Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [35]
Luke had made a career of keeping calm in the face of his enemy, but this was different. The men weren’t trying to get his goat. They honestly believed Landrum—him—to be a buffoon and Comer to be a saint. Even the doc.
He tried to convince himself it was nothing personal, but no matter which way he looked at it, it was personal. Very personal.
The men reordered themselves and continued shooting. The longer the beer flowed, the more vocal the gallery became. Necker offered pointers, encouragement, and ribald jokes. When it was Luke’s turn, the farmer smiled and indicated the ground in front of him with the sweep of his hand. “Let’s see what you got, Palmer.”
Never had Luke wanted so badly to shoot standing up. But if Necker wasn’t one of Comer’s gang, then he’d be mighty surprised. The opportunity to curry favor with the man was much more important than soothing his own pride.
He stretched out on the ground, braced himself and his gun, then aimed a bit right.
“A little to the left,” Necker offered.
Luke moved the rifle left.
“That’s it, give her a shot.”
He pulled the trigger, slightly lifting his muzzle at the last second. The cartridge whizzed above the target.
“Ooooh, almost.”
“Just missed her, Palmer.”
“A little too high.”
“Keep her steady to the end.”
Luke cocked his action lever, pulled the hammer back, looked down the sights again, shot, and winged the northeast corner of the target.
“That’s it.”
“Better, better.”
“You’re still up and to the right.”
On his final shot, he aimed high and right once more, then pulled to bull’s-eye at the last second, hammering the steel plate dead center.
The men hollered their approval, grabbing him by the back of his overalls and hoisting him to his feet with congratulatory words and rounds of pounding. Necker gave him a nod, but Luke knew the man thought it dumb luck.
Luke shook his head. “I’m a birdman myself and more comfortable with my shotgun.”
Necker rocked on his heels. “Well, Brenham is hosting the Texas State Tournament at the end of the month. A bunch of us’ll be practicing trap next week. Would ya like ta join us?”
“Oh, I’m not good enough to enter any tournament, but I’d still like to join you for practice.”
“Next week, then.”
Luke slid a hand into his pocket. “Would it be all right, in the meanwhile, if I did some target practice with you next time I’m out your way? Get a few pointers?”
“Anytime, Palmer. Come out anytime.”
An unusual answer for a farmer during springtime. Didn’t he have corn to plant?
Excitement zipped through Luke. He’d picked up his first scent. Smiling full out, he turned to the men and expressed his anticipation about the upcoming tournament, all the while formulating ways he could become better acquainted with Arnold Necker.
Chapter Eleven
Georgie couldn’t do anything right. She’d flip-flopped the preacher’s number in her head and connected him to the synagogue instead of the church. She’d disconnected Birdie and Fred by mistake. She’d tried to complete a call with two incoming cable lines. And she’d used two longs and one short for the Whitchursts.
Winding the cord of her earpiece around her finger, she slanted a glance toward Mr. Palmer. He hunched over the desk, reconciling bills and writing up collection statements. His overall bib buckled forward, leaving a gaping view of his broad chest and trim waist underneath a chambray shirt.
She hadn’t seen him in over two weeks. Not since the removal of his splinters. Not since his hand had been flattened against her waist. Not since her stomach had fluttered like hummingbird wings when she’d thought he was going to kiss her.
It was just as well he hadn’t. She’d known him for such a short time. Still, it had taken her half the night to fall asleep and then she’d dreamed of him. She’d dressed with extra care the next day. And the next. And even the next.
But he never came. Until now. Smack-dab in the middle of the day. Unannounced