Courting Trouble
Deeanne Gist
Courting Trouble
Books by Deeanne Gist
* * *
A Bride Most Begrudging
The Measure of a Lady
Courting Trouble
Deep in the Heart of Trouble
A Bride in the Bargain
Beguiled *
Maid to Match
*with J. Mark Bertrand
Courting
Trouble
DEEANNE
GIST
Courting Trouble
Copyright © 2007
Deeanne Gist
Cover illustration by Bill Graf
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the New King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gist, Deeanne.
Courting trouble / Deeanne Gist.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0394-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-7642-0394-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0225-4 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-7642-0225-1 (pbk.)
1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Corsicana (Tex.)—History—19th century—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3607.I55C68 2007
813'.6—dc22 2007007115
To my Groom,
whom I love with all my heart,
all my soul, all my mind,
mind all my strength.
DEEANNE GIST has a background in education and journalism. Her credits include People, Parents, Parenting, Family Fun, and the Houston Chronicle. She has a line of parenting products called I Did It! Productions and a degree from Texas A&M. She and her husband have four children—two in college, two in high school. They live in Houston, Texas, and Deeanne loves to hear from her readers at her website, www.deeannegist.com.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
chapter ONE
chapter TWO
chapter THREE
chapter FOUR
chapter FIVE
chapter SIX
chapter SEVEN
chapter EIGHT
chapter NINE
chapter TEN
chapter ELEVEN
chapter TWELVE
chapter THIRTEEN
chapter FOURTEEN
chapter FIFTEEN
chapter SIXTEEN
chapter SEVENTEEN
chapter EIGHTEEN
chapter NINETEEN
chapter TWENTY
chapter TWENTY-ONE
chapter TWENTY-TWO
chapter TWENTY-THREE
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
chapter TWENTY-FIVE
chapter TWENTY-SIX
chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
chapter TWENTY-NINE
chapter THIRTY
chapter THIRTY-ONE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The citizens of Corsicana, Texas, opened their arms to me and did all they could to assist me with my research. Many thanks to Bobbie Young, the precious gal who runs the Corsicana Historical Society. She gave up much of her time to me, answered my many, many questions and hooked me up with folks in the know—including Mayor Buster Brown. The Haynie brothers walked me up to Hickey Hill so I could see the oldest operating rig in the world—and one that was in use during the first oil boom in Texas.
Carmack Watkins was a particularly delightful old-timer who regaled me with stories and drove me out to the old brick yard where he had stored some ‘‘gumbo busters’’—oil rigs from the early 1900s that could bust through Corsicana’s black clay. He also had one of the original bois d’arc blocks that had once paved Corsicana’s streets. He told me that when it rained, the blocks would stain your heels yellow, so Corsicanans became known as ‘‘yellow heels.’’
And a very special thanks to Clay Jackson, who dropped everything to meet me after hours and patiently answered so many of my questions about the early oil industry in Corsicana and Navarro County. When I asked him what oil smelled like, he looked kind of surprised, then shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know that I could describe it, but once you smell it, you never forget it.’’
The next morning, he swung by my hotel with a jelly jar full of oil that he had tapped from one of his rigs—so I could smell it for myself. Can you imagine? Just walked out back and drew me up a sample. What a sweetheart!
Back in Houston, my dear sisters in Christ, Beth and Sabrina, hooked me up with three precious, godly women. Amy, Lisa and Angel: Thank you so very, very much. It is my fervent prayer that the Lord bless you abundantly.
My critique group for this book included two new members. A talented and insightful poet, Allison Smythe, and a highbrow intellectual with a fabulous sense of humor, J. Mark Bertrand. I have grown incredibly fond of both of them along with my returning critique partner, Meg Moseley. Y’all’s fingerprints are all over this work. Thank you so much for sharing your expertise and time and talents with me.
Last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank Steve Oates and his sales and marketing team at Bethany House. They come out with both guns smoking and never look back. I am truly blessed to have such an awesome force behind me. I adore you all and so appreciate everything you do for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
PROLOGUE
CORSICANA, TEXAS
JULY 1874
THE COWBOY, GOLDEN-SKINNED, blond and blue-eyed, plunked down a wad of bills on the auctioneer’s table. ‘‘I believe I’ll take that lunch basket.’’ He turned and picked Esther Spreckelmeyer out of the crowd with his intense gaze. ‘‘That is, if it’s okay with Miss—’’
‘‘Es-sie!’’ her mother called.
The ten-year-old girl glanced at her bedroom door, then back at her ‘‘cowboy.’’
‘‘I’d love to share my basket with you, sir,’’ she whispered, ‘‘but if you would excuse me for just one minute? I’ll be right back. Promise.’’
Flinging open the door, Essie left behind her make-believe Fourth of July celebration populated with figurines, baby dolls, and imaginary friends. ‘‘Coming, Mother!’’
She vaulted onto the banister, slid all the way down, flew off the end and executed a perfect landing—feet together, back arched, hands in the air. Just the way those pretty ladies in the circus had landed when they jumped off the trapeze.
‘‘Essie. How many times have I told you not to slide down the railing?’’
She whirled around. ‘‘Papa! I didn’t know you were home.’’
‘‘Obviously.’’ Her father shook his head. ‘‘When you are finished with your mother, you are to write a one-hundred-word essay on the reasons females should not slide down banisters. It is to be on my desk before supper.’’
‘‘Yes, Papa.’’
He tugged on her braid. ‘‘Go on now, squirt. I’ll see you at dinner.’’
She flung herself into his arms. ‘‘I’ll try to do better, I will. It’s just so much fun. A
nd I’m very good at it. I never fall off anymore. And if I’m going to be in the circus when I grow up, then I must practice.’’
He patted her on the back. ‘‘I thought you wanted to be a wife and mother when you grow up.’’
She offered her father a huge smile. ‘‘Oh, I do, Papa. I do. Didn’t I tell you? I am going to marry either a cowboy or the ringmaster of a circus. But whoever he is, he’s going to buy my box supper at the Fourth of July picnic.’’
Sullivan Spreckelmeyer blinked in confusion, but Essie had no time to explain. Mother didn’t like it when she tarried.
chapter ONE
TWENTY YEARS LATER
ESTHER SPRECKELMEYER HATED the Fourth of July. This day above all others reminded her that everyone in the world went two by two. Everyone but her. She would have stayed home if she could have gotten away with it, but her father, the judge for the 35th Judicial District, expected his family to attend all social events.
Standing in the quiet of her family’s kitchen, she determined that this year was going to be different. She had turned thirty last week and she needed a husband. Now.
She straightened the red-and-white gingham bow wrapped around her basket handle, then checked the contents one more time. Fried chicken, sweet potatoes, hominy, dill carrots, black-eyed pea wheels, deviled eggs, cow tongue, and blackberry tarts.
Cooking was of utmost importance to a man in search of a wife. Whoever bought her box supper today at the auction would need to know that with Essie, he’d be well taken care of.
Her father entered the kitchen, pulling on his light summer jacket. ‘‘What do you have in your basket this year, dear?’’
She took a deep breath. ‘‘I don’t want you bidding on it, Papa. Nor the sheriff, either.’’
Papa came up short. ‘‘Why not? What’s wrong with your father or uncle winning it?’’
‘‘If the two of you bid, no one else will even try.’’
His gray eyebrows furrowed. ‘‘But no one has tried for years, other than that youngster, Ewing.’’
Essie cringed. Ewing Wortham was seven years her junior and used to dog her every step. At the ripe old age of ten, he offered two measly pennies for her basket. No one, evidently, had the heart to bid against him, and every year after he proudly bid his two cents. She could have cheerfully strangled him.
She’d received her height early and her curves late. Between that, her penchant for the outdoors, and her propensity for attracting the admiration of incorrigible little boys, her basket had been passed over more times than naught. Especially since Ewing had gone away to school.
Swallowing, she lifted her chin. ‘‘Nevertheless, Papa, I don’t want either of you bidding on it.’’
‘‘I don’t understand.’’
‘‘If neither of you bid, someone will step up to the task.’’
‘‘Don’t be ridiculous,’’ her mother said, entering the kitchen and tucking a loose curl up under her hat. ‘‘No one’s going to bid on your basket, Essie. Now let’s go. We’re going to be late.’’
Papa opened the door. Mama stepped through, the taffeta beneath her silk moire skirt rustling. Essie gripped the edge of the table and stayed where she was.
‘‘Are you coming?’’ Papa asked.
‘‘Only if you promise not to bid.’’
He stood quiet for a long minute. It wasn’t hard to understand why the people of Corsicana elected him term after term. Everything in his bearing exuded confidence and invited trust. His robust physique, his commanding stature, his sharp eyes, his ready smile.
‘‘Come along, Sullivan,’’ her mother called. ‘‘Whatever are you doing?’’
He stayed where he was. ‘‘I’ll have to leave during the auction, then, Essie. I would not be able to stand it if Ralph held up your supper and no one bid.’’
‘‘That’s not going to happen.’’
He tugged on his ear. ‘‘All right, then. Your uncle and I will slip away before your box comes up for auction—if you’re sure.’’
‘‘I’m sure.’’
But she wasn’t. And between their arrival at the park and the start of the auction, Essie’s self-assurance flagged. What if someone older than Papa bid? What if someone much younger than her bid? What if no one bid?
She glanced up at the blue heavens stretching across their small east Texas town and sent a quick prayer that direction. After all, she only wanted a husband, a house, and some offspring. Was that so much to ask? The Lord commanded His children to be fruitful, to multiply, and to populate the earth, and Essie intended to do her part.
Mr. Roland stepped onto the red-white-and-blue-festooned podium, stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The piercing sound cut across the hum of the crowd, quieting the townsfolk as they gathered round. Essie placed a hand against her stomach to calm the turmoil within.
Boxes and baskets of every size, shape, and color covered the tables beside the podium. And though no supper had the owner’s name tacked to it, everyone knew whose basket was whose, for the ribbons or doodads on a girl’s box revealed her identity as surely as a stamped beehive identified Dunn Bennett china.
She adjusted her bon ton hat with its silk netting, handsome plume, and two bunches of roses all trimmed in red-and-white gingham. She had ordered it from the Montgomery Ward catalog specifically for this event, knowing it would set off her pale blond hair, which she had twisted tightly against her head.
Skimming the crowd, she swallowed. Papa and Uncle Melvin were nowhere in sight. Lillie Sue’s box came up first and the bidding began in earnest, the young bucks all vying for the privilege of sharing a meal with the doctor’s daughter.
Essie studied the unmarried men and widowers close to her age. There were not too many of them. Mr. Fouty, a cotton farmer from south of town. Mr. Wedick, a widower who’d outlived three wives so far. Mr. Crook, owner of the new mercantile. Mr. Klocker, Mr. Snider, and Mr. Peeples.
She cataloged every man in attendance, discounting the ones who were too old, too young, or too unsuitable in temperament or occupation. A silence descended and Essie turned to the podium.
Mr. Roland held her basket high. ‘‘Come on now, fellers, bid her up. If this basket belongs to who I think it does, you’ll find something guaranteed to delight yer fancy.’’
No one offered a bid. Essie’s stomach tightened. Her head became weightless. Blinking, she tried to see through the sunspots marring her vision.
‘‘Now, boys. A basket like this is worth more than a pat straight flush. So, who’ll start us off?’’
Still no one bid.
Pretty little Shirley Bunting leaned over and whispered to her friend, ‘‘I cannot imagine why some old biddy would keep bringing her basket year after year when she knows nobody wants it. How embarrassing for her father.’’
Her friend nudged her and indicated Essie with her head.
Shirley turned, eyes wide. ‘‘Oh! Hello, Miss Spreckelmeyer. A lovely afternoon we’re having, isn’t it?’’
Essie inclined her head. The girls hooked elbows and, giggling, disappeared farther into the crowd.
Someone yelled, ‘‘Where’s Spreckelmeyer? Why ain’t he speaking up? We’re ready to bid on Betty Lou’s.’’
Essie focused on the auctioneer, refusing to look anywhere else.
Mr. Roland scanned the crowd and stopped when he came to her. ‘‘Where’s yer daddy, Miss Spreckelmeyer?’’
She took a trembling breath. ‘‘He stepped away for a moment.’’
‘‘Well, then, why didn’t ya say so? I’ll just put this here basket to the side, and when he gets back, you have him come on up and get it. I know he’s good fer it.’’
She attempted a smile but wasn’t sure it ever formed. The bidding on Betty Lou’s basket commenced, followed by Beatrice’s, Flossie’s, Liza’s, and the rest. By the time the auction finished and everyone dispersed, Essie’s basket stood alone on the podium.
Slowly moving forward, she picked it up and
walked home, never once looking back.
————
Fredrick Fouty
Points of Merit:
• Still has hair
• Has two young children, so our own offspring would not be too far apart in age
• Hardworking
• Loved his wife, God rest her soul
Drawbacks:
• Tight with his money
• Smokes
• Drinks spirits
• Only attends church on Sundays, but not Wednesdays
• Lets the children run wild
• Doesn’t like pets
• Doesn’t enjoy the outdoors
Essie closed her eyes and tapped the top of her bronze Ladies’ Falcon pen against her lips, trying to envision the men who had attended the picnic. Opening her eyes, she wrote Mr. Klocker’s name down and proceeded to cover the ruled octavo notepaper with a list of his attributes and shortcomings.
Within the hour she had a comprehensive list of the eligible—and attainable—bachelors in Corsicana. She blew on the wet ink and stamped the pages with her blotter. There was something a little frightening about seeing the words in black and white.
Was this what men did when they considered whom they wanted to court? If so, what would a man list under the positive and negative columns concerning her? Whatever it was, she’d obviously come up short.
Placing her pen in its holder, she leaned back in her chair and studied the papers spread out on her desk. Father, guide me, she prayed. Show me which one.
But no answer was forthcoming.
Closing her eyes, she whirled her finger above the papers as if stirring some giant cauldron, then spontaneously landed her finger on the table. She opened her eyes.
Mr. Peeples. Leaving her finger in place, she leaned to the right so she could read what item she’d pointed to.
