by Deeanne Gist
She took so long to answer, he thought she was going to ignore the question.
“We’re considering it,” she finally conceded.
The woman clearly did not like to eat crow. And if he were a betting man, he’d guess she didn’t do it often.
He faced off his king against hers. “I’ll expect a raise, of course.”
Her mouth slackened. “A raise? Don’t you think that’s a bit precipitous?”
“I think it’s the least you can do.”
She puckered her lips. “You may have your old job back, Mr. Bryant, at the same rate as before.” Reaching for a single black disc, she jumped all four of his remaining markers. “Take it or leave it.”
chapter SIX
TONY STOMPED on his shovel, sinking it into the gummy soil, then hoisted up a load of dirt. As soon as he’d returned to the rig, Grandpa promoted him from toolie to roustabout, and he’d spent the morning picking up broken rods, junk pipe, and connections so the men wouldn’t stumble as they scurried around the well. He’d discharged the lines to safeguard against leaks. He’d put new clamps on a broken sucker rod. And now he was digging a ditch for the saltwater that had accumulated in the stock tank. Once he filled the ditch with the water, he’d have to figure out how to make the liquid evaporate.
Arching his back, he glanced up at Jeremy on the double board. The boy was juggling elevators—resting one pipe on a device used to lift and lower drill pipe while fitting a collared pipe to a second device, pulling some pipe, then shifting a giant hook back to the other elevator. The process was tedious and the greatest crusher of fingers ever invented, yet Jeremy never missed a beat.
Paul Wilson, their roughneck, had made a visit out to the old pecan tree thirty yards east of the rig and was hotfooting it back. Tony smiled, thinking that what the old fellow lacked in brain power, he made up for in brawn.
Instead of returning to the pipe he was stacking, though, Wilson snatched up his knuckleduster and bullets, then hurried back to the tree.
Tony tossed down his shovel and jogged after him. “What is it, Wilson?”
“I spotted a squirrel up in that there pea-can tree and I mean to get me a piece of it,” he hollered over his shoulder.
Tony slowed, coming to a stop several yards behind Wilson. Toolies, roughnecks, roustabouts, and pipeliners from the surrounding rigs left their posts. All work came to a standstill as they watched Wilson shoot up a box of twenty shells.
For ten minutes he and the squirrel played chase. Men cheered poor Wilson on while simultaneously making bets against him.
When he’d fired his last shot, the untouched squirrel eyeballed him from the edge of a branch, flicked his tail, then jumped to another tree and darted out of sight.
Throwing down the empty box of ammunition, Wilson cursed the varmint. Red-faced, he plowed through the crowd and headed back toward the pipe he’d been stacking.
The fellas slapped him on the shoulder as he went through their gauntlet. “Didn’t know you was such a crackshot, Wilson.”
“Where’d ya learn to shoot? At Lady Pinkham’s School of Charm?”
“I’m thinking ol’ Crackshot would’ve had a better chance of finding hair on a frog than pullin’ that squirrel’s picket pin.”
“Maybe you oughter join up with Miss Spreckelmeyer’s shootin’ class fer ladies. Now, there’s a gal that could fill a hide so full o’ holes it wouldn’t hold hay.”
Tony tried to pinpoint who’d called out that last remark, but the crowd was too dense.
“Back to work, fellas,” Moss hollered. “We ain’t being paid to laze around in the sun.”
As tool pushers go, Moss was a whopdowner—hard, mean, and ugly. He didn’t put up with any lip or lollygagging. No one openly criticized him, though, because he had a few loyalists who would frail your knob if you low-rated him. He looked after all of Sullivan Oil’s rigs and had the stroke to hire and fire.
Catching Tony’s attention, he motioned him over. “I see the old bicyclette changed her mind about you.”
“It’s the judge who’s responsible for me being here.”
“I wouldn’t put any money on it if I were you.” Moss had a laugh that sounded more like a growl. “The lady of the house wields a mighty sword and you’d best be remembering it.”
Someone from a rig up the way called for Moss, and the tool pusher headed his direction.
“He’s right, ya know,” Jeremy said, falling into step beside Tony. “Miss Essie pretty much runs the place. Even Moss reports directly to her.”
“Why?” Tony asked. “Why doesn’t the judge manage it?”
“He kinda lost interest when his wife died. So Miss Essie took over and it’s been that way ever since.”
They reached the sump Tony was digging and paused. “Is it true what that fellow said?” Tony asked. “About Miss Spreckelmeyer being an accurate shot?”
Jeremy smiled broadly. “It shore is.”
“And she teaches other women how to use a gun?”
“My missus takes lessons from her every Thursday mornin’, ”
Jeremy said, “along with a passel o’ others.”
“What possible use could a woman have for shooting?”
Chuckling, Jeremy placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Don’t let Miss Essie hear ya askt such a thing. She’ll wear yer ear out giving ya reasons.”
Grandpa barked out Jeremy’s name. The boy hustled up the rig to his spot on the double board leaving Tony to try and make sense of Miss Spreckelmeyer. Checker champion. Marksman. Wheeler. Banister-slider. And worst of all … boss.
By the time Tony had been to the bathhouse and washed off all the drilling mud, the shale, the ditch, and the compound used to grease the pipe with, he’d barely made it to Castle’s Drug Store for dinner. He took his time over the meal, though, regardless of the fact that the “boss” wanted to see him first thing after work.
Taking a swallow of genuine Coca-Cola, he listened along with the other men as Mr. Castle read aloud the latest news of the war. The boys cheered and whistled upon hearing the marines had captured Guantánamo Bay and seventeen thousand troops had landed just east of Santiago.
Setting his coins on the counter, Tony wiped his mouth and slipped out. The streets were congested with men heading east toward the saloons. A ninety-foot gas tower at the corner of Beaton and Collin threw out enough illumination to get by on, though from here he couldn’t see the abandoned seed house Miss Spreckelmeyer had converted into a bicycle club. Still, he’d have no trouble finding it in the dark. It was just northeast of town, not far from Whiteselle’s Lumber Yard.
He skirted the red-light district, passed Frost’s Wagon Yard and the Central Blacksmith Shop. He wound behind the city pound and set a few dogs barking until he was a good distance away.
When he got within sight of the club, gaslight from its high horizontal windows guided him to the doorstep. He knocked, but no one answered, so he pushed the door open.
“Quicker, Mr. Sharpley. You must keep your eye on the ball.
Now, let’s try again.”
In the middle of the vast room, Miss Spreckelmeyer faced a young man who wore a quarter-sleeve shirt with exercise tights as snug as a pair of long johns.
Bunching her skirt in her fists, she raised her hem and tapped a ball back and forth between her booted feet as she moved toward Mr. Sharpley. The full skirt and white shirtwaist she wore were more suited to a stroll through town than a ball drill.
It was the first time he’d seen her without a hat, though. Her hair had wilted, its twist no more than a suggestion of its former glory. Hunks of blond hair swirled across her face, over her shoulder and down her back.
Sharpley crouched, bounced on his toes, and kicked at the ball when she drew near, but only succeeded in stirring her skirts.
She easily passed him, then stopped the ball with her toe. “You lunged again. I’ll get by you every time if you jump in like that.”
“I don’t see what this ha
s to do with ridin’ bikes. Just put me on the bicycle and I’ll go faster than any of the rest of ’em. I swear I will.”
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “There is a difference between being fast and being quick. I will admit you are fast. But if something happens during the race that requires you to respond quickly, you will not fare well.”
Tony settled his shoulder comfortably against the south wall, ankles crossed and hat in hand. They went through the exercise two more times, and he could see their frustration mounting. Sharpley did lunge, but she also outplayed him. Even if the boy used proper technique, he’d be hard pressed to win the ball from her.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Tony suggested.
Miss Spreckelmeyer squeaked and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”
“You sent for me.”
“I sent for you hours ago.”
“And here I am.” He pulled away from the wall and gave a mock bow.
“Well, I’m busy now. You will have to come back in a hour or so.”
He strode onto the court. “Surely that won’t be necessary. I can’t imagine you needing me for very long and it looks like your young charge could use a rest.”
“He can’t have a rest. I’m trying to build up his stamina.”
“By trouncing him at football?” He extended his hand toward the boy. “You must be Sharpley. My name’s Bryant.”
Sharpley grinned. “You work with Crackshot.”
Tony smiled at the mention of Wilson’s new nickname. “I surely do.”
“Who’s Crackshot?” Essie asked.
“Nobody,” Tony answered, turning toward her. “If you’d like, I would be glad to help you show Sharpley what it is you want him to do—with the football, that is.”
He bent over and pulled off his cowboy boots.
“Mr. Bryant! Stop that at once. What do you think you are doing?”
“You can’t very well expect me to play football in my boots.” He removed both socks and stuffed them in his boots.
She stared at his feet. He wiggled his toes.
“Oh, my goodness.” She clasped her hands together, red flooding her face. “This really isn’t at all proper, and I’m not dressed for an actual match. I was merely demonstrating.”
He walked to the ball, flipped it high into the air with his feet, juggled it with his knees, dropped it in front of him and passed it to her. “Watch closely, Sharpley, and I’ll show you how to tame your opponent.”
She trapped the ball with her instep, a spark firing her eyes. “I’m really not dressed for this,” she said again.
He neither encouraged nor discouraged her, just held her gaze. She worried her bottom lip, then looked from him to the ball and back up to him. “Where’s the goal?” she asked.
“I’ll take the bandstand, you can have the entire south wall.”
She rolled the ball back to him. “I won’t need the entire wall.”
Allowing himself a slow grin, he again passed the ball to her. “Oh yes, you will. And … ladies first.”
She didn’t stop the ball as he’d expected, but lifted her skirts, kicked the ball as it slid past her, then sprinted after it. He had no trouble catching up and stealing it back.
Instead of racing to his goal, though, he toyed with her—changing directions, faking a kick, cutting across the ball. But when he tried to backheel it, she intercepted the ball and skirted around him.
He took her on again. Planting her left foot, she lunged to the right, then abruptly to the left, catching him off balance. She attempted a shot on the goal, but he managed to knock the ball into the bleachers before she made contact. Sharpley ran after it.
“Here!” she cried, jogging south. Sharpley threw it her direction.
She pulled the ball back toward her body, forcing Tony to step up and open his legs, then she kicked it between his feet, maintaining possession.
They parried for another minute before Tony acted as if he was going to turn, but stepped over the ball instead and headed in the other direction, breaking away. A few feet short of the bandstand, he struck the ball and scored his goal.
Essie held her waist and tried to catch her breath, droplets of moisture clinging to her skin. Playing football in a tight corset was not terribly wise, but she took satisfaction in the fact that Mr. Bryant was panting just as hard as she. Sweat plastered his shirt to his chest and back, accentuating the muscles beneath.
A smile played on his lips. “A good match, Miss Spreckelmeyer. I’m impressed. Too bad you lost.”
She wondered how well he’d fare running up and down the length of the building strapped into a corset, but, of course, she could not plead her case.
“What?” he said. “Nothing to say?”
Inhaling, she squeezed her side. “That was fun.”
His eyebrows shot up and his smile grew. “So it was. How is it that a judge’s daughter knows how to play a game popular only with the lower, working classes?”
“It’s a beautiful game,” she breathed. “A couple of years ago we had a group of oilmen who used to play every Sunday. I’d go and watch them—from a distance, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Then I secretly played here with Jeremy Gillespie and practiced until I could duplicate what they did. But this is the first time I’ve ever played with anyone other than him or Mr. Sharpley.” She propped her hands on her knees, trying to suck in more air.
His smile began to fade. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Sharpley, go get some water for Miss Spreckelmeyer.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” She straightened and the room began to spin. “Uh-oh.”
Tony rushed to her and grasped her elbow. “Perhaps you should come sit on the bleachers.”
Her vision dimmed. The room began to fade.
Tony scooped her up into his arms. “Keep your eyes open, Miss Spreckelmeyer.” He glanced at Sharpley. “Is there somewhere she can lie down?”
“Over here,” Sharpley answered. “There’s an office.”
Weak. She felt so weak.
“Do not faint. Do you hear me? I won’t have it.”
Chagrined at the panic in his voice, she tried to keep her eyes open and focused, but all went dark.
chapter SEVEN
TONY FOUND the office door ajar and kicked it wide. “Get everything off that desk, Sharpley, and be quick about it.”
The tiny office held an old teacher’s desk, a bookshelf, a stove, and two ladder-back chairs. Sharpley grabbed the books littering the desk and pushed all the papers to the side so Tony could lay Miss Spreckelmeyer on top. He glanced around for something to prop her head on.
“There’s some ready-mades two rooms down,” Sharpley said, reading Tony’s mind.
“Good. Grab the first thing you see.”
She lay still and limp. He gently squeezed her wrist, relieved to feel a strong pulse, yet wondering what he would do if she didn’t come to.
What had he been thinking to challenge her to a game of football? If she suffered some serious injury and word got out that he had pitted himself against her in a one-on-one match, a scandal would follow for sure and he would permanently lose his job. The men in the patch might think she was eccentric, but they were protective of her.
He combed his fingers through his hair, admitting to himself exactly why he had challenged her. Because he knew he could beat her. He, Russ, and a group of immigrant boys from across the tracks used to spend many an hour playing football. When his father had found out he’d participated in that “workingman’s game,” he’d taken a strap to Tony. But it hadn’t kept him from playing.
It wasn’t worth losing his job over now, though. Instead of trying to prove himself to this woman, he needed to start focusing on his goals.
He glanced at the door. What was taking Sharpley so long? A B. F. Goodrich Company advertisement tacked on her wall caught his eye. Cycling produces Health. Health produces Honesty
. Honesty impels Cyclists to ride licensed SINGLE TUBE TIRES!
Sharpley returned with two pairs of bloomers. “It’s all I could find.”
“You’re kidding me,” Tony said, but took them anyway. “Now go get a pitcher of water and some cloths.”
He wadded up one pair of bloomers and put them under her knees. The other pair he placed beneath her head.
Blond hair spilled over the navy fabric and across her face. Hooking a tendril with his finger, he pulled it free of her mouth. Then brushed another strand from her forehead.
Her sandy-colored eyebrows arched gracefully above her eyes. Long, long lashes lay still against her pale cheeks. Cheeks that usually held such color and life. Her perfect, rosebud lips were bleached white.
“Miss Spreckelmeyer?” He ran his thumb along her brow. “Wake up. You need to wake up.”
Sharpley zoomed around the corner with a bowl of water. “I can’t find any cloths.”
Tony grabbed Essie’s left wrist and slipped his finger inside her cuff, snagging the handkerchief hidden within its folds. Taking the bowl, he dipped the frilly piece of cotton inside, then brushed it against her forehead, cheeks, and lips.
“Can you hear me, Miss Spreckelmeyer?”
Her eyelids quivered.
“I think she’s coming around.” He dipped the hanky again and bathed her chin, the back of her neck, and up behind her ears.
She blinked her eyes open, then let them fall closed again.
“No,” he said, his voice clipped. “Do not go back to sleep. Open your eyes, Miss Spreckelmeyer. This instant!”
She opened her eyes, her brows crinkling.
He took a deep breath. “That’s better. Now keep them open.”
She obeyed, though the blue orbs were clouded with confusion and fatigue. Her body was still as flimsy as jelly.
“Go see if you can find a glass or at least a smaller bowl than this, Sharpley, and fill it with water so I can give her something to drink.”
Wrapping the hanky around two fingers, he dipped it again. “You about scared me to death.”
