Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [27]
“It’s not on my hand.”
“Where is it?”
After a slight hesitation, he released the cuff of his shirt and pulled up his sleeve. Sweet heavens above. The inside of his arm was filled with ugly splinters.
“What happened?” Grasping his hand, she rotated his arm for a better look.
He took in a quick breath.
She immediately loosened her hold. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m just a little sore.”
“From the splinters?”
“From climbing poles all day.”
Frowning, she cocked her head. “But you do that all the time.”
“Stringing new wire involves a lot more climbing than normal day-to-day maintenance.” He withdrew his arm and began to pull down his sleeve. “Listen, forget I mentioned it. I’ll just head on out and let you get to your supper.”
“No, no.” She pulled out a cane-seat chair from the table. “Sit. I’ll get my tweezers.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t mean you had to do it. I just meant to borrow them, is all.”
“Honestly, you’re as bad as Bettina.” She repositioned the chair, thumping it against the wood floor. “Sit, Mr. Palmer. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for an answer, she swept past him and to her bedroom for a pair of tweezers.
Chapter Eight
Luke lowered himself into the proffered chair, his muscles aching. In his line of work, he’d spent months on the trail under all kinds of adverse conditions. He’d slept on the ground, climbed steep, treacherous terrain, and swum in freezing water for long periods of time. Still, it had been a good while since he’d been this sore.
His arms throbbed, his shoulders ached, his legs were like jelly, and his shins just downright hurt. He started to rub one, but the minute he leaned over, his arms and shoulders screamed in protest.
A tin of molasses cookies caught his eye. Never in his life had he seen a woman stuff a whole cookie in her mouth. But then, Miss Gail wasn’t your average woman. Propping his elbows on his knees, he rested his face in his hands and closed his eyes.
He heard her coming and going, banging things around, but kept his eyes closed until a peculiar odor rose from her frying pan. Opening his eyes, he looked for the source of the smell. A crushed root lay on the drainboard, with mortar and pestle nearby.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Almost done.” With one more stir of her spoon, she tilted the pan and scraped her concoction into a bowl. “I thought a little elder root and seed of Jamestown weed would help draw out those splinters.”
It had been a long time since anyone had fussed over him. He decided to relax and enjoy it. No telling how long it would be before it happened again. Her kitchen was simpler than most, but it still had all the trimmings—white lacy curtains, dish towels with the days of the week stitched across their hems, speckled enamelware, and a woman in a blue gingham apron.
Placing her chair face-to-face with his, she scooted up right in between his knees, the elder root smelling like a wet dog. “Now, let’s see those splinters.”
He rolled up his sleeve and held out his forearm, exposing its underside. She grasped his wrist with one hand and smoothed on the warm poultice with her other, her touch tentative.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not hurting me.”
She didn’t change a thing, just kept spreading with the barest amount of pressure. After covering up the last splinter, she held her free hand in the air, looking around for something to wipe it on. She began to scoot back, but he stalled her.
“Just use the legs of my overalls.”
She frowned. “I can’t do that. It’ll stain them.” The sunlight behind her shrank her pupils to tiny dots, leaving nothing but green.
“They’re pretty scuffed up already,” he said. “It won’t matter any.”
After a moment of indecisiveness, she wiped each finger across his leg, rolling them to get them clean. He tensed, completely unprepared for the sizzle which licked up his leg. She, however, seemed completely unaffected.
As soon as she finished, she cupped his elbow, taking the weight of his forearm in hers, and sat back. The motion pulled his wrist toward her, bringing his knuckles within