by Deeanne Gist
Faurote mounted his shotgun to his shoulder. “Puller ready?”
Blesinger grasped a cord. “Ready.”
“Pull.”
Trap Two sprung open, the wind lifting a pigeon high and right before it took wing.
The report of the gun had barely registered when the bird plummeted like a wet rag.
Faurote supporters roared. Swanning’s lips twitched, but stopped short of forming a smile.
Racing onto the field, Bettina whipped up the bird.
“Dead bird!”
The referee’s voice was lost in the crowd’s jubilation. Luke handed Duane a pigeon, then continued to scan the area. Nothing looked amiss.
Duane trapped the bird with efficiency and returned to the crates.
“Arnold Necker, toe the mark.”
Silence again descended. With only a few crates of pigeons left, their cooing took on a subdued quality.
Necker stepped up to the line. He didn’t make any extraneous motions, but simply mounted his gun against his shoulder.
“Puller ready?”
“Ready.”
“Pull.”
The bird inside Trap Four flew up and to the right. As Necker squeezed the trigger, the pigeon unexpectedly dove twenty feet in its flight. The charge of Necker’s shot clipped its wing.
Throwing open his gun, Necker ejected his empty shell. Bettina sprinted to the ring. But the wind assisted the wounded, fluttering bird across the fence before she could reach it.
“Lost bird!”
Faurote fans raised fisted hands, screaming with elation. Abney paled. Brenham’s townsmen shifted their weight, darting their eyes from each other to Abney to the shooting box.
Necker turned. Upon seeing his distress, they rallied to his aid, yelling encouragement and support.
Though the championship would be decided between Necker and Faurote, the others’ tallies still counted toward average scores and each took their final turn.
Luke doled out pigeons, constantly on alert. Comer made no appearance. Perhaps the bet was legitimate and neither Comer nor anyone else had staged it.
With Necker down by one, all Faurote had to do was kill his next bird and he’d not only retain the championship, he’d be the winner of what was sure to be the most talked about competition in the country.
Toeing the score line, Faurote wedged his gun into his shoulder. “Puller ready?”
“Ready.”
“Pull!”
The pigeon in Trap Four needed no plunger to help it rise into the air—it came out flying swift and strong. Between its strength, the trap’s boost, and the wind, Faurote didn’t have a chance.
“Lost bird!”
The men of Brenham whooped in ecstasy, throwing up hats, clapping each other on the back, shaking their fists in exhilaration.
Swanning showed no reaction but stood stoically and without expression.
“Arnold Necker, toe the mark.”
Abney slipped his hands in his pockets, rocking from side to side. Others crossed and uncrossed their arms. Several bowed their heads in prayer.
One last scan. Still no sign of Comer.
In typical Necker style, the farmer walked to the line and mounted his gun without any shilly-shally. If he grassed the bird, he and Faurote would go into a shootout. If he missed, Faurote would win.
With a championship, prize money, and a thousand dollars at stake, Blesinger would be a fool to try anything.
“Puller ready?” Necker asked.
“Ready,” Blesinger responded.
“Pull.”
Trap Two flung a pigeon into the air, its flight erratic before it found its wings. Necker fired. The bird dropped, but not until it lay outside the fence.
“Lost bird!”
Roaring, Faurote’s fans leapt over the barricade, storming the shooter’s tent and hoisting the 1903 Texas State Champion onto their shoulders.
Swanning picked up the winnings, shook Abney’s hand, then quickly gathered his men around him, making his way to his carriage.
“Can you handle things without me?” Luke asked Duane.
The young man stepped back, stunned and openmouthed. Luke assumed Necker and Blesinger were the same, but he couldn’t see them over the crush.
So much for all their efforts to cheat. Without waiting for further permission, Luke quickly followed Swanning. If anything would bring Comer out of hiding, it would be a man traveling by train with two thousand dollars in his possession.
Dropping all pretense, Luke ran to his room. He needed his guns. No matter how far he went or how long he was gone, he planned to follow Mr. Hurless Swanning and hope for the best.
Chapter Seventeen
Instead of taking the train, Swanning immediately rode his carriage out of town. Keeping well out of sight, Luke trailed him for a few miles, then pulled Honey Dew to a stop. He studied the road. Partially covered tracks indicated a man had alighted from the vehicle and made his way into the woods.
Tempted as Luke was to see if Comer went after the carriage, his gut told him to follow the money. And if he didn’t miss his guess, the money was now on foot.
Urging his mare into the copse, he discovered fresh tracks of a horse who’d been tied and waiting for its rider. No attempt had been made to cover these, nor was the rider in any hurry.
Luke frowned. The rider was either planning to lead any followers on a merry chase, or he was too arrogant to realize a decent tracker would know he’d left the carriage. Whatever the case, Luke had expected him to put as much distance as possible between Brenham and himself, not mosey along at an unhurried pace.
Keeping well behind the man, Luke ignored the smell of fowl still clinging to him. He’d exchanged his overalls for trousers, but hadn’t taken the time to change shirts. It felt good to have Odysseus and Penelope strapped about his hips, though. He’d missed them.
As if having a boy pistol and a girl pistol wasn’t bad enough, he goes and names them. Odysseus and Penelope. But then, what can you expect from somebody named Lucious?
He shifted in his saddle. She didn’t understand. He didn’t have family to speak of. He didn’t have a place to call home. He didn’t have anything but his horse, his saddle, his guns, and the clothes on his back. So he lavished them with all the attention others lavished onto their dwelling places.
When he wasn’t undercover, his clothes were the best money could buy. His boots were custom made and ornate. His saddle, the same. His horse he’d broken himself. But his guns—his guns were his pride and joy. A pair of Colt automatics with carved bone handles and inlaid steelwork clear down to the muzzle.
They were one of a kind, had served him well, and were worthy of being named. She could laugh all she wanted, but they’d helped protect the very lifestyle she took for granted.
A deer galloped across his path in three graceful bounds followed by a leap high into the air, its white tail up, its head held high. He yanked on his reins. White-tailed deer needed only to hear a rustle in the underbrush to zip away as fast as their legs could carry them.
If the deer had been fleeing from him, it wouldn’t have run across his path. He scanned the area. Anything could have startled it—a rabbit, a wild turkey, a fox, or a man with two thousand dollars. Sliding off his horse, he studied the tracks. Several yards up, the rider’s horse had pawed the ground, stood for a moment, then veered deeper into the thicket.
Luke walked Honey Dew behind him, moving with caution. The sun dipped to treetop level, its welcome rays peeking through a handful of branches yet to leaf out. The sound of water trickling over rocks and brushing up against banks came from the northwest.
A long double whinny answered by a distant whinny brought Luke up short. Two horses? Guiding Honey Dew to a hedge of shrubs and brush, he tied her off, muzzled her, and checked his guns.
“Sit tight, girl,” he whispered, patting her neck. “I’ll be back in just a bit.”
Keeping himself hidden, he followed the tracks, his step l
ight, his senses alert. The sound of the creek increased in volume. Half a mile down, a riderless buckskin swished its tail.
Luke pressed against a tree, ears attuned to every nuance. He filtered out the cicadas, the twittering conversations of birds preparing to roost, the croaking frogs, the incessant crickets, and focused on the quiet rumble of two men due west.
He peeked around the trunk, spotting two faint outlines at the creek’s bank. Staying upwind, he darted from tree to tree until he dared not move any closer. Removing a spyglass from his pocket, he crouched behind some shrubs and brought the men into focus.
Necker. Necker and Swanning dividing the money from the fireman’s pouch. Their words were lost to him, but their movements were those of close friends comfortable in the presence of the other.
So Necker had lost on purpose. Had cheated in order to ensure himself a top position in the competition. Did Duane and Blesinger know? Or had Necker swindled them along with the town of Brenham?
Luke scrutinized the two men more carefully. Neither was Frank Comer. The outlaw had a bit more brawn and was of a shorter stature. The question was which one to follow.
If Swanning was in cahoots with Comer and had planned on seeing him, he’d have most likely taken the money straight to him. Which made Luke suspect Necker as being one of Comer’s more trusted members.
Sweeping his spyglass across the area, he spotted a second horse. If he was going to follow Necker, he’d need to reposition himself. Tucking the glass into his pocket, he picked his way back to Honey Dew.
“Where have you been?” Georgie stared at Luke. His clothes were clean and his hair wet from a recent washing, but his eyes held deep circles.
“I sold phone service to Bailey Quade,” he said.
“Bailey Quade? What were you doing way out there? I thought you were helping with the state tournament.”
“I was. I did. Was there something you needed?” He jerked open a drawer in his desk and rifled through the papers.
She sighed. “Are you still angry with me?”
“For what?”
She decided not to remind him of her fascination with Frank Comer.
He looked up. “You mean about Lucious Landrum?”
Sort of. “Yes.”
“Think whatever you want. I could care less.” Pulling some papers from the drawer, he plopped down and began to read through them, checking them against his ledger.
The desk always seemed so big until he sat at it, his long legs cramped inside the knee space, his hunched shoulders hovering over the desktop.
“I can’t think when you’re watching me.” He didn’t even look up.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She moved her attention to the window. The daddy bluebird flew to the starch box, bringing the nesting mama a snack. She’d laid five powder-blue eggs, all of which should hatch by the end of next week. But it would all take place behind the walls of the starch box.
Much as Georgie loved watching them come and go, her gaze returned to the man on her left. He was upset about something. And she didn’t think it had anything to do with her regard for Frank Comer.
“Did you lose money on Mr. Necker?” she asked.
Placing one finger on a column in his ledger, he glanced between it and a piece of paper on his desk. “No, fortunately. Pigeon handlers aren’t allowed to bet.” He looked up. “I haven’t seen Duane Pfeuffer, though. Do you know if he lost anything?”
“From what I can surmise, every man in town lost money. I haven’t heard anything about Duane in particular, though.”
“Has Necker shown his face, yet?”
“No. A bunch of men finally went out about an hour ago to get him up at his place.” She shook her head. “Evidently he’s inconsolable.”
Luke leaned back. “Where are they taking him?”
“To Charlie’s Saloon.”
“A bit early for that, don’t you think?”
“Is there ever a good time?”
He ignored the question. “All’s forgiven, then?”
“Of course. How could anyone stay angry with Mr. Necker? He’s such a nice, likeable man, and it’s not like he missed his shots on purpose.”
Luke nodded. “Who are his closest friends, do you know?”
“I don’t. If he had a phone, I’d know exactly who he talked with the most. But he’s never subscribed.”
“Maybe I should go pay him a visit.”
“You may as well; you’re going to have to go out that direction anyway.”
He raised a brow. “What for?”
“Something’s wrong with the line north of town.” She indicated the switchboard with the wave of her hand. “Drops fifteen through twenty-five only work intermittently. Those are all on the new wire you strung to the north. That’s why I’ve been wondering where you were. Folks have been without full service since the tournament started.”
He returned to his notes. “I’ll go out there as soon as I finish this.”
Angling her head, she watched him scribble a note on a piece of paper. “Where have you been?”
“Trying to sell phone service.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d check in with me. Even Bettina didn’t know where you’d gotten off to.”
“Somebody’s coming.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Somebody’s coming up the walk.”
Removing her earpiece, she crossed to the screen door. Sure enough, Torie Cutler and Tarrah Montgomery approached with hatboxes. How did he do that? She hadn’t heard a thing.
Pushing open the screen, she waved them forward. “Good morning, girls.”
The sisters could have been twins, though they weren’t. Both had piles of lovely blond hair, brown eyes, and identical smiles.
“We made some hats for the contest,” Tarrah said, handing her box to Georgie.
“Oh, I’m so glad.” She propped their entries on top of the others, causing the stack to sway. She needed to move them into her bedroom before they toppled over.
“Look at all those,” Torie exclaimed. “And Maifest is still a month away.”
“I know. The competition is going to be fierce, I’m afraid.” Georgie smiled. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, no.” Tarrah tugged on her gloves. “We’re on our way to the Reading Circle. We’re discussing Tempest and Sunshine, by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.”
“Well, say hello to the group for me.”
“We will.” They hurried back the way they’d come, their suits the very latest in spring fashions.
Georgie envied them their ability to come and go at will. She’d never left her switchboard for more than a few minutes until Mr. Ottfried started his abominable Easter challenge. Since that time she’d shut the board down for three Plumage League meetings and two Junior Audubon sessions.
She’d received complaints about it, too. Her customers paid for service five days a week. Mr. Lockett from the livery had even requested a partial refund. And Mr. Ottfried, of course, had canceled his subscription completely.
A cardinal landed on her front porch railing, hopped three times, then flew off again. She strengthened her resolve. Even if she had to issue refunds out of her own money, it was the least she could do for her birds.
Turning, she began to transfer the hatboxes to her bedroom.
After two trips, Luke strode in, arms full. “Where do you want these?”
Too stunned to speak, she scrambled out of the way and pointed to the corner.
He skirted her bed, the boxes on top teetering.
Ding.
She hesitated. No one had ever been in here but her.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ve got them.”
Ding.
Suppressing a groan, she returned to the switchboard. “Hello, Central.”
“My battery’s about dead, Georgie. Can you send Luke over with a new one?”
“I’ll be glad to, Mr. Schmid. He’s working on a line north of town today, though. Would it be
all right if he stops by tomorrow?”
Luke stepped back into the living room and gathered up the last of the entries.
“Could it be first thing in the morning, then?” The wire crackled, distorting the mercantile owner’s voice. “I’m not sure it’ll last much longer than that. ’Course, it lasted longer than Leatherman’s.”
“Oh?” She kept her eyes on her bedroom door.
“Yep. We were having us a contest to see whose would last the longest.”
She shifted her weight. Why hadn’t Luke come out yet? “I’m assuming Mr. Palmer needs to bring a battery to Mr. Leatherman, then?”
“Yep. But bring mine first.”
“I’ll let Mr. Palmer know.” Removing the plug, she allowed its cord to retract, then hurried to her room.
Luke stood beside her washstand, fingering a hand towel on its rung. Her bedroom had never been big, but his presence dwarfed it even further.
He lifted his gaze, his fingers still pinching the cloth. “My mother used to do this to her towels.”
“Huck toweling?”
“Yes.” His finger grazed the blue stitches woven into the thin fabric. “Did you do this?”
“I did.”
“It’s nice.”
She looked at the towel. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a huck towel she used to dry her hands and face. “Thank you. And thank you for helping me with the boxes.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was quiet, still lost on some distant memory.
“Do you see your mother very often?”
“Not since I left home.”
“Me neither.”
His eyes connected with hers. So blue. So very blue.
After a moment, she widened the door. “You should probably come on out.”
He snatched his hand back and took a quick glance at her bed, as if just realizing where he was.
“Excuse me.” He strode from the room.
She closed the door behind them, its soft click loud in the quiet of the cottage.
“I’m sorry.” He stood in the center of the room like a chastised child. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t.”
