Love on the Line (4 page)

Cheeeeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet. Cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo, cheeeeeo . . . wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet.

His mouth slackened. Her whistle was strong, loud, and sounded exactly like some bird he’d heard a million times. He had no idea which bird it was. Wouldn’t know it if he saw it. But he’d sure heard it sing like that. Plenty of times.

She did it again, and lo and behold, if something didn’t answer her back. His gaze flew to the branches of the tree but saw nothing.

Laughing, she propped her hands against her waist, arched her back, and lifted her chin. A breeze wafted the hair that had come loose.

“Don’t you worry, handsome,” she said. “I’ve chased that mean ol’ cat away. You’re safe now.”

“Well,” Luke drawled. “I’m mighty relieved to know that. Thank you.”

Squeaking, she spun around. A bird darted from the elderberry, but he didn’t look. No longer cared which bird made that noise.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she breathed.

He settled his hat on his head. “Weren’t you?”

“No.” She stood in a patch of autumn sage, its rich red blooms forming a three-foot hedge around her.

He sauntered closer. “You must be Miss Gail.”

“That’s right. Who’re you?”

“Luke Palmer. The new troubleman.”

“Oh!” She jumped forward, skirting the sage bush, brushing her skirt, tucking in her blouse. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I . . .” Sighing, she stopped. “Hello.”

He tugged his hat. “Hello.”

“Welcome to Brenham.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes were green. He’d seen hazel before—a bit of blue with a bit of green. But these were all-out green like a Scandinavian goddess’s, except she was no bigger than a mite. She had all the requisite curves, though.

“When did you get to town?” she asked.

“Just rode in.”

She clasped her hands. “Oh my. Just in. Are you hungry? Have you had your dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am. Had it on the trail.”

“Well. I see. Good.” Swallowing, she made no move to invite him in. Just stood there wringing her hands.

He glanced at the yard. “Nice garden.”

She turned toward it, showing him her profile. Smooth forehead. Small nose. Full lips. Defined chin. Long neck.

“Do you think so?”

It took him a second. The garden. “Yes, I do.”

Everything about her softened. “I hope the birds think so, too.”

In a flash, his subconscious brought forth items he’d seen, but not noticed. Birdbaths. Bird feeders. And a birdhouse made from an old starch box. “I’m sure they will.”

She turned back to him and smiled. He blinked. She was pretty before, but when she smiled her whole face lit, especially her eyes. Multiple laugh lines framed her mouth. Straight white teeth peeked out. And a teeny brown mole to the left of her lower lip quivered.

“Well, we’d best get inside, Mr. Palmer, so I can show you where everything is. After the lunchtime lull, folks will be ready for some neighborly visiting, and every line on the board will drop.” She swept past him, her hips offering a suggestion of sway.

It must be mental, whatever kept her from being married. Because there sure wasn’t a thing wrong with the way that gal was put together.

Removing his hat, he followed her through the back door.

“Your first priority is stringing lines onto the new telephone poles.” Georgie stood between the troubleman and her desk.

She’d known he was coming, she just didn’t know it was going to be today. Now. This minute. And he wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

There’d been lots of troublemen in Dallas and none of them had been so . . . virile. It wasn’t an attribute she often assigned to men of her acquaintance. None, actually, now that she thought on it.

Tilting her head, she considered exactly what it was that made him so. When studying her birds, she made note of every feature. Her gaze moved to the top of Mr. Palmer’s head.

Crown: curly brown hair, which no comb had tamed. Eye ring: blue, the exact shade of an indigo bunting. Forehead: perfectly normal. Nothing of note there. Bill: intoxicating smile he flashed at the most unexpected moments. Chin: square jaw, which would need a shave by the end of the day. Throat: prominent Adam’s apple. Chest: a physique any pugilist would envy. Plumage: Denim work overalls and white chambray shirt.

She sighed. No, it wasn’t any one thing. Rather, the entire body, from head to tail, back to belly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Calling upon nonsubscribers will have to wait until all urgent matters have been completed.”

“My orders come from SWT&T, not you.” He took a step forward, crowding her. “So, I’d appreciate it if you gave me the list of who has service and who doesn’t.”

She offered him a patient smile. “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Palmer. We have to take care of the customers we have first; then we can start introducing more.”

He held out his hand. Wing: calloused, large, and strong.

“The list, please,” he said.

“Don’t you think you’ll have a much better chance of drawing in new customers once we have real telephone wire fastened to real telephone poles, instead of common wire tacked onto trees, fences, and anything else which happens to be available? For heaven’s sake, some folks are receiving service over barbed wire.”

He kept his hand where it was. “I will string the wire, Miss Gail. But first, I’d like that list.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. First, you string the wire.”

Ding.

She glanced at the switchboard. Number nine had dropped. Suppressing her frustration, she skirted around him, slipped on her earpiece, plugged in a cable, and pushed the key forward. “Hello, Central.”

“It’s L.J. I hear tell the new troubleman’s done made it to town. Is he comin’ to get his cart and all this stuff them linemen left fer him? I really need the space back.”

She glanced at Mr. Palmer. He brushed his fingers across some papers on her desk, fanning them out.

“I’ll send him right over, Mr. Lockett. I know he’s anxious to get started.”

Palmer shot her a sideways glance, then returned to his nosing around.

She pulled out the cable. “That was the livery. Your installer’s cart is there, along with miles of galvanized wire, insulators, brackets, climbers, and everything else you need to get started.”

He ignored her. A brown curl fell across his forehead.

“Mr. Palmer, would you kindly step away from my desk?”

Scooping the papers together, he set them on end and tapped their edges straight. “I believe, Miss Gail, this is my desk.”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon? That desk belongs to—”

“The Southwestern Telegraph and Telephone Company. And they have asked me to take over the billing, collecting, and trouble tickets. Since this is where the offices of SWT&T are located, well, it makes sense this is where the billing, collecting, and trouble tickets are generated. So this, Miss Gail, is now
my
desk.”

She’d been told he was to take over those duties, but she had no intention of giving up either them or her desk. And when she’d asked Mr. Marshall in the Dallas office about it, he’d chuckled. “Well, of course he’ll do those things,” he’d said. “With a man there, we’ve no need to depend on a woman any longer.”

Just thinking about it made her want to snatch him baldheaded.

She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to have time for that just yet, Mr. Palmer. As I mentioned before, your first priority is to string wire.”

He set her papers on the corner of the desk. “And as I mentioned before, I will begin the paperwork immediately. I will assume control of this desk. And I will have that list of subscribers.”

Ding.

She snatched up a cable and stuffed it into number twenty-eight. “Hello, Central.”

“Georgie, it’s Mattieleene. How old is he? What does he look like? You have met him, haven’t you?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”

He tried to open one of the drawers, but it was locked. With a great deal of satisfaction, she smoothed her skirt beneath her and adjusted herself in her chair.

“Well?” Mattieleene asked.

“He’s big and he’s grouchy.”

He pierced her with his gaze.

She shifted, facing forward. She could still see him, but only in her peripheral vision.

“Never say so!” Mattieleene moaned. “Is he old?”

“Very old.”

He jiggled the second and third drawers. Locked.

“Is he ugly?”

“Long in tooth and raised on sour milk.”

Balling his fists, he placed them on the desktop and leaned against it. The fabric of his sleeves tightened around his upper arms.

“Oh, crumbs.” Mattieleene sounded near tears. “Why couldn’t they have sent a man with a little fur on his brisket?”

“Party lines, Mattieleene. Anyone can hear.” And from the crackling on the line, it was a sure bet half the town was listening in. “I’m going to have to let you go now. We’ll talk later.” She unplugged the cable.

“Where is the key to these drawers, Miss Gail?” His tone was soft with a steely undercurrent.

She immediately thought of the woman on the train after the arrogant Ranger had demanded her coins. Georgie ran a finger along her neckline. “It’s in a safe place.”

His gaze touched her bodice. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play games with me, ma’am.”

“Or what?”

He slowly straightened. A mockingbird began running through an entire repertoire of songs, some his own, others imitations. A whiff of lemon pie cooling on someone’s windowsill touched Georgie’s nose, making her stomach growl.

Still, she held his gaze. She was the one who’d been doing all the work. She was the one with the seniority. She was the one who knew the customers. She’d be deviled if she was going to roll over and play dead simply because he was a man and she wasn’t.

“If I have to involve Mr. Marshall,” he said, “I will. But I’d rather not.”

She lifted her chin. “If you feel the need to tattle, by all means, go ahead. But to do so will require a long-distance call. Do you know how to place one?”

A tick began in his jaw.

That’s what she thought.

Ding.

She plugged in number nine. “Hello, Central.”

“Is he comin’ or not?”

“He hasn’t left yet, Mr. Lockett. I’ll remind him again.” She unplugged. “The livery is waiting.”

Reaching up, he slid his fingers across the lip of the kitchen doorframe. Had he not believed the key was tucked inside her bodice? It wasn’t, but he didn’t know that.

So long as he didn’t look into her bedroom—which of course he wouldn’t—then all was safe. But the moment he left, she’d retrieve it off her washstand, where it sat in plain sight.

He tipped up the desk chair, looking beneath its seat.

Ding.

“Hello, Central.”

“Do you know where the doc is? Little Shirley has taken ill.”

Georgie checked the doctor’s schedule. “He’s at the Shultes’, the Zientiks’, or somewhere in between. He’s expected to be back by three.”

“Would you have him call me when he returns?”

“Of course. Tell Shirley I hope she feels better.”

Mr. Palmer had moved to her bookshelves, making no pretense of doing anything other than snooping. The key would certainly not be hidden inside any of the volumes, yet he thumbed through one book after the other.

“Mr. Palmer, the livery—”

Ding.

Sighing, she plugged into line seventeen. “Hello, Central.” At Mrs. Dobbing’s request, Georgie rang and connected her to Mrs. Folschinski. “Go ahead, please.”

Mr. Palmer held up her Nellie Bly board game. “What the deuce is this?”

“It is personal property, Mr. Palmer. Property you do not have permission to rifle through. This may be the headquarters of SWT&T here in Brenham, but it is also my home, and I would ask you to respect my privacy.”

“Give me the key.”

“No.”

He opened the box and took pieces out of her game, examining them.

Whipping off her earpiece, she jumped to her feet. “That is quite enough, sir.”

“What are you, some kind of Nellie Bly follower?”

She snatched up the box and began to replace the pieces. “Nellie Bly is one of the greatest women of our time.”

“She’s a troublesome female who puts ideas into the heads of our women.”

Tightening her lips, Georgie returned the game to the shelf. “Exactly what ideas are you referring to? The ones which say women are good for more than just cleaning, sewing, and keeping house? The ones which say a woman should be permitted to have a career if she so chooses? A career like—I don’t know, a telephone operator? Would that be the kind of idea you object to?”

“It certainly would be. If you were a man, you’d have allowed me to prioritize my job the way I wanted to. You’d have shown me the list of subscribers. You’d have given me the key the moment I asked.” With each statement he puffed up like a grackle. “Now, stop all this nonsense and either do as I’ve requested or go back to your sewing, cleaning, and keeping house.”

Walking to the screen door, she opened it. “Get out of my home, Mr. Palmer.”

“Give me the key, Miss Gail.”

“When pigs fly, sir.” Her entire body trembled. She clearly remembered her mother being told the farm they’d spent their whole life working would be taken from them without Papa. Didn’t matter he’d died. Didn’t matter he wanted Mama to have it. All that mattered was Mama had been a woman and therefore unworthy of being a landowner.

But Nellie Bly was different. She’d secured a job as a newspaper journalist. She’d pretended to be insane so she could expose the atrocities occurring in asylums. She’d broken a world record by traveling around the world in seventy-two days.
By herself.
At age twenty-five she’d become the most famous woman in the world.

And Georgie owned every product Miss Bly had ever endorsed except for her hat. But one day, when she’d saved enough, Georgie would buy herself a Nellie Bly hat.

In the meanwhile, she had no use for men who were so narrow-minded they could look through a keyhole with both eyes at the same time.

Mr. Palmer grabbed his hat from the stand. “I’m going to pick up my supplies. When I get back, you better have that key sitting on top of my desk or I’ll rip out every drawer in it. Don’t think I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t advise it. You’d be damaging company property.”

“When I tell Marshall why, I have a feeling no one will be blaming me.” He jammed on his hat. “You have thirty minutes, missy.” He stormed out the door.

She slammed the screen behind him. It bounced open and closed before settling. But she knew he was right. If Palmer destroyed the desk, Mr. Marshall would hold her responsible and it would be her pay which was docked.

She watched Palmer swing up into his saddle, then take off at a full gallop.

Opening the screen door, she slammed it one more time, but it didn’t change anything. He was still a male and she wasn’t. Which meant her desk—and its key—would now be his.