Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [102]
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