Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [47]
“They have root rot. I had acres of thriving cotton on them year before last, then quick as a blink they died. I averaged about two bales out of every twelve acres.” Shaking his head in disgust, he squinted that direction. “The only sure vay to get rid of it is to let it go to clover for a few years. So that’s vhat I’m doing.”
A few years? Luke had heard of farmers leaving fields with dead soil unplanted for one year. But a few? Not too many could afford that.
He extended his hand. “Well, I wish you luck with it. Guess I’ll see you at the tournament.”
“Ja, you will.”
Swinging onto Honey Dew, he looked again at the neatly kept farmhouse, the children wearing clothes made from bolted fabric instead of seed sacks, and the abundance of animals. For somebody who only used the west forty, he was doing mighty good.
By the close of day Luke had stopped at six farms. Of the six, only Finkel had been home and only Finkel was taking time away from his farming to attend the shooting tournament.
Tomorrow, Luke would head north to visit Necker and the farms out that way. Then, on Sunday, he’d find himself a secluded place, strap on his gun belt, and do a little leather slapping. He might not be entering the tournament, but he needed to keep his skills sharp just the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Picking up the Brenham Banner off Georgie’s porch, Luke glanced through her screen door. A stack of hatboxes lined the wall between the kitchen and the bedroom. Beyond that, she balanced on tiptoes atop her chair while both arms delved inside the opened lid of the switchboard hutch. Her backside pointed out, her skirt hiked up, her ankles wobbled.
But it was her stockings that captured his full attention. Red polka dots decorated her black hosiery. He followed the line of her legs, imagining their shape, then imagining them ensconced with polka dots. His mouth went dry.
Pulling open the screen door, he tossed the paper onto his desk. “What are you doing?”
Startled, she jumped, thrusting the rolling chair out from under her. He leaped forward, jerking her to him and away from the array of cable-plugs housed like a bed of nails on the key-shelf below her.
She grabbed the top of the hutch with her fingertips, leaving her bent at a ninety-degree angle—her upper body parallel to the floor, her backend smashed against his chest, his right arm locked about her legs.
“Oh!” She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Oh, my goodness.”
He couldn’t release her or she’d land on the spiked cables. Placing his free hand against her torso, he spread his fingers wide. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Her cheeks filled with color, but her eyes held fear.
He gave her a slight nod. “It’s okay. I won’t let you fall, but you have to let go.”
She swung her left hand from the hutch to his wrist, squeezing him with a respectable amount of strength.
“That’s it. I’ve got you. Now when you let go with the other hand, go ahead and straighten up. Ready?”
She glanced at him again, her eyes frantic as a spooked horse.
“It’s okay. I won’t let you fall. Now, on the count of three. Ready?”
She didn’t answer.
“One . . . two . . . three.” He pushed against her midriff.
She released the hutch and straightened.
“That’a way.” He allowed her to slide down him, shifting his hands to her waist. Her skirt bunched up. Swallowing, he kept his eyes forward.
As soon as her feet touched the floor, she jerked her dress into place, then spun around, his hands still on her waist. He looked down.
Mussed hair. Rosy cheeks. Full lips.
“You scared me,” she whispered. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m sorry.” He needed to let go, put some distance between them. He stayed where he was. “I thought you were mad at the milliner.”
“I am.”
“Then why’d you buy all those hats?” He indicated the stack of boxes by her bedroom.
“I didn’t. They’re entries for the Plumage League’s hat contest.”
He nodded, scraping the hem of her bodice with his nail.
“I’m still mad at you, too,” she said, but she didn’t look