by Deeanne Gist
“You aimin’ for the plate there, Ottfried?” the banker asked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Well, pull down on it just a little; it’s about two or three—”
Bang. He completely overshot the target.
Cocking the action lever, Ottfried shot again and again, never allowing his muzzle to cool and only nicking the target once. Swearing, he pushed to his feet, grabbed a beer, and tilted it straight up toward the sky, downing half the bottle.
“Look who’s here, fellas,” Doc said.
The men turned. A tall man with a commanding physique swaggered toward them. His overalls were in worse shape than Luke’s, if that were possible, and his boots had seen some hard living. The 1895 Winchester .30-40 Krag he carried was the exact model Luke and the milliner used. In the hands of a competent shooter, it would stand up to any of the expensive, single-shot target rifles the other men carried.
“Arnold Necker, where you been?”
“Necker, you devil, you haven’t been to church in a month of Sundays.”
“Finally, I’m gonna get some competition.” This from the judge.
Necker smiled, giving a fancy bow. “Somebody’s gotta work around here. Cain’t be leaving the farm ever’ week just to hear the preacher tell me ’bout something I done already read three times over.”
The men laughed, put a beer in his hand, and walked him to the front of the line.
Stopping along the way, he looked at Luke. “Who’re you?”
“Luke Palmer, the new troubleman.”
Necker nodded, recognition touching his eyes. “I seen you stringing wire out near my place the other day. I nearly shot you fer a monkey.” He turned to the judge. “You oughta see this feller climb a pole. He’s up that thing quicker’n a flea hopping outta danger.”
In the two weeks Luke had been stringing line, his pole-climbing skills had improved a hundredfold. So if Necker had seen him at ease with the task, the man farmed north of town. It also meant he hadn’t shown himself when he’d observed Luke. A bit peculiar for such an amiable fellow.
“You know how to use that Krag?” Necker asked him.
Luke lifted his hat, then resettled it on his head. “I’m not the marksman some of these fellows are, but I get by.”
Necker handed him his beer. “Well, let me show you how it’s done, then.”
Luke held the bottle while Necker stepped to the front. Had Teddy Roosevelt joined the group, the men couldn’t have been more energized. Smiles were exchanged, elbows were nudged, and eyes were alight.
Necker didn’t lie down, nor even sit, but braced his legs like a sea captain and took the Winchester to his shoulder. He cocked the hammer, squeezed one eye shut, aligned the sights, and pulled the trigger.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng. Click-click.
Dinnnng.
The men roared, surrounding Necker, pounding his back, exclaiming over both the speed with which he shot, and the target still swinging like a pendulum gone berserk.
Necker laughed and took his due, then returned to Luke for his beer.
“That’s some of the best shooting I’ve ever seen,” Luke said, handing him the bottle.
Necker took a swig. “There are plenty better than me.”
“Who?”
A slight smile tugged at the man’s mouth. “Well, them papers say Lucious Landrum is ranked as the best all-round rapid-fire marksman in the state.”
The men guffawed. Luke tensed. Did they know? Had he somehow slipped up? But the members were completely focused on Necker.
“Cain’t believe everything you read, now, boy.”
“Goes to show you how much them papers know.”
“That’s only ’cause they hadn’t seen you shoot.”
Necker chuckled. “You know who I’m talkin’ about?” he asked Luke.
“I’ve heard of him. He’s one of them Texas Rangers.”
“That’s right.”
The sheriff slung his arm across Necker’s shoulders. “If Landrum is so all-fired great, why is it Comer slips through his net every time?”
“Well, Sheriff, I cain’t rightly say.”
“I can.” Joe Lee, the local lawyer, rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. “Landrum may be a fast draw, but he couldn’t track an elephant in ten feet of snow.”
“Now, boys. You’re being awfully hard on poor old Landrum.” Doc shook his head. “Not a one of us has ever met him. Ever even seen him shoot. ’Sides, you’re forgetting Comer’s a man who’s all heart above the waist and all guts below. He’d rattle any lawman’s think box.”
Ottfried rolled his eyes. “Landrum has nothing but hair under his hat and I, for one, don’t fancy talking about him all day. Whose turn is it?”
Luke had made a career of keeping calm in the face of his enemy, but this was different. The men weren’t trying to get his goat. They honestly believed Landrum—him—to be a buffoon and Comer to be a saint. Even the doc.
He tried to convince himself it was nothing personal, but no matter which way he looked at it, it was personal. Very personal.
The men reordered themselves and continued shooting. The longer the beer flowed, the more vocal the gallery became. Necker offered pointers, encouragement, and ribald jokes. When it was Luke’s turn, the farmer smiled and indicated the ground in front of him with the sweep of his hand. “Let’s see what you got, Palmer.”
Never had Luke wanted so badly to shoot standing up. But if Necker wasn’t one of Comer’s gang, then he’d be mighty surprised. The opportunity to curry favor with the man was much more important than soothing his own pride.
He stretched out on the ground, braced himself and his gun, then aimed a bit right.
“A little to the left,” Necker offered.
Luke moved the rifle left.
“That’s it, give her a shot.”
He pulled the trigger, slightly lifting his muzzle at the last second. The cartridge whizzed above the target.
“Ooooh, almost.”
“Just missed her, Palmer.”
“A little too high.”
“Keep her steady to the end.”
Luke cocked his action lever, pulled the hammer back, looked down the sights again, shot, and winged the northeast corner of the target.
“That’s it.”
“Better, better.”
“You’re still up and to the right.”
On his final shot, he aimed high and right once more, then pulled to bull’s-eye at the last second, hammering the steel plate dead center.
The men hollered their approval, grabbing him by the back of his overalls and hoisting him to his feet with congratulatory words and rounds of pounding. Necker gave him a nod, but Luke knew the man thought it dumb luck.
Luke shook his head. “I’m a birdman myself and more comfortable with my shotgun.”
Necker rocked on his heels. “Well, Brenham is hosting the Texas State Tournament at the end of the month. A bunch of us’ll be practicing trap next week. Would ya like ta join us?”
“Oh, I’m not good enough to enter any tournament, but I’d still like to join you for practice.”
“Next week, then.”
Luke slid a hand into his pocket. “Would it be all right, in the meanwhile, if I did some target practice with you next time I’m out your way? Get a few pointers?”
“Anytime, Palmer. Come out anytime.”
An unusual answer for a farmer during springtime. Didn’t he have corn to plant?
Excitement zipped through Luke. He’d picked up his first scent. Smiling full out, he turned to the men and expressed his anticipation about the upcoming tournament, all the while formulating ways he could become better acquainted with Arnold Necker.
Chapter Eleven
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 h
er 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.”