Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  “I don’t know what I was thinking—I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. And I do appreciate your help.”

  He swallowed. “Right. Well. I guess I better go.”

  “Schmid Brothers Mercantile needs a new battery for their wall unit, as does Mr. Leatherman over on West Street.”

  “Yes. I heard. If I can’t get to it today, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Clearing his throat, he grabbed his hat and pushed through the screen.

  She caught the door with her hand, guiding it shut. She never knew what to expect when she saw him. One minute he’d be grouchy, the next just the opposite. But no matter his mood or hers, the tension between them remained constant.

  She watched through the tightly woven mesh of the door as he strode to his horse and unbuckled its breast collar. The pinto turned her head toward him, the reins holding her to the hitching post. He stroked her neck and murmured something, his tone deep, gentle.

  Unsaddling a horse was as everyday as washing one’s face, yet seeing him undo the flank strap, toss up the stirrup, and release the cinch fascinated her. Each movement sure, fluid, and economic. She pressed a hand against her midriff, but it did little to settle the commotion within.

  He grabbed both ends of the saddle blanket and tugged. His back and shoulder muscles bunched as saddle, pads, and bags slid off the horse and into his hands. With a shortened stride, he hauled his burden to her side-yard shed, disappearing inside.

  Moments later, he reappeared with the cart harness. His pinto perked her ears and swished her white tail. It was a beautiful horse. Deep brown head, neck, and shoulders. White mane, tail, girth, and legs from the hocks down. Georgie still couldn’t believe he’d named it after a brand of chewing tobacco.

  Did he chew? she wondered. If he did, she’d never seen him, nor did he ever reek of it.

  He sorted out the tangle of leather straps in his arms. Attaching a cart harness was every bit as complicated as attiring a woman for a night at the ball. He buckled the breast collar onto Honey Dew, smoothed out the backstrap, arranged the breeching strap, and tightened her belly band.

  In between each step, his large hands stroked, patted, and checked for a tight but comfortable fit. Georgie wished she could hear what he was saying to the mare, for he kept up a steady stream of dialog.

  He slipped a bridle with blinders over the horse’s nose and ears, fluffing the forelock as if it were a woman’s coiffure. Georgie smoothed the back of her hair, tucking loose tendrils into her twist.

  Honey Dew bumped Luke with her muzzle. He leaned in and whispered. The horse gave a long, blustery sigh, flicking her ears. Luke chuckled, the deep tenor of it causing Georgie’s stomach to drop.

  Releasing Honey Dew from the hitching post, he led her to the side of the house where he stored his installer’s cart. Georgie couldn’t see them, but she could hear the creak of the wheels, the looping of straps, the undertone of Luke’s voice. Finally, he walked Honey Dew to the street and climbed onto the green driver’s seat. Picking up the reins, he turned his head toward Georgie, his eyes connecting with hers, his gaze intense.

  She fell back and out of sight, her breath lodged in her throat. He’d known. He’d known she stood there and ogled him. She pressed her hands against her cheeks.

  After a moment, he clicked his tongue, signaling his horse. Georgie stayed in the shadows of her living room until the jangle of harness and creak of wheel had long since faded.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hello, Central.”

  “It’s me,” Luke said.

  A slight intake of breath. “Oh. Well, um, hello. Did you want to connect to someone?”

  “No. I’m at the Oodsons’. In order to isolate the trouble, I’m going to stop at each farm or ranch on this line and ring back to you until I find one that doesn’t work properly.”

  “All right.”

  “Everything’s good here, sounds like.”

  “Yes. I believe the earth would have stopped spinning had Mrs. Oodson’s line been down.”

  He smiled. “Party lines, Miss Gail. Anyone can hear.”

  A soft snort carried over the wire. “I guess she isn’t there, since the Reading Circle’s meeting at Mrs. Patrick’s right now?”

  “No, she isn’t here. I let myself in.”

  “You’re off to the Klebergs’ next?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to you in a bit, then.”

  “All right.”

  Neither hung up.

  He pictured her as he’d left her, standing at the screen door, watching his every move. Why did she do that? But he knew why. And try as he might, he couldn’t deny his fascination with her, either.

  She’d looked like a living sunset in a dress he’d not seen before. High yellow collar, fawn-colored yoke, deep maroon gown, all trimmed with golden fringe which quivered at the tiniest encouragement. He’d wanted to trace the fringe with his finger, follow it from epaulets to the vee of her yoke.

  “Is that a new dress you’re wearing?” he asked.

  “No. Yes. A little.”

  He propped a shoulder against the wall. “It’s nice. I like it.”

  A pause. “Thank you.”

  “What’s going on in your backyard?”

  He heard her chair creak. “Mr. Bluebird’s nowhere in sight. He must be out hunting for food. Mrs. Bluebird is incubating her eggs.”

  “They’re married?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because . . . they’re, you know, they’re having a family.”

  “Did Audubon’s publication tell you birds who nest are married?”

  “I’ll have you know, sir, bluebirds mate for life.”

  “They do?”

  “They do.”

  “Well, then. I stand corrected.” Across the room a pair of carved cuckoo birds in an ornate clock poked out to announce the quarter hour. “Are cuckoo birds monogamous?”

  “Mostly.”

  “In that case, Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo say hello.”

  She chuckled.

  He pushed away from the wall. “Listen, I better go. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

  “All right.” This time, she pulled the plug.

  “Hello, Central.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Hello.” Her voice dropped to an intimate level.

  Slipping a hand into his pocket, he looked down. Mud caked the toe of his left boot. He’d have to be careful not to leave a mess in Mrs. Dobbing’s hallway. “Sounds like this line is working, too.”

  “Yes. What took you so long to get there?”

  “I stopped by the Grants’. And guess what? They bought a subscription.”

  “They did? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” He jingled the coins in his pocket. “Mrs. Grant was telling me about Maifest. She says it’s the biggest event of the year.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “She said fellas secretly place Mai trees in front of the windows of their sweethearts.”

  “Yes. The phone lines are always buzzing the next morning.”

  He wondered if anyone had ever left one for her. “She told me about a parade. Plus a greased pig chase and a Maypole dance.”

  “I’ve only been to last year’s, but they had all that and a merry-go-round, too.”

  “Yeah?” He lifted his brows. “I’ve never seen a merry-go-round.”

  “It was my first, as well. From what I hear, they aren’t bringing it in again. It was evidently quite expensive.”

  “That’s too bad.” He cleared his throat. “Are you going with anyone in particular this year?”

  A slight pause. “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “Um, no.”

  Silence.

  “Well.” He shifted his weight onto one foot. “I guess I�
��ll head on to the next phone.”

  “That would be the Halls.”

  “The Halls. Okay. I’ll call you from there.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “Talk to you in a bit, then.” This time, he hung up first.

  “Hello, Central.”

  “It’s me.” He plugged up one ear. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.” She raised her voice.

  “Can you hear me okay? The Halls have a passel of kids and I can’t hear a thing.”

  “You’re coming through loud and clear.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna keep going.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

  “Hello, Central.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her voice dropped again, doing strange things to his stomach.

  “This is much better,” he said. “Much quieter.”

  “You’re at the Tanskes’?”

  “Yes. They’re out in the fields.”

  “Did you stop somewhere on the way?”

  “I tried to sell Mr. Büchner a subscription, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Mrs. Büchner fed me lunch, though.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Barbeque and some kind of potato dish I can’t pronounce, but it was really good. What about you? What did you have for lunch?”

  “I didn’t eat.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted to make some sugar water for the hummingbirds.”

  He frowned. “You do that a lot, don’t you? Skip lunch, I mean.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say a lot, but sometimes.”

  “You’re going to be the size of those hummingbirds if you’re not careful.”

  “I doubt that.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

  “You know what you need?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “An ice cream.”

  “What?”

  “An ice cream.” He pictured the new ice cream parlor next door to the post office. “Hodde & Kruse opened up today. They’re going to dispense cream, soda, and soft drinks all through the summer.”

  “Oh my.”

  “You want some?”

  “Well, I . . . do you?”

  “Why, sure. Don’t you?”

  “I, yes. I love ice cream.”

  “Then, let’s go get some. Right after work.”

  “Today?” she squeaked.

  “Why not?”

  Every alarm bell in his system rang in earnest. He ignored them all. He was a man. She was a woman. He was interested in her. She was interested in him. He’d told her he wasn’t looking for a wife. She’d not pressed for an explanation.

  “Well . . . all right,” she said. “After work?”

  Suddenly, he couldn’t finish fast enough. “Five o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Someone’s ringing in,” she said.

  “I’ll let you go, then. Call you at the next stop.” Hanging up, he hurried out to Honey Dew, anxious to find the trouble so he could return to town in time to clean up.

  “Hello, Central.”

  “Can you hear me now?” Luke asked.

  “Yes. Was that you trying to call earlier?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t get through.”

  “What happened?”

  He shook his head. “Mrs. Ragston had grounded out the circuit by wrapping a hairpin around the line and the ground posts of the phone.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “I know. I’ve fixed it, though.”

  “You’re all done, then?”

  “I am. It’ll be quitting time when I get back to town. So would you let Schmid know I’ll bring him his battery first thing in the morning?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” He wound the cord of the receiver around his thumb. “I can’t be by for you right at five. Not if I clean up first.”

  “That’s fine. I want to eat a little supper anyway.”

  “Okay, but don’t fill up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Georgie?” He touched the unit, willing her to hear him before she pulled the plug.

  “Yes?”

  He let out his breath. “Don’t change. I like that dress.”

  “All right.”

  He dropped his hand. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She hesitated before finally disconnecting them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Luke hadn’t been nervous when he’d disarmed a cold-eyed gunslinger in an El Paso saloon. Nor when he’d charged the hideout of the notorious Miller Gang. Nor when he’d single-handedly subdued a mob.

  But as he tied Honey Dew to Georgie’s hitching post, his hands shook, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his mouth went dry. He blew out a long breath. It was just a woman. And she was tiny as a cricket bug.

  He wiped his hands on his legs. When he’d changed out of his work clothes, he’d automatically put on another pair of overalls. What would she think when she saw him? That he held so little regard for her, he wouldn’t even don a pair of trousers?

  But the loose overalls provided him an edge of anonymity—maybe not for someone who knew him well, but certainly for those who might have seen him from afar. Lucious Landrum dressed in top-quality clothing made to exact specifications. If someone in town had ever glimpsed him, they wouldn’t reconcile that man with Brenham’s overall-clad telephone man.

  But were he to wear pants and shirt, it might be just enough to spark recognition. That was a chance he couldn’t take. Even for Georgie.

  He let himself through the gate half expecting to see her waiting for him at the screen door. But not only was she nowhere in sight, the front door was shut. He couldn’t remember it ever being closed before.

  And it was blue. Between it, her yellow siding, green bench, and red swing, she had most every color in the rainbow up there. Taking a deep breath, he opened the screen and knocked.

  The door opened immediately. A burst of cinnamon wafted about them. Her face held no smile, no dimples, no laugh lines. Only wide eyes and a delectable mole. He followed the line of her jaw. A black lace ruffle lining her yellow collar tickled her chin.

  He stuck both hands in his pockets. “You ready for some ice cream?”

  “Let me grab my wrap.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “Then I wish you wouldn’t. I’d rather you not cover up your dress.”

  She turned to face him, one hand on her hip, head slanted to the side. “What is it about this dress you like so much?”

  It makes your cheeks pink. Your lips lush. Your curves prominent. And the fringe on its yoke moves every time you take a breath.

  “I don’t know. I just like it, I guess.”

  “Well, let me at least put on my hat.”

  “You wear hats?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve never seen you in a hat.”

  “That’s because of my earpiece.” She slipped inside her bedroom, then returned a couple minutes later wearing a straw hat with a filmy covering and clusters of yellow and maroon blossoms.

  It completely changed her looks. Not better or worse, just different. Her eyes seemed larger, her lips fuller, her mole smaller.

  “I’m sorry about my overalls,” he said. “It’s all I have.”

  She tugged on her gloves. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “I’m the telephone operator. I know everything.”

  He offered her his arm. “God checks in with you, does He?”

  “We talk all the time.”

  Chuckling, he assisted her down the steps and out to the street. A nondescript brown bird winged past them.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “A mockingbird.”

  He gave her a sharp glance. “You can’t know that.”

  “They have a white band on the end of their wings making them easy to spot.”

  He looked the direction it had gone, but it was nowhere i
n sight. “How long have you been a birdwatcher?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Since I was fourteen, I think?”

  “What made you take it up? A nest of hatchlings outside your window? A maidenly aunt taking you on a birding expedition?”

  “Nothing that lovely, I’m afraid.” The golden fringe along her epaulets and yoke rocked with each step. “My mother married a man with a wicked temper. The forest was my refuge. It was there I discovered birds.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. No emotion. No inflection.

  “Is that why you’ve never returned home to see her?”

  “Yes. That and my job.”

  “She’s alive, then?”

  “Yes. What about you? You said you’d not seen your mother, either. Is your mother alive?”

  “She is.”

  “What about your father?”

  He took a deep breath. “He died when I was ten.”

  She stopped, her eyes round. “Me too.”

  Plenty of emotion that time.

  “You were ten?”

  “Thirteen. And the farm we’d lived and worked on our entire lives was taken from us because Mama wasn’t allowed to keep it without a husband.”

  He nodded. “A hurricane hit our house. The lanterns inside were lit and the house burnt to the ground with my dad inside. So we didn’t have anything, either. We moved four hundred miles to my uncle’s place.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  “Not as good as my dad.” He tucked her arm back under his, keeping his hand atop it as they turned onto Sycamore, passing house after house.

  The more traditional were T- or L-shaped, but the two- and three-story Victorians postured in bright colors and gingerbread trim. All sported large verandas with rocking chairs along the front. The occupants of the chairs called out to Georgie, looking with interest at Luke.

  At Market Street, they exchanged homes, picket fences, and sprawling trees for commercial buildings with two-story fronts and awning-covered entrances. Horses, wagons, carts, and carriages jockeyed for position, churning up a constant swirl of dust. He guided Georgie to the side opposite Ottfried’s Millinery, giving the place a wide berth. Still, she never took her eyes from its entrance, noting who was going in and who was coming out.