Virgin Fire

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Rainee, does your husband work in the oil field?” Jessica asked.

  "They not want our kind on rigs. Easterners think colored can't do white man's job.” Rainee smiled a slow, bitter smile. “White man not know colored think work on rig mean quick trip to land beyond sun."

  A quick trip beyond the sun? Jessica took that to mean a quick death. “You mean from the fires?” Shivering, Jessica reminded herself that if she drilled in her own yard, she exposed herself to that danger, and Travis risked his life daily. One careless cigar, sparks from a train, and either or both of them could die.

  "Not just fire,” said Rainee. “Well blows in, workers breathe evil air, go blind, fall off platforms. Some drown in mud. Some knocked on head or killed when rocks and pipes fly like arrow from bow. White men every night fight, shoot, knife."

  Jessica looked at Rainee with horror. She'd never realized how many dangers Travis exposed himself to.

  "Jed, Rainee's husband, drive wagon, build derrick, house, store. White skins make more money. Dark skins live longer.” Rainee smiled coldly. “Money make death."

  "Are you sure you want to do this?” Jessica eyed her mother anxiously. Penelope was as fashionably dressed as always, wearing a beautifully cut yellow gown with diagonal panels of lace overlaid across the skirt and an immense black hat topped by two birds’ wings dyed yellow to match the dress. Still, there were disturbing lapses in her appearance—a loose strand of hair, the color of which seemed wrong; a spot on the tucked front of her bodice; splashes of mud on the trailing flounces.

  Admittedly, May had brought increasing rain and with it mud, but Penelope, who was usually so fastidious about her appearance, seemed unaware of the other lapses. Her hands had developed a fine tremor, her voice a tendency to rise out of control. She had always kept Jessica on edge with her critical remarks; now her whole demeanor was disturbing.

  "Of course I do,” Penelope replied, a note of near hysteria threading her voice. “You gave your word."

  Jessica had done no such thing. “The price is fifty thousand an acre. That's a lot of money."

  "I know that, and you see, I was right. It's rising all the time."

  "But—"

  "Don't try to cheat me. The money's been transferred here to the bank where you do business. We'll go immediately. I know you want the land for yourself, but I won't allow it. It's my right to—to—did you tell your grandfather? Is it his idea to keep me out?"

  "Grandfather says you must do whatever you want,” Jessica replied.

  "See! See! Papa sided with me. He's always loved me best. He used to call me his little sweet pea. His beautiful little sweet pea. Isn't that ridiculous? Such a common flower. I'll show him. Hugh and I are going to be richer than—than anyone. No one will ever say I picked the wrong man.” Penelope snapped her parasol open. “Let's go. Why are you stalling?"

  "I'm quite ready, Penelope."

  Jessica opened her own parasol, and as her palm slid over the carved ivory handle, she thought of Travis, who had given it to her as a birthday present, a very sensuous birthday present. He had said the carved woman reminded him of her, and then they had ... Jessica took a deep breath, trying to control the wild acceleration of her heart and the heated flush that blossomed across her body. Tomorrow Travis would come to her house. With trembling hands, she tilted the parasol behind her head.

  "To the side, Jessica,” snapped Penelope. “Tilt your parasol to the side. Can't you ever do anything right? The sun is touching your cheek and forehead."

  To Jessica the sun felt good—wonderful—like the touch of a lover. “Turn left, Penelope,” she instructed. “The bank is just a few doors down."

  "Do you have the papers? I've hired a lawyer to be sure you're not trying to cheat me. Don't think you can—you can...” Penelope stopped right in the middle of the pushing, shoving throng on the sidewalk. “You've made me forget what I was going to say,” she accused a complete stranger. The man ignored her.

  Jessica wished the transaction was over. This sale would benefit her grandfather, but Penelope had not the slightest idea what she was doing. She seemed to be motivated by thoughtless greed and some frightening combination of unfounded resentment and suspicion.

  Rainee had been gone for several hours, and Travis was late arriving. As always, Jessica worried about him and tried to tell herself she wasn't. To divert her anxieties, she had been making a pie of mayberries. Rainee had bought them that afternoon from a little girl who was selling baskets in Gladys City, the area for oil-field workers with families. So involved had Jessica become in trying to duplicate her mother's crust that she failed to hear Travis enter until he had pinned her hips against the work counter with his own.

  "Do I get a hug?” he whispered into her ear.

  "Don't be silly,” she replied severely, trying to ignore the exciting pressure of his loins against her backside. “My hands are covered with flour and pie dough. In fact, the whole front of me is. You'd better move away before you find yourself all messy too."

  "I guess I'm safe as long as I keep you pinned here back to front,” he laughed. “In fact—” He moved his hips provocatively against her. “In fact—” Keeping her in place with the weight of his body, he used his hands to work the back of her skirt up.

  "Travis!” Jessica tried to struggle loose.

  "That's having a very pronounced effect on me, sweetheart,” he told her, having pulled both skirts and petticoats free. “Now let's see. What do we have here? Buttons? Tapes? Ladies’ clothes are always so numerous and complicated—or maybe it just seems that way to a man who's been driven beyond discretion by a soft, squirming female bottom against his—"

  "For heaven's sake, Travis, what are you doing?” Jessica wasn't sure what he had in mind, but she felt a panicky excitement.

  "For heaven's sake, Jessica,” he mimicked good-naturedly, “I'm about to satisfy your lusty if occasional desire to make use of me."

  "But I don't—you can't—"

  "Of course we can. Haven't you ever seen a stallion and a mare? We'll have a wonderful time trying out something new."

  To her horror, he had loosened her drawers and boosted her upper body onto the table, at which point she began to struggle in earnest.

  "Give me a minute, love, and you can wiggle all you want,” he murmured, fitting himself as carefully into her as he could, given her lack of cooperation. “Ah-h. Wonderful, Jess, but just relax and let me get you started.” He was holding her hips firmly and moving in and out with slow deliberation. “That doesn't hurt, does it?"

  Jessica was too deeply in shock to reply, but it didn't hurt. It felt—

  "Relax,” he crooned.

  —different. She hadn't been as excited as she usually was when they got to this point. His strokes had been shallow. Now they became deeper.

  "All right? Do you like it?"

  Jessica wasn't sure.

  "You don't want me to stop, do you?” He stayed deeply inserted and moved in short, sharp thrusts, his breathing starting to become audible.

  He was getting very excited, she thought. She was, herself. A quivering had begun inside her, just the slightest tremors, nothing like the power of his drive toward satisfaction. “Don't stop,” she begged, suddenly frightened that he would finish too soon.

  "I won't.” He began to move up and down.

  "Please."

  "It's going to be fine,” he gasped. “Trust me."

  "No, you'll—” She began to shudder.

  "Now, Jess, now!” He thrust up powerfully as all her muscles clenched and released in a flood of rapture.

  Somehow she found herself in her own bed, naked, Travis lying with one thigh sprawled across hers. She could never remember feeling so drained, so physically contented, or so embarrassed.

  "Stop worrying about it,” he said to her in a lazy, satisfied voice. “Anything we want to do is fine. It's our business, our marriage."

  "What marriage?” Jessica mumbled, but with little conviction in her
own protest.

  "Ours. You and I are so good together we ought to make headlines from here to Fort Worth."

  "Travis!” she protested.

  "Want me to prove it to you again?"

  "You couldn't,” she laughed.

  "You're probably right,” he agreed ruefully. “I've never met a woman who does to me what you do."

  "All I was doing was making a pie,” she muttered, but in her heart she hoped that he was telling the truth. She wanted to be the woman he prized above all others.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  April had been reasonably dry. During May heavy rains turned the streets of Beaumont into a bog, and Jessica had to cross on foot. As a result, she arrived late one Friday afternoon at Travis's boardinghouse with very muddy shoes and a short temper, which exploded when she found her bicycle gone from its accustomed place by the wash house in the back yard. She stamped up the front stairs and pounded at the door, demanding of Molly, the woman who had refused her admittance in March, that Travis be produced forthwith.

  "Ain't here,” said the woman.

  "I'll wait,” snapped Jessica, “inside.” The drizzle had started up again, and she had no intention of being soaked before Travis returned. How like him! He had probably borrowed the bicycle himself.

  "No ladies allowed inside,” said the woman.

  "This lady will be my dinner guest."

  Jessica turned and stared at the stranger who had spoken as he mounted the steps.

  "We allow no female dinner guests,” Molly repeated. “You know that, Mr. Reavis."

  "Ah, so we don't. An oversight that obviously needs rectification. Mrs. Parnell, so glad to meet you at last.” He offered his hand. “Holland S. Reavis at your service. I've been wanting to interview you for some time.” He bowed, held the door open, and ushered an astonished Jessica inside past the glaring woman, who looked as if she'd like to attack them both with her feather duster. In the dining room a number of men were already seated, passing around bowls of food at a long table.

  "Gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Jessica Parnell, Travis's wife?” Jessica was introduced to, among others, a Mississippi lawyer; his partner, a young man who had been lured by oil away from his father's Louisiana coal company; Walter Fondren, a Corsicana driller who had his own business on Spindletop; and her host, Holland S. Reavis, a Saint Louis journalist covering the oil boom for his newspaper but talking of starting a journal for oil investors.

  "There's enough land, lease, and stock fraud going on here in Beaumont to bankrupt the whole country,” Reavis declared, helping Jessica to a slice of beef from a large roast, “and I hope to expose it. Would you care to go in with me on the journal, Mrs. Parnell?” he asked. “I've seen your articles on Beaumont in several newspapers—good stuff."

  Jessica thanked him politely for his compliment, but privately she questioned his motives. Her writing was hardly investigative, and she doubted that a publication for oil investors would be long on local color, which was her forte. No, likely Mr. Holland Reavis wanted a partner with money to invest in his publishing venture. Half the people she met wanted her to invest in some scheme or other. Jessica admired his aim; the swindlers and fly-by-night oil companies needed to be exposed. However, she doubted that Grandfather Duplessis would be interested in financing the effort, and she had other plans for the money she had saved from her own earnings.

  "Did you hear that Patillo Higgins has gone to court?” asked the Mississippi lawyer, addressing the table at large. “He's suing Lucas and Carroll."

  "What for?” The lawsuits spawned by the oil boom fascinated Jessica.

  "Higgins and the Gladys City Oil Company owned the hill, or most of it, but they hadn't the money to develop it after ten years of trying, so they sold out to Lucas. Higgins was promised ten percent of Lucas's interest, and Carroll—he's in lumber—"

  "I know Mr. Carroll,” said Jessica. “You might say he's a competitor of mine."

  "Mrs. Parnell handles the Duplessis timber interests here in Beaumont,” Reavis explained.

  "No wonder she don't need poor old Travis,” Fondren murmured to the coal-company heir. “Duplessis money must make Parnell look like small potatoes."

  "You underestimate Travis,” said the coal heir. “He's doing as well as anyone I know."

  Jessica heard and gave them both a cold look. She resented having it thought that she'd left her husband for mercenary reasons. “You were saying, sir,” she prompted the Mississippian.

  "Well, Carroll was to match the ten percent Lucas promised Patillo Higgins, but then Lucas ran out of money and got Galey and Guffey—"

  "They financed Corsicana,” Walter Fondren added.

  "Guffey's the money man, and Galey—that fella can smell oil, I swear."

  "Better than Higgins?” asked the New Orleans coal heir. “I hear Higgins witched Spindletop with a peach limb."

  "Nonsense,” Jessica said firmly. “Mr. Higgins does not use peach limbs. He goes by more sensible signs—oil seepage, an odor like rotten eggs, that sort of thing."

  "You know Higgins?” asked the Louisianian, abashed to be corrected by a woman more knowledgeable than he.

  "Mr. Higgins gave a very interesting address to my Sunday school class at the Mosso Saloon,” Jessica replied, helping herself to the mashed potatoes as the community bowl came her way.

  Holland S. Reavis, chuckling, said, “Now I know I have to interview you, Mrs. Parnell. Canny businesswoman, lawyer, bicycle rider, saloon Sunday school teacher."

  "It's very public-spirited of Mr. Mosso to forgo his illegal profits to accommodate the Lord's work,” said Jessica stiffly.

  "Lawyer?” echoed the Mississippian, looking astounded.

  "I have the education,” said Jessica grimly, “but because I'm a woman, I have neither the degree nor a license to practice."

  "If I were Travis,” said Fondren, “and I had me a lawyer wife, I'd sure try to get her back. Ain't a man owns land within a hundred and fifty miles of Beaumont don't need all the legal help he can get."

  "What a romantic view of marriage you have, Mr. Fondren,” muttered Jessica. Then she turned back to the Mississippi lawyer and prompted the continuation of his story about the Higgins lawsuit.

  "Well, Lucas had to get financing from Galey and Guffey, which he did, and brought the well in, and others since, of course. Now Higgins wants his money, so he's gone to court to get it."

  "So he should,” murmured Jessica. “There's a wealth of cases with much less merit than that. In fact, some swindler tried to tell me he owned my grandfather's Spindletop Heights land by virtue of a few scratchings on a chewing-tobacco wrapper."

  "You'll probably find yourself in court,” predicted Reavis. “Your title could be in question for years, considering how overburdened the dockets are. Otherwise he'll try to get money or drilling rights from you in exchange for dropping the claim."

  "Indeed he won't. My grandfather's title is well documented. When that bounder came back, I gave him the whole history and threatened to countersue, which I fully intend to do should he threaten me further."

  "Good for you,” said Walter Fondren admiringly. “You planning to drill on your land? Beatty just sold a proven well for a million and a quarter to a fella from New York named Pullen. You could probably do the same, ma'am, and I'd be glad to do your drilling, since you're on the outs with Travis."

  Fondren was chuckling for no reason that Jessica could understand until she heard her husband's voice saying, “Walter, I never thought to see an old acquaintance from Corsicana trying to sweet-talk my wife."

  "Just business, Travis, just business. If the lady needs a driller, I'm available."

  "The lady doesn't need a driller. Would you want a wife of yours living in the shadow of a derrick?"

  Jessica turned sharply and glared at Travis. “My bicycle's gone,” she said accusingly.

  "I know, sweetheart. I just got it back."

  "You did?” she cried happily, then began to frown. “You too
k it off on some foolishness, didn't you?"

  "Muddy Willie Hoberkamp took it off on some foolishness. I found him and the bicycle down on Crockett Street."

  "Oh, now, Travis,” roared Holland Reavis, “what were you doing on Crockett with all those ladies of easy virtue?"

  Jessica felt her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment and anger.

  "I was retrieving my wife's bicycle, Holland,” said Travis. “Muddy Willie had it down there showing off for the ladies, and it was quite a scene, I must say. You'd have enjoyed it, Jessie."

  "I doubt it,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  "Well, maybe not,” he admitted. “I'll swear every second one of those shady ladies had her gown or her hair covered with feathers, and I do know how you feel about feathers."

  "Feathers?” asked the Louisiana coal heir, who had been blushing ever since prostitutes were mentioned in the presence of a lady.

  "My wife deplores the slaughter of birds to decorate ladies’ wear, but here now, I'm being distracted from my story. Muddy Willie had a bet on with some Pennsylvania driller that he could beat him in any race. Course, Willie thought they'd be running on foot or racing horses, but the Pennsylvania man picked bicycles."

  "Just what I'd expect,” said the coal heir. “Those Pennsylvanians don't know a thing about drilling or racing either."

  "Course, Willie didn't have a bicycle,” Travis continued, “but he'd seen you riding yours, Jessie, so he came over and borrowed it."

  "I'm calling the sheriff,” said Jessica angrily.

  "No need. I got it back."

  "What'd you do? Shoot him?” asked Reavis. “Muddy Willie's about as big and mean as any roughneck I know. I can't imagine he'd just hand over something he wanted to hang on to. Or had he already won the race?"

  "Had to forfeit,” said Travis. “We argued a little.” Travis rubbed his jaw ruefully. “And then Willie had an accident, so he wasn't in any condition for racing."