. “I’m all right. I suppose you came by to check on Papa?”
“I did. How’s he holding up?”
She began to whip the egg, thinking of how surprised the lawbreakers would be to discover their big, husky sheriff had a heart as soft as butter. It was the two-year anniversary of Mother’s death, and grief over her passing continued to plague Papa. And though Uncle Melvin came by on the pretense of seeing him, she knew he grieved for his only sister as well.
“He’s sequestered himself back in his study,” she said.
He hung his hat on a peg, revealing a head of hair with more gray than brown. “Something smells mighty good in here,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “How come you’re doing the cooking?
Where’s Mrs. Carmichael?”
“Her rheumatism was bothering her again, so Papa sent her on home. I was just whipping up some veal soup. Would you like to stay for supper?”
He patted his belly, which had grown rounder over the last couple of years. “Better not. I’m watching my girlish figure. Besides, Verdie’s expecting me home any minute.” He headed toward Papa’s study. “Be back in a minute.”
The clacking of her eggbeater sounded loud in the sudden quiet. She knew she should acknowledge Deputy Howard, but she was loathe to encourage even polite conversation.
He stood just inside the door, tracking her every move. He was small in stature and had the face of an angel, but in the six months since Uncle Melvin had deputized him, he’d enjoyed the power of his badge just a little too much for her liking.
Her uncle was blinded to the deputy’s shortcomings, though, for Billy John Howard was grandson to a close friend—who also happened to be the Texas secretary of state.
Without bothering to remove his hat, Deputy Howard sauntered to the stove and lifted the lid off her cast-iron pot. “Ummmm. I sure do love veal soup.” He dipped his finger in the broth, then licked it off. “And I’m not growing soft in the middle like your uncle.”
The thought of his grimy finger fouling her supper curdled her stomach. She strode to the stove and poured the egg into the pot, ignoring his attempt to finagle an invitation.
He leaned in toward her and inhaled deeply. “I do believe I smell dessert. I always like a little something sweet after my meals, don’t you?”
She placed her fingertips on his chest and pushed. “You’re crowding me. Do you mind?”
Capturing her hand, he brought it to his lips. “Not at all. I don’t mind in the least little bit.”
She snatched her hand out of his grasp. “Deputy Howard, you are making me uncomfortable.”
“Call me Billy John. Come on now, sweetheart, let me hear you say my name just once.”
“That is quite enough!”
“Uh-oh,” Uncle Melvin said, coming back through the archway. “What’ve you gone and done now, Billy John?”
Deputy Howard took a casual step back and removed his hat. “Oh, I’m just teasin’ her some. Telling her how a bowl of veal soup would cure me of my ailment, but she got mighty prickly about it.”
Uncle Melvin chuckled. “Now, Essie, don’t be so hard on him. It’s been a month of Sundays since that boy’s had himself a homecooked meal.”
“I thought that boy had dinner with you and Aunt Verdie last week?”
“Well, that’s not quite the same, is it, Deputy?”
Howard turned up his smile. “I do enjoy Mrs. Dunn’s cookin’, sir, but having a meal put together by Miss Spreckelmeyer surely does sound right nice.”
She poured a cup of milk into the soup. “Perhaps another time.”
Replacing his hat on his head, he nodded. “I’ll be countin’ on it, ma’am.”
Uncle Melvin opened the door. Deputy Howard passed through it, his footfalls heavy as he made his way off the porch.
When the door remained open, she looked back over her shoulder.
Uncle Melvin stood puzzled, his hand on the knob. “What is it about him that rubs you so raw?”
“How much time do you have?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I know you told him to leave you be, and if he doesn’t, you just tell me and I’ll talk to him. But, girl, he really has taken a shine to you.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You’re nearly thirty-four, Essie. He’s a good man, and if you don’t take him, you might not ever—”
She slammed the lid on the pot. “I’m not interested.”
He held up his hands. “All right. All right.”
Sighing, she wiped a spot of milk off the stove with her apron. “How was Papa?”
“Struggling. Tonight’s supper won’t be easy.” He gave her a sad smile, retrieved his hat and quietly closed the door behind him.
Essie slumped against the stove. When it came to his deputy, Uncle Melvin wore blinders. She couldn’t understand how such a shrewd judge of character could be as deluded as Melvin was to Mr. Howard’s true nature. She’d begged Papa to intervene, but he always demurred.
“If you’ve heard rumors about the man, then you can be sure Melvin has, too. If he chooses not to credit them, then we ought to respect that. No amount of arguing will change his mind.”
“So you won’t say anything?”
“Essie,” he’d said. “Is it the stories about the deputy that bother you, or is it the fact that he’s intrigued by you?”
She moved to the washbowl, dipped a rag into it, then wrung out the water. Perhaps her father was right. If the townsfolk told tales about Deputy Howard, goodness knows they told more about Essie herself. Perhaps the rumors about Howard were as false as the ones about her.
But why couldn’t the deputy pursue some other woman? As Uncle Melvin had reminded her, she was well into her thirties and had another birthday fast approaching. She might not have a man, but she didn’t want one, nor did she need one.
Her work in the bicycle club brought great satisfaction, and she enjoyed helping Papa with Sullivan Oil. Her neighbors and friends had known her all her life and loved her. She attended a thriving church. She had a wonderful God.
No, she didn’t need a man to make her whole. She was whole already. Picking up the egg bowl, she wiped it clean, then placed it on the shelf.
Her only wish was for a close female friend. She knew plenty of women and most all of them cared for her and would help her if she were in need. But she didn’t have a confidante.
Now that her mother was gone, she found herself longing for another woman who could give her an opinion on which hat would best suit her new outfit. Or someone she could play a duet with on the piano. Someone to go bike riding with. Someone to share a cup of coffee with.
For a while, Essie thought perhaps Shirley would fill that role. But her helper at the club was almost fifteen years younger than she, a new bride and a bit too whimsical to suit Essie’s taste. They were friends, but the intimate rapport she longed for had yet to materialize.
She gave the soup a stir and tried to recall ever having a girl chum. But even as a child, her friends were always boys. And she got along with them famously.
Didn’t matter the age, the occupation, or even how long she’d known them. If they were male, she had something in common with them.
Boys loved the outdoors. They didn’t play catty games with each other. They spoke their minds. They were everything she’d ever wanted in a friend. Even now, in spite of the many women who had embraced the Velocipede Club, she was closest to Mr. Sharpley, the young man she was trai
ning for the Corsicana Oil & Gas Bicycle Invitational.
Yet lately she found she’d rather stitch a sampler than climb a tree. Or read a book of poetry instead of hunt snakes. Oh, she still enjoyed the outdoors, but having a man for a chum simply wasn’t practical at this juncture of her life. Besides, she couldn’t whisper secrets and press flowers or discuss facial creams with a man. There were some things only a woman could understand.
Picking up a teakettle, she put some water on to boil. It didn’t do to dwell on such thoughts. God knew her heart’s desire for a friend. She would wait on Him, and He would bring it to pass. It was only a matter of time.
chapter FIVE
ESSIE DISHED veal soup into two bowls, then called her father to the table. She hoped Uncle Melvin’s visit had brought Papa some comfort. He stepped into the kitchen, his eyes puffy.
She set down their ice tea glasses and walked into his arms. He wrapped them clear around her shoulders, squeezing her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t think I can eat in here tonight, Squirt. Would you mind if we ate on the porch instead?”
She patted his back. “Of course not, Papa. We’re having soup, so it’ll be no trouble to move outside.”
He released her and pinched a napkin against his tea glass in one hand, then tucked his spoon and bowl in the other.
From the porch, they could look across the flat, coastal plain of East Texas where the town of Corsicana resided. Black silhouettes of derricks too numerous to count stretched to the sky, the smell of oil riding on the breeze. Dusk coated the blue above them, frosting it with deep navy clouds. Magenta fired the clouds out on the far horizon and glazed those closer to them.
Crickets chattered, toads bleated, whippoorwills sang out their names over and over. The creaking of Papa’s rocker joined in, his napkin riding the slope of his stomach, his bowl resting in his lap, untouched.
A large, broad man, he held a commanding presence and had earned the respect of most everyone in town, garnering their votes election after election. Essie hated to see him in such a dolorous state.