Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [29]
“You can let go,” he said. “I’ll peel it when it’s ready.”
She lifted her gaze and his gut clenched. Confusion, wonder, and awe played across her face in slow succession. No artifice. No coyness. Just open, honest expressions.
“How old are you?” she asked.
Too old. Maybe not in years, but certainly in life experiences. “Twenty-six.”
He didn’t need to ask how old she was. He already knew. She was twenty. Her widowed mother was married to a mean drunk. She’d attended Baylor Female College before having to drop out for lack of funds. She worked at the SWT&T exchange in Dallas for two years. They sent her to Brenham as the town operator last year and she’d been here ever since.
But his Ranger report had plenty of holes in it. He’d had no idea about the birds. Nor Nellie Bly. Nor her unofficial hiring of the town drunk’s daughter. Nor the fact she paid Bettina out of her own pocket—which had become abundantly clear his first day when he went over the books.
The largest hole, though, had been its exclusion of her unusual eyes. Her Nordic-blond hair. Her gut-twisting smile. And that teeny mole.
He tried to push back his chair, but between her, the table, and the wall, he was boxed in. “I think I better leave.”
“Why?” she breathed.
You know why. “Let me up, Georgie.”
“But this is your right arm.” As if that explained everything.
He didn’t respond.
“You’d have to use your left hand to get the splinters out,” she said. “The poultice is ready to come off anyway. It’ll only take a minute.”
Without waiting for his permission, she bent her head. Several hairpins had partially worked themselves out, as if her hair was too full and luxurious to be contained. Half of him wanted to push them back in. The other half wanted to pull them out.
He gripped the arm of his chair with his free hand.
She looked up. “Does this hurt?”
Her face was close. Very close. Flecks of gold he hadn’t noticed before dusted her eyes. Thick lashes swept over them, then opened again. She catalogued his features, her gaze touching his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth.
His finger ached to trace her extended neck and pull her the last few inches separating them. His hand stayed where it was.
She lowered her chin and finished her work. When the last splinter had been removed, she sat, head bent, hands still. He opened his mouth to thank her, to offer assistance cleaning up, anything to get her to move. Before he could, she leaned in ever so slightly, pressing herself against him even more to pull down his shirt sleeve, then shifted to do the same to the other sleeve, causing his knuckles to caress her rib cage.
Heat spread through his body. It took every ounce of control he had not to enhance the caress. But to do so would jeopardize everything. And not just his job.
“Georgie.” His voice a warning.
She pushed back her chair.
He immediately stood and skirted around her, putting a good five feet between them.
She stayed where she was, head bent, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Georgie?”
She gathered the supplies and took them to the drainboard.
He’d known her two days. Two. He wasn’t a telephone repairman in the market for a wife, no matter how delectable she might be. He was a Texas Ranger on official business and he needed to keep his eye on the prize.
To her, however, he was a normal, red-blooded male. And a normal, red-blooded male wouldn’t walk away without a by-your-leave. He lifted the water reservoir’s lid on the stove, filled a wash pail with hot water, and carried it to her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I have to go.”
“Would you like some pea soup?”
“Mrs. Sealsfield is expecting me at the boardinghouse.”
She bit her lip, the mole coming close to her teeth. “All right.”
“Can I have one of those molasses cookies?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Thanks. And one more thing.”
She lifted her chin, her gaze searching. Questioning. Inviting.
“Can I take the tweezers with me?”
She blinked. “Did I miss one?”
“No, it’s just, well, my