Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [39]
Arranging her apron and skirts, she dug into a pocket, pulled out a broken roll or cake of some kind, then stretched out her hand. She sat completely still, a living statue in her garden. Moments passed. Surely John Singer Sargent had never had a model so patient and unmoving.
Her arm had to be burning. No one could suspend it in the air for that amount of time without its weight doubling. Yet she didn’t so much as sway.
He dared not look at his watch or even rustle the papers on his desk, for the window was open and he didn’t want to disturb her. Nor did he want her to know he was watching.
A tiny gray bird with a black head flew close to her hand, then swerved away at the last second.
Fee-bee-bay-bee. Fee-bee-bay-bee.
It swooped down again, landing on the ground in front of her. Two short hops forward. Three to the side. Away it flew again.
The third time it landed on her apron, cocked its head, then fluttered to her hand. Luke held his breath. The bird nipped a piece of cake and whisked away. She never moved a muscle. Die and be blamed, but she was beautiful. The breeze ruffling her hair, blooms trimming her silhouetted figure, birds eating out of her hand. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here.
The bird returned and remained on her hand for several seconds, nipping bites of cake before flying away. On its heels a woodpecker descended for a sample. Luke rose instinctively. Those birds pecked holes through tree trunks. What was she doing letting one land on her soft, supple hand?
He bumped his chair. The woodpecker darted away. Georgie slid her eyes toward the window, locking her gaze with his.
She was furious. And not only because he’d frightened the woodpecker, but because he planned to shoot pigeons out of the sky for sport. He remained frozen, unable to turn from her. Finally, through sheer force of will, he broke eye contact and began to stack the items on his desk. The collection notices would have to wait.
The woodpecker never returned, nor did the gray bird. With a huff of exasperation, she rose and marched toward the back door, arms swinging, fist crumbling the cake.
His stomach jumped. If she grabbed his shirt again, she’d get more than she bargained for.
She jerked the kitchen door open. “What are you still doing here?”
“The children are the key,” he said, taking a step back to put some distance between them.
She blinked. “What?”
“To Ottfried’s ad. It won’t be men and women hunting down your birds. They won’t have the time or the inclination. But the ladies are going to want that Easter bonnet, so they’ll send their boys out to find bird parts.”
She stepped into the room, the door bumping her backside. “That doesn’t diminish the call to battle. If anything, boys will be more persistent and ruthless than the adults.”
“I agree. That’s why you have to win them over.”
She pressed two fingers against her forehead. “What are you talking about, Luke?”
“You want to save your birds?”
“Of course.”
“Then start up a Plumage League for the kids. Acquaint them with the birds who frequent your backyard. Show them how to feed them out of their hands. If you can make them care about birds the way you do, they won’t hunt them. They’ll be the birds’ fiercest protectors.”
She considered him. “And who’s going to protect the pigeons from the Gun Club?”
He tightened his jaw. “I told you. That’s business.”
“And I asked you, what are you still doing here?”
Her gingham apron cinched her tiny waist. Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths. Her lips, even in anger, were full. Lush. Inviting. He took a step forward.
She stumbled back, the door blocking her way.
Reaching around her, he picked up the collection bills he’d completed. “I’m going to deliver these tomorrow, then start selling phones to the areas where new wire is strung.”