by Deeanne Gist
The boys peered into the covered wagon, and Essie felt herself respond to his teasing. ‘‘Did you bring me some excitement and adventure, Mr. Baumgartner?’’
He bowed. ‘‘For you, I bring the world.’’
Harley snorted. ‘‘That won’t fit in yer wagon!’’
Mr. Baumgartner’s black eyes lit with mischief before he disappeared inside the canvas bonnet. They heard him shifting trunks and goods, murmuring to himself in a language they didn’t understand but loved to hear.
Finally he jumped down from the bed. ‘‘I have something especial for you.’’
Essie took the bulky offering and examined it. The block of wood looked to be eight inches in length and five inches wide. It had leather straps with buckles across the top and a long rope on each side. Also attached to the sides were four wheels made of boxwood—two on each side.
‘‘What is it?’’ she asked.
‘‘Wheeled feet,’’ he answered.
‘‘What?’’
He drew out another block of wood exactly like the one she held. ‘‘You strap them onto your shoes. Like a bicycle, except for the feet.’’
Essie stifled a giggle. ‘‘Truly? That’s truly what they are for?’’
‘‘Try them.’’
‘‘But how do you pedal?’’
‘‘You don’t. You just . . . go.’’
She looked between him and the wheeled contraption, tempted beyond belief. They were still outside of town and no one but these boys would see her.
‘‘You must all swear to secrecy,’’ she said.
Jeremy grinned. Lawrence made an X over his lips. Harley saluted.
She looked at Mr. Baumgartner. ‘‘I’m going to break my neck.’’
‘‘That’s what you said about the bicycle.’’ He patted the wagon bed. ‘‘Here. I’ll help you put them on.’’
Jeremy made a stirrup with his hands and boosted her up onto the wagon. Mr. Baumgartner placed one of the blocks of wood against his thigh, guided her booted foot on the block, then strapped her in.
When all was ready, Mr. Baumgartner handed her the ropes that were attached to each block. ‘‘Hold on to these.’’
He and Jeremy set her on the ground and held on to her elbows.
She lifted up the ropes of one block like a marionette. ‘‘That can’t be right,’’ she said.
Mr. Baumgartner scratched his beard. ‘‘Perhaps we use the ropes to pull you.’’
‘‘You’ve never seen them used?’’ she squealed.
‘‘Who needs to see them used? They have wheels. You strap them on and go.’’
She arched a brow. ‘‘How?’’
‘‘Give me the ropes. I’ll be the horse. You be the cart.’’
‘‘Absolutely not. You’ll pull my feet right out from under me.’’
‘‘Then bend your knees and lean forward. Jeremy? You get behind her and push. Give me the ropes, shiksa.’’
She handed him the ropes. Jeremy grabbed her waist.
‘‘You ready?’’ Baumgartner asked.
Essie bit her lower lip. ‘‘Giddy-up!’’
Jeremy pushed, the peddler man pulled and Essie screamed, landing with a thunk on her backside, skirts tangled.
Baumgartner let out a string of Yiddish, clearly chastising Jeremy for dropping her.
She raised her hands in the air. ‘‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Help me up.’’
They helped her up.
‘‘You pull, Jeremy,’’ Baumgartner said, grabbing her waist tightly. ‘‘Hold on to me, Miss Spreckelmeyer.’’
Essie locked on to his wrists. ‘‘Go!’’
Jeremy pulled, Mr. Baumgartner steadied, and they rolled about a foot before her skirts became tangled in the wheels and both she and the peddler ended up in the dirt.
‘‘Botheration!’’ Essie said. ‘‘I need my bicycle skirt. Here, help me up.’’
They did. She wadded up one side of her skirts and handed them to Harley. The other side she handed to Lawrence, instructing the boys to keep her hem away from the wheels.
They tried again but as soon as Jeremy increased his speed, he jerked her feet forward and they all went tumbling.
Mr. Baumgartner whistled for his dog and positioned him in front of Essie. ‘‘Here, Jeremy. Give Miss Spreckelmeyer the ropes and take my place behind her. Shiksa, hold on to Shadrach’s tail. He will pull you more smoothly, I think.’’
‘‘Won’t that hurt him?’’
‘‘No, no. Won’t hurt him at all. Boys, grab on to her skirts.’’
When all was in readiness, Mr. Baumgartner gave Shadrach the command to go and off they went. This time they made it almost six yards before falling.
‘‘Yes! Yes!’’ Mr. Baumgartner said. ‘‘You have it. Now, again without me. I am going after my wagon.’’
By the time they reached the edge of town, Essie could travel almost twenty yards without falling.
‘‘We’re going to have to stop now, boys, or our secret will be out,’’ she said, breathing heavily.
‘‘Oh, one more time, Miss Essie!’’ Jeremy said. ‘‘Nobody can see us from here. Please?’’
‘‘All right. But after this, we really must stop.’’
It was their best run yet. Shadrach got to going so fast, Essie let go of his tail, Jeremy let go of her waist, and the boys let go of her skirt. Freedom. Blessed freedom. Just before reality struck.
‘‘I don’t know how to stop!’’ she said, rounding a bend in the road. ‘‘Look out!’’ she screamed.
But it was too late. She’d barreled right into Adam Currington, knocking him clear to kingdom come.
chapter EIGHT
ESSIE LAY FACEDOWN in the dirt—her scraped chin throbbing, her palms embedded with gravel, a tear in the elbow of her shirtwaist. But her pride suffered a worse blow than all those put together.
Shadrach reached her first, sniffing and whining. Jeremy, Lawrence, and Harley arrived fast on the dog’s heels.
‘‘Are you all right, Miss Essie?’’
‘‘Bee’s knees, you were goin’ fast!’’
‘‘Do you think Mr. Bum will let me give ’em a try?’’
Essie planted her hands beside her shoulders and pushed up. She hadn’t risen very far when strong hands clasped her waist and lifted her to her feet.
Her legs wobbled and Adam drew her up against his side. ‘‘Woman, what the fiery furnace are you doin’?’’
She pushed a hunk of hair out of her eyes. ‘‘I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Currington. Are you all right?’’
Chuckling, he smoothed the rest of the hair away from her face. ‘‘Well, Miss Essie, I must admit, you shore know how to sweep a man clean off his feet.’’
The sparkle in his blue-green eyes conveyed genuine teasing rather than the patronizing tolerance townsfolk usually showed her.
She felt herself smiling in response. ‘‘I assure you, that was not my intention.’’
He touched a finger to her chin. ‘‘You look like you been fightin’ a bobcat in a briar patch.’’
‘‘I’m fine, thank you. You can let go now.’’
He continued to hold her. ‘‘What are those things you’re wearin’?’’
‘‘Wheeled feet, I’m afraid.’’
‘‘You shoulda seen her, mister,’’ Harley said. ‘‘Shadrach was pullin’ her and—’’
Jeremy shoved him. ‘‘Hush up. Yer sworn to secrecy.’’
Harley slapped a hand over his mouth and gave Essie an apologetic glance.
Adam quirked an eyebrow, a slow smile creating deep grooves on either side of his mouth. ‘‘Well, now, I like a woman with a few secrets.’’ Leaning over to better see her shoes, he grabbed a handful of skirts and started to lift.
She swatted him.
‘‘Now, Miss Essie,’’ he said, snatching his hand back. ‘‘You throwed me so high I could’ve said my prayers before I hit. Surely yer not gonna keep me from seeing these wheeled feet, are ya?’
’
‘‘I’m not entirely sure it would be proper, Mr. Currington.’’
He pulled her more tightly against him. ‘‘Call me Adam,’’ he whispered in her ear, then placed his arm beneath her knees, scooped her up and sat her on the ground. ‘‘Now, show me.’’
But there was no need to, for the large blocks of wood protruded from beneath her skirts.
Adam pushed aside her hems and turned her foot this way and that. ‘‘Woman, has the heat addled your think box? It’d be safer to walk in quicksand than to wear these things.’’
He began to unbuckle them.
Mr. Baumgartner came around the bend, pulling his wagon to a stop. ‘‘Take your hands off her,’’ he said, jumping to the ground.
Adam stilled and rose slowly to his feet. Shadrach growled.
‘‘It’s all right, Mr. Baumgartner,’’ Essie said. ‘‘Mr. Currington was simply helping me with the buckles.’’
‘‘Jeremy will help you,’’ the peddler said.
Jeremy immediately loosened the straps and handed the wheeled feet to Essie.
She scrambled up, ignoring the soreness in her muscles. ‘‘I plowed over Mr. Currington by accident.’’
‘‘What are you doing way out here?’’ Mr. Baumgartner asked him.
‘‘I was lookin’ for the judge, actually.’’ Adam turned his attention to her. ‘‘I saw you pass by earlier and thought you might know where he is.’’
‘‘He’s not in his office?’’
‘‘No, ma’am.’’
‘‘What’s the matter?’’
‘‘We were drilling and when we got about a thousand feet down, oil started fillin’ the water hole. We tried to seal it off, but it’s runnin’ uphill, and it’ll be deep enough to wash a horse’s withers if we don’t do somethin’ quick.’’
‘‘Good heavens.’’ She handed the wheeled feet to the peddler. ‘‘Can you give us a ride to town?’’
‘‘Ye.’’
‘‘Come on, Mr. Currington.’’ She headed to the back of the wagon, Adam right behind her. ‘‘Jeremy, go tell my mother that Mr. Baumgartner is in town and to set an extra plate for supper,’’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Adam tossed her in the wagon, closed the hatch, then leaped over it, knees and feet together. Never had Essie seen such a graceful vault. It took her a moment before she registered his boots were covered in oil.
She quickly grabbed a dripping pan hanging nearby and set it under his feet to keep him from ruining the wagon. The merchandise stacked around them formed a turreted and private alcove. The wheels of the wagon groaned in protest to the pace the peddler set, dirt forming a cloud in their wake.
Adam braced his hand on the floorboards behind her, his shoulder bumping hers with each sway of the cart. He stared at her, but she looked at her lap, out the back of the wagon, and at the various trunks beside her before finally turning to him.
‘‘I must look a fright,’’ she said.
‘‘I do believe you have the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life.’’
‘‘I do?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. You surely do.’’
The wagon continued to rock, her skirts inching toward him with each bump of their bodies. There was no room to scoot away, so she corralled her encroaching hem and tucked it tightly beneath her legs to keep it from touching his trousers.
‘‘Who’s the peddler man to you?’’ he asked.
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘Why does he get to sit at your supper table tonight?’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘Papa has a great deal of respect for God’s chosen people. Mr. Baumgartner always stays with us when he comes through town.’’
‘‘Stays with you? He gets to stay with you, too?’’
‘‘Why, yes.’’
Adam surveyed the interior of the wagon. ‘‘Well, I think I might seriously consider becomin’ a peddlin’ man if it means I would get to sit by you at supper and sleep near you at night.’’
Essie straightened. ‘‘Mr. Currington. You mustn’t say such things.’’
‘‘Now, don’t go gettin’ all stiff with me, Essie. I’m just a mite jealous, is all.’’
Jealous? Of what? But the wagon pulled to a stop before she could voice the question.
Adam stuck his head out the back. ‘‘I gotta go, sugar.’’
They’d stopped at the field bordering Twelfth Street where the water well was being drilled. Her father, along with several other town leaders, had crowded around it.
Adam started jogging toward them. ‘‘Much obliged for the ride, mister,’’ he said over his shoulder.
Essie began to climb out of the wagon, but Mr. Baumgartner came around back, stopping her. ‘‘You’d best stay put, shiksa. Out there is no place for a woman.’’
‘‘Papa won’t mind.’’
‘‘No, but some of those other goyim might.’’
She hesitated, wanting to see for herself what was happening. But perhaps the peddler was right. She’d been the focus of much speculation after Hamilton had come home with his new bride. And her current disheveled state would definitely raise eyebrows. She didn’t savor bringing down any more unfavorable talk.
She’d just have to wait until Papa came home to find out what exactly was going on.
————
Mother took great pains to look after Mr. Baumgartner’s dietary restrictions. She prepared the biscuits without lard and kept the milk well away from the meat.
Essie swallowed her bite, then dabbed each corner of her mouth with a cloth. ‘‘How much oil is coming out of the well?’’
‘‘It’s all over the place,’’ Papa answered. ‘‘The ground is so saturated it caught fire twice already.’’
‘‘How?’’ she asked.
‘‘Umphrey dropped his match on the ground after lighting his cheroot. We’d barely extinguished that blaze when a spark from the forge started up another one.’’
‘‘Mercy me,’’ Mother said.
‘‘The boys are digging a massive sump a few yards away from the well so they’ll have someplace to drain the oil. Hopefully that will help.’’
Mother began to collect platters from the table. Essie stood to help.
‘‘Is the water well ruined?’’ the peddler asked.
‘‘No, we just need to keep drilling. Once we get past this oil-bearing stratum, we should find water. It’ll slow things down, though.’’
‘‘Are you finished, Mr. Baumgartner?’’ Essie asked.
He leaned back and patted his stomach. ‘‘Yes, shiksa. It was excellent, as always. Dank.’’
She removed his plate while Mother stepped to the sideboard and spooned peach cobbler into some bowls.
‘‘Everyone’s up in arms over the delay,’’ Papa continued, ‘‘but I’m going to send a sample of our crude to Pennsylvania for evaluation.’’
Mr. Baumgartner twirled his finger in his beard. ‘‘Are you thinking to drill for oil instead of water?’’
‘‘I think it’s worth investigating.’’
‘‘And if the oil is good, what will you do?’’
Papa shared a smile with the peddler.
‘‘Isn’t it election year?’’ Mr. Baumgartner asked.
‘‘It is.’’
‘‘Are you thinking to hang up your robe and become an oil tycoon?’’
Mother paused in serving dessert.
‘‘Oh, that might be a bit premature at this point,’’ Papa answered.
But Essie wasn’t fooled. The men dipped their spoons into the warm peach cobbler, its sweet fragrance filling the dining room.
‘‘You’re going to drill for oil, aren’t you, Papa?’’
He didn’t answer and she wasn’t sure if it was because his mouth was full or because Mother was in the room. But his eyes shone when he looked up at Essie.
She served herself a bowl and sat down.
‘‘What ha
ppened to your chin?’’ Papa asked.
‘‘I took a bit of a tumble this afternoon.’’
‘‘In the store?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Off your bicycle?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Then where?’’
She glanced at Mr. Baumgartner. He paid particular attention to his dessert.
‘‘Out by the creek,’’ she said. ‘‘We were freeing Colonel and I, um, stumbled.’’
Mother tsked. ‘‘For heaven’s sake, Essie.’’
‘‘You never could get the snake to eat?’’ Papa asked.
‘‘I’m afraid not.’’
‘‘A shame. He was a beauty.’’
————
Essie hunched over the massive mahogany desk, adding the column of figures one more time. Papa was knee deep in campaigning for another term, which left her with the task of gathering information on oil production.
The ‘‘water’’ well was producing 150 gallons of oil a day, and the analysis from Pennsylvania came back pronouncing the crude as having ‘‘definite commercial value.’’ So Papa had organized the Sullivan Oil Company and made extensive leases for mineral rights near the water well. Essie had tried to persuade him to call the company Spreckelmeyer Oil, but he thought his first name sounded better.
He entered the office, loosened his four-in-hand tie and collapsed into a chair opposite Essie. His jovial face showed signs of fatigue and his blue eyes had lost a bit of their sparkle.
‘‘Long day?’’ she asked.
‘‘My mouth hurts from smiling so much,’’ he answered. ‘‘What about you?’’
‘‘I finally got those estimates you were waiting for.’’ She slid the papers she was working on toward him. ‘‘Excavating the oil would be fairly simple. You could drill a well with two men. It’s what to do with the crude afterward that’s the problem.’’
He studied her figures. ‘‘This says we could complete a well for about five hundred dollars.’’
‘‘That’s my best guess, anyway, but that doesn’t include storage tanks, pipelines, a refinery, and the manpower that goes along with it.’’
He handed the papers back to her. ‘‘All we need to do is hit a gusher or two. Once that happens, word will get out and the oilmen will come running.’’
