Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  Holding Tony’s feet to the floor, she gave the final countdown for his three hundred sit-ups. “Five, four, three, two, and one.”

  He fell back, flinging his arms above him. Sweat saturated his sleeveless shirt, his chest pumping as he sucked in air. The lightweight navy fabric stuck to his torso, outlining the shape beneath it. Even relaxed, his muscles bulged.

  Dark hair matted the pits of his arms. Skin a few shades paler than the rest lay bare along the underside of his outstretched limbs. His fingers curled in repose.

  She released his feet. He’d refused to wear the tights so many men preferred when exercising and she’d been extremely relieved. Those tights left little to the imagination.

  She unscrewed the lid of a water canteen and handed it to him. Pushing himself up, he lifted it to his mouth, the muscles in his arm flexing. He guzzled the liquid, ignoring the rivulets seeping from the corners of his mouth. They streamed around his jaw, down his neck and into his shirt.

  “Not too fast, Tony,” she cautioned. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

  He lowered the canteen, swiping his mouth with his forearm, his chest still heaving. The richness of his deep brown eyes struck her again.

  He hadn’t said a word about what had happened after their meal on the Fourth or what he’d talked with her father about. And though the words had remained unspoken, she’d caught him staring at places he oughtn’t. He tried to cover his indiscretions, but he made no apologies for them.

  “You ready for our football drill?” she asked.

  He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “I dunno if I want to waste my time kicking the ball with some female who doesn’t have the constitution to play a match without fainting.”

  After her embarrassing episode with him and Sharpley, she’d been careful to dress more appropriately for the training sessions. But Tony never ceased to tease her about her one lapse.

  “Careful, sir. Don’t you know that pride is the never-failing vice of fools?”

  He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. “ ‘If we had no pride we should not complain of that of others.’ ”

  She allowed him to help her stand, then fetched the ball. At first they passed it back and forth, giving her a chance to get her blood flowing.

  “M.C. Baker’s coming in on the three-o’clock train tomorrow,” he said. “If you’d like, I can come round and pick you up at the house on my way.”

  She leaned back, giving the ball a lift. He caught it with his knee, allowed it to drop, then passed it back.

  “That’ll be fine,” she said.

  “I’ll pick you up at two, then.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit early?”

  “I told Moss I’d take some tools to the smithy for repair on our way.” Putting a spin on the ball, he kicked it past her and took off running.

  For the next fifteen minutes they raced up and down the building, fighting for advantage. And though Essie tried to keep up, Tony was not only better with his foot skills, but he also outmatched her in size and speed. The fourth time he scored, he lifted his fists in the air like a pugilist and bounced up and down.

  She propped her hands on her waist. “That’s not very gentlemanly of you. The conduct of the winner should be modest and dignified.”

  He slowly lowered his arms. “Modest and dignified? Who was it that stuck her tongue out when she scored a few moments ago?”

  “I wasn’t gloating. I was trying to see which way the wind was blowing.”

  A slow grin crept onto his face. “Inside the seed house?”

  “This is not a seed house, Mr. Bryant. It is a bicycle club.”

  “And your undue liveliness during our match, Miss Spreckelmeyer, was improper by anyone’s standards.”

  She picked up the ball and returned it to its bin. “Well, maybe it was. I almost scored two off of you tonight, though. You’re slipping, sir.”

  Without asking, he helped her put away jump ropes, dumbbells, Indian clubs, and his bicycle. Mr. Sharpley had never thought to do that for her.

  After they put the lights out, he draped her shawl over her shoulders and followed her through the door. He locked it, then handed her the key.

  Their walks home were her favorite part of the evening. She had protested at first, but Tony wouldn’t hear of any objections. He would walk with her whether she consented or not.

  “Suppose some snakebitten child should need assistance,” he said, “and there you’d be without a knife.”

  “Yes, but I usually pack a pistol, don’t forget,” she teased.

  “A pistol’s not much use to a snakebite victim.”

  So she had acquiesced and then grown to enjoy the company. Something Mr. Sharpley had also never offered.

  Earlier in the week they had talked of the transatlantic steamers filled with Americans sailing to Europe. Last night, of Napoleon Bonaparte’s invasion of Egypt a hundred years ago, a subject on which Tony seemed remarkably well informed. Often they discussed the latest developments in the war with Spain, but when he fell to discussing tactics, he lost her entirely.

  Tonight they deliberated over Thomas Stevens’ three-year trip around the world on his Columbia highwheeler back in 1884, a trek Essie had researched for a recent lecture.

  “Can you even imagine?” she asked. “Velocipedes were so cumbersome and heavy back then.”

  “And the roads rough and poorly formed.”

  “How marvelous to be a man, though,” she sighed. “To embark on such an adventure. Meeting princes. Seeing the Taj Mahal. Riding alongside a caravan of three hundred camels.”

  Tony shook his head. “You forget his supplies were limited to socks, a spare shirt, and a slicker that doubled as a tent and bedroll.”

  “Still, I’d give anything to do something like that.”

  They reached her house and he placed his hand on the gate’s latch. “For what it’s worth, Essie, I’m glad you’re not a man.”

  She pulled herself out of her musings. He stood close. Too close.

  The hinges squeaked as he pushed open the gate. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t forget.” Slipping past him, she hurried into the house.

  Mrs. Lockhart opened the door before Tony had a chance to knock. She took one look at his exercise clothes and frowned.

  “Quickly,” she said. “Before someone sees you.”

  He slipped into the darkened entry hall. Mrs. Lockhart clasped his hand and led him blindly down a hall and into another room before releasing him. He stood where he was while she lit a lantern.

  Light spilled onto a square table, revealing a typical kitchen with a braided rug, a woodburning stove, and a water pump in the corner. The smell of coffee coming from the stove filled the room. Two mugs sat in waiting beside it.

  Grabbing a towel, Mrs. Lockhart poured coffee into the cups. She wore a black shirtwaist and skirt, no bustle, no rice powder. She’d twisted her white hair up so tightly, bits of pink scalp peeked through.

  He glanced at the red-checkered curtains hanging still as stone above the water pump, indicating a secured window and explaining why no breeze circulated through the room. The tightly closed curtains would also keep light from seeping out and curious eyes from peeking in.

  “Why all the secrecy?” he asked.

  She added sugar to his cup, cream to hers. “A gentleman caller at this hour? What would people say?”

  He came up behind her and pecked her cheek. “They’d say I was sparkin’ my favorite gal.”

  Blushing, she pushed him away and indicated he take a seat. “Get on with you, now.”

  She picked up their cups and he followed her to the table, then pulled out her chair.

  “I received your note,” she said, settling herself. “What has happened?”

  Sitting across from her, he grabbed the corner of his shirt-sleeve and wiped his forehead. “Sorry I didn’t have time to clean up before I came.”

  She waved
away his concern. “You did the right thing. If you’d gone back to Mrs. Potter’s and then left again all spruced up, eyebrows would have raised for certain. Now, tell me what has brought you to my doorstep at this late hour.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Am I keeping you from your beauty rest?”

  She leaned forward, light capturing the sparkle in her eyes. “I haven’t had this much fun since Mr. Dubois ran off with Lord Wynton’s daughter.”

  He suppressed a smile. “How shocking. And when did this perfidy occur?”

  “Several summers ago in A Young Girl’s Love.”

  Tony leaned back onto two legs of his chair. “I read When False Tongues Speak.”

  Mrs. Lockhart glowed with delight, the pleasure taking ten years off her face. “And what did you think of Mr. Chester’s speech?”

  “The man was a fool.”

  “Never say so!”

  “He’d have completely gotten away with his scheme if he’d simply kept his mouth shut. That speech was his undoing.”

  Mrs. Lockhart raised a finger in protest. “But what of Miss Laura?”

  He gave a disgusted snort. “Miss Laura? She led him around like a bull with a ring in his nose. What did he see in such a spoiled little miss anyway? Mrs. Neville of Neville’s Cross, however—” He smiled with lazy appreciation. “Now, that is what I call a woman.”

  Mrs. Lockhart sat stunned. “You are deceived, Mr. Bryant. You have completely turned things around. Why, I never would have suggested you read the book if I thought—” She slowly narrowed her eyes. “You are teasing me.”

  He took a sip of coffee.

  She chuckled. “You are a wicked man, Mr. Tony Bryant Morgan.”

  Dropping the legs of his chair on the floor, he placed his mug on the table. “I received a letter from my mother.”

  Mrs. Lockhart sobered. “What’s happened?”

  Tony hesitated one last time, questioning the wisdom of sharing confidences with Mrs. Lockhart. He’d stopped by her home several times now and discovered she knew much more about his family situation than he’d first realized. Though, it wasn’t all that surprising, what with her daughter being such an intimate friend of Anna’s and her son-in-law, Morgan Oil’s tool pusher.

  He took a deep breath. “Darius had all of Anna’s mourning clothes removed from her armoire and replaced them with gowns suited for a debutante’s first season. She has no choice but to wear them or remain hidden in her room indefinitely.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He wants to marry her off.”

  “Why?”

  “To increase his wealth and standing in the community.”

  “But the Morgans are already wealthy and quite powerful in these parts.”

  “Not enough to suit, evidently. Mother said he has been parading Anna in front of senators and railroad men.” He combed a hand through his hair. “Including old Norris Tubbs.”

  Mrs. Lockhart removed her glasses. “Anna simply cannot marry for at least a year. It would be downright scandalous.”

  “I agree. But there is no one who has the gumption to stand up to Darius other than me. Yet I don’t know what to do. Knocking his teeth down his throat would be extremely satisfying but won’t really solve anything.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “What if you brought Anna here to Corsicana?”

  “How? I can barely support myself. And if I brought her here, the Spreckelmeyers would find out I’m a Morgan and I’d lose my job.” He shook his head. “Not only that, Darius would find some way to sabotage her inheritance and keep it for himself. Then where would Anna be?”

  “Let’s tackle one thing at a time. First, Judge Spreckelmeyer is a reasonable fellow. And he knew Blake quite well, so he’d be sympathetic to your situation.”

  Tony blanched. “He knew my father?”

  “Oh my, yes. When the railroads first started coming into Texas, your father tried to use his influence to push regulations through the state congress that Judge Spreckelmeyer opposed.” She held her glasses up to her mouth, huffed onto their lenses, then wiped them with a napkin. “The judge didn’t have the money your father did, but he had the support of many who, combined, were quite powerful. I don’t remember the particulars other than the regulations your father was pushing for were not passed.”

  Propping his elbows on the table, Tony dropped his head into his hands. “Spreckelmeyer knows. He has to. I’m the spitting image of my father.”

  Mrs. Lockhart put her glasses back on. “I think it is quite possible you are correct.”

  He jerked his gaze up. “Do you think Essie knows?”

  She shook her head. “I doubt it. She’s not nearly as good at hiding her feelings as the judge. If she knew who you were, she’d have been much more antagonistic toward you.”

  “Why do you think Spreckelmeyer hasn’t said anything?”

  She considered his question. “You could always ask him.”

  Tony tapped his fist against his mouth. “It just doesn’t make any sense. If Spreckelmeyer knows who I am, why would he have granted me permission to court Essie?”

  Mrs. Lockhart lit up. “You’re courting Essie? Why, no one has said a word!”

  “That’s because I haven’t stepped out with her yet. I’m still undecided about the whole thing.”

  “Why? She’d be a wonderful catch for any man.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then, what is it?”

  Lowering his gaze, he ran his finger along the rim of his cup. “She’s Spreckelmeyer’s sole heir.”

  “So?”

  “So don’t you think it looks a bit suspicious for the disinherited son of Blake Morgan to suddenly take an interest in the spinster daughter of the largest producer of oil in Texas?”

  Mrs. Lockhart pursed her lips. “In Wooed and Married, Mr. Tayne pursued the Lady Conyngham. She, too, was a spinster—and every bit as attractive as our Essie. Yet all of England opposed the match, claiming the second son of the new baron simply wanted to increase his family’s lands and wealth. But it was a love match, and after Mr. Tayne had slain a dragon or two—figuratively speaking, of course—”

  “Of course,” Tony said.

  “—love conquered all and the young people married and went on to live a full and happy life.”

  He drained the last of his coffee. “That’s all well and good, Mrs. Lockhart, but I can’t court Essie simply because Mr. Tayne courted Lady What’s-Her-Name.”

  “Conyngham.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if you confess all to the judge and reassure him that your motives are honorable?” she asked.

  “Why? He’s already given me permission, of a sort, to court Essie.”

  “What do you mean, ‘of a sort’?”

  Tony rubbed his neck. “He said I had to ask Essie directly for permission and if she agreed, he would be favorable to the match.”

  Mrs. Lockhart rolled her eyes. “For the love of Peter. That man has not been the same since Doreen passed.” She picked up their cups and moved to the washbowl. “Tell me this, Mr. Bryant. Are your motives pure?”

  He stiffened, then sighed. “The advantages of marrying her are not lost on me. But my … interest … has nothing to do with that. I intend to earn my position in life and not have it handed to me—by inheritance or marriage.”

  Mrs. Lockhart nodded. “Well, I recommend you court her as planned and if you find yourself more interested in the inheritance than the woman herself, then you can simply bow out gracefully.”

  “That would hardly be fair to Essie.”

  “It would be better than marrying her for the wrong reasons.”

  He nodded. “What about Anna?”

  The elderly woman picked up the lantern and headed out of the kitchen and over to the parlor, Tony following.

  “I think it is too early to make any moves on that front,” she said. “So long as nothing official has been announced, you still have time.” She slipped a book fro
m the shelf. “Now, I’d like you to read this and we will discuss it when next we meet.”

  He glanced at the title. Marjorie’s Fate.

  “Mrs. Lockhart, I really don’t think—”

  “Pay particular attention to the strategy employed by the down-on-his-luck earl who thwarted his wicked brother’s scheme to steal his lady love.”

  She handed him his hat. He took it, knowing he’d read her book, if for no other reason than to have an excuse to come back and spend time with someone who knew who he was and liked him anyway.

  Squeezing her elbow, he whispered, “Next time we meet, I’ll come in the back door.”

  Her eyes sparkled with delight just before she extinguished the lantern and shooed him out the door.

  chapter SIXTEEN

  ESSIE TOLD herself she chose her Worth gown and her favorite tall walking hat to make a favorable impression on Mr. Baker. But it wasn’t Mr. Baker’s reaction she pictured in her mind.

  She checked her gown in the mirror. The stamped linen fit her close as a sheath, the maroon design standing out on the lighter background. A wide revers of white plush narrowly massed on her shoulders, then knotted in the middle of her back above full pleats. Tasteful, yet eye-catching.

  A week had passed since Tony asked for Papa’s permission. Yet he’d said nothing at all to her about courtship. Had he changed his mind?

  She ran her finger over a new wrinkle between her eyebrows that she didn’t remember seeing before, then sighed. The more time she spent with him, the more she enjoyed his company, his wit, and his willingness to discuss anything with her—whether it be politics, gas versus electricity, or Mr. Ford’s motorized carriage.

  He was courteous, hardworking, and attractive, and he could ride a bike with the best of them. Most of all, he didn’t seem to mind her independent ways anymore. If he truly did want to step out with her, what could it hurt?

  But she knew all too well what it could hurt. The real question was if courting him was worth the risk. Worth the risk of rousing talk in town. Worth the risk of making herself vulnerable. Worth the risk of being rejected.