Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [44]
Miss Rachel recorded their decisions along with the rest of the minutes. Sitting back, Georgie sipped the last of her coffee, pleased with the afternoon’s work.
The only signs of life at the run-down, board-and-batten farmhouse were chickens strutting about a fenced-in hen yard. No smoke drifted from the chimney, no woman washed linen in a cauldron, not even a dog barked in greeting.
The von Wredes were first in a long line of families Luke planned to visit over the next several weeks. He’d pored over Georgie’s ledgers and the county’s land registration books in an effort to familiarize himself with all outlying farms.
Tying Honey Dew to a tree, he surveyed the pared-down array of outbuildings. The barn looked more like a child’s playhouse than a structure for housing animals. Four hogs slept soundly in a mule pen. And a once cone-shaped potato bank sat deflated beneath a giant elm.
Testing each board before putting his weight on it, Luke climbed the steps to the porch and front door. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Nothing stirred. The place didn’t look like anything a train robber would own, nor a place which could afford phone service. And deserted as it was, he figured the entire family, including women and children, were in the field weeding and cultivating as much corn as possible before cotton planting began.
Returning to his horse, Luke decided to cross the von Wredes from his list. The men he was looking for would be living higher on the hog. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, how many von Wrede children were in the fields and how old they were.
His uncle’s farmhouse had looked a lot like this one. When they’d moved to Rusk County, Luke had been ten, with Alec only eleven months behind him in age, but a foot behind him in size. Their uncle made a special cut-down hoe for Alec and demanded a man’s work from them both. The dawn-to-dusk, backbreaking labor was a far cry from the hunting, shooting, fishing, and swimming they’d done with their father.
Shaking off the memories, he guided Honey Dew toward the next farm. A hint of breeze teased the leaves on the trees like an invisible finger running along a line of fringe. A woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatted in the distance. Luke scanned the area, spotting the bird at the top of a dead tree hammering the final touches on its oval nest. He hoped the woodpecker’s chicks could fly on their first try. Otherwise, it would be an awfully big drop.
He studied the bird’s markings: black-and-white body with a brilliant scarlet head. He’d seen plenty of them over his lifetime but never gave them much more than a glance. He took note now, though, of both the bird and where he was so he could tell Georgie in case she wanted to bring out her students.
Much as he hated to admit it, the lesson she’d given the children had fascinated him and made him more sympathetic to the birds’ plight. That didn’t make hunting a sin, though. Especially if he ate what he killed.
Even for next week’s tournament, the local restaurants would pick up the shot-down birds and serve them to the spectators. Either way, he didn’t think God would be too upset. The Bible said He’d caused so many quail to fall dead from the sky, the Israelites ate them until they literally came out their noses. And even then, they couldn’t finish them all.
No, there was no sin in shooting a few birds. And the tournament would bring enthusiasts from all over the state. He’d bet money every one of Comer’s gang would be there. Maybe even Frank Comer himself.
Problem was, Luke didn’t know what they looked like. Between the neckerchiefs they covered their faces with and the citizens unwilling to point fingers, the gang remained unidentified. But he knew they could shoot. Especially Comer. Surely the hundreds of dollars worth of cash prizes would be more than they could resist.
Winding his way between two fields, he couldn’t help but be impressed with von Wrede’s work. The farmer might only have seventy-five acres, but all Luke had passed had been plowed and planted