Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  As she waited for her thrasher to appear, grackles, scissortails, blackbirds, and wrens stopped in to say hello. With each visit, she recorded the time, place, species, behavior, and song in her journal.

  And then she saw him, dipping in and out of the pecan, circling his territory with a tilting, uneven flight, and singing an aria which captivated and inspired. The thrasher repeated each phrase, as if to make certain she understood him.

  I missed you I missed you . . . how are you how are you . . . sing with me sing with me . . .

  Tempted as she was to whistle back, she didn’t dare. With a flutter of wings, he landed in the very top of the tree, noticeably perched, long tail working like one end of a seesaw. Viewing him through her opera glasses, she couldn’t help but smile at the elevated opinion he had of himself, his speckled white breast and rusty back as handsome as any coat and tails seen in the opulent ballrooms of society.

  He didn’t make her wait long for the opening of his performance. Dropping her glasses, she scribbled the names of the birds he mimicked, tried to tally the number of couplets he sang over a thirty-minute period, and reveled in her front-row seat.

  As she began to sketch his foot-long silhouette and long, long tail, a series of gunshots shattered their oasis. The thrasher cut off mid-note and launched from the branches, darting across the grove and out of sight.

  Rapid gunshots sounded again.

  Pop-pop . . . poppoppoppoppoppop.

  Fury drove her toward the sound. Stupid, stupid hunters. How dare they desecrate God’s beauty with their accursed weapons? If they were after her birds, so help her, she just might turn a gun onto them and see how they liked it.

  She ran through the thicket, opera glasses bouncing, scrub brush snagging her skirt, twigs slapping against her arms and pulling at her hair. Still she ran, following the sound, rage simmering in her veins. It wasn’t until the trees began to thin and a distant field came into view that thoughts of Prysborski’s accident began to temper her headlong rush.

  What if the hunters weren’t aiming at the sky? What if they were pursuing game that roamed the earth? She’d purposely dressed to blend in with her environment so as not to scare or distract her birds. What if the men with guns mistook her brown form for something worthy of gutting and putting on a spit?

  Another series of rapid shots bounced off her ears, making her jump. She took a deep breath, ready to call out when another thought stopped her. What if they weren’t hunters at all? It was well known the Comer Gang claimed Washington County as their home, and though she didn’t know exactly where they hid, she knew it had to be close. Especially after Frank Comer’s visit on Maifest Eve.

  Her chest rose and fell, partly from exertion, partly from fear. She didn’t know what to do. If she crept away and they were hunters, she could very well get herself shot. But if she called out and they were outlaws . . . the repercussions didn’t bear thinking of.

  Slowly, quietly, she set her journal on the ground, lifted her skirt, and crept forward. A twig snapped beneath her foot. Freezing, she scanned the area. No movement. No sound. She didn’t so much as shift until the next rush of shots.

  The minute they erupted, she lifted her skirt with both hands and sprinted to a tree several yards in the distance, then hid behind it, waiting, waiting. Three times she made her dashes under the cover of gunfire until finally, she was close enough to see the field without exposing herself.

  She peeked around the tree. There was only one man in the clearing. He set up a row of bottles on a sawhorse-like contraption, then headed back toward some predetermined spot.

  He wasn’t overly tall, but he certainly wasn’t short. He was powerfully built, though, with wide shoulders and massive chest encased in a white shirt. A gray neckerchief hung loosely at his neck. Tight black pants hugged long, muscular legs. His white Stetson obscured the color of his hair, but he was clean-shaven. His most distinguishing characteristic, however, was the low-riding gun belt strapped across his hips.

  He wasn’t shooting at birds or game but at beer bottles. Expecting him to find his spot and then take aim, she was taken off guard when he spun around, drew two guns at once, and shot every single bottle before she had time to say jackrabbit. She hadn’t even known he had two guns on his belt until he turned around.

  Leaning her head against the tree trunk, she closed her eyes. He looked familiar. She knew she’d met him before. Where? Where?

  Picking up her opera glasses, she once again leaned ever so slightly around the tree. As he lined up more bottles, she studied him as carefully as she would any specimen she tried to identify.

  He didn’t have his back fully to her, but the angle kept her from seeing his face. She allowed her glasses to travel down his length and back up again. She swallowed. Very powerfully built indeed.

  He turned and she jerked back into hiding, trying to hear his footsteps. But even as quiet as the forest had become, she was too far away to discern his movements.

  With extreme caution, she peeked around the tree again and watched him annihilate the newest row of bottles. Bending his head, he reloaded his pistols. Lifting her glasses to her eyes, she trained them on his face.

  The brim of his hat camouflaged most of his features, but the profile reminded her of—

  Without any warning, he jerked his head up, whipped it to the right, and drilled his steely eyes straight into hers.

  Letting out a scream, she stumbled back and dropped her glasses, only then remembering he wasn’t as close as he had seemed. But her game was up. Pushing off the trunk, she scrambled toward the safety of the forest. She knew the woods like the back of her hand. If she could just make it to the thicket . . .

  Footfalls pounded behind her, gaining, gaining.

  Tripping on her skirts, she lurched forward several steps before regaining her footing. She’d taken no more than two steps when she was tackled from behind.

  He took the brunt of the fall, then quickly rolled her beneath him, trapping her wrists above her.

  She screamed, twisting, bucking, squirming. This couldn’t be happening again.

  “Georgie! Stop it!”

  His voice finally penetrated, and she slowed enough to take a look just as the wind blew a corner of his neckerchief across his mouth.

  She froze. For though her mind immediately identified the man as Luke, that brief glimpse of eyes-only brought forth another pair of eyes she’d seen. The eyes of the man who’d robbed her train and the man who’d burned her hats.

  A sick feeling began to churn in the pit of her stomach. Luke Palmer was none other than Frank Comer.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Get off me.” Though her voice was steady, the distress in her expression was evident.

  He stayed where he was, her binoculars pressing into his ribs. “What are you doing way out here?”

  “Birding. What are you doing? Practicing for your next holdup?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Get off me, Luke. Or should I say Frank?”

  He frowned.

  “Don’t even think about pretending you don’t understand. You’re Frank Comer and you robbed that train and you . . .” She blinked rapidly, but moisture still collected at the base of her eyes. “You burned my hats.”

  He watched, helpless, as memory after memory bombarded her.

  “You bound my wrists . . . and tied me to the bed . . . and pretended to look for the culprits when you came to my rescue . . . all the while knowing, knowing, it was you.” Her struggle intensified.

  “Georgie—”

  She tugged on her hands. “Let me go, you lying, thieving prigster.”

  He released her wrists but did not get up. “I can explain.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She pushed against his chest, but even in her fury, her strength was no match for his. “You’re despicable. Like the snake in the Garden of Eden, you blinded me with your looks and charm, yet all the while you lied. Worse than lied, you deceived
and took advantage and preyed on my feelings.”

  “I didn’t. I never pretended about that. Never. Make no mistake, Georgie, I have feelings for you. Strong feelings.”

  She pulled her lips back against her teeth. “Perhaps you do, but not the kind which cherish and love. Only the kind which use and take advantage.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Did you or did you not tie me to my bed?”

  “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “You’re the one who’s not listening. I’m trying to—”

  “Did you or did you not burn my hats?”

  Blast.

  She shoved his chest. “Get off. I mean it. Get off me right now, you no good humbugger.”

  Sighing, he pushed himself up, then reached to assist her.

  She swatted his hand away and scrambled to her feet. “I hate you.”

  She’d taken no more than a step when he grasped her arm and pulled her back around. Her binoculars bounced against her stomach.

  “You’re not going anywhere until we talk.”

  “Or what?” She looked from the hand that held her to his face. “You’ll tie me up?”

  “If I have to.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Do you doubt me?”

  Her chest rose and fell. Her lips trembled. “Say what you have to say.”

  Looking around, he indicated a large log with a nod of his head. “Do you mind if we sit? This might take a while.”

  She trembled, her eyes a mixture of rage and disgust. “I will sit, Luke, but not if you touch me. You will take your hand off of me and will never, ever, touch me again. I will have your word.”

  “I cannot give it.”

  “Then I will not sit.”

  Lifting his hat, he settled it back on his head. “All right. I’ll release you for now and I won’t touch you unless you touch me first—”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “—under one condition. You will not leave until I say you can leave.”

  “I will not make any such promise.”

  Taking a step forward, he tightened his hand around her arm. “Then let me make you a promise. If you run, I will catch you. If you hide, I will find you. If you reveal my true identity to anyone, I will put you away until I’ve done what I need to do. Now, sit down.”

  Her lips curled.

  Before she could blink, he captured her wrists in one hand and unbuckled his belt with his other. Her eyes widened as he whipped it from its loops.

  “What are you doing?” She tugged at him, her binoculars bouncing, but he held her secure.

  With the belt dangling in one hand, he strengthened his resolve. “You have a choice, Georgie. You can either sit on that log tied up, or you can sit on that log without binds. But you are going to sit on that log for as long as it takes to talk through this thing.”

  “I’m already finished talking.”

  “I’m not.” He softened his tone but not his hold. “I have no desire to shackle you, but I will. Too much is at stake. So which will it be? With or without the binds?”

  Her chest rose and fell. Her eyes clouded. “I will sit without binds, but you’d best say what you have to say and be done with it.” Yanking at her wrists, she waited for her freedom, then stormed to the log and plopped down.

  He followed, but found himself too agitated to join her. “I’m not Frank Comer.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m Lucious Landrum. Texas Ranger of Company ‘A.’ ”

  Her lips parted before she laughed. Laughed. Though her laugh was without mirth. “Of all the people you could claim to be, I think he would have been waaaaay down on the list. Why on earth would you want to be him?”

  He tightened his jaw. “I don’t want to be him. I am him.”

  “Really? And you expect me to believe you? Just like that?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It would be nice, yes.”

  “Well, you’d have had an easier time convincing me you were Santa Claus. Do you forget I was at the train robbery? Do you forget it was Ranger Landrum who gave chase? I met him, Luke . . . Frank. I met him and you are not him.”

  “I am him. I don’t know why you think I’m Comer. Is it because our builds are somewhat similar? Does he have the same color hair? Same color eyes?”

  “Not the same color eyes. The same eyes. It was you. I know what I saw. Just like I know you were the one to burn my hats.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about the hats. And about tying you up. It was never my intention, and I only did it to protect you.”

  She looked at him as if he were daft. “You really must think me an utter and complete fool. Not that you don’t have reason, but honestly. The game is up. It’s insulting, these stories you’re coming up with.”

  He lowered himself onto the log, careful to keep several feet between them. “I’m Lucious Landrum. I was assigned to find Frank Comer and his gang. We know they’re in the area, so they had me go undercover as a troubleman.”

  Crossing her arms, she drummed her fingers, trapping the binoculars against her. “Fine. You’re Lucious Landrum and I’m Annie Oakley. Can I go now?”

  He rested his elbows on his knees. “What do you know about Lucious Landrum—other than he has a ‘ridiculous’ name?”

  With a put-upon sigh, she lifted her face to the sky. “He’s a fancy dresser. He’s been in vain pursuit of you for over a year. He holds some kind of record for being a fast draw. He carries two bone-handled pistols. A boy carved on one, a girl carved on the other. He’s named his pistols after Odysseus and Penelope—the most romantic couple of all time. And he keeps Penelope on his left hip, closest to his heart.”

  Widening his knees, he rummaged through the brush, then picked up a small brown rock, smooth on one side, rough on the other. “That’s because she’s known for her faithfulness. Even though she hadn’t seen Odysseus for more than twenty years and even though she’d been relentlessly pursued by other suitors, she remained loyal to him.”

  He waited, but Georgie made no snide comment in response. He looked over. She studied him, her green eyes uncertain.

  “I’m going to remove my left gun from my holster.”

  Her gaze fell to his hip.

  “Before I hand it to you, I’m going to take the cartridges out so you don’t hurt yourself by accident. All right?”

  Biting her lower lip, she nodded, never taking her eyes from his left hip.

  He pulled Penelope from his holster, emptied the cartridges into his hand, snapped the cylinder back into place, and extended the pistol, grip first. Her hand dipped, as if she hadn’t expected it to be so heavy.

  She cradled the Colt with both hands, studying the woman carved into its handle and the steelwork, clear down to the muzzle, which was inlaid with gold in intricate patterns. She ran a finger over the inscription just ahead of the trigger. Never Draw Me Without Cause or Holster Me With Dishonor.

  “Can I see the other?” she asked, her voice soft, subdued.

  He emptied Odysseus, then handed him to her.

  Stretching her legs out to make her lap level, she set the pistols against her thighs. “They’re lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do I know you haven’t simply killed Ranger Landrum and absconded with his guns?”

  “I have a Warrant of Authority and a badge hidden in my room at the boardinghouse. I can fetch them if you’d like.”

  She returned Odysseus. “Also items which could have been stolen.”

  He placed the cartridges back into Odysseus’s cylinder, then holstered it. “No one but me would know about my brother Alec’s past.”

  “Unless he was part of Frank Comer’s gang.” She handed him Penelope.

  Taking it, he shook his head. “He wasn’t. Frank
Comer wasn’t around back then. Besides, if Lucious Landrum had met with foul play, the papers would be filled with the news.”

  The forest creatures remained still, but three black-throated birds winged past, cheeping and trilling.

  Drawing up her knees, she wrapped her arms around them. “I want to believe you.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “But everything’s been a lie.”

  “Not everything. Not how I feel about you.”

  She searched his eyes. “How do you feel about me?”

  Swallowing, he knew he had no choice but to tell her the absolute truth. Studying her face, he recalled the panic he felt when Necker announced his intent to go inside her cottage. The fury when Duane made offensive innuendos. The easing of his anxiety when he cradled her within his arms. “I love you, Georgie.”

  Her lips quivered. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “You do. I’m still me. The only thing that’s different is my name and occupation.”

  “That’s not true. Luke Palmer—or Lucious Landrum, for that matter—would never have tied me up and burnt those hats.”

  “I’ve sworn to protect. And in order to do my job, sacrifices sometimes have to be made. In this case, there was no contest. Your safety was much more important than the hats.”

  “You tied me up.”

  “And you’re lucky it was me, because I made sure your circulation wasn’t cut off. I also protected you from unwanted advances.”

  He could see the memories flicker through her mind. Of him tying her to the bedpost, tight enough to impress Necker, but not so tight she’d lose blood flow. Of him tossing Duane across the room when he’d made crude suggestions. Of him covering her nightdress and preserving her modesty.

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Her lips parted. “Why not?”

  “It would be too hard for you to act like yourself around them.”

  She gasped. “I know them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they part of the Comer Gang?”

  “Yes.”

  She wrapped her hands around her binoculars, as if hanging on to them would somehow give her stability. “Was Mr. Ottfried behind it?”