A Game of Hearts / Celebration with Gratitude

      Devious Deceptions to Destroy Love and Life

Welcome to A Game of Hearts, where red-blooded commoners find the doors of the blue-blooded haut ton difficult to open.

Two Hearts, Shadowed by their Pasts

Self-made financier Rafe Lockhart needs a titled wife. His beloved daughter Connie dreams of a society debut. A quick marriage to Lady Margaret Symonds, widow of an earl, seems the answer to his problem. Her beauty and wit sweeten his plan.

After twelve years in an emotionally abusive marriage, Maggie Symonds  hesitates to enter another marriage, especially to a man whose wealth is the sole reason that society accepts him. Yet financial difficulties and her own budding attraction to Rafe drive her to accept his proposal.

Neither expects passion to fire up their marriage. Yet even as they discover each other, two blows deal wounds to their blossoming love.

Two Hearts, Crossed by Circumstance

Falling in love with his employer’s daughter Connie is not Roger Denby’s biggest mistake. No, the first mistake was giving her a taste of passion. When he hesitates, she pursues a blue-blooded gentleman who will eventually inherit a title. Can he trust that Richard Malbury will give her everything she wants?

Connie Lockhart knew the walls between her and Roger Denby. She was as far out of his reach as marriage into nobility was out of hers. When Roger rejects her, she turns her attentions to Richard Malbury, all to make Roger jealous. And revenge on the snobbish society darlings seems especially sweet. Besides, marriage to a titled nobleman is preferable to a fruitless love of Roger.

Deal in the Unexpected

Mix in a courtesan and two rakes, all out for mischief … and murder, bloody and foul.

When Rafe is suspected of murdering a valuable employee, this Game of Hearts turns more dangerous than Rafe & Maggie and Roger & Connie ever anticipated.

Read on for the 1st Chapter ~

1811 ~ Friday, 13 September

Eadings, a Country Manor

As Maggie alighted from the carriage, her cousin-by-marriage emerged from the manor. “At last. You have arrived most fortuitously, Lady Symonds.” Her round-toned voice carried easily across the crunch of gravel. “My numbers for dinner this evening will not be off. We had almost given you up.”

Maggie hid her wince at the oblique rebuke for a circumstance she could not control. Nor did she remind Althea that she had agreed to attend the Bertrams’ late summer party only if Cousin Carlisle restored the money she had loaned him. She merely offered up the smile that had charmed the ton during her London debut sixteen years ago. “The host at the Crossed Keys Inn said the mail coach was not above two hours late.”

“Two hours late means that you missed an introduction at tea to the ladies who have come to my country party.” Althea, an Osgood to her bones, sniffed her disapproval. “I do not know why you must travel in that shabby way. A public coach, packed with the rabble.”

The grand entrance to Eadings was not the place to remind Althea that Maggie needed her cousin Carlisle to repay his debt so that she might afford to travel in better style. If she had arrived in a hired carriage, then Carlisle, Lord Bertram, would have the excuse to say that her need for the money was not desperate. Although her fingers clenched on her bandbox, Maggie brightened her smile. “I fear I would still be standing in the innyard had your coachman not transferred my trunk himself.” She glanced at the Bertram coach, but it had begun rolling to the carriage houses behind the stately manor. “I did intend to thank the man.”

“Nonsense.” Althea took her arm and propelled her inside.

The marbled entrance hall offered a cool respite from the late September sun. Portraits of her cousin Carlisle and his wife Althea faced each other from above the doors to either wing off the central hall. Cluttering the walls were smaller portraits of their children, intermingled with landscapes. More portraits of the Bertram lineage ascended the curving staircase that Althea ushered Maggie toward. She could see none of the redecorations that her cousin-by-marriage had been planning last Christmas. That news had prompted Maggie to closet herself with Carlisle. He had sworn to repay her loan before Easter. Easter had bloomed, summer had arrived, and autumn loomed, and still no money. But also no redecoration.

Maggie glanced around as she followed Althea, but she could see no changes. If Carlisle had given in to his wife, she had repeated the colors now stretching back to his grandmother’s day. No one since that worthy dame had dared risk her ghostly return by choosing other colors.

Her hostess paused halfway up the stairs. “Margaret,” Althea deigned to use the familiar when servants were not nearby, “did you bring evening attire? Nothing too passé, I hope?”

Her brown velvet and an equally outdated red wool had earned stares at Christmas. “Perhaps not new this season, Lady Bertram, but presentable.” Maggie knew better than to return the familiarity. She had dared so once, at her wedding breakfast sixteen years ago. Newly made Lady Symonds of Mallow Hill, she had considered her elevation to countess entitled her to address her cousin-by-marriage as an equal. Lady Bertram may have stooped to marry a mere baronet, but her Osgood lineage stretched back twice as far as the Bertrams. Althea’s chilling snub was not her only disappointment before June of 1795 ended.

“I knew you had not lost your eye for fashion, even buried in that small hamlet. If your gowns are too much crushed, you must borrow one of mine.” She ran an assessing eye over Maggie’s slimmer form. “Or one of my Ianthe’s. You are much of a size.”

No offer of more fashionable attire had occurred last Christmas. Althea obviously now hosted very important guests. A horrid suspicion awoke in Maggie. “Lady Bertram, how many other guests do you have? You mentioned only the Malburys and the Westovers.”

“Twenty-six. It is a country party.” She turned and continued her ascent. “You may expect my particular friends, Mrs. Goodridge and Mrs. Bainsborough and their husbands.”

Her heart sank as she climbed. Her Christmas visit had become increasingly uncomfortable. She had started a delightful flirtation with one Lord Chevington, only to break it off when he overstepped on a walk to the village. She had escaped his clutch only by slapping him. He responded with an oily comment: “I didn’t expect the kissable Maggie Bertram to become the prudish widow Symonds.” Maggie thereafter had involved herself with the children until the twelfth night when she could leave. Now she hoped Althea did not plan another matchmaking attempt. “Twenty-six guests? Lady Bertram, I only wished to speak with Cousin Carlisle. I could have delayed my visit—.”

At the top of the stair, Althea drew herself up and looked down her long Osgood nose. A half-dozen years older and management of the great house buttressed Althea with additional authority. “Bah! You must return to society, Margaret. Why, your mourning ended three years ago. You need not fear that you will meet complete strangers. You know several of our guests. You are to enjoy your time here and not worry yourself with Angelshold.”

“You chose to delay my visit to have an even table?”

“Your letter arrived with Lady Westover’s. She wrote of her intentions to bring a cousin, Sir Marcus Tremaine. One usually needs an extra man. How could I refuse her gracious offer, even if it did upset my table? Then Bertram informed me of your request. Just the extra lady I needed to round out my table.”

Even for Althea, a stickler for the forms of etiquette, this stretched too far to be credible. Maggie suspected more matchmaking and inwardly sighed. She did not know a Marcus Tremaine. Complete strangers were sometimes easier than people who had known her as Lady Margaret Symonds, wife of the late earl of Mallow Hill, or the wild debutante Maggie Bertram. For years she had suffered the ramifications of her only London season. At Angelshold she had hidden from both reputations. Christmas had proved she could not escape gossip from sixteen years ago. Lord Chevington had begun as a complete stranger and became too familiar too quickly. Someone at Eadings had shared her reckless past with him.

“You do not need tea, do you? Did the host of the Crossed Keys give you a room to freshen in? I did order that for you.”

Maggie felt more overwhelmed than in need of a bolstering cup of tea. Althea would not share her reasons for adding a titled widow with a stained reputation. “He did. It was most kind of you to order it.”

“Good. He must know we butter his bread. Eadings is the chief house in the district.”

“Who are your other guests?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“I mentioned the Westovers and the Malburys, the Goodridges and the Bainsboroughs. Lady Susannah Carrington—you must remember her from Christmas.”

“And Lord Chevington?”

“He declined, but the Russell Collinses also brought an extra man. Some sort of businessman. Bertram assures me he is wealthy. Not that it matters. He is a cit.” Althea walked briskly to the south wing. “I have you over here, my dear. We have quite filled the house. Let’s see, the John Davenports arrived two days ago.”

“I am well acquainted with them. Mrs. Davenport and I met in London before my marriage. Is Amelia’s brother here?”

“Yes. Owen Pettigrew, Lord Symonds.” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, bah! I did not think. That shall be awkward.”

“You mean when we are addressed as Lord Symonds and Lady Symonds? Not at all. I think the age disparity will make evident our lack of connection. My man of business tells me Symonds is currently at Cambridge. I suppose you have several young people here?”

“Of course. It is primarily for Ianthe that I arranged this country party.”

Maggie bit her tongue on a malicious question about Ianthe’s third season. She had not come to antagonize her cousin’s family; she needed her loan repaid. Were Carlisle to fork over the principle alone, she would forego the promised interest.

Halfway along the hall, Althea opened a door. One of the smaller guest rooms, it was still larger than the guest chambers at Angelshold. Faded curtains had seen far into the past century. A narrow bed dominated the space, but Maggie spied a table and a chair beside the sole window. Blue sky and green trees drew her to the window. Her room overlooked the maze and the carriage house beyond it.

“I notice you did not bring your maid.”

“No. I did not intend this as a pleasure trip.” She did not add that a personal maid was a needless expense.

“Ah, you have gained a tongue, cloistered on your farm with sheep and chickens. I am glad to see that, Margaret, although your late husband would not have approved.”

Althea had had little contact with Maggie’s late husband, but the older woman had managed to acquire had a good reading of Lord Ivor Symonds. “He approved of very little.”

The door opened to admit a footman with her trunk and a maid clattering behind him.

Over the noise of their arrival, Althea said, “I should tell you the other guests. Malbury’s son Richard and his friend Alex Westover. One of the Armitage sons, I cannot remember his Christian name. Georgette Carrington, well past her seasons. And the Wilton sisters.”

Her heart jolted. “The sisters are here without their parents?”

“Did I neglect to mention Derry and Silly? They are here. First to arrive.”

“Did the dowager Scotton come with them?”

“Oh, yes. I believe she is permanently attached to her daughter.”

Althea rattled on about her guests’ arrivals, but Maggie was heartily wishing she had remained home. The Wiltons had been Ivor’s chiefest friends. They had not liked her before the marriage, and they relished feeding Ivor’s bitterness after the disastrous honeymoon. Lady Scotton had sniped at her even before the wedding. Once her husband allowed his friends to know his bride had disappointed him, they had joined in his undermining ridicule.

Maggie had spent the past four years of widowhood overcoming the wilted wife that twelve years of marriage to Ivor Symonds that trodden her into. The Wiltons and Lady Scotton would not return her to that faded ghost.

Althea had continued with her most recent arrivals. “Mr. and Mrs. Collins. He is the younger son of the Earl of Thorston. They are accompanied by Mr. Lockhart.” She glanced at the maid unpacking Maggie’s trunk. In a conspirator’s voice she added, “My husband expects to have a particular business with him. I will tell you of it, but I must prepare for dinner. As you have no maid, I will send Rush to attend you as soon as she has dressed my hair. I daresay you can be a little forward with your attire before Rush arrives.”

“That will not be necessary, Lady Bertram.”

The mistress of Eadings looked appalled that a maidservant would not be needed for dressing. “You must have someone.”

“Bess can serve me.” Surprised at hearing her name, the maid stopped her work. Maggie smiled at her. “It is Bess, isn’t it? You helped me at Christmas.”

The girl curtsied. “Yes, m’lady.”

“If you must then,” Althea sniffed and left.

The little maid had stars in her eyes. “Oh, Lady Symonds, ya ‘membered me.”

“How could I not, when you took such good care of me?” She remembered another snippet. “Have you been elevated from the scullery?”

“Yes, m’lady, I be maid of all work, now.”

“Well, you shall be my dresser while I am here. If that doesn’t add too much to your already busy day.”

“Yes, m’lady. I mean no, m’lady. Lady Bertram, she did hire women from ta village fer daily work. Mrs. Casper thought ya might be needin’ a maid. I’ll have me other chores, but I can help ya first. Mrs. Casper says.”

The housekeeper Mrs. Casper was one of the holdovers from the old dowager’s day and as such loyal to anyone of Bertram blood, which included Maggie. She cast off her rosy traveling pelisse. “Lady Bertram said I am the last guest to arrive.”

“Oh, yes, m’lady. Which dress will ya be wantin’ for this evenin’?”

Althea would never forgive Maggie if she appeared on her first night in the black silk. She had planned to wear the pale periwinkle with its higher collar. She had not intended to arouse any complaints from her hostess. Yet the presence of the Wiltons and Lady Scotton demanded a gown that ruled the room. “The blue silk, Bess.”

The maid lifted it from the trunk. “Oh, m’lady, ‘tis a blue bluer than the sky be.”

“You like it? My first and only extravagance when I cast off my widow’s weeds. I’ve worn it only once. You don’t think it’s out of fashion?”

“Oh, no. Ya should call on Rush, m’lady. She has a right hand with Lady Bertram’s hair. She can put those Lunnon maids, the ones what came with t’other ladies, to shame.”

“We will manage, Bess. Do they still dine at eight o’clock? Did you find my Bible?”

“I put it by your bed, the way you had it at Christmastime.”

“Thank you, Bess.” She glanced around the room. “I think that is all for now. Come back to me at seven, please.”

The little maid curtsied and disappeared.

Maggie returned to the window. She had to speak with Carlisle, but her late arrival precluded any conversation this evening. Before Monday morning she must get her money back. Her cousin had used various excuses: an investment that tied up her funds, his son’s gambling debts, and then Ianthe’s third season. He would not put her off again.

She had to have the money. Last winter her steward’s request for a new bull to stud the cows had seemed a want rather than a need. Then the dairy barn burned in early March. When the manor’s roof began to leak in June, the return of the loan became a necessity. Carlisle had ignored several letters. Desperate, she asked to visit, and Althea had suggested this weekend. Three nights and a houseful of guests. She must find an opportunity to wrest her money back from him.

A roof, a barn, a bull. She would have to keep saying it to him.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Rafe Lockhart turned when someone tapped on his door. He bade the person enter and was not surprised when Russell Collins came in.

Collins gave his easy smile. “My wife has banished me from our room. She informs me that I am more hindrance than help with her gowning. I came to see your view. We overlook the weedy south garden.”

“I have the maze.”

“Ah, the famous Eadings maze.” He looked down over the boxwoods where gardeners busied themselves in the paths. “Still maintained, I see. Didn’t think Bertram would let that grow over. It’s one of the talking points of the house. They say Queen Elizabeth herself drew the plan for the maze.” He touched the curtains, frayed along the edge. “These need replacing.”

“More evidence of his need of money.”

“More and more evidence, beyond what he has told me. I am merely his man of business. Why should I be concerned with the finances of the estate?” Collins spoke facetiously. On several occasions he had discussed Lord Bertram’s financial troubles with Rafe. His solution had brought Rafe to Eadings for this country party.

The younger son of the Earl of Thurston, Russell Collins must make his own way in the world. Unsuccessful as a solicitor, he was drowning in bad investments until Rafe encountered him in a business deal. Rafe liked his honesty, his willingness to deal with a London cit who had re-created himself through hard-earned wealth. Collins often gave him valuable advice about the unspoken rules of the genteel class as the businessman moved into more exalted spheres.

He liked Collins, but he wasn’t sure the man’s advice this time would solve his problem.

Collins left the window with its shabby curtains and dropped into an upholstered chair.

“What does the most excellent Lord Bertram know of my visit here?” Rafe asked.

 “Nothing. I don’t shoot my shot before I load it.”

“You would be one of the few gentlemen who does not.”

Collins grinned at the praise.

Rafe turned to look down upon the maze that offered up its secrets to him. He wandered in his own maze, with no clear view of his goal and uncertain of the right path. He had stepped in months ago, when his daughter Connie expressed her wish for a society debut. Her school friends were having theirs. On the fringes of genteel society, she was invited only to intimate teas or on shopping excursions, never to the evening excursions where a middle-class financier’s daughter would encounter the upper crust. Rafe knew that rejected feeling and dealt with it, but that was not a comforting answer for a seventeen-year-old with the world’s promise spread before her.

“Having second thoughts, Lockhart?”

“And third and fourth. On paper it’s a logical plan. I have a daughter who wants entrée to the best of society for her debut; the Bertrams are the best of society. They have a marriageable daughter, but debts hinder her chances; I have a fortune and the need of a wife to manage my daughter’s entrée.”

“You hesitate?”

“Meeting Lord Bertram at your party last May did not awaken my admiration. He enjoyed too much wine for his card-play. And the wife seems a battle-axe.”

“Ianthe’s no harridan, if that is why you are hesitating. The family’s finances are public knowledge. Arabella thinks it was Bertram’s insistence on a substantial marriage settlement that hurt the girl’s chances in her first season. She will be officially on the shelf if she’s not soon betrothed. Bertram’s a good name; goes back to the 1400s. Eadings has been the family seat since the eighth Henry. They have the rank and social status you want.”

“And their debts will force them to accept a cit as a son-by-marriage.”

At Rafe’s deprecating description of himself, Collins began a protest. “Lockhart—” only to stop when Rafe made a cutting gesture.

He dropped into the chair across from the gentleman lawyer. “Look, Collins, we discussed that the best choice for my wife would be a genteel lady already ‘on the shelf’ or widow with few funds remaining or even the poor relation of a high-ranking family. Someone who can open doors even as she gives my Connie the guidance she’ll need for a first season. A reasonable lady, not a flibbertigibbet; a woman who would understand that this marriage is a business arrangement.”

“You need someone who moves with assurance through the haut ton; that will not be a poor relation. Besides, fashionable widows of good repute are a little thin in the weeds right now.”

“How desperate is Bertram?”

“Pretty desperate. His creditors have been petitioning me since early spring. In my letter to inform him that you would accompany us, I did mention that I had a proposition that might successfully balance his finances.”

“If the man’s any wits, he’ll put that information together with my arrival and any interest I show to his daughter.” Rafe hid a grimace, for Collins had shot his shot in advance. “I don’t like showing my side of a merger before I can review the other side’s information, Collins. I bought a business in shambles once, only once, early on. Since then, I haven’t walked into a business deal not knowing what all sides have for negotiation.”

“Don’t worry, old man. Bertram’s wits don’t stretch that far.”

“His wife’s wits might.”

Collins considered. “True, true. Althea has the Osgood nose for sniffing out a chance.”

“How substantial a marriage settlement will be needed to make them accept a cit?”

For the first time his partner looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

“What are his debts?”

Looking pained, he closed his eyes. Rafe waited. At length, Collins named a sum.

“Double that, then, as a marriage settlement, with good Papa keeping the bulk of it ‘in trust’ for his daughter.”

“Quite possibly.”

“That will put a substantial dent in my personal account.”

“Your businesses have more than enough to cover the cost.”

Rafe shook his head, firm on this point. “I won’t tap the business funds, Collins.”

“Then you’ll be stretched for a few years. Ianthe Bertram has another mark in her favor. She’s young enough to give you several children, sons to inherit the fortune you’ve built.”

Sons. Sons to inherit.

From Connie’s first toddling steps, he had taught her the hows and wherefores of business and finance, but he had to admit that a strong son at the helm had been his wish. Connie had the head to run the business, but a man as the public face would keep his competitors away. He had tapped Roger Denby to step into that position when age forced him out, but a son—.

Rafe shrugged. Connie would continue his success. Her inexperience was with the world at large, with life itself, with youth—when people took foolish steps that had ramifications for years afterward.

He knew that because his own past sins still burdened him.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

London, Bedford Square

Connie Lockhart pretended not to care when her father left on his business trips, but she looked up eagerly when the door to the small withdrawing room opened. Roger Denby, her father’s chief clerk, appeared, looking handsome in a plain dark coat and breeches, attire that would not have caught her admiring eye were it on another young man. “Oh, it’s you.” She bent back to her stitchery so he wouldn’t realize how attractive she found him.

“Were you expecting some gallant to appear?”

“No gallants today. I should have expected you would check on me today. Papa has scarce been gone two days, and here you are, a dutiful clerk performing his sole duty.”

“You are not my sole duty, Miss Lockhart. I have many obligations to fulfill.”

She tossed her head, the loose waves of her dark hair slipping around her slim shoulders. “I would prefer to hear that I am not a duty or an obligation, Mr. Denby.”

“I have offended you.”

“How could the truth offend me?”

“I should leave.”

The thought of spending another evening alone spurred her to speech. “When you have barely arrived? Now that would offend me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or go, if you wish. I will not tattle to Papa. If other obligations are more pressing, then you must fulfill them.”

“And risk your wrath?”

“Oh!” She cast aside her embroidery and jumped up. “I told you that I would not tattle to Papa, and I will not. I am not a child that must be entertained whenever it leaves the nursery. Nor do I wish to inconvenience you, Mr. Denby. Leave if you must.” She walked over to the spinet. She wanted to dig her fingernails into his flesh; instead, she ran her fingers over the painted lid.

“May I stay? Evans promised tea.”

She whirled around to catch his arch look. “You are teasing me!”

“Since I angered you, it seemed only right to balance it with a laugh.”

“I was not angry.”

“Miffed? Disquieted? Distressed? Milkwater words. You would have cheerfully boiled me in oil for calling you a duty.”

“I wouldn’t have boiled you.”

“No, only imagined it with great relish.”

“I do have a vivid imagination. Mrs. Bannerby despaired of my controlling it.”

They grinned at each other. She liked the way his brown eyes glittered when he smiled. They seemed to get a caramel light.

He swept her a bow then straightened, tall and lean and handsome. “My apologies, Miss Lockhart. I will not again call you a duty.”

“To my face. You forgot to add that you will not call me a duty to my face.”

“Ah, I will not again call you a duty to your face.”

“Much better,” she approved as the door opened. Gregory Footman bore in the china tea service she had purchased yesterday. “Mr. Denby, do join me for tea.”

“I shall gladly do so, Miss Lockhart. I missed tea at the office and hoped you would offer it to a poor starving clerk.”

“Hardly starving. Hardly poor. I know the wage my papa pays you. And I doubt you ‘missed’ tea. You skipped it and came here because our tea is vastly superior to what Mr. Weathersby provides. We have sandwiches and biscuits.”

“Guilty.”

He accepted the plate of sandwiches she handed over. He bit into an herbed cheese sandwich and closed his long-lashed eyes as if in bliss. Connie briefly forgot the pot in her hand as she watched him enjoy his first sandwich. The teapot’s weight quickly recalled her. She poured her own tea quickly. The last thing she wanted was for Roger Denby to catch her staring. She placed a sandwich and a macaroon on her own plate then sat back to enjoy Cook’s talents.

“How are you doing?”

“Fulfilling your duty?”

“No. I do care, Miss Lockhart. You have been at school and may not realize how often Mr. Lockhart travels.”

“He did not go many places this summer.”

“In early fall we will make circuits of our stations. He is often away for a fortnight.”

“Leaving you in charge of the office as Evans is in charge of the house. I shall be fine, Mr. Denby. I do not need other people to amuse me, and I have friends who reside in London.”

“The giggling Wilton sisters.”

“Yes, but they are not here this weekend. They are at the country party my father attends. The grand estate of Eadings in Kent with the baron Bertram and others.”

“You should have gone with your father.”

She shuddered in sympathy for the hostess who had to cope with an unexpected female. “No, indeed I should not have. He was a last addition. I would have thrown Lady Bertram’s numbers off. Some hostesses are sticklers for that. Besides, I would severely hamper his chief purpose in hobnobbing with aristocrats. He is on a wife-hunt.”

“He is truly going ahead with that plan?”

“Do you have reservations?”

“He’ll be distracted from business for a long time. He is very much a hands-on boss.”

“I suppose that will depend on how long it takes him to find a suitable candidate who meets his criteria: noble, of good reputation, and willing to lower herself to marry a cit whose daughter has pretensions of entering great society.”

“There will also be the distraction of your debut in the spring.”

“Yes, but all will be well, for he has you, Mr. Denby. More sandwiches?” He held his plate, and she re-loaded it, adding two macaroons. She looked longingly for another one of her own but refused to add it to her plate. “Do you hate his plan of marriage?”

He shrugged. “It matters little to me except as it affects my work and my duties—including you,” he added with a grin. “Have you no reservations?”

Sipping her tea, she considered his question. “Only that he will stick to his criteria and settle for someone rather than try to find a true match. He will be tied to this woman for years. I do not want him to be unhappy.”

“As long as you also have your society debut in the spring.”

“Of course.” She bit into a macaroon.

View the Trailer here:  https://youtu.be/rht6hMctbGI

Purchase the ebook Worldwide: https://books2read.com/u/m2Znx7

Visit Amazon for the paperback or ebook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016XI57KA

Courting Trouble ~ Available Now

 

Publication on September 23

1925. Murder in New Orleans and Texas.

Money. Bribery. Sabotage. Fraud. Blackmail.

And a Hurricane.

Courting Trouble

Three Invitations from Death

3 Novelettes that are a Side Series to the Into Death Series

Spanish Moss ~ A Death, a Will, and a Way

“Poison” is one of the last words Nedda Courtland’s wealthy employer speaks in the hours before his death.

With no evidence of murder, she can only fulfill Mr. Ingram’s last wishes as the executrix of his will and wield her proxy to disrupt the negotiations with an oil company.

She never expects another murder.

Here’s the Opening to Spanish Moss:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/07/spanish-moss-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Texas Sun ~ Method, Means, and Opportunity

The grime of a working oil field draws together people at odds with the summer heat and with each other.

In the heady flush of a new romance, Nedda tries to ignore the blazing tensions, yet troubling shadows have gathered.

Then Death makes his entrance, and the grim pressures erupt.

And the Opening to Texas Sun:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/08/texas-sun-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Gulf Storm ~ Bribe. Conspire. Death.

A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.

With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows.

Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will Death wreak its lethal destruction?

And the Opening to Gulf Storm:

https://maleebooks.blogspot.com/2025/08/gulf-storm-opening-and-links.html

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Purchase and Preorder Links:

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FKKQBTKP

Worldwide Books to Read https://books2read.com/u/mZMkY2

View the Trailer Here: https://youtu.be/RzTINfZIs0U  

Gulf Storm ~ Opening and Links

 "Gulf Storm"

• A Novelette that continues the Courting Trouble series
• Publishes on August 23
• Pre-order Available Now!

Courting Trouble titles ~ "Spanish Moss", "Texas Sun", and "Gulf Storm"

Bribe. Conspire. Die.

A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.

With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows.

Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will Death wreak its lethal destruction?

Read on for the Opening to the Story. Links follow.

~ 1 ~

Nedda dangled her legs off the sun-silvered dock. Her toes grazing the water, she exchanged glances with the alligator floating yards away, its yellow eyes and armored crown skimming the surface.

She sat in tree-cast shade, on the edge of the blazing sunshine. Two bands of greyish clouds filled the southeast horizon. Birds barely sang through the heat. A heron crept forward on her right, the bank of the bay marshy there and filled with stiff cattails.

She didn’t look away from the `gator. Fresh in memory was its supper last evening, an unwary spoonbill. The frantic flapping wings before the alligator submerged to drown its victim still gave her chills.

A sweet soprano drifted over the bay waters. She leaned forward and spotted the canoe on the inland edge of Back Bay. Mr. Culpepper rowed while his wife in her wide-brimmed straw hat sang “Alice Blue Gown” to the silent birds. Nedda smiled, for her bridal gown looked like some depictions of that. Tomorrow evening she would wear the champagne gold frock. Pearl beads adorned the gossamer lace attached to the chemise bodice. Beneath a silk banded waist, the gossamer lace repeated in decorative scoops over the gathered skirt. The sheer lace and light silk were perfect this late summer season.

Bare feet struck the dock, coming toward her. The alligator sank. She lifted her legs onto the hot dock, the heat quickly drying her skin.

A lanky figure in a white shirt and baggy cut-off khakis dropped beside her. “You’ve missed another argument,” Colfax said.

Draping the pleated skirt of her tennis dress, Nedda wrapped her arms around her knees and scanned the youth. He’d changed over the summer, less skinny boy and more wiry young man. The sun had kissed his blond hair to flax and tanned his pale English skin. The weeks in west Texas had changed him mentally as well. Attempted murder of someone in a close circle had sobered his childish bents. His grandfather’s death in the late spring hadn’t really registered with Colfax until Rhode Tabbert was shot. His enthusiasm for pranks had vanished then.

She leaned her head on her knees, blocking the sun from directly entering her eyes. “Another argument?”

“You missed the one at breakfast?”

“I returned upstairs,” she reminded him. “I had to change. I didn’t think we would play tennis this morning.”

“Too hot for this afternoon.” He glanced at the Culpeppers. “Too hot for boating. This shade’s nice.” He stretched out beside her. “It’s as hot as it was in Oman.”

“Who was arguing this morning?”

“Same as who’s arguing now. Hank and Ray.”

“Two arguments in the same day?”

“Yep. And one yesterday. Makes me wonder if they’re truly friends.”

She eased out a breath, hunting a diplomatic way to relate her fiancé’s assessment of his old friend. “Hank did say Ray could be difficult.”

Colfax snorted. “Did Hank forget what difficult truly means?”

He had wisdom beyond his peers. Had traveling the world granted that discernment? Or had he aged in his scant two months at the Sacred Heart Academy? He was a stranger there, his classmates and masters completely unknown to him, the culture of a Catholic boarding school in northern Louisiana alien to an English prep-school boy.

A splashing caught her attention.

Mr. Culpepper was rowing out into the bay, avoiding the marshy bank to avoid tangling in the cordgrass and saltgrass and duckweed. Mrs. Culpepper leaned over the canoe, peering into the water.

This weekend would be a moneymaker for the Bells, owners and hosts of the Back Bay Inn. Nedda, Hank, and Colfax had arrived late Thursday afternoon. Waiting on the porch, watching them unload suitcases, was Ray Anderson, Hank’s best man. The men had attended university together. Their friendship deepened in war. Yet her whiskers twitched as she shook his hand, limp ice. His yellowed eyes and the heavy bags that sagged onto his sallow cheeks betrayed dissipation.

Ray sidestepped Hank’s question about his early arrival at the inn. In west Texas, a saboteur had avoided answers by asking more questions. Nedda learned from her late employer never to trust a man who wouldn’t answer a direct question.

Ray had then introduced them to his date for the wedding, one Pearl Lawrence, a brassy blonde whose scooped blouse and tight skirt displayed her assets. Hank had taken a deep hissing breath, but he held his tongue. “I work in Galveston,” Pearl announced then introduced them to her employer at the dance club, one Al Rogers, natty in a slim-fitting pin-striped suit with narrow lapels. Rogers offered a jolly smile that didn’t crinkle his eyes. A diamond flashed on his finger as he shook their hands.

Watching from the corner was the quiet giant “Mr. Jerry Phillips. He drove us. He was a boxer,” Pearl added, a bit of pride in her voice.

Mr. Phillips’ broken face testified to his years in the boxing ring. He wore a dark double-breasted suit that strained over his broad shoulders. He measured Hank and Colfax then dismissed Nedda with a single glance, not knowing her Webley weighted her fold-over clutch.

The first argument between Hank and Ray started at dinner. Ray claimed that Hank said he could bring a date; Hank declared that he’d never promised that. The petty dispute ended with the arrival of the dessert when both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Phillips vowed they didn’t expect an invitation to the wedding. “We plan to fish, isn’t that right, Phillips?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rogers.”

Silent throughout the argument, the Culpeppers shared over coffee in the parlor that they were happenstance guests. “We booked our cottage in May. We never expected a wedding. I’m excited about it.”

“Thank you. We hoped to have a small wedding,” she shared with the couple. “Hank found this inn when he came to Chambers County for his work.”

“You’re English,” Mrs. Culpepper gushed, and Nedda had to answer a multitude of questions about the royal family and the future monarch. Eventually, the woman asked the reason Nedda had chosen a wedding at the Back Bay Inn rather than in Houston.

“My only requirement for the wedding was tranquility. Hank promised that this was the perfect place. It is beautiful here by the bay, everything green and lush.”

Now Mr. Culpepper allowed the bay’s current to catch the canoe. It pivoted and skimmed toward the inland shore. His wife resumed her dreamy song, muted by a gust of wind.

Nedda returned to Colfax’s talk of arguments before her thoughts had distracted her. “What started the second argument? I saw the bruise on Hank’s cheek. I never expected fisticuffs.”

“What? Oh, that.” He stirred. The sun had cast over enough to burn his foot. Colfax levered up his leg and rubbed his reddened toes.

“You did bring up the arguments.”

He grinned and returned to his supine position. “Something about Texas Petroleum and Refining. I didn’t stay to listen.”

“But Hank receives a bruise on his cheek.”

“You should see Ray’s black eye.”

“I thought you left.”

“I stayed for the fisticuffs.”

“Is Ray with Texas P & R?”

“I don’t think so.”

The oil industry had more dry wells than gushers and mineral licenses that they let lapse, but the companies pumped vast amounts of cash into the pockets of its owners, investors, and workers. Nedda had worked with Hyatt Ingram, a global venture capitalist in petroleum, and she inherited enough shares in his company to stay abreast of the industry. In her home of England, the status line divided blue-blooded nobility from red-blooded workers. In Texas, that line divided the booming oil industry from everyone else. Background didn’t matter; oil did.

For its proximity to the famous Spindletop gusher, Houston had boomed, but the state’s entire east coast had had a roaring economy for over two decades. West Texas had lagged behind the east, but the Buzzard No. 3 well in Hartman County promised to kindle a boom out there.

Was his old friend Ray pushing Hank about Texas P & R? Did he have any fingers in the petroleum pie. If not, he would backpedal into obscurity while his friends rolled in black gold. Those friends headed here, a groomsman for Hank named Paul Jackson, married to Hank’s sister, and Boone Galvin, a war buddy who served as TP&R’s president.

Had Hank considered any of that when he asked Ray to be his best man? No. He remembered the war, when they had each other’s backs during battle, and he harked back to their college days, when their futures shone brightly.

One worked for the black gold. The other aimed for fool’s gold.

That drove Ray’s resentment.

“No doubt,” she offered mildly, “we’ll hear the reason for both arguments before dinner.”

Colfax grunted. He threw an arm over his eyes. “Let me nap, Nedda. Haven’t played tennis in months.”

The sun peeked through a wide arc of clouds and glinted on the bay waters. A dragonfly buzzed over the youth. He didn’t stir, and the flyer passed over. A spoonbill flew past, white wings widespread as it soared above the waves, restless as the tide came in. Oaks on the distant shore created a lush green backdrop. Nothing moved, the bay waters tranquil, a stronger breeze cooling the perspiration on her arm, all quiet and peaceful. The atmosphere she wanted for her wedding. After four years of global jaunts with her former employer Hyatt Ingram, this settled peace lured her.

Hank had known the perfect spot for their nuptials.

She closed her eyes and remembered the long drive here. Only in the last few miles had the land drawn her. Piney woods enclosed the hard-packed dirt of the road to the back bay area. A planked bridge crossed a little silver creek that separated the island from the country propre. Their tires had rumbled across the bridge, sending birds into the air at the unusual thunder. When the road swung away from the bay waters, the trees opened back to reveal the white-washed Back Bay Inn. Columns supported three stories of porches. A riotous garden bordered the front porch and framed wide steps. Nedda had sighed at the glory of star pentas, zinnias and salvia, backed with globe amaranth.

In the cooler shadows inside the inn, zinnias graced the check-in desk of the entryway while three bouquets decorated the long dining room table, open to the hallway. She discovered later that the host’s wife Mrs. Bell freshened the flowers daily while her two daughters-in-law ran the maids and the kitchen.

Bootsteps hit the planks of the long dock. She lifted her head and gave a smile to the younger of the Bell sons. “Hello, Eddie.”

Colfax stirred, proof that he hadn’t been asleep. He sat. “Going fishing in the twilight?”

Eddie grabbed the line for a dinghy bobbing alongside the dock and began towing it to shore. “Bringing the boats in. Storm’s coming from the Gulf.”

Wide bands of clouds swirled to the south, white and puffy in the outer bands, greying toward the southeast.

The wedding! “When is the storm expected?” Nedda rolled to her feet and brushed off her tennis dress.

“Landfall’s tonight or early Saturday. The wee hours.”

Landfall was an odd term to use for a storm.

“Will it be gone by Saturday evening?”

“Should be pushed through by then. Dad has better answers for you, Miss Courtland. I need to get these boats in.” He dropped into the water’s edge and began towing the red dinghy onto the bank.

“I’ll give a hand,” Colfax volunteered. “All these boats, Eddie?”

“All of them. Thanks for the help. We need to get them past the trees.”

The youth measured the distance from the dock, a good 30 feet although the bay’s bank was only six or so feet. “That’s high.”

“Might have a storm surge twice that. Grab this.” He tossed a rope to Colfax then reached for the blue dinghy nudged in the cattails at the bank.

Nedda waited until they had wrestled the blue dinghy up the bank then started for the inn.

An engine’s putter drew her attention to the road.

Bright yellow flashed through the piney woods then emerged. A new Cadillac Phaeton rolled slowly over the dirt so it didn’t stir up dust. Two people sat in the front seat, and Nedda added a spurt to her step to meet them at the inn.

The Cadillac stopped before the steps as the inn door opened. The senior and junior versions of the Bells came onto the porch. The engine cut. A man slipped out and headed around the hood as Nedda reached hearing distance.

“Welcome to the Back Bay Inn,” Mr. Bell said. “Junior, help them with their luggage.”

The man opened the passenger door. A woman slid out. Her hat came into view, a cream-colored cloche with a dark ornament. She wore a cream dress covered with polka dots. The man offered his hand then led her up the steps while Junior opened the trunk, American for boot. He lifted out a valise and two suitcases.

Mr. Bell ushered the couple inside. “My wife will assign your room. What’s that? Oh yes, they arrived late yesterday,” and Nedda realized who this couple had to be. “Mr. and Mrs. Paul Jackson” was the name she’d written on the envelope, but Mrs. Jackson was Hank’s sister Flo, and the man had to be his groomsman and work colleague Paul Jackson.

She bypassed the luggage and approached as the man bent to sign the desk ledger. “Florence Jackson?” she ventured, extending her hand. “I’m not quite certain where Hank is. I am Nedda Courtland.”

The woman turned. Only then was Nedda certain, for she looked upon a feminine version of Hank: tall, slender rather than lanky, with those startling blue eyes and high cheekbones. “Call me Flo.” Her handshake was firm but gentle and quick. She had Hank’s drawl, and humor sparkled in her blue eyes. “I’ll have words with my brother later. He is an atrocious correspondent, and his telegrams are worse. He never mentioned that you are English. Or how you met. Or the reason he didn’t bring you to visit. One telephone call from a god-forsaken place in west Texas, then in another call he’s tells me that he’s found his woman and she wants me to be her maid of honor.”

“Hartman County in west Texas,” Nedda supplied, “and it is god-forsaken. Less so now that oil’s come in.”

“Buzzard No. 3,” her husband added, joining their conversation.

“You men do not know how to name oil wells. Miss Courtland, this is my husband Paul.”

“Hello. Flo, I do regret that we had no time to visit. Until Monday we were in west Texas. Tuesday he spent at Texas P & R headquarters—.”

“Yes, Paul saw him there. And that’s all they did, see each other in passing.” She gave a wry grimace.

Her husband’s eyes twinkled. “He was in meetings with Galvin. I was meeting with our engineers.”

“Men have no accounting of what is most important. My brother’s fiancée is more important than test patches and drill samples! But Hank could have brought you to me on Wednesday.”

Nedda shook her head. “That was not at all possible. You see, I needed a bridal gown.”

“Oh, yes! What did you—?”

“Flo, honey, let’s delay this a bit,” her husband interrupted. “Once you start talking about the wedding, an hour will pass.”

“Oh, Paul! But I am that interested. An hour on the wedding, an hour on your first meeting with my brother, a third hour on his proposal. Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up, Nedda.”

“Would you like tea? Or lemonade? We can have it in the parlor.” She glanced to Mrs. Bell for approval.

That woman was avidly listening. She tapped the desk bell four times. “Lemonade and cookies, yes?”

“Perfect, Mrs. Bell.”

“Find that brother of mine,” Flo urged. “I need to bend his ear about the proper treatment of his bride.”

“Clarrie.” Mrs. Bell handed a key to her oldest granddaughter. “Second floor, Room H.”

As the Jacksons started behind Clarrie, Junior Bell came with a suitcase in one hand, a valise tucked under his arm, and a train case in his other hand.

Nedda leaned over the desk. “My key, please, Mrs. Bell. I should freshen up before tea with my future sister-in-law.”

“Lemonade and cookies will be waiting in the parlor when you come down, Miss Courtland.”

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Although the windows were opened to admit the breeze, the plantation shutters were closed, shadowing the parlor. The slats were angled to diffuse the light. Remembering dreary summer days of her childhood, Nedda gloried in the Texas sunlight, brighter than London’s had ever been.

The promised tray—with a pitcher, glasses, and a tray of cookies—rested on the coffee table before the lengthy Chesterfield sofa when Nedda reached the parlor, fresher through the swift use of soap, water, powder, and a slimming handkerchief frock with a diamond print. She entered as the sleek-suited Al Rogers swiped cookies from the tray.

At her appearance he smiled. His eyes still didn’t reflect anything. “Caught with the goods.”

“Please, help yourself to some lemonade, too. I can ring for more glasses. Mr. Phillips,” she knew he was there but she had to look over her shoulder to spot him in a dimmer corner, “do have some cookies. Do you want lemonade?” She rang the metal bell resting on the mantel. A crewel-worked bell pull hung to the mantel’s left, but she doubted it still connected to the servants’ call board. “Shall I bring you a plate of cookies?” She laded four onto a plate as she asked.

“No, ma’am. Miss. None for me, Miss.”

“A shame. These are lemon, too, I think. Quite refreshing in this heat, don’t you think so, Mr. Rogers?”

He dusted cookie crumbs from his fingers with an embroidered handkerchief. “Quite refreshing,” he echoed, mimicking her accent.

Nedda gave him a sharp look.

Mrs. Bell appeared. “These gentlemen would like lemonade and cookies as well, Mrs. Bell. Is that possible?”

While she shot a glance at Mr. Rogers, the older woman avoided looking at Mr. Phillips’ ruined face. “Of course, Miss Courtland.” She retreated, and in seconds they heard the desk bell ring out several times.

“A ring for each grandchild?” she mused aloud

“That would account for it. Did I hear you right, Miss Courtland? Your wedding is Saturday?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Rev. Thomas—he dined with us last evening—.”

“Before Ray Anderson stuck his oar in.”

“Um, yes? Rev. Thomas will perform the ceremony.”

“And Anderson’s still best man?”

“Yes.” Nedda elongated the word, her whiskers twitching again. She glanced at Mr. Phillips, but he remained stolidly stoic.

“Know what you’re in for, marrying an oil man?”

“I do not have on blinders, Mr. Rogers.”

“You like horseracing?”

The question almost seemed a non sequitur, but a wary whisker warned that it was not. “Steeplechases.”

“That’s where they jump.” He nodded. “Higher risk. Higher bets. Your bet must be pretty high on your man. He’s got secrets, though. My friend Anderson knows what they are. It’s dangerous when somebody knows your secrets. Even more dangerous when those secrets get shared with a loose-mouthed girl like Pearlie.”

Voices stopped him, then Flo entered the parlor, talking over her shoulder to her husband.

And Hank.

Hank was here, scowling when he caught sight of Al Rogers and Jerry Phillips. Does he know these two men from Galveston, or is he merely displeased at their presence in the parlor?

Nedda hated herself for wondering. Tomorrow she would marry Hank. Critiquing his acquaintances before she’d had more than a couple of hours in their presence seemed disloyal.

Mr. Rogers stood, buttoning the slim-fitting jacket with its bold pinstripe. “Good day to you, Miss Courtland.” He walked out. Jerry Phillips followed.

Flo cast herself onto the sofa. “Tell me everything! How you met my brother. When you met him. How he won your heart. How he proposed. When he proposed. When you decided on this weekend for your wedding. How you planned a wedding from all the way over in west Texas! And how you bought a bridal gown in one day. One day! I took weeks to decide on my gown. I want to know everything!”

Her husband groaned. “Beware, Miss Courtland. My wife will ask questions until she has all the answers.” He palmed several cookies. “Where’s your roadster, Hank? I didn’t see it.”

“Needed more space. I’m in the Packard Touring Car.”

“The green one? Nice. Come see my new Phaeton.”

Hank swiped a handful of cookies and left with Paul Jackson.

“How you met my brother,” Flo prompted. “When and where and how and why.”

Nedda launched into the story that began in New Orleans with poison and death.

She didn’t remember her conversation with Al Rogers until much later.

Find your copy of "Gulf Storm" at these links~

Texas Sun ~ Opening and Links

 Texas Sun ~ Means. Motive. Opportunity

The grime of a working oil field draws together people at odds with the summer heat and with each other.

In the heady flush of a new romance, Nedda tries to ignore the blazing tensions, yet troubling shadows have gathered.

Then Death makes his entrance, and the grim pressures erupt.

LINKS Below.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Opening ~ 1 ~ Means

The morning blasted, bright white.

Colfax Ingram grabbed Nedda’s arm and jerked her behind the cab of the big Army truck as a second explosion shuddered the oil patch.

Shouts erupted. Debris rained onto the steel truck hood. She cowered against the mud-caked wheel as pings and clangs and clunks broke over them. Colfax crouched beside her until the debris stopped pinging on the Liberty truck. Then he leaped to his feet and ran toward the yelling men.

Nedda straightened and braced a hand on the steel heated by the Texas sun. She dreaded looking toward the drilling floor.

Her tall Texan, closer to the explosion and danger, remained upright.

The oil derrick remained erect, ninety feet into the blue sky, not yet hazed with summer heat. Leroy clung to the top and shouted down.

Her Hank deflected questions from Denny, the youngest roustabout. Colfax loped toward them.

The motorman Fuller levered up from the engine. He had flung himself across the equipment that ran the bit chipping deep into the ground. Centered under the derrick, O’Hara swung a chain to release it from the pipe.

Beyond the planked drilling platform, the job foreman Rhode Tabbert and the driller Witt straightened from their crouch. They’d been shack-side of the platform, closest to the explosion, and the shockwave had rolled over them first. Tab brushed dirt from his shoulders. Witt spat on the ground then peered at the derrick’s top. He gestured at Leroy then turned back to Tab.

Heart beating again, Nedda looked for the explosion’s cause.

Splintered planks, twisted pipes, and warped tin littered the ground beyond the derrick, flung outward from a churned-up crater in the desert floor. The tool shack had disappeared.

She came around the Liberty’s front and perched on the heavy steel bumper. Her movement caught Hank’s attention. He tapped his head then pointed at her. She sighed then fetched his battered hat from the cab and crammed it on her head. Then she picked her way to the derrick, watching the ground to avoid curled pieces of knife-sharp tin and shards of splintered wood.

The explosion had catapulted the drilling pipes stacked beside the tool shack. Twisted and bent, they littered the desert. None had landed near the truck.

As she approached, Leroy began his climb down. At 90 feet in the air, he more than doubled the distance from the truck to the destroyed shack, but he reached the drilling platform before she reached Hank and the others.

She stepped over a twisted and torn pipe, unusable. The drilling would have to stop now.

Hank McElroy shouted at the motorman. Fuller bent to the engine. It sputtered to a stop, leaving a strange silence.

Broken by raised voices. Tab and Witt, arguing. Again.

Nedda reached the men. Without looking, Hank stretched back his hand. She took it, and he drew her to his side.

Colfax started around the drilling platform.

“Stop, boy,” O’Hara snapped.

He stopped, but the twitch of his shoulders expressed disagreement. “The danger is over.”

“Let O’Hara go first,” Hank said.

“I’ll go with you.” Of an age with Colfax, Denny had revived with the excitement.

“Ain’t no reason,” O’Hara groused. “Ain’t nothing left.” They all looked at the cratered epicenter of the explosion.

Fuller wiped his hands on a greasy rag. “No more drillin’ without new pipe.” He nudged a warped pipe with his boot. “Can’t use nothin’ of what we had.”

“When does the next train run?” Hank asked, a question Tab should answer, but he was ensnarled in another argument with Witt.

None of the roustabouts looked at the two men who had charge of the oil patch. “Thursday,” Fuller said.

Hank wiped the sweat trickling down his temple. He gave a short nod, moving ahead without Tab and Witt. “I’ll telephone the office to send a shipment.”

“You do that.” The motorman rubbed his stubbly jaw as he looked over the debris field. “I guess we’ll clean up the mess.”

Denny groaned.

“I’ll be back to help after I contact the office.” Hank turned toward the truck.

“Wait.” Nedda dragged down his hand and dug her brogans into the sand of the desert. “What caused the explosion?”

Hank stopped. He gave no sign of the need for haste, only a willingness to accept her question as necessary. In the three weeks since they’d met in New Orleans, not once had he slighted her input, treating her like a partner as well as a beloved, a courtship that she preferred over flowery words.

O’Hara sighed heavily. He wiped his brow then re-settled his hat. “Might’ve been me. Weren’t no problems with the refining barrels this morning, but I might should’ve checked it closer.”

“How much oil had you refined?”

“Enough to run the engine for a week. The diesel we had were running low.”

“That’d account for the second explosion,” Fuller mused.

“Yep.”

“Then what the f—beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am.” Denny flushed under his work grime. The bruising sliding under his right eye flared purple. “What the heck caused the first explosion?”

“What indeed?” Hank sounded grim.

He had a right to be grim. The oil patch was nearly a year beyond the predicted two years of drilling. In the last few months one problem after another had plagued the roustabouts, troubles enough that Texas Petroleum and Refining had first sent Rhode Tabbert as foreman to speed up drilling and then sent Hank to determine if the patch was worth further investment.

And Hank had asked Nedda to accompany him. Curious about field drilling and pleased at his invitation, she accepted. Colfax came with her, off for the summer months from the Sacred Heart Academy.

“Tab, get over here,” Hank shouted.

The argument stopped.

The foreman came, trailed by the driller who ran the oil patch.

Nedda hadn’t determined the problem between the two men. Tab had a forceful personality and snapped his orders, but he worked alongside the men. He didn’t have the experience of Witt and O’Hara, but he knew engines and stringing pipe as well as Fuller. Witt’s nasal twang edged across bone, but he’d grown up drilling oil. What he didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. He didn’t lay about with his orders. Tab irked the man, and Witt didn’t let a day pass without a handful of arguments.

She glanced around the gathered men. Luck had saved them from injury, but the explosion could have seriously harmed one or more of them.

Or killed one of them.

Cold ran over her, dissipating the summer heat.

While Hank spoke with Tab and the roustabouts, she turned to Colfax. “Are you coming to town?”

“I’ll stay here. Give them a hand with clean-up.” He grinned, a sudden shift of his oft-solemn face. His grey eyes had a curious gleam. “Maybe find out how crude oil is turned into diesel.”

“You do that.”

He gave an abrupt nod then turned away, punching Denny high on his arm. The two trotted away to gather ruined pipes.

Hank caught her hand. “We’re going.”

When her tall Texan moved, he dropped that slow drawl and went. She had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

Tab’s presence at the truck surprised her, but it made sense. The foreman would know the number of supplies the office would need to replace.

Hank boosted her to the driver’s seat and climbed up as she slid to the middle. Tab waited at the grill to prime the engine. He stared at the oil patch.

Hank fiddled with the gears. “Crank it.”

Tab gave three hard, fast turns. The Liberty’s engine sputtered then caught with a revving roar. As he came around the engine cab, Nedda opened the passenger door. He climbed in as the big motor sputtered then settled into a muted roar.

Hank leaned forward and unclamped the wind shield. He motioned, and Tab copied him. With the glass down, the wind from their movement would cool the building heat.

“What was it this time?”

Tab grunted. “Same old, same old.”

Nedda caught a breath, but Hank said nothing. He turned the army truck in a tight circle then headed for the track that aimed for the town. The Liberty bounced over rocks, jostling them on the hard seat. She leaned into Hank to avoid bumping Tab. The breeze tugged at her hat, and she dragged it off her head to hold in her lap.

Hank didn’t wait long. “Tell me.” He raised his voice over the motor and wind. “Or is he still on about giving Stevie’s money back?”

“That, too.”

“What’s first?”

Tab watched the scrub of the passing desert, wattle and mesquite, the tall blooms of agave cactus and clumps of creosote brush. A tall bird streaked from under a mesquite and ran across the track to disappear in burnt red rocks. “Witt thinks we’re drilling in the wrong place.”

“Now he agrees with you? Nearly three years on this patch, he’s argued that there’s oil in the hole, and now he decides you’re right?”

“We’re not as deep as we could be. We’ve had bad luck. Drill bit broken. Engine giving out or blown to bits. Pipes the wrong size. Other patches aren’t having these problems. We should strike soon.”

“Tab, what are you saying?” Hank shifted gears as the truck labored up a rise. “Now you think there’s oil here?”

Tab compressed his lips and looked back at the desert. “I think it interesting that Witt wants to find another patch on the same day that the shack exploded.”

“Sabotage?!”

Tab shrugged. “It’s a dirty word, but it fits.”

“Witt has brought in wells for us before.”

“I’m not accusing. Maybe it is coincidence.”

“You think Witt and O’Hara—.”

“I don’t know what to think, and that’s truth, Mac. My gut’s telling me, told me all morning, that we’re close. It’s deep and massive, and we just need faith.”

“Your gut’s telling you to keep the faith?”

Tab huffed a laugh. “Yep, exactly that. And for you to use the `phone at Doc Turner’s.”

“Not the depot?”

“Nor the grocer’s,” Nedda added, naming the most public of the three telephones in town.

She said nothing about the explosion. She kept quiet whenever Hank talked with Tab about the oil business. Conversation about Texas P & R didn’t concern her. She did question whatever affected Ingram & Son Investments, for she had responsibility and interest in that company. In her travels with her late employer Hyatt Ingram, she’d gleaned information about leases and mineral rights and contracts. She knew finances and the business side of petroleum. High up in Texas P & R, Hank knew both sides of the oil industry.

Convinced of oil in west Texas, Texas P & R used science and common sense to sink three wells in the vastness of Hartman County. The first well, close to the town clustered around the depot, had come in with a gush and enough oil to pay for its investment. It ran slow, though, and sputtered, promising a bust rather than a boom. Buzzard No. 2, dry for two years, was abandoned to throw all efforts at the third site. Buzzard No. 3 gave just enough oil to promise more further down.

If Buzzard No. 3 came in, it would be the first benefit the town had seen since its founding in the far-off dry past of the Chichuahuan desert. The land didn’t welcome them, producing nothing in soil baked by a blazing sun into dry rock and sand. The people depended on trucked-in food to survive. Only nocturnal animals and spiny or thorny plants thrived in Hartman County.

At Nedda’s warning about the gossip that spread when people overheard telephone conversations, Hank swore.

The Liberty truck jerked over a rock and ground to the top of the rise, offering a wider view of the desert.

He leaned forward, glaring at Tab. “What was the argument this morning?”

“Witt wants to move a mile to the south.”

“We don’t have a mineral rights agreement one mile to the south.”

“No, we don’t. And we’re not likely to get it. At least, I’m not. Land’s owned by Collier.”

“The railroad clerk?”

Nedda’s wince echoed Hank’s. Mr. Collier worked for the railroad. A lonely man with a lonely occupation, time had aged him early. He remained protective of the people in “my town”. When Hank had arrived, Mr. Collier approached him with complaints that the people who’d signed leases to Texas P & R had been duped.

“We can offer him an improved lease.”

“He won’t sign it.” Tab sounded sure, his gaze on a trail of Texas longhorns maneuvering through a thicket of mesquite. “He’s not an easy one to talk to.”

“If the oil comes in,” Nedda said quietly, “he’ll be a wealthy man. Have you pointed that out? It would matter to some.”

“Don’t see it mattering to Collier,” Hank rebutted. “He likes being cranky and lonely.”

She glanced at Hank. How had he missed—? She shook her head. Sometimes men missed the obvious. “He’s in love with Millie Donovan.”

“So?”

“She’s in love with the idea of leaving Hartman County. She knows an oil man will eventually leave a no-name town and take his new wife with him. Out of here. Gone for good.”

Hank paused the truck to pick the track down the rise. “Explain to a blind man, please.”

“Tab’s an oil man.”

Beside her, Tab stiffened. Hank looked around her at the foreman. “I haven’t seen you with Millie.”

Tab kept watching the cattle. “No, that’s over.”

Three words, but they confirmed what Nedda had guessed after a single evening of watching the young beauty interact with the oil men. Millie had ignored Tab the entire evening.

Hank looked confused. “She flirts with Denny.”

“That’s not serious. Denny isn’t important to her. He’s too young.”

Tab grunted. “She didn’t stop her brother when Stevie punched Denny.”

“Exactly. She didn’t care. She has her sights set on Leroy or Fuller. I haven’t decided which one. She may not have decided.” Tab shifted, uncomfortable with Nedda’s insights. She continued, undeterred. “Leroy might be more impressionable, but he’s a stubborn streak. Fuller’s steady. Or maybe she wants to make Mr. Tabbert jealous.”

Very carefully, Tab leaned away from her, pressing against the truck door as if she were a sybil to avoid.

“Witt would see all of that,” Nedda added, more certain now, “especially since he watches everything after he leaves the poker game. He sees how Millie serves Mr. Green without interacting with him, that she blushes whenever Mr. Collier compliments her, that she tries to coax Stevie not to risk so much during the game. She teases Denny, and she flutters her eyelashes at Fuller and Leroy. And Witt watches all of you.”

“Trouble all around,” Hank said and started the truck down the rise.

The big Liberty jolted and slipped over rocks, but gradually it crept closer to the distant cluster of buildings that formed the no-name town around the Hartman County railroad depot.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

“Texas Sun” is the second of three novelettes in this tie-in series to M.A. Lee’s Sailing Into Mystery stories and Into Death novels featuring the artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant. Nedda Courtland enters 1925 America with these stories as she is Courting Trouble.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

LINKS

Zon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FH5VHQ4V

B2R https://books2read.com/u/4XM6k6