Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  “It’s true. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “Well, I don’t want you saying it anymore. You hear?”

  She shrugged and started toward the train platform.

  He grabbed her elbow. “Whoa, there. We’re together. Remember? That means so long as you’re with me, you don’t go anywhere unless it’s on my arm.”

  “Even during the day?”

  “Especially during the day.” He extended his bent arm.

  “Why especially?” she asked, slipping her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “Because there are only three reasons a man would give his arm to a lady during the day. If she was a close relative, if her safety required it, or if she was the gal he was sparkin’. ”

  She swallowed. “I see. Well, you needn’t worry. I’m perfectly aware of how to conduct myself on the street.”

  He let her rebuke pass. She might know the proper etiquette, but she’d been going her own way for a long time. He wondered just how willingly she’d give up that independence.

  A train whistle pierced the air while the rumbling of the oncoming locomotive shook the ground. Metal screamed as the conductor put on the brake, the smell of burnt wood and clashing steel reaching the depot even before the railcars did.

  A blue-green iron boiler with gleaming brass handrails, silver road assemblies, and ornamental stag’s horns barreled toward them, pitch black smoke pouring from its cabbage stack.

  Tony would need to get M.C. alone before introducing him to Essie. He wanted to make sure the rotary man didn’t accidentally give him away.

  He ran his gaze down the rainbow-colored cars. The russet baggage car rolled by first, pulling a red car behind it, where the nicer compartments were housed. A yellow car held the express passengers, and the Jim Crow section brought up the rear in a bright green car.

  The train stopped with a smoky sigh. Corsicana’s depot provided a wooden platform for passengers so they wouldn’t have to step out onto the dirt beside the tracks like so many other train stops Tony had seen. Men, women, and children milled about, searching the railcar windows for friends and loved ones.

  Tony spotted M.C. jumping off the express car. He wore a baggy ready-made suit one size too big, the sleeves falling clear to his knuckles. His short blond hair stuck out in sporadic tufts across his balding head.

  “You stay put,” he said to Essie. “I’ll be right back.”

  Weaving through the crowd, he hollered out to M.C., capturing the man’s attention.

  “Tony! Good to see you. Where in the world did your moustache run off to?”

  Shaking hands, Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “I shaved her clean off. What’d you think?”

  “Doesn’t look right. Doesn’t look right a’tall. And say, I’m sorry about your pa.”

  “Thank you.” Tony never quite knew which of M.C.’s eyes to look at because one went to the east and the other went to the west and he never could tell exactly which one was looking at him. “Speaking of my father, I need to ask a favor. After he disinherited me, I dropped the name Morgan and started going by my mother’s name, Bryant.”

  M.C. scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I’d heard what your pa did and couldn’t quite credit it. Strange doings, that’s for sure.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m sure you can imagine that in Sullivan Oil country, having the last name of Morgan wouldn’t earn a body any trust. So no one knows who I am and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “You’re fooling me.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “How could they not know? You look just like him.”

  “I don’t think Corsicana was a place he frequented, if at all.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” M.C. shook his head. “I don’t much like the idea of hoodwinking people, Tony. Even ones I don’t know. I’m a Godfearing man and it just don’t sit well.”

  “He disinherited me, M.C. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not my father anymore, so you wouldn’t be hoodwinking anybody.”

  “Your pa is Blake Morgan, son. Ain’t no piece o’ paper or different last name that can change that.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to claim him.”

  “You’re gonna be found out. Cain’t keep a secret like that. It’s too big.”

  “I agree. I’d just like for folks to find out later rather than sooner. So will you hold your tongue?”

  Sighing, M.C.’s shoulders slumped. “Well, all right, then. I won’t go volunteerin’ the information, but if somebody asks me straight out, I ain’t gonna lie about it, neither.”

  “Fair enough, and I appreciate it, M.C. I surely do. Now, where’s your trunk?” Tony looked around and caught sight of Deputy Howard talking to Essie.

  “I imagine it’s over by the baggage car.”

  “What? Oh. Right. Well, you head on over there. I’m going to fetch Spreckelmeyer’s daughter.”

  M.C. swiveled his head around. “The daughter? The one that was in the papers?”

  “Watch yourself, buddy. I’ve taken a shine to her and I won’t take kindly to any disparaging remarks.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up, his right eye zeroing in on Tony.

  “Does she know who you are?” “Not yet.”

  M.C. let out a slow whistle. “I don’t envy you the telling of that tale.”

  “All the more reason for you to keep your knowledge to yourself.

  Now, go on. I’ll meet up with you in a minute.”

  Tony, tall enough to see over most everyone else’s head, kept Essie and the deputy in clear view. The man stood much closer to her than propriety allowed, and every time she took a step back, Howard took a step forward.

  Tony was still too far away to hear their conversation, but there was no mistaking Essie’s displeasure. Pressing through a clump of people reuniting with their loved ones, Tony finally reached them.

  “Does your uncle know about this?” Howard was saying.

  Essie caught sight of Tony and looked at him as if she were drowning and he was the only life preserver around. Howard glanced back over his shoulder and scowled.

  “Pardon my interruption, Essie, but our guest has arrived.” Tony slipped his arm around her, then touched his hat. “Deputy, would you excuse us?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he applied pressure to Essie’s waist and moved her toward the baggage car. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing. He saw us riding through town and wanted to see why we appeared so ‘cozy.’ His word.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That you’d received permission to court me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was not pleased.”

  Tony frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because a few months back I refused his suit. But I made it clear to him that I’d accepted yours. Really. So there’s no need to hold me so close.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said, keeping his hand right where it was. If the deputy was watching, Tony wanted to make sure he knew which way the wind blew.

  Essie took a liking to M.C. Baker right away. He was around the same age as Uncle Melvin—younger than Papa but older than herself—and he didn’t seem to mind that she was the one representing Sullivan Oil instead of her father.

  They’d dropped his trunk off at the front desk of the Commercial Hotel and were now sharing a meal in its large dining room. Used to be, Essie would have known every person in the place, but with the way the town had grown over the last couple of years, most of the patrons were unfamiliar to her.

  M.C. picked up his final roasted rib and peeled some beef off with his teeth. “How much you producing?”

  “In ’96 we produced only about fourteen hundred barrels,” Essie said, dabbing the sides of her mouth with her napkin. “But by the end of last year, we’d produced almost sixty-six thousand—all within the city limits.”

  “They’ve since moved out of town
,” Tony said, “and have expanded their producing wells to three hundred forty-two.”

  “All cable-tool?”

  “Yep.” Tony sliced off a portion of chicken-fried steak. “And all flush production—no pumps whatsoever.”

  M.C. lifted his brows. “How far down’s the oil?”

  “Anywhere from nine hundred to twelve hundred feet,” Essie said. “Between us and that oil, though, is black, gummy clay and soft rock. So it takes us a good bit of time to break it up.”

  M.C. swiped his plate with his bread. “My rotary will bust through that in no time. And we can speed everything up even more by pouring water outside the drill pipe.”

  “What good would that do?” Essie asked.

  “The water will come back to us through the pipe. But it’ll be carrying rock and mud with it.”

  She took a sip of tea, realizing the wisdom of what he was saying. “How long do you think it would take you to drill me a well?”

  M.C. dragged his napkin across his mouth and leaned back in his chair. “I can drill a thousand feet in thirty-six hours for six hundred dollars.”

  She and Tony exchanged a glance. A frazzled woman Essie had never seen before took away their plates and replaced them with bowls of suet pudding, then hurried off to her next customer.

  “When can you give me a demonstration?” Essie asked.

  “I’ll need a third down and Tony’s help. That going to be a problem?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then. You show me where and I’ll start assembling everything as soon as I can get a crew here.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  With their business concluded, the talk turned more personal. M.C. caught Tony up with news of Beaumont. The two men had obviously become well acquainted while Tony was with Morgan Oil.

  “Just heard yesterday that Miss Morgan’s been betrothed to Norris Tubbs.”

  Jerking his head up, Tony stopped his spoon halfway to his mouth.

  “You might remember her,” M.C. said. “She’s the old boss’s daughter? Name’s Anna, I believe. You know her?”

  Tony narrowed his eyes. “I believe I’ve run across her a time or two.”

  M.C. nodded. “Nuptials are set to take place within the month.”

  Tony paled, and Essie wondered at his reaction.

  “But she can’t get married this month,” Tony said. “Her father hasn’t even been in the grave for six weeks.”

  “You know Darius—” M.C. leaned in as if imparting a secret. “He’s the new boss-man now.”

  Lips thinning, Tony gave a succinct nod.

  “Anyhow, he’s not one to give much nevermind to any social conventions.”

  The tick in Tony’s jaw began to beat. “This is a bit more serious than a society rule. He’s marrying Anna off with undue haste and to a man three times her age.”

  “Appears so.”

  Tony set his spoon down on the table. His easy use of the girl’s first name surprised Essie. Had they been sweethearts? Had she broken his heart? Was that why he had left Beaumont without so much as a reference?

  “That’s not what has the tongues wagging, though.” M.C. shook his head and scraped his spoon along the sides of his pudding bowl. “Nope. The really big news is that Finch Morgan’s new wife died.”

  Tony fell back against his chair.

  Essie looked between the two men. Who was Finch Morgan?

  M.C. lifted his gaze. “Don’t ya wanna know what the cause of death was this time?” He pulled his napkin free from where he’d tucked it into his collar. “Gastric fever.”

  Tony’s lips parted.

  M.C. turned to Essie. “This will be the second one in just over a year.”

  She frowned. “Second wife to die?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sympathy filled her. “Childbirth?”

  “No, ma’am. They died of gastric fever.”

  She blinked. “Both of them?”

  “ ’Fraid so.” He pointed his spoon at Tony. “I believe our boy here knew the family, didn’t you, son?”

  Tony rubbed the strip of skin just beneath his nose. “When did she die?”

  “Last week.”

  Folding her napkin, Essie wondered again at Tony’s familiarity with these Morgans. First Anna, then Finch, and now his deceased wife?

  “Who exactly is Finch Morgan?” she asked.

  “I’m not right sure of his exact connection to the family,” M.C. said. “Tony’ll know, though.”

  Tony combed his fingers through his hair. “He’s first cousin to Darius Morgan.”

  “Maternal or paternal side?” M.C. asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Paternal,” Tony ground out.

  “I see,” Essie said. But truth was, she didn’t see. She didn’t at all understand how Tony had such intimate knowledge of the Morgan family. Intimate enough to call them by their first names and intimate enough to know who was related to whom.

  Then a more disturbing thought occurred to her. If Anna was Darius Morgan’s sister, then she was in line to inherit Morgan Oil. And Essie was in line to inherit Sullivan Oil.

  Her heart sped up. Was Tony a modern-day fortune hunter? Was he looking to woo the beneficiaries of oil tycoons until he found one gullible enough to fall for him?

  Papa might not have old money the way the Morgans did—and therefore was not a tycoon—but in Texas, Sullivan Oil was by far the biggest producer.

  She studied Tony’s drawn face. One thing was certain. Anna Morgan was much more to Tony than the daughter of his old boss.

  chapter EIGHTEEN

  TONY HAMMERED Mrs. Lockhart’s kitchen door with his fist. In the twilight, he could see the backyard was not kept nearly as nice as the front. Weeds filled the gardens, vines rode up the derrick’s legs, a loose board shifted beneath his feet, and paint peeled off the porch railings.

  The door swung open. “What are you doing here?” Mrs. Lockhart asked, ushering him inside. “Aren’t you supposed to be training for the bicycle race?”

  “I decided to stop here first. Is it a bad time?”

  “No, no. Come in. Have you had your supper?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I ate down at Castle’s.”

  She tsked. “Sit down. I’ll slice you up some fruitcake.” She served them both a piece, poured two cups of coffee and joined him at the table. “Now, what’s wrong?”

  “Have you heard from your daughter?”

  “Goodness, Tony, there hasn’t been enough time for a response. Why?”

  “I found out that Darius has arranged a marriage between my sister and Norris Tubbs.”

  “What! Who’s Norris Tubbs?”

  “Part owner of the H&TC Railroad. Both my father and Darius have been trying to get him in their back pocket for some time now. The man is old enough to be Anna’s grandfather.”

  “Is there any chance whatsoever that your sister is amiable to the match?”

  Tony scoffed. “She cannot stand the man.”

  Mrs. Lockhart drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, don’t panic. Your father’s not been in his grave even two months. Anna’s betrothal is nothing short of scandalous, but she won’t be able to marry for at least another ten months or more.”

  “They are to marry before the month is out.”

  “Impossible! How do you know?”

  “I heard it today from a driller by the name of M.C. Baker.”

  She touched her throat. “Good heavens.”

  “I’ve got to do something.” He jumped up from the table. “But short of kidnapping her, I can’t think of a thing.”

  “Dear me.” She watched him pace, a worried frown on her face. “In Her Martyrdom, Lady Charlewood sequestered herself in a convent. Perhaps—”

  Tony whirled around. “This is not some senseless romance novel!

  This is my baby sister we are discussing, and I’ll thank you to treat the topic with the seriousness it deserves.”

  The eld
erly woman straightened her spine. “How dare you take that tone with me, sir.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Mrs. Lockhart, please. I meant no offense. I’m merely trying to point out that—”

  “If you want my assistance, you’d best watch both your tone and your tongue.”

  He said nothing.

  “Sit down.”

  He returned to his chair.

  “I see you brought my novels back,” she said, eyeing the two books he’d set on the table upon his arrival.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you read Marjorie’s Fate?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “And what did you conclude?”

  “That Dr. Letsom was a scoundrel.”

  “I see.” She folded her hands on the table. “And what brought you to that conclusion?”

  “He loved no one more than himself. He acted out of turn without thinking through the consequences. He ruined the woman he professed to love.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “And what of Miss Marjorie?”

  “She was taken advantage of. How could a young, naïve thing like her have been expected to know what he was up to?”

  “She knew the difference between right and wrong. She knew she was breaking the rules of society. She knew she was lying to her parents.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “What are you saying? It was her fault?”

  “I’m saying they both made poor choices.”

  “All right. I’ll agree with that.”

  “Good.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Now, about your sister. I will wire my daughter and tell her I am coming to Beaumont on tomorrow’s train. Meanwhile, can you get word to Anna to meet me at the First Baptist Church on Pearl Street two days from now at ten in the morning?”

  He put his chair down. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll see for myself how Anna feels about this match. If she is as reticent as you say she is, I will tell her to sit tight for now, but to be ready for action the moment you or I send word. In the meanwhile, I am going to do some research.”

  “Research?” he asked. “What are you going to research? Your romance novels?”

  “The very same.”

  Rubbing his eyes, he checked his irritation. “Have you ever met Anna before?”