Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  Luke kissed her scalp, rubbed her arms and legs through the blanket, and rocked her like a baby, his touches bringing comfort and reassurance. Still the tears fell.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over.

  Her cries turned into hiccups. She wiped her face and nose with a corner of the blanket.

  “We need to tell the sheriff,” he said.

  She burrowed closer, drawing up her knees. “Not yet. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “He needs to know.”

  “Then, take me with you. But don’t leave me by myself.” The tears started again.

  He rested his cheek against her head. “I’ll be back quick as a wink.”

  “No.” She wrapped a fist around his overall strap. “No.”

  He acquiesced, making no move to leave the couch.

  Her breathing leveled. Her tears slowed. “You brought me a Mai tree?”

  Running a hand over her hair, he kissed her head. “Yes.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why?”

  He traced her jawline with a finger, its roughness abrading her skin and sending tingles along its path. “I don’t know.”

  “No one’s ever brought me a Mai tree before.”

  “Then the men of this town are idiots.”

  Snaking a hand out from the blanket, she drove her fingers into his thick, rich hair. “Your hair’s wet.”

  “I was hot after chopping down the tree and jumped in the creek to cool off.”

  “It must have been freezing.”

  “It was.”

  She wished she could see his eyes, but there was no fire lit in this room. She applied the slightest pressure to his head with her fingers. It was all the coaxing he needed. Bringing his lips to hers, he kissed her with a tenderness so sweet, her body turned to liquid.

  He rode a hand down the length of her arm, then stalled, stroking, stroking, before continuing to her waist, dragging the blanket with it.

  She shivered.

  He pulled back. “You need to get dressed.”

  With all that had happened, she’d totally forgotten she was in her nightdress. And though she should be embarrassed, shocked, she felt neither. Not anywhere close.

  He gently pushed her knees from his lap and lifted her to her feet. “Go on, now.”

  Her legs wobbled.

  He held her waist until she steadied.

  “You won’t leave?” she whispered.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Tugging the blanket back up to her shoulders, she padded to her room and clicked the door softly behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Georgie stepped back into the living room, her hair up and her chemise, corset, petticoat, stockings, shoes, and gown in place. Somehow, completing her toilette caused her to be starkly aware of how disheveled she’d been before. A delayed sense of embarrassment and shame swept through her.

  A fire blazed behind the grate. The switchboard sat upright. Luke crouched behind it, only his elbows and knees visible. At the sound of her door opening, he slowly stood, his gaze traveling from her coif clear down to her boots.

  Her cheeks burned.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’d like to apologize.”

  Frowning, he laid a pair of pliers on top of the switchboard’s hutch. “Apologize? For what?”

  She lowered her chin. “For not repairing myself immediately. For . . .” She twirled her hand toward the couch. “For crying all over you while I wore no more than . . . than my nightclothes.” She choked. “I’m so sorry. You must be mortified.”

  A log in the fire popped.

  He approached, his footsteps loud against the plank flooring. With an index finger, he tilted up her face. “Mortification isn’t exactly the word I’d have used.”

  His eyes were penetrating. His lower lip full. His whiskers dark.

  The blackness beyond the windows reminded her she stood alone, in her home, at two in the morning, with an unmarried man.

  “I think you’re right,” she whispered. “You’d best go get the sheriff.”

  “There’s no need. I fixed the board and called him already. He’ll be here any minute.”

  She slid her eyes shut. Her reputation would be ruined. It hadn’t even occurred to her until this moment. But no one would believe she was still chaste after being set upon by three men. And even if they did, an unmarried man had been the one to rescue her.

  “Are you sure that was wise?” she asked.

  He drew his brows together. “You think your attackers might retaliate?”

  “I think my reputation will be in shreds come morning.”

  His entire face paled. “But nothing happened.”

  “Not with the intruders.” She glanced at the couch. “I can’t say the same about us.”

  He scowled. “Nothing happened between us, either.”

  “I’m not sure the good ladies of Brenham would agree.”

  “Then the good ladies of Brenham can be d—”

  She touched a finger to his lips. “There’s a reason society has rules about unmarried women being alone with unmarried men. And what happened between us on the couch is a perfect example.”

  He wrapped his hand around hers. “Nothing happened on that couch. We kissed. Nothing more.”

  “I was in my nightdress,” she whispered, humiliation clogging her throat. “On your lap.”

  “If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I’m the one who carried you out here. I’m the one who pulled you onto my lap. But truth is, under the circumstances, I’d do it again.”

  “You’re justifying.”

  “So I am. Nothing happened.”

  Outside, Honey Dew gave an expectant whinny and received a distant one in reply.

  “The sheriff’s almost here,” he said. “When he arrives, you tell him about the men who broke in. What happened after I found you is between you and me.”

  She pulled away from him and headed to the kitchen. “Doesn’t matter. I’m ruined anyway.”

  “You’re not ruined.”

  “I am.” She propped open the door. “And, as such, I won’t be able to stay.”

  “Won’t be able to stay?”

  “In Brenham.”

  His jaw began to tick. “Did those men touch you, other than to tie you up?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, yes it does.” He followed her into the kitchen. She felt him closing in, his footsteps stopping right behind her.

  She fit a small muslin bag into a coffeepot. “Thank you for stocking the stove and putting some water on to boil.”

  Grasping her arm, he spun her around. “Did those men touch you, other than to tie you up? Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Then you are not ruined.” His eyes were ablaze, his tone fierce.

  She sighed. “Please let go. I’m tired of being treated roughly.”

  He dropped her arm as if he’d been singed and fell back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She pulled the coffee canister from a cupboard, her eyes filling at the thought of leaving her job, her cottage, her birds, her friends.

  “What if you marry me?” he asked.

  Letting out a short huff of air, she scooped two tablespoons of coffee into the muslin bag. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “But you don’t love me.”

  “I’m thinking we’ll get along just fine.”

  She looked at him and saw he was, in fact, serious. The overwhelming generosity of his gesture filled her with warmth. “I can’t let you do that, Luke. But thank you. Thank you for being willing.”

  “Georgie?” The sheriff pounded on her door. “Open up. It’s me. Nussbaum.”

  She set down the spoon and moved toward the door.

  Luke grabbed her hand.

  She winced, her wrists still tender.

  “Marry me,” he repeated.

  “Georgie?” Th
e sheriff again.

  “I’m coming!” she called, then tugged on her hand, but he wouldn’t free it. “No, Luke. I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I’m not going to marry you.”

  “Then, will you go to Maifest with me?”

  She tugged again. “Let go.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Georgie?” More hammering. “What in tarnation is going on in there? Open up or I’m bustin’ in.”

  “Coming!”

  “Answer me.” Jaw set, his eyes impaled her.

  “Fine,” she hissed. “Now let go.”

  He released her. She flew to the door.

  The sheriff’s brown hair was mussed, his glasses cockeyed, his mustache flat. He looked like an untried boy with pasted-on facial hair. “What took so long? You all right? Palmer said you had some trouble. What’s he doing over here at this hour?”

  “I was leaving a Mai tree at her window.” Luke crossed the room, extending a hand. “She called for help when she heard me. I busted in and found her tied up.”

  “Tied up?” He shook Luke’s hand, then gave her a once-over.

  “Show him your wrists, Georgie,” Luke said.

  She pushed up a sleeve, revealing rings of raw, scraped skin.

  The sheriff furrowed his brows. “Better tell me everything.”

  Taking a breath, she tugged her sleeve back into place. “I’ve just put some coffee on. Would you care to join me in the kitchen? We can talk in there.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she headed to the kitchen. Both men followed in her wake.

  Luke and Nussbaum hadn’t been gone for more than thirty minutes when Kathy Patrick arrived. She swept into the cottage and wrapped Georgie in a bear hug. “The sheriff came by and had Jay wake me up. He thought you might not want to be alone.”

  Having grown up in a home where every ounce of her mother’s energy had been used to survive, Georgie was nearly brought to her knees by the unexpected comfort and support of Mrs. Patrick. The two of them clung together, strength from the Plumage League Float Chairwoman funneling into Georgie.

  “Did they hurt you?” Mrs. Patrick cushioned Georgie against her breadth, providing an unflappable refuge.

  “No,” she said, her voice muffled in the folds of Mrs. Patrick’s embrace. “The skin on my wrists is broken, but that was mostly from me struggling against the bindings.” Georgie pulled away, her lip trembling. “I’m ruined, though. I can’t stay here anymore.”

  Mrs. Patrick sucked in her breath. “I thought you said they didn’t hurt you.”

  “They didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact three men were here, in the dead of night, and me in nothing but my nightclothes.”

  Mrs. Patrick’s face hardened. “I don’t know what the women were like where you come from, Georgie, but the women of Brenham will not pass judgment over you for something that was not your doing. You have my word on it.”

  Georgie had seen that look before and knew it meant business. She swallowed. “They burnt the hats.” She choked. “All of them.”

  “A rather small sacrifice, all things considered.”

  Georgie swiped her eyes. “But the women spent hours making them. And what about all the money we were to have raised for Audubon? What will the Maifest Queen be crowned with?”

  Mrs. Patrick slipped her hand into Georgie’s and squeezed. “You let me worry about that. Did they do anything to the float?”

  “I don’t think so. I hid it behind Langkwitz’s house. Luke went to check on it when he left here. He said if anything had happened, he’d come back and tell me. Since he hasn’t returned, I’m assuming all’s well.”

  She let out a soft sigh. “Well, that’s a piece of good news, anyway. Did you recognize the men who broke in?”

  She nodded. “One of them was Frank Comer.”

  “Frank Comer?” Mrs. Patrick pulled in her chin. “Why, he’d never be involved with something of this sort. What makes you think it was him?”

  “I spoke with him while my train was robbed in February. Remember?”

  She tilted her head. “I remember you saying you thought it was him, but you can’t be sure.”

  “Who else would it have been? And one of the men tonight had his eyes. I’m sure of it.”

  “But what possible reason would Comer have for burning the hats? Because clearly that’s what they came to do. If it was you they were after, things would have gone much differently.”

  “That’s what the sheriff said, too.” In an attempt to relieve her headache, Georgie rubbed her temples. “I told him the only person I knew of who would benefit from destroying the hats was Mr. Ottfried.”

  Mrs. Patrick herded her toward the kitchen. “Well, I wouldn’t rush to any conclusions. Let’s wait and see what Nussbaum says once he’s had a chance to look into things. For now, I want to make a poultice for those wrists of yours.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Nonsense. You sit and let me pamper you.”

  Georgie pointed to the cupboard where she kept her powdered resin and clean rags.

  Mrs. Patrick retrieved them, then sifted the resin onto Georgie’s wrists. “I saw someone brought you a nice big Mai tree.”

  “It’s big? I haven’t been out there yet.”

  “Plenty big. And filled with streamers.”

  She bit her lip. “It was Luke. He made a terrible racket when he delivered it. As soon as I realized it was him, I called out. He’s the one who found me.”

  “I think it’s probably best if you keep as much of the particulars to yourself as you can.” Setting the resin aside, Mrs. Patrick blew on the raw skin.

  Tenderness for her welled up within Georgie. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you worry another minute.” Finished, she sat back in her chair. “Have you had any sleep at all?”

  “A few snatches here and there.”

  She helped Georgie to her feet. “Well, let’s get you to bed, then. But first, I need you to show me how to operate that switchboard out there.”

  Georgie paused. “The switchboard? Why?”

  “I told Jay I was staying the night, and while I’m here, there are a few phone calls I want to make.”

  Yawning, she allowed Mrs. Patrick to guide her into the living area. She explained the basics, then fell into bed—corset, boots, and all. Memories immediately bombarded her. She forced aside the thought of being tied to the bed. Of being threatened. Of being freed from it. For now, all she wanted was to escape into blessed oblivion.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A yelp of fright escaped Georgie as a booming cannon awoke her.

  Mrs. Patrick hurried into her bedroom. “It’s all right, little one. That’s just the Brenham Field Artillery announcing the opening of Maifest.”

  The events of the night filled her again as thoroughly as sunlight filled her bedroom. She placed an arm over her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine. Luke’s been by once already with the float. I told him to take it to my house so Jay could hitch it up to our horse. But he’ll be back for you right soon. So get on up now and I’ll help you with your toilette.”

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, Georgie immediately noted the empty hatboxes had been removed. On the door of her wardrobe hung Luke’s favorite gown of maroon with the epaulets and beaded fringe.

  “Come on.” Mrs. Patrick helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  At some point, the woman had found time to change into a gold silk festival gown and to adorn her dark red hair with a stunning hat of tulle.

  “You look gorgeous,” Georgie said, admiring the hat’s beaded net overlay with intricate embroidery.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  For the next forty minutes, Mrs. Patrick fussed over Georgie, helping her remove her wrinkled linsey-woolsey and underclothes, then replace them with fresh underpinnings before changing her bandages.

  “Luke specifically requested you wear this.” Mrs. Patrick shook out the
gown’s freshly brushed skirt. “It’s just the thing, I think. Its long sleeves and lace trim will keep your bandages well hidden.”

  Without protest, Georgie allowed herself to be dressed, then guided to a chair Mrs. Patrick had brought in from the kitchen.

  Laying her hands in her lap, Georgie closed her eyes, relishing the feel of having someone comb out her hair. She felt like a princess with a lady-in-waiting.

  Humming a soft tune, Mrs. Patrick clamped some celluloid pins in her mouth. “What hat do you usually wear with this dress?”

  Moisture filled her eyes. “They burned it.”

  Mrs. Patrick paused, her gaze meeting Georgie’s in the mirror. “They burned it?”

  “Yes. Every hat in the room was thrown into the fire.”

  Sorrow tugged at her lips. “Well, I’ll fix your hair especially nice, then.”

  She was as good as her word, arranging Georgie’s hair in an artful profusion of tucked-in curls. Stepping back, she admired her work. “Lovely. Now come outside. I have something to show you.”

  Georgie assumed she wanted her to see the Mai tree, but Mrs. Patrick led her to the back porch instead of the front. The unmistakable chirping of baby birds pulled Georgie’s gaze to the starch box. Mr. Bluebird slipped inside just as the missus slipped out.

  Euphoria filled her. The second set of eggs had hatched. She scanned the trees. The cardinals had yet to build their nest, but they were never very far. She could hear their vibrant, musical voices, but could only spot a flycatcher and two thrushes. A monarch butterfly lifted from the yellow buds of her sumac bush. It flitted to the side yard, passing an old farmer’s wagon, its bed filled with hatboxes.

  She slipped her hand into Mrs. Patrick’s and squeezed. “You didn’t have to have a wagon brought around. I would’ve found some way to dispose of the boxes.”

  A smile played at Mrs. Patrick’s lips. “Go look inside them.”

  “What?”

  “Go on.” She shooed Georgie with her hands. “Open them.”

  She hesitated. Truth was, she didn’t want to. She had no desire to touch anything those men had. But after everything Mrs. Patrick had done, she wasn’t about to refuse her request.