Love on the Line (23 page)

Instead of reviving her, supper made Georgie sleepier than ever. She’d only snatched a bit of slumber the night before. Surely Luke couldn’t be much better off.

But if he were tired, he gave no sign of it.

The pavilion had been cleared of its chairs, leaving its polished and waxed floor open for the two hundred couples who’d followed the queen and her escort in during the Grand March.

Whisking Georgie around the floor to “Hannah Go Hide Your Bloomers,” Luke led her with a confident hand and steady step. After the last note, the assembly applauded. Luke and some of the others let out loud whistles.

Stifling a yawn, she swayed.

“You all right?” he asked, leading her from the floor.

“I’m having a marvelous time, Luke, but last night’s beginning to catch up with me.”

His expression softened. “You tired?”

“I am.”

“Well, come on, then. I’ll walk you home.”

“Can we rest a minute first?”

“Of course.” But there wasn’t an empty bench or chair to be found. “How about a piggyback ride?”

She gave a small huff of laughter.

Pulling her hand further into his arm, he tightened his hold. “Let’s head on home. We can always stop along the way for a rest.”

She nodded her response and they meandered through the park, finally reaching North Street. A jam of buckboards with heavy-eyed children and content parents crawled along the road. Crickets competed with the faint strains of “In the Good Ol’ Summer Time” coming from the now distant pavilion.

A cart full of Texas A&M baseball players pulled alongside them, waiting in line behind the other wagons. The young men lounged against its sides, talking softly and swaying in time to the music.

At the chorus, one of them began to sing along in a clear tenor voice.

In the good ol’ summer time,

In the good ol’ summer time,

Strolling thro’ the shady lanes,

With your baby mine;

Luke slid Georgie’s hand down to his, then intertwined their fingers. One by one, the other baseball players added their voices to the tenor’s. Not in a boisterous manner, but in harmony as pleasing as any barbershop quartet she’d ever heard.

You hold her hand and she holds yours,

And that’s a very good sign,

That she’s your tootsey wootsey, in

The good ol’ summer time.

A soft breeze lifted a tendril from her neck, some of her curls loosening after the long day’s activities. Ahead of them, a couple in a spring-top buggy lent their voices as well.

To swim in the pool, you’d play hooky from school,

Good old summer time;

You’d play ring-a-rosie with Jim, Kate and Josie,

Good old summer time.

She smiled, thinking of the days when she, her brother, and her little sister thought nothing of running barefoot, climbing trees, and gigging frogs. More and more voices from surrounding wagons joined in.

Those days full of pleasure we now fondly treasure,

When we never thought it a crime,

To go stealing cherries, with face brown as berries,

Good old summer time.

Luke slid his arm around her waist, tucking her against him and keeping his strides slow and small to match hers. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder, trusting him to steer her.

In the good ol’ summer time,

In the good ol’ summer time,

Strolling thro’ the shady lanes,

With your baby mine;

You hold her hand and she holds yours,

And that’s a very good sign,

That she’s your tootsey wootsey, in

The good ol’ summer time.

The silence at the end of the song was full of kinship and belonging. The Bible might say faith, hope, and love, with the greatest being love. But Georgie had discovered in a German community like Brenham, it was cards, dominoes, and singing, with the greatest being singing.

Luke turned a corner. She fluttered her eyes open but left her head against him. He was cutting down Academy Street instead of staying on North the whole way.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked.

Cicadas kept up a thrum as steady as her heartbeat.

“I had a brother growing up.”

“Me too. And a sister.”

He said nothing.

“Did the two of you steal cherries?” she asked, referring to the song.

“Not cherries. But we got into plenty of trouble.”

She smiled. “I miss those days.”

“I miss my brother.”

“You don’t see him much?”

“He’s dead.”

A distant dog barked. She lifted her head a bit to look up at him. “When did he die?”

“In ninety-six.”

Sighing, she closed her eyes again. 1896. Her brother had died in ’95 of a cold which moved into his chest. “What happened to him?”

“He was shot and killed.”

Jerking straight, her eyes flew open. “What?”

He stared into the distance, his face slackening. “It’s a long story.”

“How old was he?”

“Nineteen.”

Her chest tightened. “Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

Something about his tone gave her pause. His remark didn’t express grief so much as it did self-reproach.

“Tell me.” The words were out before she could collect them. But he’d taken her so off guard.

Heaving a sigh, he slowly continued down Academy. This time, he didn’t take her hand. “I was fifteen, Alec just eleven months behind me in age. But he always seemed a lot younger. Maybe because he was so much smaller than me. I don’t know. But this particular year, I considered myself a full-grown man.”

She didn’t know if it was the moonlight, this day they’d spent together, or the experience they’d shared the night before, but on some primal level she knew this was not something he talked about often—if ever. Unclipping the fan from her chatelaine, she opened it and stirred up a gentle draft.

“I did a man’s part on our farm. I cut and hauled wood to town for money. I spent my nights hunting raccoons in the dark woods with my hounds. I called on the young ladies.” He took a deep breath. “And I developed a taste for whiskey.”

A light in the window of a home up ahead was snuffed out, plunging that side of the house into darkness. A few seconds later, the light in the room next to it went out as well.

He slid his hands in his pockets. “One night, I took Alec with me to the still-house and we tasted a bit more than we should’ve.”

She glanced down. Her brother had only been thirteen when he died. Not nearly old enough to have sown any wild oats. But she knew well the effect liquor could have on a man who imbibed too much. Her stepfather was living proof of that.

“On our way home,” Luke continued, “I talked him into racing down Main Street and shooting out the windows of businesses closed up for the night. I’d do one side, he’d do the other, then we’d compare to see who shot the most the fastest.” He shook his head. “Alec and I were both crack shots, even then. But he was no match for me. I’d already made it to the other end of Main, when the sheriff caught Alec only halfway finished.”

The sidewalk ended. He cupped her elbow, assisting her with the transition from board to dirt, then let his hand drop. “Before I could organize a rescue party, the sheriff whisked Alec away to the state prison, where he served for three years.”

She closed her fan, pressing it against her waist. Three years? For shooting out windows? “That seems an awfully severe punishment for a boyhood prank.”

“It was because of me. The sheriff and I had had many collisions. I was hotheaded, wiry, and fearless, and had yet to develop any moral principles. My Achilles’ heel, though, was my brother. And Sheriff Glaser knew it. He had connections with the boys over at State. All he had to do was throw out some trumped-up charges and Alec’s fate was sealed.”

She reattached her fan, then pulled off her gloves one finger at a time before slipping them into her hidden pocket. “So he was eighteen when he got out?”

“We both were. I went to meet him and bring him home, but when I arrived I found out he’d been released three days earlier.” He shook his head. “I tracked him for weeks on end, catching a trail, then losing it, then catching it again until it finally went cold.”

“Did he know you were looking for him?”

“He knew, but he didn’t have much use for a brother who turned tail and ran instead of coming back to rescue him from the sheriff.”

“Did he know you’d planned to go back for him, once you had some help?”

“I wrote to him. Told him. But he never responded or acknowledged any of my letters.”

At Cottonwood Street, they turned right. Her cottage was two lots down. “What happened to him?”

“He joined up with a gang of ne’er-do-wells. I tried off and on to find him and several times thought I’d come close. But I could only be away from my job for so long.”

She bit her lip. “He was killed while running from the law, then?”

“I don’t exactly know. All I know is out of the blue one day, Ma received a farewell letter from him along with a photograph. It was of Alec laid out in a long pine box.”

Her heart constricted. Reaching over, she clasped his hand.

He squeezed it. “He’d evidently given instructions to his comrades to send the letter home if anything were to ever happen to him. At the time, I was a grocer in a neighboring town.”

She blinked. A grocer?

“I went home immediately and verified the letter had been written in Alec’s hand. In it, he confessed to an endless list of crimes. Everything from stealing bread when he was hungry to robbing stagecoaches.”

She sucked in her breath, grappling for something to say. “Well, at least he confessed. That’s a good thing.”

Glancing at her, he shook his head. “He wasn’t apologizing. As a matter of fact, he didn’t show any remorse whatsoever.”

“None? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I never did find out who he was running with, but ever since, I’ve had a strong distaste for men who play outside the law.”

She immediately thought of Frank Comer, the man adored by citizens all across the state. She recalled her thrill at coming face-to-face with him during the train robbery. Her defense of him to Luke and his fierce reaction. Her realization last night that Comer was not at all a man to esteem.

They’d reached her home. The Mai tree still leaned against her porch. Had it only been last night when Luke delivered it?

He opened the gate for her.

Instead of walking through, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry I revered Frank Comer.”

He looked at her sharply.

“I know I was somewhat enamored of him. But that was before last night. Before I realized he’s nothing more than an unprincipled man who preys on those weaker than himself. And I’m sorry.”

Clearing his throat, he looked at everything but her. She frowned. Instead of soothing him, her apology seemed to have discomfited him. Perhaps he regretted sharing his brother’s story with her.

She stepped toward him and placed a hand on his cheek.

He stilled, finally making eye contact with her.

“Thank you. Thank you for today. Thank you for helping me last night. Thank you for the Mai tree. And thank you for telling me about your brother.” Stretching onto tiptoes, she kissed his cheek. “Good night.”

She slipped through the gate.

He grasped her wrist. “Wait. I want to check your house first.”

The raw skin beneath her cuff stung at his grasp, but it wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the thought of someone waiting inside for her. “Surely you don’t think they’ll come back? Maifest is over.”

He released her. “I think it highly unlikely they’ll bother you again, but I still want to check. I’ll go around back and enter from that direction. You wait here. If something happens or if I don’t come out, go to the nearest neighbor and send for the sheriff.”

Nodding, she hugged herself, a crawly sensation skittering up her arms and neck. He disappeared down the left side of the cottage.

Every sound intensified. The cicadas increased in volume. A gurgling armadillo rooting somewhere close by caused a shiver to pass through her body.

With short, tentative steps, she tiptoed toward the bench beneath the oak in her yard. A rustling in its branches made her jump back. Muffling a squeal, she pressed her knuckles against her lips, searching its boughs. Nothing moved.

Still, she decided to wait where she was. Light had yet to appear behind her windows. Was he checking it in the dark? Her fingers brushed the fan hanging from her waist. She closed her fist around it. What was taking so long?

At a rustling to her right, she spun around. A large rodent-looking animal scurried between two bushes. Unable to contain a startled cry, she scrambled backward into the fence, grasping its planks and squeezing.

It’s only a possum. Calm down.

But her heartbeat refused to obey, threatening to fly right out of her chest. Glancing at the cottage, she took a deep breath. How long should she wait before going for help? A flare of light sparked inside the living area, then settled into a glow. She tracked its progress from the main room to her bedroom.