by Deeanne Gist
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.
Chapter Twelve
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 b
usiness, 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.”
The boys had lobbed two more pebbles, but Georgie’s statement captured their attention.
“The night was wrapped in a bitter chill, and Jesus had grown cold in that drafty stable. Mary called to Joseph, asking him to stoke their little fire, but it had been a long night and he slept deeply. So she caught the eye of a nearby oxen. ‘My son grows cold,’ she said. ‘Could you blow on the embers?’ But the ox was locked behind a stall and couldn’t stir from its place.”
A rock underneath Luke gouged into his leg. In an effort to ignore it, he concentrated on Georgie’s retelling of the old legend.
“Mary asked the donkey, but it was asleep and didn’t hear her call. Nor did the horse or the sheep.”
Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.
They all looked toward the sound.
“There it is!” A redheaded boy pointed.
The children began talking at once. “I see it!”
“Where? Where is it?”
“There. Look there.”
Luke imagined the orange-breasted bird. Another early sign of spring. He had heard its song on many occasions, but he hadn’t realized it belonged to the robin.
The children quieted.
Georgie pressed her feet together, resting linked hands atop her knees. “A little brown bird in the rafters of the stable noticed the dwindling fire and Mary’s distress. It flew down and fluttered its wings, rekindling the ashes. Hopping about the stable, it gathered sticks and hay with its beak, then dropped them into the fire. Suddenly, a flame shot up, touching the little bird’s chest and turning it orange.”
The boys’ eyes grew wide.
“Did it hurt?” the blond girl asked.
“A little,” Georgie admitted. “But the robin continued to fan the flames with its wings. The blazes grew, the stable warmed, and Jesus slept soundly. Instead of returning to the rafters, the bird tended the fire all night long. At dawn, Mary lifted her hand. The tired but faithful robin landed on her fingers. ‘From this day forward,’ she said, ‘may your red breast be a blessed reminder of the great charity you have done for Baby Jesus.’ And as you can see, the robin’s orange underbelly still covers its noble heart.”
The children sat quietly, absorbing the tale.
Bettina scrunched up her nose. “Do ya think the robin knew who Jesus was?”
“Perhaps,” Georgie answered. “But because of the beauty of their orange chests, women want to use robins as decorations on their hats and cloaks.”
The black-haired boy scratched the back of his head. “But what if we only killed one? That won’t hurt none.”
“It seems that way, Eugene. But look what happened to our friendly beavers. We had millions and millions and mil
lions of them until they were harvested for hats and coats. And the impossible happened. Animals which could not run out, ran out. We barely have a few thousand left in our entire country.”
Eugene rocked back and forth on his backside, eyeing Georgie with speculation.
“Deer, bison, pigeons, Carolina parakeets,” she continued. “All once numbered in the millions. And all have been hunted to near extinction.”
Luke wished he could see her face. Whatever shone on it had captivated her audience.
“Tomorrow, I want you to pay close attention every time you hear a bird,” she said. “Every time you see a hat or cloak or skirt with bird parts on it. For every bird part you see, some innocent mama or daddy bird had to die. Then, when you close your eyes tomorrow night, try to imagine a day without birdsong, without seeing a friendly winged creature out your back window, because that’s what it will be like when you are a grown-up if we don’t stop killing our birds.”
“What if it’s already dead?” A boy out of Luke’s line of vision asked the question.
“Then put it in a box and bring it to our next meeting and we will give it a burial.”
Eugene and his friend looked at each other. The thought of a bird funeral clearly captured their imagination.
“In the meanwhile, share your new knowledge about birds with your mothers and fathers.” She stood, dusting her hands together. “Next meeting, I will teach you a bird call. Listen.”
The piercing whistle he’d heard the first time he saw her rent the air. If she hadn’t won the boys over before, this wiped out all hesitation. Their faces lit with awe and excitement.
“That was a Northern Cardinal,” she said. “I learned it when I wasn’t much older than you. Would you like me to teach it to you?”
They jumped to their feet, shouting their yeses with enthusiasm.
“Then you’d best not miss our next meeting. But it’s getting late; we need to head back.”