Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  She hit the floor before he could react. Kneeling down, he helped her to a sitting position. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “My stars and garters,” she said, a feather from her hat poking him in the eye. “Would you just look at this?”

  Repositioning himself, Tony watched as she propped her left foot onto her right knee, wiggling the heel of her boot. It hung like a loose tooth that should have long since been pulled.

  “These are brand-new,” she said. “Straight out of the Montgomery Ward catalogue. Can you even imagine?”

  What he couldn’t imagine was how that hat of hers stayed attached. One-and-a-half times as tall as her entire head, this haberdasher’s nightmare had steel buckles, looped ribbons, feathers, foliage, and even a bluebird. The only evidence it gave of her fall was a slight tilt to the left.

  She thrust out her arm for assistance. He took her hand and placed his other beneath her elbow, helping her stand.

  “Well, you’d think a pair of boots that came clear from Michigan Avenue could hold up a little better than that.” She brushed the front of her skirt, then raised her gaze to his.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

  The commandment popped into his head just as he noticed the blue of her eyes, the dimples carved into her cheeks, and the peach color of her heart-shaped lips. He’d thought Spreckelmeyer’s wife was deceased. But clearly he was mistaken, for here she was—alive, healthy, and fine looking. He’d had no idea she was so young. And a wheeler, as well. Though it made sense, since the daughter was such an avid cyclist.

  He whipped off his hat. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Narrowing her eyes, she brushed off her backside and glanced at him, the screen door, and back again. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “I was just fixing to knock when you, uh, fell.”

  She touched her hand to her mouth. “You saw me?”

  “I saw you fall, ma’am.”

  She studied him for several seconds before a smile crept up. “I reckon that’s not all you saw, is it?”

  He answered her smile. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  She chuckled. “Well, sir. I do apologize and thank you for helping me up.”

  “ ’Twas no trouble. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine. Heavens, I’ve taken much worse tumbles than that. Now, is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was here to ask your husband if he had any need for a cable-tool worker.”

  “Ah.” Her grin widened. “If you’re wanting to speak to my husband, you’re going to have one loooong wait. But, now, if you wanted to speak with my father, well, you’d find him right through there.” She indicated a closed door along the wall.

  He felt a surge of blood rush to his face. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

  “No need to worry yourself.” She twirled her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now, what’s your name, son?”

  Son? “Tony Bryant, miss.”

  “Come on, then, Mr. Bryant, and I’ll introduce you to Papa.” She hobbled a few steps, then came up short and turned back to face him. “You, uh, you won’t tell, will you?”

  “Tell?”

  “About … you know.” She nodded toward the banister, the bird in her hat coming perilously close to losing its perch.

  “I didn’t see a thing.” He licked his finger, crossed his heart and winked.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, her laugh sounding like bell chimes.

  She knocked and poked her head inside a door, mumbling something, then threw it open, inviting Tony in with a sweep of her hand.

  “Papa? This is Mr. Tony Bryant of … ?”

  “Beaumont,” Tony offered.

  “Beaumont,” she repeated. “Mr. Bryant, this is my father, Judge Spreckelmeyer.”

  “Judge?” Tony asked.

  “Of the Thirty-fifth Judicial District,” she confirmed.

  “Come in, come in,” Spreckelmeyer said. The robust man with a full gray-and-white beard, and blue eyes just like his daughter’s, placed his pen in an ornate brass holder. If his brown worsted suit had been red, the man could have been Santa Claus.

  “Would you fetch us some coffee, Esther?” Spreckelmeyer asked.

  “I’ll bring it right in,” she answered, then turned to go.

  “Essie?”

  She paused at the open door, her hand on the knob.

  “Are you limping?” her father asked.

  She glanced quickly at Tony before looking down at her feet.

  “Oh, it’s my new boots. The heel snapped right off. Just as I was about to answer the door.”

  “Those bicycle boots you ordered?”

  “Yes. Can you imagine? They just don’t make things the way they used to.”

  “Well, you must take it to the cobbler at once.”

  “And so I shall. Now, if you will excuse me?”

  She backed out of the room and closed the door.

  Judge Spreckelmeyer stared after her for a long moment, his frown becoming more and more pronounced. “Surely she didn’t slide … naw,” he muttered, then with a shake of his head, he stood and offered Tony a hand. “Mr. Bryant, please have a seat.”

  Tony settled into a heavily stuffed wing chair and glanced out a large bay window. The view outside was blocked by a massive oil derrick taking up almost the entire backyard. Nearly every home he’d passed had one.

  Corsicana couldn’t be more than two square miles, yet it was full to bursting with thousands of oilmen and at least that many derricks, allowing no relief from the pungent odor of gas.

  “Now, what can I help you with, young man?”

  Tony set his hat on the chair beside him. “I’d like a job as a toolie, sir.”

  “You ever worked in the patch?”

  “Only on the supply end. Never in the actual field. But I’ve a strong back, a quick mind, and you won’t find a harder worker anywhere in the state.”

  Spreckelmeyer glanced down at some papers on his desk, then moved them to the side. “What do you mean, ‘the supply end’?”

  “I used to oversee the ordering and shipping of tools and supplies for Morgan Oil.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Morgan died last week and the younger Morgan decided he no longer needed my services.”

  “You said your name is Bryant?”

  “Yes, sir. Tony Bryant.”

  The judge looked up over the rim of his glasses. “Is that short for Anthony?”

  “It is.”

  “And your age?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Really.” He leaned back in his chair. “Interesting.”

  Before Tony could ask him what he meant, Miss Spreckelmeyer entered with a tray of coffee. Gone were the broken boots, replaced by bicycle shoes covered with gaiters. Tony and Spreckelmeyer rose to their feet.

  “Oh, please, sit down. I’ll just be a minute.” She placed the tray on an oak sideboard and began to pour.

  Spreckelmeyer sat. Tony remained standing.

  “Do you take cream, Mr. Bryant?” she asked, her back still to him, the bird in her hat wobbling.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One lump or two?”

  “Two, please.”

  “Ahh. Seems we have us a man with a sweet tooth like yours, Papa.”

  The affection on Spreckelmeyer’s face while he watched her surprised Tony. No wonder people talked about how he doted on his daughter. His own father never would have allowed his feelings to be so transparent.

  She turned and handed Tony a cup. “Tsk, tsk. I thought I told you to sit, sir.”

  “I don’t mind standing.” He wondered how he ever could have mistaken her for Spreckelmeyer’s wife. She was far too young. But it was hardly unheard of for a man to marry a much younger woman.

  Hadn’t his father done the same?

  Sipping the coffee, he tri
ed to gauge how old she was but found it difficult. Well past marrying age, that was for certain. Yet she had a fine figure. Barely any lines around the eyes, and none at all around her mouth. He felt sure she was somewhere in her thirties, but beyond that, he couldn’t tell.

  She set her father’s cup and saucer on the desk.

  “Why don’t you join us, Essie,” Spreckelmeyer said. “Mr. Bryant here is interested in working in our fields.”

  Our fields? Did the man actually include his daughter in his business dealings?

  She poured herself a cup—with three lumps, he noticed— picked up his hat and carried it to a coatrack before settling herself in the upholstered chair next to his. Only then did he sit back down.

  “What kind of experience do you have, Mr. Bryant?” she asked.

  He hesitated, taken aback by her question. Yet Spreckelmeyer seemed perfectly willing to let her take over the interview. “I was just telling your father that I’d cataloged tools and supplies for Morgan Oil before Morgan Senior died.”

  Her brow furrowed. “We heard about his death. So unexpected. Did you know him at all?”

  “I knew him, though we were never close.”

  “No, of course not.” She blew on her coffee. “So you have no experience in the field whatsoever?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet. But I aim to—whether with Sullivan Oil or somebody else.”

  She exchanged a glance with her father. “Your lack of experience is going to be a problem, I’m afraid. Working in the field is quite a bit different from cataloging tools.”

  He narrowed his eyes. It was one thing for Russ, an experienced driller, to doubt his abilities, but to sit here and be questioned by a female with birds in her hair was something else altogether.

  “Does it look to you like I can’t handle it?” he asked, his tone sharper than he’d intended.

  And though he’d meant the question rhetorically, she gave him a thorough sizing-up, like she could appraise his merits then and there. In spite of his irritation, he straightened his shoulders.

  “You needn’t get defensive, Mr. Bryant. There is nothing lacking in your physique. It’s your gumption that I’m concerned about.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The fields require a man who can keep calm in the face of danger. I can tell by looking that you’re strong, but I’ve no way of measuring your courage.”

  He set his cup on the edge of the mahogany desk, careful not to rattle the china. “Are you questioning my manhood, Miss Spreckelmeyer?”

  She sighed. “It’s nothing personal, just a requisite for the job.”

  His jaw began to tick. In spite of his troubles, he’d still grown up a Morgan. He might have his hat in hand right now, but he had more mettle in his little finger than this gal could possibly have from the top of her ridiculous hat to the tip of her bicycle shoe-clad toes.

  All those newspaper articles he’d read about her came back to him now. He leaned toward her. “There is a difference,” he said, “between wearing trousers and being a man.”

  Her breath hitched, and for the first time since he’d met her, she seemed at a loss for words. She recovered almost at once, however, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief.

  “Nevertheless, the oil field is no place for novices. Seasoned oilmen can be killed or crippled in a day’s work.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

  Tony speared Spreckelmeyer with a questioning stare. Surely the man wasn’t going to allow her to make such a decision for him?

  But the expression on the old judge’s face was unreadable. He held Tony’s gaze a moment, then shifted in his chair to address his daughter. “What about that well out on Fourth and Collin, Essie?

  We could use another man out there.”

  Her head was shaking before he got the words out. “But he has no experience at all.”

  “Neither did Jeremy, and look at him now. A derrickman at the ripe old age of eighteen.”

  “That was different,” she said. “That was back in the old days.”

  Spreckelmeyer chuckled. “Four years ago hardly qualifies as ‘the old days.’ ”

  “In the oil patch it does.”

  The judge said nothing. Tony could not believe this woman held the kind of power she did. Oh, but he’d like to take her down a peg or two. Instead, he kept quiet and waited.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Do you really wish to give him a try, Papa?”

  Spreckelmeyer shrugged. “He’s certainly a strapping fellow.”

  “And yet he would have us believe he did desk work for a major competitor. He’d have to have had schooling for that.”

  Tony leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to assume a casual air. Clearly, his trouser comment had hit its mark. He knew he ought to leave well enough alone, but temptation overrode caution.

  “Would you like to see my grade-school cards, Miss Spreckelmeyer?” He patted his pockets as if he always kept them at hand. “Or perhaps you could write for references to the schoolmarm from my hometown?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to reveal he’d learned Spencerian penmanship, bookkeeping, banking, and business ethics at no less an establishment than the Bryant & Stratton Commercial College. But those kind of credentials didn’t measure an oilman’s fortitude.

  She stood imperiously, like she was ready to shake the dust of Tony Bryant off her fancy bicycle shoes. He rose politely in response.

  “Do what you want, Papa,” she said. “But I won’t take responsibility for hiring this one.”

  There was no mystery now as to why this woman had never married. He watched her bloomer-clad body stride out of the room, the blue bird in her hat quivering.

  Good, he thought. Now he and the judge could talk man-toman. As soon as the door clicked shut, Spreckelmeyer smiled. “Think you could work for a woman, Mr. Bryant?”

  “That one?”

  The glint in the judge’s eye spoke volumes. “None other.”

  “How much will you pay me?”

  chapter THREE

  SWEAT DRIPPED into Tony’s eyes but he never slowed his pace on the grinding wheel. Pumping his foot to keep the grindstone spinning, he pulled the drill bit across the wheel’s surface again and again, raising a burr on the stone that set off an explosion of sparks.

  The wheel sat within calling distance of the rig but far enough away to quit grinding if the crew smelled gas. All it would take to blow them to smithereens was a single spark. Over his shoulder, Tony could see the cable-tool boys bailing out the hole. Soon they’d be finished and would need the drill he was sharpening.

  Pulling his foot from the pedal and the chisel-like bit from the stone, he dipped the tool in and out of a water bucket to cool the steel. The grindstone whirred almost to a stop before he started it up again and laid the chisel flat on the stone, rubbing it side to side.

  After a week on the job, he’d been expecting to have his mettle tested any time, but according to the others, “Grandpa” didn’t allow any hazing, harassing, or fighting on the oil patch.

  Grandpa, the driller in charge of the rig at Fourth and Collin, was thirty years old and got his nickname from the way he hunched over when he walked. Skilled and proficient, he was a patient teacher, and Tony had made up his mind to be the best hand Grandpa had ever brought up through the ranks.

  Most of the other men working the rigs were boomers—here today, yonder tomorrow. All they wanted was a place to sleep, food to eat, and plenty of good whiskey to wash it down. He smiled to himself. A couple just wanted the whiskey.

  Not me, he thought. He had a business to build. A mother and sister he still felt responsible for. It killed him that they had to rely on his half brother’s mercy, so Tony was determined to provide for them as soon as he could. He would work harder than any man in the patch and move up the chain of command accordingly.

  Just a few more rubs and the bit would be ready.

  “Ain’t ya through with that
drill yet, Rope Choker?”

  “I’m coming, Gramps,” Tony hollered over the sound of the wheel, giving the chisel a couple more swipes before dousing it in water.

  “Wall, whatchya been doin’ all this time?”

  Once the steel cooled properly, Tony jogged to the eighty-twofoot rig, holding the bit in two hands. Three cables ran up and over a pulley system in the crown block at the top of the derrick. One cable was the drilling line, one was for the bailer, and the third to lower and pull casing.

  Jeremy Gillespie stood high up on the double board about thirtyfive feet above the derrick floor. The eighteen-year-old was wiry, quick, and exceptionally strong. What impressed Tony most, though, was the boy’s sense of timing.

  Grandpa worked fast, expecting Jeremy to handle those cables and to run or pull pipe without missing a stand. The youth took his trips with a semi-controlled madness that made him as competent an attic hand as a person could be. Not surprisingly, he was no boomer, but a local Corsicanan.

  Below him on the derrick floor stood a structure that looked like a giant seesaw. An upright post acted as fulcrum for a horizontal timber. One end of the timber extended over a band wheel. The other end extended into the derrick as far as the center of the floor. Grandpa waited there to inspect the bit.

  “Good as new,” Tony said, holding the bit while Grandpa attached it to a drilling cable suspended from the timber.

  “There we are. You can let her go now.”

  Tony pulled his hands back and watched Grandpa gently lower the bit into a hole until it rested on the bottom. Once the cable showed some slack, he put a mark on the line three or so feet above the floor and put the rocking beam in motion, raising and dropping the bit as it pounded away at the bottom of the hole.

  The chisel would only break up three feet of the black gummy soil before they’d have to stop and bail out all the rock and shale. It was nigh on noon and they’d only drilled about twenty feet.

  Tony rubbed the stubble growing on his jaw and thought again of the water-well drillers from the Dakotas. The men were brothers and claimed their rotary drill could go a thousand feet in three days.

  They’d set up their contraption in Beaumont and given Tony a demonstration. From all accounts, it looked as if the thing just might be as good as the brothers claimed, but before Tony could commission them, his father had died.