Courting Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  ‘‘I didn’t like being on it,’’ he said. ‘‘Those misty mountains are beautiful from a distance, but when I got up on them, I felt surrounded and hemmed in.’’ He began to wipe her other hand. ‘‘No, I prefer wide-open spaces.’’

  He’d cleaned four of her fingers and reached for her thumb. She immediately moved it and tried to pin his down. Within seconds the handkerchief had floated to the ground and a thumb war began in earnest.

  He pinned her thumbs in record time.

  ‘‘Oh no!’’ she squealed. ‘‘I always used to win.’’

  ‘‘I’ve grown up some since the last time we played.’’

  ‘‘Don’t get mouthy with me, youngster. I bet I can still beat you at the hand-slap game.’’

  Grinning, he held out his hands. She lightly touched her palms to his and held fast his gaze. Quick as lightning, she struck and just barely caught the tips of his fingers.

  They reversed positions. It took him four tries before he could catch her. But instead of slapping her hands, he grabbed them and did not let go. They stood in the middle of the lot, the breeze cold against their faces, the laughter of a moment before melting away.

  ‘‘Your cheeks are all red,’’ he said, studying her.

  ‘‘My nose, too, I’d wager.’’

  ‘‘Yes. But it’s becoming. You have a lovely nose.’’

  She gave a short huff.

  He moved his gaze to her lips and she felt a moment of panic.

  Gently tugging her hands free, she glanced at the carriage. ‘‘We should probably be getting back.’’

  He walked her to the rig. And though he took her elbow, he did not immediately help her up. ‘‘Can I see you tomorrow?’’

  ‘‘The Ladies’ Garden Club is cleaning the Methodist church sanctuary tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘What about during the evening?’’

  ‘‘I’m substituting for Mrs. Quigley who can’t make it to Mrs. Lockhart’s whist game.’’

  ‘‘Wednesday?’’

  ‘‘I’m helping Mother with the washing and ironing.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps the following day, then?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Thursday should be fine.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’

  No words were spoken on the rest of the ride home. He pulled to a stop in front of her gate, then alighted. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she allowed him to assist her to the ground, his hands under her elbows.

  ‘‘I’ll see you Thursday.’’ Touching his hat, he returned to the carriage seat.

  She watched as he turned the rig and disappeared around the bend. It had been a lovely afternoon and an invigorating ride. She headed toward her front door, wondering what she would do if Ewing tried to kiss her.

  She enjoyed his company, but she had no desire whatsoever to introduce anything physical into the relationship. It wasn’t because she didn’t enjoy those intimacies. She did. Very much.

  She just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for sharing them with Ewing. He was a pleasant-looking man. Amiable. Easy to get along with. She just wasn’t attracted to him in that way.

  Maybe that would come. Maybe the feelings she had for Adam weren’t a one-time thing. Or maybe Ewing would be too fearful of arousing her ‘‘weakness’’ to risk kissing her.

  Sighing, she entered the house. She needed to finish those trousers of Harley’s.

  chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  EIGHT LADIES FROM the Garden Club had gathered early in the morning to clean the First Methodist Church. The noon hour found the sanctuary’s leaded windows sparkling, the floor pristine, and the choir and amen corners shining. Only the pews were left.

  Three more and they’d be done. Essie rubbed her polishing cloth against the varnished oak, praying the task would soon come to completion.

  The church held the distinct honor of having housed the first democratic convention in Texas after the Civil War. At the time, a host of hogs had made their home beneath the building, and the convention had to be stopped several times due to the ruckus the hogs had made.

  Essie fervently wished those hogs were still present today. Anything to stop the direction of today’s conversation.

  ‘‘I always knew the Lord had someone for you,’’ Mrs. Owen sighed. ‘‘And didn’t that Ewing turn out to be the most handsome thing you ever did see? Even if he’s not very tall.’’

  ‘‘The thing to remember, Essie,’’ Shirley Bunting’s mother interjected, ‘‘is a happy courtship promotes conjugal felicity more than anything else. So don’t spoil it.’’

  ‘‘She’s right, dear,’’ said Mrs. Shaw. President of the Garden Club, she never took a wrong step or had a hair out of place. Even now, after a morning of scrubbing, her apron was still stiff and her coif tidy. ‘‘So of course you want to look your best when he’s courting you, but keep in mind that ornamentation that has no use is never, in any high sense, beautiful.’’

  Essie frowned in confusion. Then why did Mrs. Shaw put so much effort into her ornamental flower garden, which, after all, had no purpose but beauty?

  ‘‘What she means is,’’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘‘buttons that fasten nothing should never be scattered over a garment. And bows, which are simply strings tied together, should only be placed where there is some possible use for, well, strings tied together.’’

  Known as a woman of few words, the blacksmith’s wife added, ‘‘In short, Esther, anything that looks useful, but is useless, is in bad taste.’’

  Essie resumed her polishing, wondering if these women had bothered to look at Godey’s Lady’s Book sometime in the last few decades.

  ‘‘More important than your attire, though, is your general treatment of each other.’’ This from Mrs. Richie, who harangued her poor husband so much that he spent most of his waking hours at the Slap Out whittling and playing checkers. ‘‘You must tell Ewing that you should like to be treated thus, but not so, and that he must let you do this, but not that. It is much better to arrange these things now than for them to be left for future contention.’’

  ‘‘Love will not bear neglect, however,’’ said Mrs. Lockhart, settling herself on the first pew while the rest of the ladies finished up. ‘‘It should not be second in anything. You must spend a great deal of time together. Once love’s fires have been lit, they must be perpetually resupplied with their natural fuel, or else they die down, go out or . . . go elsewhere.’’ She looked over the rim of her glasses meaningfully.

  The other matrons nodded in agreement. The only person who had yet to offer any advice was Mrs. Bogart. A worried frown puckered the woman’s brows as she collected the dirty rags and dropped them into a bucket. The members of the Garden Club were set to clean her church at the beginning of the year. By then, though, Ewing would be their preacher.

  Essie sighed, wondering what these ladies would do if she were to tell them how troubled and unsure she was over her blossoming relationship with Preacher Wortham.

  ————

  Pumping the handle above the kitchen’s washbasin, Essie filled a bowl with water, then splashed her face. She was glad to be finished with the cleaning and with hearing unwanted advice.

  ‘‘Oh, thank goodness you’re home,’’ Mother said, entering the room and handing Essie a towel.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ she asked, dabbing her face.

  ‘‘Nothing. Your father is in his office with Melvin. They have something they’d like to, um, show you.’’

  ‘‘I thought Uncle Melvin was out of town,’’ she said, hanging the towel over a rod.

  ‘‘He’s back.’’

  Essie frowned. ‘‘Is anything wrong?’’

  ‘‘No. Nothing at all.’’

  Essie sighed. All morning she’d felt like a carcass that had been pecked and gouged. She wasn’t sure she was up to facing Papa or even Uncle Melvin. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and headed toward the hallway.

  ‘‘Perhaps you should freshen up a bit first,�
��’ Mother said.

  ‘‘No, I’m sure they won’t mind either way.’’

  Mother grabbed her hand. ‘‘Actually, I insist. Come on, I’ll help you change.’’

  Too tired to argue, Essie allowed her mother to pull her up the stairs and assist her in replacing work clothes with a simple white shirtwaist and wool skirt. Mother took the pins out of Essie’s hair, brushing it with long, slow strokes.

  Essie closed her eyes, relishing the unexpected treat of having someone else see to her needs. ‘‘The church cleaning this morning was awful.’’

  ‘‘Awful? Why? What happened?’’

  ‘‘Every single one of those women had advice to offer me on my courtship with Ewing. Seems the entire town has us married already.’’

  ‘‘Oh dear. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’’

  ‘‘It’s all right. I’m just glad the morning’s over.’’

  She opened her eyes. Mother had styled her hair in a loose bun at the back with soft tendrils framing her face.

  ‘‘There.’’ Her mother set the silver brush on the toilet table. ‘‘Ready?’’

  Essie met her gaze in the mirror. ‘‘Ready for what?’’

  ‘‘For your, um, meeting with your father and uncle.’’

  Essie swiveled around on her stool. ‘‘What is going on, Mother?’’

  ‘‘Nothing. Now come along.’’ But she was blushing and Essie found herself reluctant to follow.

  Still, they made their way down the stairs and Mother opened the door to Papa’s study. ‘‘She’s home.’’

  Essie stepped through the door. The neat and orderly office provided an unlikely backdrop for Uncle Melvin’s slouching form. Covered with dust and dirt, he looked as tired as she’d ever seen him— eyes bloodshot, shoulders wilted, mouth sagging.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked, going straight to him. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘Just a little tuckered out.’’

  ‘‘Where on earth have you been? You look like you rode clear to China and back.’’

  He pushed a smile onto his face, but it didn’t stay there long. She turned to ask Papa what this was all about and froze.

  Behind her and leaning against the north wall, one hip cocked, was Adam Currington, hat in hand. He was just as filthy as Uncle Melvin, the starch long since gone from his handkerchief and blue shirt.

  His eyes stayed on her face, never once venturing to places they ought not go. They were as clear and pretty as ever, but their sparkle had dulled.

  ‘‘How’s your nose?’’ she asked.

  It was a ridiculous question, all things considered, but his nose was so crooked and bruised. Even after six weeks, hints of purple still hovered in the circles beneath his eyes.

  He gave a slight smile. ‘‘It’s fine. How’s yours?’’

  She smiled back, but her good humor slowly dissolved as she remembered his perfidy. ‘‘Where have you been?’’

  His gaze dropped and he pulled away from the wall. ‘‘I owe you an apology, Essie.’’

  An apology? He thought to waltz in here with an apology and all would be forgiven?

  ‘‘Would you like to sit down?’’ he asked, pulling out one of Papa’s chairs.

  ‘‘No, thank you.’’ She held herself still and straight.

  ‘‘You’re angry. And I can’t say I blame ya.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘I’ve come back to do right by ya. I’ve offered fer your hand, but your pa won’t give it without your consent.’’

  She sank into the previously offered chair, her eyes locking with Papa’s. He’d erected a wall of indifference around him, refusing to let her see what he was thinking. She had no idea if he was angry, relieved, or anxious. But one thing was certain. He wasn’t indifferent, no matter what he pretended.

  She turned to Uncle Melvin. ‘‘You went after him, didn’t you? That’s where you’ve been.’’

  He said nothing.

  ‘‘Where did you find him?’’

  No one answered.

  Adam pulled out the chair next to hers and sat down facing her, his spurs jingling. ‘‘None of that is important. What matters is that I’m back. And I’m back for good. Ready to do the honorable thing.’’

  ‘‘Did Uncle Melvin have to threaten you?’’ she asked. ‘‘Cuff you and force you here by gunpoint?’’

  Hurt and irritation mingled, providing her heart some protection against the shock of seeing him again. She’d dreamed so often of his return that she could hardly credit the fact that he was actually here.

  Still, she’d never considered he would have to be tracked down and dragged back.

  ‘‘No, Essie. Not at all. I’m here of my own free will.’’

  He must think she was an idiot. And not surprisingly, considering the poor decisions she’d made concerning him. ‘‘Really? What took so long?’’

  He glanced at Melvin.

  ‘‘Don’t look over there for help,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s me who’s asking and me whom you’ll be answering to.’’

  ‘‘Essie,’’ he said, rotating his hat round and round in his big, bronzed hands, ‘‘I have no excuse to offer other than cowardice. The thought of being hogtied by matrimonial ropes made me as nervous as a long-tailed cat under a rockin’ chair. So I left in such a hurry I forgot to take my right mind with me.’’

  She waited, but no more was forthcoming. ‘‘That’s it? That’s your excuse?’’

  He frowned. ‘‘I’m back, ain’t I?’’

  ‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’’ She jumped out of her chair. ‘‘Surely you don’t think I’m going to crumple at your feet for doing me the great service of returning, do you?’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ he drawled, glancing at Melvin, then back at her. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I guess I sorta did.’’

  He was serious. Completely serious. An initial rush of anger was quickly replaced with disappointment.

  ‘‘I’d like to speak to Adam alone,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Absolutely not,’’ Papa answered.

  Her heart softened toward her father for the first time in over a month. Walking to his desk, she held out her hand. He enveloped it in his.

  ‘‘If he tries anything,’’ she said, her voice gentle, ‘‘I will break his nose again myself.’’

  She squeezed Papa’s hand. He looked at Melvin, then the two of them left the study, closing the door behind them.

  Essie sat in Papa’s throne, hoping the position would imbue her with the strength she suddenly needed. ‘‘Where were you?’’

  ‘‘Dallas.’’

  ‘‘Doing what?’’

  ‘‘It don’t matter.’’

  ‘‘It does to me.’’

  ‘‘Well, it shouldn’t. What should matter is that I’m back.’’

  ‘‘Why? Why did you return?’’

  ‘‘To marry you.’’

  She leaned against the warmth of Papa’s chair. The fire crackled in the hearth. ‘‘What changed your mind?’’

  He paused. ‘‘The sheriff changed my mind, but not how you’d think. He didn’t threaten me or try to whup me. He just talked to me, is all.’’

  ‘‘About what?’’

  ‘‘You.’’

  She studied him. So serious, so solemn. ‘‘I heard you were supposed to take Shirley Bunting to the Harvest Festival.’’

  He slowly straightened. ‘‘Who told you that?’’

  ‘‘Is it true?’’

  His gaze darted about the room.

  ‘‘Before you answer, please do not insult me with a falsehood. Furthermore, remember that this is a very small town and most everyone knows everyone else’s business.’’

  He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘‘I might’ve led Shirley to believe I might possibly escort her to the festival, but I wouldn’t have.’’

  She didn’t miss the ease with which he used the girl’s first name.

  ‘‘Did her father know you were calling on her?’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t
callin’ on her.’’

  Shooting to her feet, Essie pressed her hands against the giant desk, a horrible thought robbing her of breath. ‘‘Did you compromise Shirley, too?’’

  ‘‘No, ma’am,’’ he said, standing as soon as she did.

  Relief swept through her, but only momentarily. ‘‘Were you thinking to?’’

  He didn’t answer. His disheveled hair grazed his forehead. Several days’ worth of whiskers shadowed his jaw. His broad shoulders stretched taut the blue shirt he wore. He was such a gorgeous man, even after riding for days on end. But he was not so handsome on the inside—and she didn’t need to look in his mouth to determine as much. The thought of spending the rest of her life with him was rapidly losing its appeal.

  ‘‘How many others, Adam? How many other women in this town were you carrying on with?’’

  Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he moved to the window. ‘‘Don’t ya want to get married, Essie?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Oh yes. More than anything in the world. I’m just not sure anymore that it’s you I want to marry. A man who has such a voracious appetite for the female gender. A man who prefers wandering to planting down roots. A man who would run out on a woman he’d said he would marry and who might have been carrying his babe. A man who may not even believe in Jesus Christ.’’

  He looked down at his fingernails. ‘‘I’d be true to ya, Essie. Once we was wed, I’d be true.’’

  ‘‘How many illegitimate children have you sired?’’

  He looked at her then, his eyes bleak with regret. ‘‘I don’t rightly know,’’ he whispered.

  Sorrow crashed through her. ‘‘Oh, Adam.’’

  ‘‘I think about it all the time. Wonderin’.’’ He blinked several times. ‘‘Might be none, ya know.’’ His voice was sandpaper rough. ‘‘And I’d have done all that worryin’ fer nothing.’’

  She went to him then. He folded her into his embrace and she felt moisture from his eyes slide against her cheek.

  ‘‘I want you to stop carrying on with women who aren’t your wife.’’

  Pulling back, he untied his neckerchief and wiped his eyes and nose. ‘‘I done told you already, I wouldn’t cheat on ya.’’