Courting Trouble (13 page)

Mr. Upchurch remained motionless, hat in hand.

Essie turned to Adam. ‘‘I need two drillers. Do you know where I might find some?’’

‘‘Who’s providing the grubstake?’’

She hesitated. ‘‘The payroll, you mean? My father, but I’ll be running the project.’’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘‘Don’t you think your pa’s saddle is slippin’ a bit? This is cotton and cattle country. The judge has as much chance of a future in crude as a one-legged man in a kickin’ contest. If it’s oil he’s interested in, he’d be better off in cottonseed oil.’’

‘‘We’re not looking for a business partner, Mr. Currington. We’re looking for drillers.’’

The men exchanged glances.

‘‘Never mind,’’ she sighed. ‘‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’’

Adam grabbed her wrist. ‘‘Whoa there, filly. Not so fast. Rufus?’’ he asked, still holding on to her. ‘‘What if you and Arnold went to Waco without me? Then I could see about rustling up somebody else to help me with Miss Spreckelmeyer’s well. What do you think?’’

Upchurch rubbed his egg-shaped head with a handkerchief and looked at Pugh.

‘‘You saying you’ll work for a
woman
?’’ Pugh asked.

Adam scrutinized her again. She tugged her hand free.

‘‘Now, Rufus. I wouldn’t be workin’ for just any woman. I’d be workin’ for this here woman. And I have to tell ya, the thought don’t bother me none a’tall.’’

Mr. Pugh gave a sound of disgust. ‘‘Just what are me and Arnold supposed to do, then?’’

‘‘You’ll find somebody. Same as me.’’

‘‘What are you gonna drill with?’’

Adam thought a minute. ‘‘He’s got a point there, Miss Essie. They’ll be taking this rig with ’em. I’d have to build you one of your own.’’

‘‘That would be fine, Mr. Currington. Can you come by the house tomorrow to settle on the details?’’

‘‘It’d be my pleasure.’’

————

Adam arrived late in the day, standing on Essie’s porch, spit and polished in a crisp white shirt, red neckerchief, and blue denim trousers with brass rivets at the pocket corners.

He removed his cowboy hat. ‘‘Afternoon, Miss Essie.’’

‘‘Mr. Currington. Please, won’t you come in?’’

She led him to Papa’s office and poured them each a glass of lemonade. ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’

He guzzled the beverage in one prolonged swig. Head back, eyes closed, Adam’s apple bobbing. Swiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sighed. ‘‘Ah, darlin’, my throat was drier than a tobacco box. Thank ya.’’

She accepted his glass. ‘‘Would you like some more?’’

‘‘Not right now.’’

‘‘Well.’’ She took a sip of hers, then set it on the tray. ‘‘I’ve put together a list of materials I’m assuming we’ll need to construct a rig, but I thought you should take a look at it and see if I left anything off.’’

He set his hat in a chair and perused the list she gave him.

‘‘The lumber I’ll purchase from Mr. Whiteselle,’’ she said. ‘‘The cable and drill bit can be made down at Central Blacksmith Shop.’’

‘‘And the stirrups?’’

‘‘The carriage and harness shop.’’

He handed the paper back to her. ‘‘You’re gonna need the smithy to make a few more down-hole tools,’’ he said.

‘‘Like what?’’ She picked up Papa’s pen and dipped it in an inkwell.

‘‘Metal connectors, rope sockets, a sinker bar, jars, and an auger stem.’’

Still standing, Essie leaned over the massive desk, scribbling furiously on the parchment, forgoing the precise lettering she’d learned at the Corsicana Female College.

Adam hovered over her shoulder, watching. ‘‘Make sure the lumberyard gives you hemlock, ash, or hickory for the spring pole and something sturdy, like oak, for the fulcrum.’’

After several moments, she replaced Papa’s pen and blew on the paper. When she straightened, Adam stayed put, his eyes a translucent mosaic of blue and green.

‘‘Why do you do that?’’ she asked, baffled.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Crowd me.’’

‘‘Am I crowdin’ you?’’

‘‘You know you are.’’

‘‘I don’t mean to. It’s just that when I stand right close I can smell them cloves you use in your toilet.’’

She caught her breath and glanced at the door, open only a crack.

‘‘You’re not supposed to notice that kind of thing,’’ she whispered.

A smile lifted one side of his mouth. ‘‘I notice everything about you, Miss Essie.’’

‘‘Why?’’

Shaking his head, he took a step back, putting a proper distance between them. ‘‘The fellas in this town are either blind or fools.

Maybe both.’’

She frowned, searching his expression. ‘‘Your pardon?’’

He pointed to the list on the desk. ‘‘We’re gonna need a weight to anchor the butt end of the spring pole. If you don’t want to pay the smithy to make you one, I can see about finding a heavy boulder or somethin’.’’

‘‘Do you think you could come with me when I place these orders?’’ she asked, glancing at the parchment. ‘‘That way we’ll be sure to get exactly what we need.’’

‘‘You tell me when and I’ll be there.’’

————

The clink of iron reached Essie and Adam well before they arrived at Mr. Fowler’s Central Blacksmith Shop. They paused just inside the dark, cavernous building, allowing their eyes to adjust. A blanket of heat and hazy smoke swaddled them, along with the smell of burning coals.

With his back to them, Mr. Fowler worked the bellows while the tip of his poker turned from red to white and flames danced. A dirty, once-white apron string wrapped Fowler’s waist like Cleopatra’s asp, dividing his blue shirt from his waist-overalls. Releasing the bellows, he removed the iron from the flame and hammered on the hot metal, sending sparks in all directions. He’d barely managed half a dozen strikes before having to return the poker to the fire.

‘‘Howdy, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he said, looking up and moving toward them. He gave Adam the once-over. ‘‘And you’re one of them water-well drillers, ain’t ya?’’

‘‘Good morning, Mr. Fowler,’’ Essie said. ‘‘And yes, this is Mr. Currington. He’s going to stay on and build another rig, but this one will be for Papa.’’

When the men leaned in to shake hands, Essie was surprised at how much taller Adam was. She’d always thought of Mr. Fowler as a huge man. But she realized now the bulk on him was more from tickling the anvil than from height.

‘‘Your pa has a hankerin’ for a water well out in his own backyard, then?’’

‘‘Not exactly,’’ she said, glancing at Adam. ‘‘He’s going to drill for oil.’’

Mr. Fowler stared at her a second, then doubled over with laughter. She schooled her face, knowing full well his reaction would have been vastly different had Papa been the one stating their purpose.

‘‘Now, Mr. Fowler,’’ she began.

He silenced her with a raised hand, sobering, his mirth replaced by a mask of professional gravity. She motioned to Adam, who held their lists and diagrams, when out of the corner of her eye she caught Mr. Fowler cracking another smile.

She arched an eyebrow.

‘‘Sorry,’’ he said.

There were other smithies in town, but J. T. Fowler was among the most capable and enterprising. And once he realized she was serious, he would not only fill her order but he’d do it quickly, expertly, and with respect.

‘‘Here’s what we’re gonna need,’’ Adam said. He spread the piece of parchment on a rough wooden counter and began to explain everything. Mr. Fowler nodded and asked a few questions, his amusement vanishing as he became absorbed in the details. When they had finished, he gave Essie a conciliatory smile.

‘‘I’ll get started on this right away,’’ he said.

Outside, the sun was so bright Essie shaded her eyes. Adam glanced back over his shoulder at the blacksmith’s shop, shaking his head.

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Currington.’’

‘‘Call me Adam. And it was my pleasure,’’ he said, winking as they headed down Eleventh Street.

‘‘Shall we go see about the stirrups?’’ she asked.

‘‘We can do that, but Mr. Weidmann’s kitchen is one block over on Collin Street. How ’bout we take a detour and have us some o’ that fruitcake he makes? I can smell it clear from here.’’

As he said the words, her nose registered the delectable aroma of fresh bread and something indefinably sweet.

‘‘It’s still morning. Won’t you spoil your dinner?’’

‘‘No, ma’am. I’ve found there’s never a bad time for a visit to Mr. Weidmann’s bakery.’’

Town activity had picked up with the advancing morning. Wagons trundled up and down the street, stirring up dust, horses cutting between them. The stray tabby, Cat, darted past Essie and Adam. Men conversed about everything from the price of cotton to the November election to the abandoned seed house.

Being the judge’s daughter, Essie knew most everyone, so they were forced to stop and chat a few times along the way. She introduced Adam as one of the artesian well drillers, explaining he’d decided to stay in town awhile longer.

The townspeople looked at him askance, displaying forced politeness.

‘‘I don’t believe the folks of your town like me very much,’’ he whispered after they broke away from a conversation with the school superintendent and the wainwright.

‘‘It’s not that. They would simply prefer it if you had been born here.’’

‘‘How long you reckon it’ll take before they forgive me for that slight?’’

‘‘Oh, I would think twenty years should do the trick.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘More like forty, you mean.’’

They shared a smile, and he opened the bakery door.

‘‘Ach, look at this fine German
mä dchen
who comes to see me.’’ Mr. Weidmann circled around his table to take hold of Essie’s shoulders and kiss both her cheeks. ‘‘
Wie geht es Ihnen,
Fräulein Spreckelmeyer?’’

‘‘I’m fine, Mr. Weidmann. And you?’’

‘‘I am good. Very, very good.’’ He turned, grabbing Adam, and gave him the same greeting he’d given Essie, bringing a shade of red to the cowboy’s cheeks. ‘‘You watch out for this one, Fräulein. Eternally hungry for my fruitcake, he is. Pesters me night and day.’’

‘‘Is that so, Mr. Currington?’’

‘‘I’m afraid it is, ma’am,’’ Adam said, patting his stomach.

‘‘Ja,’’
said Mr. Weidmann. ‘‘I will get you some.’’

The bakery was more of a kitchen than anything else, but it had a small table pushed into one corner. Adam pulled out her chair and she sat, relishing the smells of vanilla, apricots, dates and pineapple.

Mr. Weidmann brought them each a large slice of cake resting on brown paper. ‘‘I am sorry, but I have no plates or forks.’’

‘‘It’s all right. This will be fine.’’ Essie broke off a portion with her fingers, while Adam lifted his entire piece and took a large bite.

‘‘So tell me, Mr. Currington, how does a cowboy end up drilling water wells?’’

‘‘Just decided to do somethin’ different, I guess.’’

‘‘But why?’’

He took another big bite, slowly chewing the confection, his carefree manner diminishing. ‘‘It happened a while back.’’

Mr. Weidmann washed and chopped cherries on the other side of the room, paying them no mind. So for now, the two of them had the place to themselves.

‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.

‘‘I grew up on a ranch. My pa was a cowboy and my grandpa before him. So I been steer ropin’ since I was ankle-high to a June bug.’’

She took another nibble, waiting.

‘‘A couple of years ago, a big ranchman in Gonzales County asked me to be the trail boss for his yearly drive from San Antonio to Abilene, Kansas. It was my job to plan the route, to decide when to stop, where to bed down, where to cross creeks, that kinda thing.’’

‘‘I’ve heard that only the top cowhands make those kinds of trips.’’

‘‘I reckon that’s so.’’ He picked at a splintered piece of wood on the rough table. ‘‘We had two point men ridin’ up front directing the lead steer, then the swing and flank boys along the sides, with the tail riders bringin’ up the drag.’’

‘‘How many were in the herd?’’

‘‘Eighteen hundred. Everythin’ went fine ’til we reached Waco. Then a gully washer came. It rained ’nough to have everybody wishin’ they’d grown fins instead of feet.’’

‘‘What did you do?’’

‘‘All that rain made it too dangerous to cross the Brazos. We had no choice but to wait ’til the river went down. We lost so much time, I decided we’d go east to Shreveport instead o’ Kansas. Last thing I wanted was to get stuck in the middle o’ winter. Some o’ the other fellas disagreed, so I told ’em I’d get the herd there in good shape or I’d take off my spurs and never make another roundup.’’

She rested her hands in her lap, no longer interested in the fruitcake before her.

He scratched the top of his head, causing his blond hair to stand up a little on the right. ‘‘We got across the Brazos okay, but then Spanish Tick Fever took hold of the herd and the farther we went, the more we left behind. Dead.’’

‘‘Oh no.’’

‘‘By the time we hit the Trinity River, we only had five hundred left.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘And when we reached Shreveport, we had fewer than a hundred.’’

‘‘But that wasn’t your fault.’’

‘‘I was the trail boss, and I’d given my word. So I sold my horse and saddle.’’

She gripped her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. A cowboy’s horse was more than a source of transportation. It was his constant companion. A friend he could talk to and confide in.

More than his mount, though, the cowboy prized his saddle— and quite often it cost more than the horse itself. It was undeniably the very last thing he parted with.

‘‘I’m so sorry, Adam.’’

He pushed the crumbs of his fruitcake around with his fingers.

‘‘You gonna eat that?’’ he asked, indicating her abandoned piece.

She slid it toward him. ‘‘Is that when you started drilling?’’

‘‘No. I got a job on a wagon train carryin’ goods to Memphis, Tennessee. Then I started loadin’ and unloadin’ merchandise for the riverboats. Did that ’til about six months ago.’’

‘‘What happened then?’’

‘‘A showboat pulled in and I met up with Pugh and Upchurch.’’

The last of the cake was gone. She folded her paper in half, then in half again, trapping the crumbs inside. She did the same for his, wondering what his father’s and grandfather’s reactions had been.