by Deeanne Gist
“I know you’re about to close for the day,” Georgie said, taking a tentative step forward, “but I saw your display window and couldn’t help but come in.”
That wasn’t exactly true. She had, of course, seen the window display just now. It held a variety of beautifully decorated hats—not a bird part in sight. But she’d come today because the women of town had told her about it.
“He’s completely redone his stock,” Mrs. Patrick had said. “Instead of every hat having a bird part on it, none of them do.”
Georgie had touched the receiver at her ear, ensuring she’d heard correctly. “None? Not a single one?”
“None,” Mrs. Patrick confirmed. “If a woman wants a bird part on her hat, she has to put in a special request.”
“But if he has no bird parts, how will he fill the request?”
“He still has the bird parts he’s stripped from his hats. So he opens the drawers and lets the customer choose what she wants.”
Georgie had collapsed against her chair. “Good heavens.”
With such a momentous show of support, and knowing he’d been wrongfully maligned, she could not stay away. “I’d like to buy a hat, please.”
“Why?” he asked.
She swallowed. The truth was, she couldn’t afford a hat. Especially not one from a place as fine as his. But sometimes, doing the right thing was more important than worrying over the financial implications. “I feel you’ve been treated unjustly and I’m partly to blame.”
He blinked. Clearly, he’d not expected her response. It didn’t take long, however, for his expression to sour. “You’re entirely to blame.”
“Not entirely.” She was willing to call a truce, but she wasn’t willing to shoulder all the responsibility. “Before now, the majority of your products held bird parts. Still, we live in a country where one is innocent until proven guilty. I know you weren’t one of the men who broke into my home. And though I don’t know who instructed them to destroy the hats, I find I can’t condemn you simply because it’s convenient.”
His jaw tightened. “A little late, wouldn’t you say?”
“I hope not.”
He swept his arm to encompass the room. “Do you see how empty this is? It’s been this way since Maifest. Since those men burned your hats.” He looked her up and down. “I have to admit, I’ve wondered if you weren’t the one who hired them simply to tilt the scales in your favor.”
She sucked in her breath. “I assure you, I did not.”
“No?” He crossed his arms. “Not very pleasant to be wrongly accused, is it, Miss Gail?”
“No, it’s not.” She cleared her throat. “If you have time, I was hoping to look at some of your toques or maybe something with a straw foundation.”
His eyes took on a smug quality. “I understand you place great store on Nellie Bly.”
Lips parting, she quickly scanned the shop. “Do you have her hat?”
“Matter of fact, I do. It just came in this week.” Opening a cupboard, he removed a Panama hat on a handsome stand and plunked it on the counter. “Here you are, Miss Gail. A genuine Nellie Bly hat on a straw foundation. Would you like me to point out its features?”
She stepped up to it. A miniature bird poised on its crown. Its body was of pure white, its wings a glossy, radiant purple and black. She didn’t know what it was, only that it was tropical. Had Nellie seen the species during her travels around the world?
A wave of sickness swept through her as another idol fell from the pedestal she’d placed it on. First Frank Comer, now Nellie Bly. It wasn’t a fair comparison, of course. Comer was a criminal. Bly was a suffragette.
But to Georgie, they’d both been idols. And by their very nature, at some point or another, they always, always disappoint.
Taking a deep breath, she placed her coins on the counter. “Even without the bird, I’m afraid her hat would be out of my range. This is all I have.”
He glanced at her money. Without a word, he turned around, opened a drawer, pulled out a bare straw hat, and slapped it on the counter. “Here you are, Miss Gail. Thank you for your business.”
Her lips parted. She’d given him seven dollars. A fortune, especially for her. She knew as well as he the frame of a hat didn’t cost seven dollars. More like fifty cents.
She opened her mouth to argue, when a spurt of compassion stopped her. She took another moment before deciding to listen to the prompting of her heart. “Thank you. Would you mind wrapping it for me?”
For the second time, he looked nonplussed before remembering all the ignominy he’d suffered and placed upon her doorstep. With righteous indignation, he wrapped the hat in tissue, then brown paper, and tied it with a string.
Scooping it into her arms, she offered a quiet thank-you and left the building.
The children clamored around Georgie’s window, each trying to peek inside the nest.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is.” Eugene crossed his arms over his overall bib. “She’s just sittin’ there.”
“She has eggs under her, dummy,” Bettina snapped. “The eggs won’t hatch less’n she sits on ’em.”
“I ain’t no dummy.” He dropped his hands, his chest puffing out.
Good heavens, Georgie thought. Did all males inherit a predisposition to that stance? “Bettina, do not call names. Apologize to Eugene.”
The girl jiggled her leg. “Sorry.”
“Listen, Miss Georgie.” Belle turned to her, blue eyes wide, blond curls swinging. “She’s calling for Prince Albert.”
The female cardinal’s soft voice floated over the yard.
“So she is.”
The group quieted.
“What’s she want?” Eugene whispered, his interest captured.
She peered over their heads. “A little snack, I suppose. Or maybe just some company. Try to imagine how you’d feel if you had to sit in one spot for ten days in a row.”
A fate worse than death for a lively group such as this.
“How much longer does she have to sit there?” This from Fritz Ottfried.
Georgie had told no one, other than Luke, of her exchange with the milliner. But two days later, Fritz had attended their Junior Audubon meeting and every one since. They’d been having them more frequently because the children were as excited as she about the cardinals.
She wondered if Mr. Ottfried knew she’d have paid much, much more for Fritz’s attendance. “Only a couple more days. Three at the most.”
“Then they’ll hatch?”
“Then they’ll hatch.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Duane kicked a rock, sending it skittering down the alley. “If that Necker don’t be careful, he’s gonna be so henpecked he’ll molt twice a year.”
The boy had been sulking all night, and Luke could hardly blame him. His position as best friend had been usurped by a woman. As soon as Luke bid Georgie good night each evening, he’d sought out Duane and Necker. And once Necker had assured himself of Luke’s availability, the recently wed man often bowed out.
Luke hadn’t minded at all. Necker’s idea of fun was of a more sordid nature. Duane, however, had yet to fully develop a taste for the unsavory. His pranks were suited to those of a mischievous youth. He was also less guarded than Necker and easier to extract information from.
“‘Lulie don’t like ta be left alone,’” Duane imitated in a singsong voice. “‘Lulie ain’t feelin’ well tonight. Lulie saw a mouse and gots the shivery creeps.’” His lip curled in disgust. “The shivery creeps. I’d like to show her the shivery creeps.” He pulled up short.
Luke scanned the alley front and back to see what had startled the boy, but saw nothing. “What?”
Duane’s eyes were wide. A slow smile began to form.
A sigh of resignation escaped before Luke could stop it. He’d seen that look before.
“I got an i-deer.” Duane took off at a fast clip. “Faller me.”
They wound their way through town, avo
iding the main thoroughfares, finally ending up at the feed store. Striking a match on his back pocket, Duane opened the door to the storage area and quickly lit a lantern. “’Member those traps we set?”
Nodding, Luke closed the door behind him.
“Well, they worked real good. And Pa told me I had ta get rid of the mice ’fore they get loose and I have to catch ’em all over again.”
They skirted around a large feed cutter and past several sacks of grain. The squeaks and distress calls of mice filled the hemmed-in room, backed by the stench of their droppings.
Duane handed him the lantern. “Hold this.” Bending over, he caught hold of a large cage and lifted it from behind a stack of feed troughs.
Four or five dozen mice screeched and crawled over each other like waves cresting and dipping in an ocean.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” Duane tilted the cage, sending the lot of them sliding to one side. “I had no i-deer we had so many of these fellers back here.”
“That’s a mighty big catch, all right.”
Duane bent his face close to the cage and clicked his tongue. “It’s okay, fellers. It’s just me.” He tapped his fingernail against the bars. “Pa tol’ me to drown ’em last week, but I just can’t bring myself to do it again. You have any idea how long it takes to drown a mouse?”
Luke pursed his lips. “Can’t say I do.”
Duane looked over his shoulder. “A looooong time.”
What was this boy doing in Comer’s gang? A boy too tenderhearted to drown a mouse was holding up women and children on trains. How was Luke going to haul him off to the calaboose when he reminded him so much of Alec?
“Listen, Duane—”
Straightening, the boy wagged a finger at Luke. “Now, don’t tell me yer backin’ out ’fore I even tell ya the plan.”
“I’m not trying to back out, I’m just—”
He scowled. “Necker done tol’ me yer all gurgle and no guts, but I stuck up fer ya. Told him I know ya better than he does. I’m gonna be sorely disappointed if’n you turn out to be full o’ butter.”
Luke tensed. Necker still had doubts? Was that why he hadn’t been invited into the gang? What more did they want? “Lead the way. I’m all in.”
Duane clapped him on the back. “That’s it. Now grab two of them buckets over yonder and come with me. It’s a good hike out to Necker’s and we ain’t even made it to Charlie’s yet—though you stink to high heaven as usual. How ’bout letting me have a swill from yer stash?”
Patting the bib hiding his flask of water, Luke shook his head. “Sorry, Duane. I don’t share my coffin varnish with anybody. Not even you.”
“Well, come on, then. Let’s get this over with, ’cause if I don’t get me some neck oil soon, I’m gonna have to prime myself to spit.”
Necker slept awfully sound for a man living on the edge. Between Duane stirring up dust and the mice letting out squeaks, Luke had expected to be on the receiving end of a double-barrel shotgun. But nothing moved inside the little log cabin other than a tiny trickle of smoke from its chimney.
Duane looked at him. “You ready?”
He nodded.
Pointing to a window on the side of the cabin, Duane lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s the one.” His smile grew wide. “It’s right over the bed.”
Luke couldn’t help but answer the boy’s infectious grin.
“We’ll have to move fast,” Duane continued. “Them critters aren’t gonna like being bounced around. If Necker hears, he’ll go straight fer his gun, but he’ll go round front ’fore he does any shootin’. So keep going, ’cause his missus’ll still be abed. If he catches us ’fore we make cover, he’ll know who it is and aim high.”
Luke set the empty buckets on the ground, his pulse picking up speed. “I’m ready.”
Opening the top of the cage, Duane poured mice into each bucket. Sure enough, the tiny creatures protested. Swooping up the buckets, the two of them raced to the open window and tossed the contents inside.
Horrific screams and a string of curses erupted from the cabin. They sprinted to the thicket, then dove to the ground when the shots started. Duane tried to hold his laughter but couldn’t.
“Duane Pfeuffer, you no ’count son of a pig keeper, I’m gonna knock yer ears down so they’ll do ya fer wings.”
The boy rolled to his back, laughter pouring from his gut. The sound echoed across the landscape and mixed with a woman using words so hot they’d burn her throat. The coarser her curses, the harder Duane laughed. “Who-wee, but that gal sure knows how to air her lungs.”
“You out there with him, Palmer, you lily-livered dog?”
“I am,” he shouted, then rolled to the right as more gunfire sounded. But he needn’t have bothered. Necker was clearly shooting into the sky. “Well, get back here and help me catch these godforsaken things.”
Scrambling to his feet, but keeping low, Duane half ran, half crawled in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get outta here.”
Luke needed no urging. When Necker realized they weren’t returning, the gunfire came a bit closer, but they pressed on until they were well out of range.
Three of the four eggs hatched. Georgie named them Edward, Alice, and Leopold. The children filed in and out, checking on the progress of the chicks. They watched Victoria and Albert take turns hunting for food. Grabbed their throats when they saw how far the monarchs inserted their bills when feeding the fledglings. And asked if birds ever ran out of bugs.
From her position at the switchboard, she could see them perfectly, though sometimes she used her opera glasses just to get a close-up look. Today was Day Five, and as soon as quitting time came, she rolled her chair to the corner. Through her glasses she could see a tiny crest on top of Edward’s head.
Field book in hand, she sketched him perched on the side of the nest, mouth open and squawking for Mama. A muffled snort behind her caused her to glance over her shoulder.
Luke had arrived at half past four and fallen asleep in the easy chair. Though he never spoke of his Ranger work, she knew it had kept him up late this past week. She assumed he was writing reports. He certainly couldn’t be looking for men in the dead of night. But whatever it was, it had worn him out.
Her gaze moved to the hat he’d brought her. A double-faced satin straw with maroon on the outside and yellow underneath its brim. A perfect complement to his favorite dress and a poignant apology for burning her hats by mistake. It had to have cost him a fortune.
With warmth spreading through her, she turned back around, then continued to sketch and make notes until the sun completely set and darkness kept her from seeing anything further. She slowly closed her notebook. Victoria hadn’t chosen to night-brood her nestlings. Georgie sat for thirty more minutes in the darkness, but still the queen did not return to the ligustrum.
She bit her lip. The fledglings were too young to be left alone. They were completely defenseless. Perhaps she should keep watch. At least for tonight. Just to be sure they’d be all right.
“Georgie?” His voice held a scratchy, sleep-induced sound.
“I’m here.”
He shifted in his chair. “What are you doing? Why haven’t you lit the lantern?”
“I can’t see anything but my reflection when I do that.”
She heard him stand and move toward her. “You can’t see anything but black when you don’t.”
Sighing, she rose as well. “I know.”
He slipped his arms around her and gave her a long kiss. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
“You’re fine. I was making some sketches.”
“Can I see them?”
“If you’d like.”
He gave her another kiss, then released her and lit a lantern.
She told him of the day’s activity. He perused her drawings.
She scrambled them some eggs and fried up a bit of sausage. He sharpened her sketching pencils with his pocketknife.
; She read him a chapter out of The Swiss Family Robinson. He fell asleep again.
Closing the book, she placed it on her lap and took the opportunity to look her fill. She noted the curl falling onto his forehead. The short brown eyelashes. The sharp line of his nose. The whiskers beginning to shadow his face.
She’d like to wake up every morning of her life looking at that face, but he’d not so much as hinted at anything permanent, and she’d been too afraid of his answer to bring it up herself. She knew once he caught Frank Comer, he’d be given a new assignment. Then what?
Would he leave and chase down the next criminal without a backward glance? And if he were to ask for her hand, would he still leave her behind while he rode across the hills and plains of Texas?
How long would he be gone? He’d arrived here in March and now it was the first of June. Did every job take an entire season?
He opened his eyes.
She lifted the corners of her lips. “Hello.”
“Why’d you stop reading?”
“You fell asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes.”
Quirking a brow, she gave him a skeptical look. “What have you been doing during the nights to make you so exhausted?”
“I’m not exhausted.” Locking his hands behind his head, he twisted from side to side. “You know when you check your telephone lines to see if anyone is on them?”
It took her a moment to follow the change in topic. “Yes.”
“And if you don’t hear anyone talking, you unplug the cables?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when you do that—listen in for a couple of seconds—can the people talking tell you’re on the line?”
“Not if I pull the lever back, only if I push it forward.”
Lowering his arms, he rested his elbows on his knees. “If I gave you a couple of names, would you listen in on their conversations and tell me what you hear?”
She stared at him as she considered the question. She’d been anticipating it. Had been surprised it hadn’t come up earlier. Yet she was no more sure how to answer now than she had been when she first thought of it. “It’s against company policy.”
