Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [46]
“SWT&T?” He accepted Luke’s hand. “You must be lost. Ve don’t have das Telefon. Nearest one to us is over at die Vampler place.” He nodded his head toward the east. “About twelve farms ofer.”
Luke whistled. “That’d be a pretty good stretch if you had a hankering to talk to somebody mighty quick.”
Finkel raised a brow. “Vell, I’m not often in a hurry.”
Pushing the screen open with her back, the missus held a tray with two steaming cups. “Möchten Sie einen Kaffee, Herr Palmer?”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Luke accepted the coffee, its aroma teasing his senses. As a rule, he didn’t drink stimulants, but if he didn’t take this, they’d most likely offer him a beer.
Settling into a rocker, Finkel accepted the second cup on the tray and indicated the chair next to him. “You come from town, then?”
“Sure did,” Luke said, joining him.
“How are die Roads?”
“Good and dry. So if the rain holds off, there shouldn’t be any slowdowns for the folks coming next week.” He paused, expecting the man to offer up an opinion. As far as farmers were concerned, rainwater for their corn was much more important than the condition of the roads. But Finkel said nothing.
Luke cleared his throat. “The manager of the shooting tournament thinks this year’s competition will be the biggest gathering of shooters ever seen in these parts. Claims he’s even expecting folks from outside the state.” He blew on his coffee. “You planning to go?”
Finkel leaned his rocker back. “I plan on being in it.”
Luke whistled. The man hadn’t been to Gun Club practice. Wasn’t even a member as best he could tell. “You must be mighty good. I hear Winchester’s sending their professional.”
“F.M. Faroute has a lot of followers, but I can gif him a run for his money. Vhat about you? Are you going?”
“I’ll be there all right. I’m helping with the pigeon crates. I wouldn’t stand a chance in the competition, though. Anybody else around here signing up?”
Shrugging, Finkel spit to the side. “Von’t really know until opening day, I guess.”
Luke wondered if he knew about Necker, the judge, and the gun shop owner participating, or if he was simply keeping his cards close to his chest.
The rhythmic swishing of the butter churn changed in tone as the cream thickened. Luke glanced over. The boy switched arms and kept his head down, but Luke knew he was listening to every word—assuming he understood English.
Swiveling his cup, Luke watched the liquid within it swirl. “You know, if you had a telephone, you’d be able to find out right now which of your neighbors were competing.”
Finkel harrumphed. “I’m not die one all curious about it. You are.”
Smiling, Luke propped an ankle on his knee. “I guess I am. But don’t you think having a telephone might come in handy? You could discover the conditions of the road anytime you wanted. You’d be able to keep abreast of the coming elections. You’d know the minute the new cotton mill is up and running. You’d know Hodde has a car of white corn on track for cheap. You’d know Thornhill’s planted ninety acres.” He paused. “But most important, if there was some kind of emergency and you had to talk to somebody quick, why, you could just call them right up.”
Finkel stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Thornhill’s planted neunzig already?”
“He has. And twenty-five of it is up.”
“How did he get the plowing done vhile the ground vas still vet?”
Luke shrugged. “I don’t know, but if you had a telephone, we could call and ask him.”
“I doubt that. The vay I hear it, those lines are alvays breaking down.”
“Not anymore. I strung brand-new wire right along the road out there. And it runs straight to Miss Gail in town. If you were to give her a ring, she could patch you through to anybody you want.”
He scratched his jaw. “Thornhill has das Telefon?”
“Yes, sir. A three-box magneto wall set. Would you like to see an illustration? I have one in my saddlebag.”
Slapping his hands on his knees, Finkel pushed himself to his feet. “No, no need for that. I haf to head out to the vest forty and see how the planting is coming.”
Luke