Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  Georgie kept her expression carefully blank. Even though she was only nine, Bettina cooked supper most every night, but Mr. von Schiller rarely shared it with her. Instead, he wore his boot soles out on the brass rail at Charlie’s. “Well, if you change your mind, you’re always welcome here.” She indicated the tin in the girl’s hand. “What do you have there?”

  “Mrs. Chadaz gave me some cookies fer bringing her a phone message. These ones are fer you.”

  Smiling, Georgie pointed her toward the office desk. “What kind are they?”

  “Molasses.” Bettina set the tin on the desk, then leaned against the switchboard.

  “Did you tell her thank you?”

  “Sure did, but she still made me wash up ’fore I ate.” She gave her head a vigorous scratch, loosening her braid.

  “Speaking of which, I thought we’d do a hair wash tonight after supper.”

  Bettina began to back away. “My hair ain’t dirty. I done washed it three weeks ago.”

  “Hair washing is a weekly affair, at the very least.”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know if I’ll be able to come over after supper. I got things to do, ya know.” She eyed the stack of finished invitations. “Ya want me to start deliverin’ some of those?”

  Allowing the change of subject, Georgie bit her lip. “They’re not really phone business, but I can’t get Mr. Crump to answer his line and I was hoping you’d run out to the depot to see if anyone came in on today’s train. Maybe you could drop off a few of these on your way?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Georgie sorted through her stack, picking out the households Bettina would pass. “When you deliver Mrs. Kendall’s, tell her Mrs. Krauss was asking if she’d finished reading Tempest and Sunshine. It’s this month’s book for the reading circle and she was hoping to have it next.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell her.” The girl scooped up the envelopes and banged out the door.

  Georgie didn’t know what she’d do without Bettina. The girl delivered messages to those who didn’t have phones and returned with happenings from town. Yet the townsfolk either looked through her or, worse, looked down on her. All because of her father. Very few of them took the time to thank her the way Mrs. Chadaz did.

  Her gaze veered to the tin of cookies. Molasses were her favorite. Being tethered to the phone all day didn’t allow much time for baking. Still, she’d need to do something for her Plumage League meeting. Most everyone would bring a dish, but the hostess was expected to lead the way.

  She wondered how many women would come, mentally counting the number of chairs she owned. If she utilized every seat, including the ones on the veranda, she should have enough. The question was where to set them all.

  Ding. “Hello, Central.”

  “Clover didn’t come home for her milking, Georgie. Can you make a general call asking folks to look out for her?”

  “I sure will, Mr. Kapp. And don’t you worry. She’ll show up.”

  Plugging in all her lines, she whirled the crank for six long rings. Receiver after receiver lifted. When most everyone answered, she explained Mr. Kapp’s cow had gone missing and to give her a call if they found it. An hour hadn’t passed before Mr. Folschinski phoned in. Clover was grazing in the meadow behind his barn.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon finishing her invitations in between phone calls. At five o’clock she took off her earpiece, stood and stretched. The bluebirds hadn’t come back, but she had high hopes they would. Still, she’d freshen her birdbath as an extra incentive.

  Snitching a cookie from the tin, she opened the kitchen door and slid a stopper underneath. The smell of pea soup filled the room. Nibbling on the cookie, she lifted the soup lid. A puff of condensation billowed up, then parted to reveal a thick green soup ready for eating.

  The birdbath would have to wait until she skinned the meat off the hambone. Shoving the rest of the cookie in her mouth, she tied a blue gingham apron around her waist, adjusted the damper, and fished out the bone—a gift from Mattieleene’s mother.

  Because Georgie’s job kept her from traditional chores, subscribers were quick to thank her with hambones, eggs, and all sorts of items. She never knew from day to day what treat she’d receive, but they were always welcome.

  Except for the time Mr. Scobey gave her a goat. She smiled at the memory. It had taken some delicate talking to refuse it without offending. Still, his gesture had meant an awful lot.

  Skimming the last of the meat, she dumped it into the creamy mixture, gave it a stir, and replaced the lid. If she let it simmer for thirty more minutes, she’d have just enough time to clean the birdbath.

  She stuffed one more cookie in her mouth, her cheeks puffing out, when someone knocked.

  “Miss Gail?”

  It was the troubleman. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she chewed as fast as she could.

  “Miss Gail?” The screen squeaked open. “It’s Luke Palmer.”

  Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. But the cookie seemed to multiply in her mouth.

  Heavy footfalls approached. He peered around the corner. Dirt streaked across his face, grime coated his overalls, and his eyes drooped in exhaustion . . . or was it pain?

  Lifting the body of her apron, she covered her mouth and continued to chew.

  He drew his brows together. “What are you doing?”

  Swallowing the last of it, she wiped the corners of her lips and lowered the apron. “Nothing. Just . . . testing supper.” She twirled a hand toward the stove.

  He glanced at the pot, then back at her. “Smells good.”

  She smiled. “Pea soup.”

  Nodding, he pointed to his teeth, making a circular motion. “You have something right . . .”

  “Oh!” She lifted her apron again, scrubbing her teeth with her tongue and loosening a sliver of cookie. Heat rushed to her face.

  “Lemme see,” he said.

  “What?” She released her apron, allowing it to float down against her skirt.

  He bared his teeth. “Let me see. I’ll tell you if you got it.”

  She propped a fist against her waist. “Was there something you wanted?”

  His gaze swept across her kitchen, touching briefly on the tiny basswood table shoved against one wall, the sink and drainboard with a window overlooking her garden, the worktable by the stove, and the apron tied about her waist. “Is it after five already?”

  “Just.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, then.”

  She softened a bit. “It’s all right. Did you need something?”

  He shifted his weight. “I was wondering if you had any tweezers.”

  The request was so unexpected, it took her a moment to comprehend it. What in the world would a strapping man like him need with tweezers? “Yes, I do. What do you need them for?”

  “A splinter.”

  Her gaze flew to his hands. “You have a splinter? Weren’t you wearing gloves?”

  “I was wearing gloves.”

  She took a step forward and held out her hand. “Show me.”

  “It’s not on my hand.”

  “Where is it?”

  After a slight hesitation, he released the cuff of his shirt and pulled up his sleeve. Sweet heavens above. The inside of his arm was filled with ugly splinters.

  “What happened?” Grasping his hand, she rotated his arm for a better look.

  He took in a quick breath.

  She immediately loosened her hold. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m just a little sore.”

  “From the splinters?”

  “From climbing poles all day.”

  Frowning, she cocked her head. “But you do that all the time.”

  “Stringing new wire involves a lot more climbing than normal day-to-day maintenance.” He withdrew his arm and began to pull down his sleeve. “Listen, forget I mentioned it. I’ll just head on out and let you get to your supper.”

  “No, no.” She pulled out a cane-seat chair fro
m the table. “Sit. I’ll get my tweezers.”

  “That’s all right. I didn’t mean you had to do it. I just meant to borrow them, is all.”

  “Honestly, you’re as bad as Bettina.” She repositioned the chair, thumping it against the wood floor. “Sit, Mr. Palmer. I’ll be right back.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she swept past him and to her bedroom for a pair of tweezers.

  Chapter Eight

  Luke lowered himself into the proffered chair, his muscles aching. In his line of work, he’d spent months on the trail under all kinds of adverse conditions. He’d slept on the ground, climbed steep, treacherous terrain, and swum in freezing water for long periods of time. Still, it had been a good while since he’d been this sore.

  His arms throbbed, his shoulders ached, his legs were like jelly, and his shins just downright hurt. He started to rub one, but the minute he leaned over, his arms and shoulders screamed in protest.

  A tin of molasses cookies caught his eye. Never in his life had he seen a woman stuff a whole cookie in her mouth. But then, Miss Gail wasn’t your average woman. Propping his elbows on his knees, he rested his face in his hands and closed his eyes.

  He heard her coming and going, banging things around, but kept his eyes closed until a peculiar odor rose from her frying pan. Opening his eyes, he looked for the source of the smell. A crushed root lay on the drainboard, with mortar and pestle nearby.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Almost done.” With one more stir of her spoon, she tilted the pan and scraped her concoction into a bowl. “I thought a little elder root and seed of Jamestown weed would help draw out those splinters.”

  It had been a long time since anyone had fussed over him. He decided to relax and enjoy it. No telling how long it would be before it happened again. Her kitchen was simpler than most, but it still had all the trimmings—white lacy curtains, dish towels with the days of the week stitched across their hems, speckled enamelware, and a woman in a blue gingham apron.

  Placing her chair face-to-face with his, she scooted up right in between his knees, the elder root smelling like a wet dog. “Now, let’s see those splinters.”

  He rolled up his sleeve and held out his forearm, exposing its underside. She grasped his wrist with one hand and smoothed on the warm poultice with her other, her touch tentative.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not hurting me.”

  She didn’t change a thing, just kept spreading with the barest amount of pressure. After covering up the last splinter, she held her free hand in the air, looking around for something to wipe it on. She began to scoot back, but he stalled her.

  “Just use the legs of my overalls.”

  She frowned. “I can’t do that. It’ll stain them.” The sunlight behind her shrank her pupils to tiny dots, leaving nothing but green.

  “They’re pretty scuffed up already,” he said. “It won’t matter any.”

  After a moment of indecisiveness, she wiped each finger across his leg, rolling them to get them clean. He tensed, completely unprepared for the sizzle which licked up his leg. She, however, seemed completely unaffected.

  As soon as she finished, she cupped his elbow, taking the weight of his forearm in hers, and sat back. The motion pulled his wrist toward her, bringing his knuckles within grazing distance of her rib cage.

  He relaxed his fingers, allowing them to curl down toward his palm. But if he unfurled them, they’d reach the top of her corset. Swallowing, he moved his attention to the window. A bluebird landed on the starch box in her yard, a tiny twig in its mouth.

  She blew on his arm. He jumped, the recoil pulling his arm back, then forward, straight into her. His hand opened instinctively, before he immediately closed it.

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I am. Did that sting or something?” Her face filled with concern.

  He searched her expression. Had she not noticed? How could she not notice?

  “No, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I was just looking out the window and wasn’t, I didn’t . . .” He took a deep breath. “No, ma’am. Didn’t sting. I’m sorry to have jumped.”

  “It’s almost ready. Just another minute or so.” She tapped the edges of the mixture and blew on it again.

  He slammed his eyes shut, but it only heightened his other senses. What the blazes was he doing, letting this woman tend to his needs as if he was some drugstore cowboy? He should have known better.

  “I’m going to remove it now,” she warned.

  Opening his eyes, he nodded, but she was already peeling the concoction back. She smashed it up into a clump, dropped it on the table, and picked up the tweezers.

  The elder root had done its job and drew the splinters out so she could grab hold of them. Bending over, she brought her face close to his arm, her breath tickling it. Her rib cage pressed against his curled hand. The fasteners running down the front of her corset were easily identifiable through the lawn of her shirtwaist, their tiny metal housings digging into his fingers.

  With her tongue caught between her teeth, she extracted one splinter after another. To distract himself from where his hand lay, he focused on the little mole beneath her lip.

  “How on earth did you get all these?” she asked.

  “I fell.”

  She whipped her head up, coming this close to knocking his lower jaw clear to Kingdom Come. “You fell?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “From a telephone pole?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How far?”

  He shrugged. “Fifteen feet?”

  She collapsed against the back of her chair, giving his hand a reprieve. Though having it against her had been no hardship.

  “What happened?”

  He twisted his mouth in disgust. “I got a little cocky coming down and missed a step.”

  “What did you fall on? Your head? Your back?”

  “My feet, fortunately. I pretty much hugged the thing all the way down and this was my reward.” He indicated his arm.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake. You’re supposed to push away from the pole when you start to fall, not hug it. Any seasoned lineman knows that.”

  He lifted a brow. “What would you do? Push away or grab the pole?”

  Her face softened, revealing a hint of laugh lines around her mouth. “I’d probably grab the pole.” Bending back over, she continued her work.

  He lowered his chin, trying to catch a whiff of shampoo paste. It was something flowery with cinnamon mixed in somehow.

  Finally, she finished. “There. Let’s have the other one now.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. You’ve done enough. I can take care of the rest.”

  “Don’t be silly. The poultice will be useless if you wait until you get back to the boardinghouse.” She grabbed his other wrist, released the cuff, and pushed up his sleeve. “This one doesn’t look as bad as the other. I’ll have it fixed up in no time.”

  She touched his skin in a couple of spots, then dug the rest of the poultice out and began to spread it. It had cooled and wasn’t as malleable as before. Slipping her arm underneath his, she continued to work the doughy substance. The longer she did, the slower she went. Finally, she stopped altogether, her fingers resting against his pulse. It was beating much faster than it ought.

  A tiny shiver ricocheted through her. She shifted in her chair, flattening herself against it. But no matter which way she moved, his hand was firmly ensconced against her torso.

  Red blossomed onto her cheeks.

  Finally, he thought, his ego somewhat soothed. He tried to pull back, but this arm didn’t have the wiggle room his other did. The chair had him on one end, her body on the other.

  “You can let go,” he said. “I’ll peel it when it’s ready.”

  She lifted her gaze and his gut clenched. Confusion, wonder, and awe played across her face in slow succession. No artifice. No coyness. Just open, h
onest expressions.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  Too old. Maybe not in years, but certainly in life experiences. “Twenty-six.”

  He didn’t need to ask how old she was. He already knew. She was twenty. Her widowed mother was married to a mean drunk. She’d attended Baylor Female College before having to drop out for lack of funds. She worked at the SWT&T exchange in Dallas for two years. They sent her to Brenham as the town operator last year and she’d been here ever since.

  But his Ranger report had plenty of holes in it. He’d had no idea about the birds. Nor Nellie Bly. Nor her unofficial hiring of the town drunk’s daughter. Nor the fact she paid Bettina out of her own pocket—which had become abundantly clear his first day when he went over the books.

  The largest hole, though, had been its exclusion of her unusual eyes. Her Nordic-blond hair. Her gut-twisting smile. And that teeny mole.

  He tried to push back his chair, but between her, the table, and the wall, he was boxed in. “I think I better leave.”

  “Why?” she breathed.

  You know why. “Let me up, Georgie.”

  “But this is your right arm.” As if that explained everything.

  He didn’t respond.

  “You’d have to use your left hand to get the splinters out,” she said. “The poultice is ready to come off anyway. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Without waiting for his permission, she bent her head. Several hairpins had partially worked themselves out, as if her hair was too full and luxurious to be contained. Half of him wanted to push them back in. The other half wanted to pull them out.

  He gripped the arm of his chair with his free hand.

  She looked up. “Does this hurt?”

  Her face was close. Very close. Flecks of gold he hadn’t noticed before dusted her eyes. Thick lashes swept over them, then opened again. She catalogued his features, her gaze touching his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth.

  His finger ached to trace her extended neck and pull her the last few inches separating them. His hand stayed where it was.

  She lowered her chin and finished her work. When the last splinter had been removed, she sat, head bent, hands still. He opened his mouth to thank her, to offer assistance cleaning up, anything to get her to move. Before he could, she leaned in ever so slightly, pressing herself against him even more to pull down his shirt sleeve, then shifted to do the same to the other sleeve, causing his knuckles to caress her rib cage.