Love on the Line (9 page)

Georgie couldn’t do anything right. She’d flip-flopped the preacher’s number in her head and connected him to the synagogue instead of the church. She’d disconnected Birdie and Fred by mistake. She’d tried to complete a call with two incoming cable lines. And she’d used two longs and one short for the Whitchursts.

Winding the cord of her earpiece around her finger, she slanted a glance toward Mr. Palmer. He hunched over the desk, reconciling bills and writing up collection statements. His overall bib buckled forward, leaving a gaping view of his broad chest and trim waist underneath a chambray shirt.

She hadn’t seen him in over two weeks. Not since the removal of his splinters. Not since his hand had been flattened against her waist. Not since her stomach had fluttered like hummingbird wings when she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

It was just as well he hadn’t. She’d known him for such a short time. Still, it had taken her half the night to fall asleep and then she’d dreamed of him. She’d dressed with extra care the next day. And the next. And even the next.

But he never came. Until now. Smack-dab in the middle of the day. Unannounced and in a foul mood. Strode in, gave a terse hello, sat down at the desk, and began to work.

The longer he sat in silence, the more unraveled she became. The more unraveled she became, the more mistakes she made. The more mistakes she made, the more her irritation rose.

Where had he been? Why hadn’t he checked in? Why had he sent the tweezers back with Bettina? Tapping a finger on the switchboard, Georgie crossed her legs and glanced at her watch pin. Half past four. Thirty more minutes.

Pulling back on a key, she checked Fred and Birdie’s connection. The couple still talked, but the crackle on the line was deafening. In the background, a cuckoo clock sounded the half hour. Only one person in all of Washington County had a cuckoo clock.

She threw the key forward. “Excuse me for interrupting, Fred, Birdie, but we need those of you listening in to hang up. This is a private conversation.”

Several clicks indicated the hanging up of receivers, but the cuckoos were still singing.

“Mrs. Oodson, I’ll have to ask you to hang up, please.”

Birdie giggled, but there was no click.

“We’re waiting, Mrs. Oodson.”

The cuckoos suddenly cut off.

“I’m sorry, Fred, Birdie. You may continue.”

“Thank you, Miss Gail,” Fred answered.

“Certainly.” She returned the key to neutral and tried not to feel too smug about calling Mrs. Oodson by name, but truth was, it felt wonderful.

Ever since the Plumage League meeting, Georgie had taken great delight in thwarting the woman’s efforts to obtain gossip for
Kaffeklatsch.
Her clock sounded every fifteen minutes. The first quarter, the cuckoos sang four long notes. At the half, eight. At the third quarter, twelve. And on the hour, they offered a complete concert. Georgie felt certain the woman had no idea what gave her away.

Bettina sailed through the door, newspaper in hand, the screen slapping shut behind her. “The milliner’s havin’ a full-blown contest.” She gave the troubleman a quick look. “Howdy, Mr. Palmer.”

He smiled. “Howdy, Miss Bettina.”

His smile disappeared as quickly as it came and back to work he went. Not so much as a glance at Georgie.

She accepted the girl’s newspaper. “What kind of contest?”

“The person who brings in the most bird parts will win a new Easter bonnet.”

“
What?
”

Bettina pointed to the ad. A lovely woman wearing a capote hat with a puffed brim and folded velvet crown smiled at the reader. Two blackbirds, wings spread, perched amidst the ribbon. Georgie quickly read the caption:
“Two exquisite tropical birds displaying all the iridescent hues of a peacock are lightly poised atop this lovely Easter bonnet. It is to be awarded to the person who delivers to Ottfried Millinery the highest number of bird wings, bird plumes, bird heads, bird eggs, bird nests, and whole birds between this day and Good Friday.
”

Whipping off her earpiece, Georgie surged to her feet. “This is outrageous. He can’t do this.”

“Already did.” Bettina hooked her thumbs in the bib of her smock. “That there hat’s sittin’ in his front window.”

Georgie looked at Luke. He bent further over his desk, pretending deafness.

Anger shot through her. If she were a man, she’d call out Ottfried, then satisfy herself with a rousing round of fisticuffs. As refreshing as that might be, she wasn’t a man. It didn’t mean she had to sit still for this, though. Snapping on her earpiece, she plopped into her chair, plugged in line ten, and turned her crank for three long rings.

“How do you do? This is Ernst Ottfried with Ottfried’s Millinery.”

“What is the meaning of this ad, Mr. Ottfried?”

A pause. “Miss Gail?”

“You know good and well it’s me.” She leaned toward the mouthpiece. “I want to know just who you think you are, running an ad like this.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you or anyone else. Now if you’ll—”

“Oh yes, you do. You’ll be explaining it to Almighty God one day. But before you do, you’ll answer my question. I live in this town, just like our birds do. You have no right to send an entire county on a hunting expedition just so you can line your purse.”

“Miss Gail, I have never in my life hung up on anyone, much less a lady. But if you do not desist, then I’ll—”

The cuckoo clock struck the third-quarter hour.

“Mrs. Oodson?” Georgie grabbed the arm of her chair to keep from trembling. “Get. Off. Your. Phone.”

The woman gasped. “Well, I never.”

“Now, see here, Miss Gail,” Mr. Ottfried interjected. “Don’t raise your voice to—”

“
Off!
” Georgie screeched.

The cuckoos cut out.

“Now answer my question, Mr. Ottfried.”

Nothing.

“Mr. Ottfried?” She jiggled the jack. “Mr. Ottfried?”

Jerking the cable out, she fell back in her chair and turned to Luke.

He sat frozen at his desk, pencil poised, eyes riveted on her.

“He hung up on me.” She still couldn’t believe it.

“You were a bit rough on him.”

“Rough?” She jerked her earpiece off and rose slowly to her feet. “Rough?”

Bettina scrambled out the door, running down the steps and through the gate.

Luke scowled. “You shouldn’t lose your temper in front of her. She has a scary enough time at home. She doesn’t need you loaded to muzzle.”

“Don’t you lecture me, Mr. Palmer.”

“I see.” He put his pencil down and indicated her aborted call with a nod of his head. “What’s good for the goose isn’t good for the gander?”

“Get out.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re mighty bossy today. In the last fifteen minutes you’ve commanded me to leave my own office, Mrs. Oodson to hang up her own phone, and Mr. Ottfried to explain his own business decisions. Don’t you think you need to settle down a bit?”

That did it. He was asking for a fight.

She flew at him. He spun his chair toward her, knees open, arms up. Big mistake. She grabbed two fistfuls of chambray shirt and jerked up.

He didn’t budge.

“Get up, mister. We’re taking this outside.”

Amusement lit his eyes.

She gave him a shake. “Don’t you laugh, Luke. I mean it. I’m going to take you outside and fold you up like a purse.”

He laughed. Head back, chin up, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Her throat closed. “Don’t. Don’t.”

With an effort, he reined in his mirth.

She tightened her hold on his shirt. “Have you seen that ad? He’s calling for an all-out war against my birds. It’s springtime.
Springtime.
They’re flying in by the thousands. Building nests. Laying eggs. Fledging their young. And he wants to shoot them down and wire them to hats.”

She tasted salt on her tongue. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. Still, she made no move to wipe her face. Instead, she stayed bent over him, nose to nose, crinkling his shirt.

He cupped her cheek and swiped a tear with his thumb. “Ah, Georgie. Don’t cry.”

Her lips parted. She’d expected him to engage in a struggle of some kind. At the very least, she’d assumed he would remove the hold she had on his shirt. But he hadn’t. He’d returned her attack with kindness.

Her resolve wavering, she willed her eyes to dry and released his shirt, dismayed at the wrinkles she’d created. Smoothing them out with her palm, she tucked the folds back beneath his bib.

He stilled. She spread her hand flat, marveling at how different he felt compared to her.

Threading his hand with hers, he gave a gentle tug, his knees widening as he pulled her closer.

“Where have you been?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“I was afraid you’d get the wrong impression.”

“And what impression would that be?”

“That I was looking for a wife.”

A whiff of shaving soap touched her nose. “I thought all men were looking for a wife.”

“Not all of them.”

“Why not?”

“I’m only here temporarily. Just long enough to put up the lines and sell some phones. I—” He cocked an ear, then spun her about and pushed. “Someone’s coming. Quick, put on your earpiece and sit down.”

“But it’s after five. I—”

“
Sit
.” He gave her another nudge, then spun back to his desk and figures.

Jamming on the earpiece, she sat down and pinched her cheeks. The loud knock made her jump.

“Come in,” she said, turning around, then froze.

Ernst Ottfried, his face florid, stepped inside, strode to Luke’s desk, and slapped down a piece of paper. “I hereby end my subscription with SWT&T. I’m also lodging a formal complaint against our operator, Miss Georgina Gail.” His dark eyes bore into Luke’s. “I’m assuming you’ll take care of this for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Georgie jumped to her feet. “I’m right here, Mr. Ottfried. No need to talk around me.”

He whirled on her. Luke immediately rose.

“I have no intention of talking to the likes of you, Miss Gail.” He stabbed his finger in the air, punctuating his words. “Not here, not about town, and certainly not on the telephone.” He marched to the door, pushed opened the screen, then paused and turned to Luke. “Thank you. I’ll see you at the trap shoot next weekend.”

Luke gave a slight nod. The screen door slammed behind the man.

Gasping, Georgie stared at Luke. “Trap shoot? Have you . . . have you joined the Gun Club?”

But the truth was in his eyes. Unable to catch a breath, she gripped the switchboard, the wood biting into her fingers. “The Gun Club shoots birds for fun.”

Luke dragged a hand down his face. “It’s business. I’m trying to create goodwill with the men so I can sell phones.”

“The members of the Gun Club already have phones.”

He fingered Ottfried’s cancellation. “Not all of them.”

Why, Lord? Why didn’t you make me a man?

Unwilling to attack him again or try to throw him out, she crossed to her bedroom and shut herself inside. Leaning her back against the door, she slid down, propped her head against her knees, and waited for him to leave.

Setting his elbows on the desk, Luke rested his head in his hands. He was being undone by a mere wisp of a girl.

Though his work usually had him dealing with men, he’d certainly had to interact with women. Of course, they weren’t often the respectable kind and rarely captured his attention. If they had, he’d managed to walk away without much trouble. But Georgie was different. And this was no brief encounter. He would be in close proximity to her until the end of summer.

So he’d stayed away for two weeks and shored up his defenses. Yet within the space of three hours, his resolve had cratered.

It had to stop. He couldn’t do his job and court a woman at the same time. He couldn’t court a woman at all. Not with his lifestyle. He called to mind Rangers who were married. Who went home between jobs and stayed just long enough to propagate more offspring before hitting the trail once again.

He rubbed his eyes. That might work well and good for them, but not for him. He knew firsthand what it was like to grow up without a father. He wasn’t interested in putting his kids or his wife through that. Not when he was alive and well.

So what did that mean? He’d never marry? Never settle down? Never have kids? Looking out the window, he watched a bluebird bring food to its mate nesting inside Georgie’s starch box. All afternoon the male had flown to and from the nest feeding her, singing to her, protecting her, pampering her. What if someone killed the father bird and turned it over to Ottfried? What would the mother bird do?

The question brought back unpleasant memories. His widowed mother gathering up him and Alec, leaving all they knew and moving to a new county to live with his uncle. A man who saw Luke and Alec as free labor. A man who loved nothing and no one but himself.

Georgie’s door opened. She’d changed into a simple white shirtwaist and brown walking skirt. Its hem, shortened to accommodate her stride in case she were to set a brisk pace, revealed tiny black boots the size of a child’s. Her ankles couldn’t be much bigger than his wrist.

He rose, but she whisked by him and into the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind her. It was after hours. He needed to leave. But he hadn’t completed half of what he’d intended. Not while she’d been six feet away, flustered and stealing glances at him. He couldn’t sit through another afternoon of that. Not with the way he was feeling.

Nor could he stay when the workday was over. Sighing, he lowered himself into his chair. He only had five collection notices left. He’d finish those, then leave. Hopefully, she’d stay in the kitchen.

He hadn’t even finished two when the clinking and clanking of plates and utensils coming from the other side of the door ceased. A screen squeaked open and closed. Looking up, he watched her walk out back to a bench set among pink columbine and clusters of a spikelike plant which looked like a dozen red-handled sabers stabbed into the ground.

Arranging her apron and skirts, she dug into a pocket, pulled out a broken roll or cake of some kind, then stretched out her hand. She sat completely still, a living statue in her garden. Moments passed. Surely John Singer Sargent had never had a model so patient and unmoving.

Her arm had to be burning. No one could suspend it in the air for that amount of time without its weight doubling. Yet she didn’t so much as sway.

He dared not look at his watch or even rustle the papers on his desk, for the window was open and he didn’t want to disturb her. Nor did he want her to know he was watching.

A tiny gray bird with a black head flew close to her hand, then swerved away at the last second.

Fee-bee-bay-bee. Fee-bee-bay-bee.

It swooped down again, landing on the ground in front of her. Two short hops forward. Three to the side. Away it flew again.

The third time it landed on her apron, cocked its head, then fluttered to her hand. Luke held his breath. The bird nipped a piece of cake and whisked away. She never moved a muscle. Die and be blamed, but she was beautiful. The breeze ruffling her hair, blooms trimming her silhouetted figure, birds eating out of her hand. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here.

The bird returned and remained on her hand for several seconds, nipping bites of cake before flying away. On its heels a woodpecker descended for a sample. Luke rose instinctively. Those birds pecked holes through tree trunks. What was she doing letting one land on her soft, supple hand?

He bumped his chair. The woodpecker darted away. Georgie slid her eyes toward the window, locking her gaze with his.

She was furious. And not only because he’d frightened the woodpecker, but because he planned to shoot pigeons out of the sky for sport. He remained frozen, unable to turn from her. Finally, through sheer force of will, he broke eye contact and began to stack the items on his desk. The collection notices would have to wait.

The woodpecker never returned, nor did the gray bird. With a huff of exasperation, she rose and marched toward the back door, arms swinging, fist crumbling the cake.

His stomach jumped. If she grabbed his shirt again, she’d get more than she bargained for.

She jerked the kitchen door open. “What are you still doing here?”

“The children are the key,” he said, taking a step back to put some distance between them.

She blinked. “What?”

“To Ottfried’s ad. It won’t be men and women hunting down your birds. They won’t have the time or the inclination. But the ladies are going to want that Easter bonnet, so they’ll send their boys out to find bird parts.”

She stepped into the room, the door bumping her backside. “That doesn’t diminish the call to battle. If anything, boys will be more persistent and ruthless than the adults.”

“I agree. That’s why you have to win them over.”

She pressed two fingers against her forehead. “What are you talking about, Luke?”

“You want to save your birds?”

“Of course.”

“Then start up a Plumage League for the kids. Acquaint them with the birds who frequent your backyard. Show them how to feed them out of their hands. If you can make them care about birds the way you do, they won’t hunt them. They’ll be the birds’ fiercest protectors.”

She considered him. “And who’s going to protect the pigeons from the Gun Club?”

He tightened his jaw. “I told you. That’s business.”

“And I asked you, what are you still doing here?”

Her gingham apron cinched her tiny waist. Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths. Her lips, even in anger, were full. Lush. Inviting. He took a step forward.

She stumbled back, the door blocking her way.

Reaching around her, he picked up the collection bills he’d completed. “I’m going to deliver these tomorrow, then start selling phones to the areas where new wire is strung.”

“What about the areas still waiting on wire?”

He reached again. She plastered herself against the door, banging the back of her head.

He picked up Ottfried’s complaint. “As long as you don’t interfere with my work, this document will remain in my possession. The minute you stick your nose in my business, I’ll post it to Dallas.”

Her lips parted.

He folded the complaint and tucked it in his pocket. “Good night, Miss Gail.”

Grabbing his hat off the stand, he let himself out.

Tugging on the reins, Luke squeezed his thighs and directed Honey Dew off the road. He’d left his installer’s cart in town, though he still wore his overalls and packed a few tools so as not to raise suspicion.

Today’s work, however, would not be for SWT&T. He’d had a good look at the territory from the top of his poles and there were a few areas he wanted to scout. He’d spent the morning exploring two of them but had found nothing of interest. It would take the rest of the afternoon to search this third section.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of new growth. After trailing Comer throughout the winter, Luke had promised himself to take particular note of spring’s debut. He made a mental checklist, deriving pleasure from each item added. Cherry laurels filled their branches with an abundance of white blooms. Spring peepers woke from their long winter’s nap. Deciduous trees sprouted green buds. And the temperatures hovered in a range heaven must surely duplicate.

Slowing his horse, he scanned the forested area, parts of it level, parts of it rough. Most outlaws built dugouts or cabins, and though Comer’s boys might live in the open, he couldn’t imagine Frank Comer doing the same. He had to have a refuge of some kind.

Sliding off his horse, Luke secured Honey Dew, deciding to make the rest of his search on foot. He checked concealed areas amid trees, brush, and tall grasses, stopping often to listen and ask himself where he would hide if he were on the run.

After two hours of fruitless searching, he veered into a less dense area, then paused. Voices in hushed tones approached from the southwest. The trees hadn’t leafed out enough to conceal him, so he crouched behind a dense, shrubby section of ligustrum.

The talking stopped and from the sound of the footfalls, there were at least four or five of them.

“What’s that?” a voice whispered.

All movement ceased. Luke held his breath. A bird yodeled, pausing between each phrase.

“That’s a wood thrush,” the hushed response. “He’s much more shy than his cousin the robin.”

Georgie’s voice produced a sense of panic in him. What the blazes was she doing out here?

“Sounds like he’s saying, ‘Here I am. Here I am.’ ” A young voice.

“That’s right. Can you find him? His back and wings are a rich cinnamon brown with brown polka dots on his white chest.”

Pit. Pit. Pit.

“What’s that one?”

“Same wood thrush,” she responded. “If you strike two small stones together, you can imitate it.”

“How come he sounds mad all o’ sudden?”

“We’re a little closer than he deems safe.”

“I see him! I see him!” No whisper here, but an out-and-out yell.

A bird took wing, but Luke didn’t look. Just prayed they wouldn’t come to this side of the giant shrub. How in all that was holy would he explain what he was doing?

She was supposed to hold her Junior Bird meeting in her backyard. There must not have been enough activity to suit.

They tromped closer. Taking advantage of their noise, he went belly-down and slithered beneath the hedge. They passed him by. Four sets of feet belonging to girls. Eight to boys. And Georgie.

“Lookit there.”

Luke tensed, but from the direction of their feet, they were looking away from him.

“Oh, a robin,” Georgie exclaimed. “Next month they’ll search high and low for a place which has a roof. And when they find one, they’ll build a nest.”

“They can come to my house. We have a roof.”

“They’d love that, Eugene. But they can’t trust us. A shame, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t it trust me? I didn’t do nothing.”

Turning around, she paused, then headed straight toward Luke, the toes of her black boots pointing like accusing fingers. A yard away, she stopped beside an old log and settled onto it, sweeping her arm to indicate the children should join her.

They gathered around, some on the log, most on the ground. A blond girl with long curls banded by a bright pink ribbon arranged her calico dress and bibbed pinafore over drawn-up knees. Several boys in short pants plopped to the ground on the opposite side from the girls, other than Bettina. She sat cross-legged among them, her dress a lackluster brown and without a pinafore. He could make out the faces of those sitting cross-legged, but not the ones resting on their heels.

The number of boys in her group surprised him. From what he could see, they weren’t bookish types, but as rascally as they came. The two facing him elbowed each other, their freckled grins up to no good. Much as he wanted to shrink further beneath the shrub, he didn’t move.

The brown-haired boy picked up a pebble and flicked it over the heads of those around them. It landed softly on the blond girl. She brushed at her hair and glanced up before dismissing it and returning her attention to Georgie.

“The robins used to trust us,” Georgie said, her voice soft. “On the first Christmas morning, one visited Baby Jesus in His manger. That was before the robin had its orange underbelly.”