Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [16]
Responding in kind, he couldn’t help but feel the difference between riding down the street in his overalls and riding down the street with his badge and gun belt. Ordinarily, men, women, and children of every age and walk of life quit whatever they were doing just to watch him and his sorrel pass through. Yet today, he wasn’t worthy of even a glance—other than a brief acknowledgment from another of his ilk.
He shouldn’t have minded. Shouldn’t have even noticed. Yet he did.
The whitewashed Exchange Hotel took up almost an entire block. A gentleman and his lady stepped outside onto its roomy veranda. She opened a bright blue parasol the same color as her dress, then took her man’s arm.
Luke followed them with his gaze, appreciating the sway of her skirts. That was how a lady should comport herself. She wasn’t supposed to chase down cats with her broom, flounce around with her hair coming loose, nor square up to a man.
He became riled just thinking about it. The mystery of why Miss Gail wasn’t married had certainly been solved in a hurry. She just better have that key for him when he returned or he’d . . . he’d what?
What could he do? That desk was solid oak. He’d have to take an ax to it before he could break it open. And despite what he’d said to Miss Gail, SWT&T was none too happy to have him here. He didn’t want to give them any excuse for removing him from his position and sending in a real troubleman.
Honey Dew snorted, drawing his attention. The installer’s cart wasn’t very big, but the giant reel of wire in the back weighed close to nine hundred pounds. It’d be slow going until he could lighten his load.
Rule #12: Treat everybody as you like to be treated, not forgetting your horse; if you want to know the horse’s side of it, just take off your coat and hat some zero day, hitch yourself to the same post with your belt, and stand there for a few hours. Hereafter don’t forget his blanket.
He spoke to Honey Dew in soothing tones, but the only way to lighten their load was to string the blasted stuff. Pushing up the brim of his hat, he glanced at the web of telephone wires above him, the bright sky making him squint. The wires ran every direction imaginable.
He tried to follow one from pole to point of entry into a building, but couldn’t. The tangle was too complex. What a colossal mess. If one of those lines went down, how would he ever figure out which was which?
Guiding Honey Dew to the right, he turned onto Sycamore. What he needed was to string the wire he was hauling. It would give him practice with the lines and would get him out of town, where he could take a look at the surrounding farms. But he sure didn’t want Miss Gail thinking he was doing it because she said so.
Making a left, he passed the church, then pulled up into the side yard of 114 Cottonwood Lane. The little yellow house looked so welcoming. So warm. You’d never suspect a shrew lived inside.
Jumping to the ground, he unhitched the cart. The list of telephone subscribers was critical to starting his investigation. It would familiarize him with who lived where, how long they’d been there, and if they had phone service.
To do that, though, he needed access to her desk. What would he do if the key wasn’t where he’d told her to put it? He couldn’t bust out the drawers. And he wasn’t about to telegraph the captain. But neither could he do nothing.
He saddled his mare, then secured her to the hitching rail. He would have to think of something, because one way or the other, he was getting inside that desk.
Squaring his hat, he let himself through the gate. The closer he came to the porch, the quieter he moved, one ear cocked. No sound came from within. So either no one was on the phone or she was out back whacking cats.
Easing up the steps, he crossed the veranda and peeked inside. She sat at the switchboard, her back to the door, her earpiece tethering her to the machine. The brown of her skirt was lost against the oak switchboard, but her crisp white shirtwaist clearly outlined