by Deeanne Gist
“He has. And twenty-five of it is up.”
“How did he get the plowing done vhile the ground vas still vet?”
Luke shrugged. “I don’t know, but if you had a telephone, we could call and ask him.”
“I doubt that. The vay I hear it, those lines are alvays breaking down.”
“Not anymore. I strung brand-new wire right along the road out there. And it runs straight to Miss Gail in town. If you were to give her a ring, she could patch you through to anybody you want.”
He scratched his jaw. “Thornhill has das Telefon?”
“Yes, sir. A three-box magneto wall set. Would you like to see an illustration? I have one in my saddlebag.”
Slapping his hands on his knees, Finkel pushed himself to his feet. “No, no need for that. I haf to head out to the vest forty and see how the planting is coming.”
Luke followed him off the porch. “I saw the fields on the east side were laying fallow.”
“They have root rot. I had acres of thriving cotton on them year before last, then quick as a blink they died. I averaged about two bales out of every twelve acres.” Shaking his head in disgust, he squinted that direction. “The only sure vay to get rid of it is to let it go to clover for a few years. So that’s vhat I’m doing.”
A few years? Luke had heard of farmers leaving fields with dead soil unplanted for one year. But a few? Not too many could afford that.
He extended his hand. “Well, I wish you luck with it. Guess I’ll see you at the tournament.”
“Ja, you will.”
Swinging onto Honey Dew, he looked again at the neatly kept farmhouse, the children wearing clothes made from bolted fabric instead of seed sacks, and the abundance of animals. For somebody who only used the west forty, he was doing mighty good.
By the close of day Luke had stopped at six farms. Of the six, only Finkel had been home and only Finkel was taking time away from his farming to attend the shooting tournament.
Tomorrow, Luke would head north to visit Necker and the farms out that way. Then, on Sunday, he’d find himself a secluded place, strap on his gun belt, and do a little leather slapping. He might not be entering the tournament, but he needed to keep his skills sharp just the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Picking up the Brenham Banner off Georgie’s porch, Luke glanced through her screen door. A stack of hatboxes lined the wall between the kitchen and the bedroom. Beyond that, she balanced on tiptoes atop her chair while both arms delved inside the opened lid of the switchboard hutch. Her backside pointed out, her skirt hiked up, her ankles wobbled.
But it was her stockings that captured his full attention. Red polka dots decorated her black hosiery. He followed the line of her legs, imagining their shape, then imagining them ensconced with polka dots. His mouth went dry.
Pulling open the screen door, he tossed the paper onto his desk. “What are you doing?”
Startled, she jumped, thrusting the rolling chair out from under her. He leaped forward, jerking her to him and away from the array of cable-plugs housed like a bed of nails on the key-shelf below her.
She grabbed the top of the hutch with her fingertips, leaving her bent at a ninety-degree angle—her upper body parallel to the floor, her backend smashed against his chest, his right arm locked about her legs.
“Oh!” She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Oh, my goodness.”
He couldn’t release her or she’d land on the spiked cables. Placing his free hand against her torso, he spread his fingers wide. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Her cheeks filled with color, but her eyes held fear.
He gave her a slight nod. “It’s okay. I won’t let you fall, but you have to let go.”
She swung her left hand from the hutch to his wrist, squeezing him with a respectable amount of strength.
“That’s it. I’ve got you. Now when you let go with the other hand, go ahead and straighten up. Ready?”
She glanced at him again, her eyes frantic as a spooked horse.
“It’s okay. I won’t let you fall. Now, on the count of three. Ready?”
She didn’t answer.
“One . . . two . . . three.” He pushed against her midriff.
She released the hutch and straightened.
“That’a way.” He allowed her to slide down him, shifting his hands to her waist. Her skirt bunched up. Swallowing, he kept his eyes forward.
As soon as her feet touched the floor, she jerked her dress into place, then spun around, his hands still on her waist. He looked down.
Mussed hair. Rosy cheeks. Full lips.
“You scared me,” she whispered. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m sorry.” He needed to let go, put some distance between them. He stayed where he was. “I thought you were mad at the milliner.”
“I am.”
“Then why’d you buy all those hats?” He indicated the stack of boxes by her bedroom.
“I didn’t. They’re entries for the Plumage League’s hat contest.”
He nodded, scraping the hem of her bodice with his nail.
“I’m still mad at you, too,” she said, but she didn’t look mad. She looked soft as a rose petal.
He breathed in the touch of cinnamon that always hovered when she came close and suddenly had an irrepressible yearning to taste of it. He wondered how long it had been since he’d kissed a woman. How long it had been since he’d found one even worth kissing.
Too long, he decided. And all rationales, all wisdom, all thoughts—but one—flew from his brain. Slowly, giving her time to pull back, he lowered his head. Her eyes widened, then drifted shut.
She tasted of cinnamon, and peaches, and something indefinable. Sliding his arms around her, he pulled her close and explored her lips, her jaw, her ear.
She tilted her head back, a tiny sigh at the back of her throat. Without hesitation, he partook of the newly exposed skin. It was his own groan which brought him to his senses.
Resting his lips against the crook between her neck and collar, he kept his eyes closed, knowing he needed to release her, but lingering for just a moment more. His hands rode up her back, then down to her waist, learning, memorizing, relishing.
She turned her face to his, searching for his lips. He allowed her to find them, but when desire began to override good sense, he reluctantly pulled back.
She stood still as a marble column but warm as sunshine. Eyes closed, head back, throat exposed, she took rapid breaths. Cupping her neck, he ran a thumb from the tip of her chin to the indentation between her collarbones.
She opened her eyes. “Now I know why cats purr.”
His reaction was swift and immediate. Releasing her, he stepped back. “You hate cats.”
She gave him a lazy smile. “Only when they’re after my birds.”
He waited, knowing it wouldn’t be long.
Sure enough, her brows crinkled and she straightened. “Are you still going to the tournament?”
Lifting a tendril of hair resting against her shoulder, he rubbed it between his fingers. “I am, but I’m not entering.”
Pleasure touched her face.
“Not because I don’t want to,” he clarified. “I do. Very much. But I’ve decided it’s too costly.”
“For the birds?”
“For my pocket.”
Disappointment replaced the pleasure. She pulled back, her hair slipping from his fingers.
“The switchboard is down.” She waved a hand toward it. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but no calls are coming in.”
“Maybe everybody’s headed to the tournament.”
“No. There’s something wrong. There are drops down, but I can’t answer anyone.”
Skirting around her, he looked into the bowels of the machine. A jumble of wires overlapped each other like a pot of spaghetti noodles.
He had no idea how the thing worked, but there were a couple of exposed wires coming up from the bottom. He glanced at her.<
br />
She quickly looked away and unfolded the Brenham Banner. He had no business trifling with her. Without family to advise and protect her, she was more vulnerable than most. His disregard for her susceptibility didn’t sit well with him. But somehow the wanna-dos were overriding the should-dos.
He turned his attention to the switchboard. “Anything interesting in the news?”
“Not really.” She fingered the edge of the first page. “The tournament is taking up the whole thing.”
“Not the whole thing, surely.”
“Well . . . it does say Grayson and Camp counties went dry after a local option election on Saturday.”
Opening his pocketknife, he carefully cut the paraffin and insulation around one wire.
“Helen Keller is appealing to the Massachusetts legislative committee for relief of the adult blind.”
“That ought to be effective.”
“One would hope.” She turned the page. “Listen to this: ‘Ottfried Millinery has prepared a feast of style and price lowness that will gladden the hearts of all callers. Miss Julia Wilson has just returned from a two-week trip selecting all the very newest and most correct up-to-date millinery. Come examine the styles. Be sure to bring bird parts for a chance to win an exquisite Easter bonnet.’ ” A low rumble sounded in her throat.
He started on the next wire.
Snapping the page over, she continued scanning. “Oh, my goodness. Over a thousand dollars in diamonds were stolen in Brownsville.”
He looked up. Brownsville was over four hundred miles from here. Surely he’d have gotten wind of it if Comer had traveled all that way. “Does it say anything else?”
“They’re calling in the Rangers.”
“Does it mention which one?”
She snorted. “Lucious Landrum.”
He hesitated. Headquarters must have given out misinformation. They did that occasionally. Rumor that he was on his way often caused a gang of culprits to panic and flee, thus making them easy to track. Comer wasn’t one to panic, but if he were still in Washington County, he’d gain a false sense of security from thinking his pursuer had been sent to the southern tip of Texas.
He forced his attention back to the wire. “Read the whole thing.”
“That’s all it says. ‘Diamonds valued at twelve to fifteen hundred dollars were taken in a Brownsville, Texas, burglary. Captain Cecil Heywood of the Texas Rangers intimated Ranger Lucious Landrum, a man of nerve, would be in pursuit.’” She scoffed. “ ‘Man of nerve.’ Those aren’t the words I’d have used to describe him.”
He stalled again but kept his head down. “You’ve met him?”
“He interrupted the robbery of a train I was on.”
Slowly straightening, he gave up all pretense. “You were robbed on a train?”
Her face lit. “Yes. By Frank Comer himself. He knew I had money, too, but he let me keep it. He actually gave some coins to a widow and a poor boy. It was terribly exciting.”
She must have been on that train from Dallas. He tried to recall seeing her but couldn’t. “You got a pretty good look at Comer, then?”
“I did, though a neckerchief and hat covered everything but his eyes.” She looked out the window, her face softening. “They were blue. Not a subtle blue, like robins’ eggs, but a vibrant blue, like the feathers of a blue jay.”
His eyes were blue, too. He wondered if she’d noticed. Stuffing down his irritation, he shifted his weight onto one foot. “So what happened?”
“Hm?” She turned to him, then shook herself. “Oh, that ridiculous Lucious Landrum came charging in on his horse, barking orders, shooting his gun, and scaring everyone half to death.”
“Yet you wouldn’t describe him as a ‘man of nerve’?”
Her lips thinned. “He was pompous, arrogant, abrupt, and even tried to take that poor widow’s coins from her. Can you imagine?”
He hadn’t been taking money away from the woman. It wasn’t ever hers to begin with. It belonged to the Texas & Pacific. She had, in essence, robbed the railroad same as Comer.
Georgie propped a fist on her waist. “So here’s a bandit giving money to the widows and poor, while a lawman tries to take it away.” She rolled her eyes. “And the Rangers wonder why no one will help them. They’re nothing but a bunch of idiots, if you ask me.”
A thousand justifications stacked up in his throat, not the least of which was the Rangers kept her and every other Texan safe. Folks normally revered them. Held them in awe. But Comer had muddied folks’ perceptions.
Instead of voicing his thoughts, he lowered his attention to the switchboard. Picking up the two wires, he touched them together. A sizzling sound but no sparks.
“Did you know he named his pistols?” she asked.
He felt his jaw begin to tick and immediately forced himself to relax. “I think I’ve read that before.”
“Well, I just read it recently. As if having a boy pistol and a girl pistol wasn’t bad enough, he goes and names them. Odysseus and Penelope.” She laughed. A full-throated, from-the-belly laugh. “But what can you expect from somebody named Lucious?”
Over his four years as a Ranger, he’d traveled seventy-four thousand miles, made two hundred scouts, and one hundred eighty-two arrests. He’d endured cold, hunger, and fatigue without a murmur. He’d been said to have the eyes of a fox, the ears of a wolf, and the ability to follow scent like a hound. Yet this tiny bit of fluff could throw him off-kilter like no other.
He counted to ten. “What’s wrong with the name Lucious?”
She looked at him, incredulous. “What’s wrong with Lucious? It’s . . . it’s . . . I don’t know . . . silly, don’t you think? Sounds like luscious.”
He was named after his father. The father whose life had been senselessly snuffed out by Mother Nature. Carrying his dad’s name was a great privilege and a source of pride for Luke. How dare she make fun of it.
Anger simmering, he twisted the wires together and forced himself to respond as if he had nothing personal at stake. “Don’t guess I ever thought about it. Can’t say the name’s ever bothered me, though.”
“That’s probably because it isn’t yours. I’m sure if it were, you’d think differently.”
“Maybe so.” Picking up a cloth on the switchboard, he wiped his hands. “Did you get a look at this Lucious fellow?”
“I did.”
He raised a brow. “And was he luscious?”
“Ha!” Folding the paper, she tossed it on the desk. “Hardly. If anybody was luscious, it was Frank Comer.”
Sobering, he snapped the towel over his shoulder. “I’ve reconnected a couple of wires. Plug something in and see if it works.”
She gave a sharp glance at his tone; then her mouth formed a tiny circle, as if just realizing what she’d said to the man who’d kissed her thoroughly not half an hour ago. At least it gave him an excuse to show his irritation.
Putting on the earpiece, she slid into her chair, pushed the drops back in place, and waited for the phone to ring. The silence in the cottage thickened.
She fiddled with cables, wiggling them into place, though they didn’t need it. Finally, she peeked at him through her lashes. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
“Exactly how did you mean it? He wasn’t luscious, after all? You just remembered it wrong?”
Moistening her lips, she clasped her hands. “I only saw his eyes.”
“Eyes the color of blue jays’ feathers?”
She swallowed. “I think it’s his reputation more than anything. You know, all those pulp fiction stories. All the daring escapes he’s made. All the good things he’s done for folks.”
He choked. “Good things? You mean, like robbing people at gunpoint? Stealing from a company who has laid out a great deal of money to bring railroad tracks through this very town? A town which would be dead, just like Burton, if it weren’t for those tracks? Those kinds of good things?”
Ding.
She quickly plugge
d in a cable. “Hello, Central . . . I had a bit of trouble with the switchboard, but Mr. Palmer has it up and running for me now.” Her eyes connected with his.
He lowered the lid on the hutch.
Her gaze shot to the cable she’d plugged in, her eyes stormy.
He hesitated.
“Yes, Judge. Five live birds is three dollars entrance, including birds. Twenty live birds is fifteen dollars entrance, which also includes the birds.” She pressed her lips together. “You’re welcome.” She snatched the cable from the jack. “I hate this. I’ll have to answer these stupid questions and report on this awful shoot for days.”
“The switchboard’s working, then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Dropping the cloth on his desk, he made his way to the screen and looked out. The town’s librarian let herself through the gate and hurried up the walk carrying a hatbox.
“Luke?” Georgie’s voice held a quiver.
“There’s someone here to see you.” Opening the screen door, he stepped onto the porch. “Good morning, Mrs. Crutcher.”
“Mr. Palmer.”
Georgie rose. “Come in, Wendy. You have a hat for our contest?”
“I do,” she replied, her smile infectious.
Tugging his brim, he nodded to the women. He could see Georgie’s distress, but he hardened his heart. “I’ll call you with the results of the events as they happen. I’m sure folks will be wanting to know.”
Letting the screen slap shut behind him, he nursed his irritation. Better that than the softer, more dangerous emotions she evoked.
Chapter Fifteen
Crates filled with one thousand fluttering pigeons surrounded Luke, their throaty coos an unceasing clamor, their musky smell overpowering his senses. Reaching into a wooden cage, he grabbed one, its tail feathers fanning.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it to Duane Pfeuffer, the son of the feed store owner.
Skinny as a darning needle, the young man tucked the bird under his arm and jogged to the pigeon ring several yards away. A barricade stretching around the ring in a half circle held back a sea of men in their Sunday best vying for position. It appeared to Luke as if every rancher and townsman in the state had turned out for the 26th Annual Texas State Sportsmen’s Tournament. A raucous mixture of English and German voices and the exchanges of last-minute bets added to the chaos.
