Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [59]
“My battery’s about dead, Georgie. Can you send Luke over with a new one?”
“I’ll be glad to, Mr. Schmid. He’s working on a line north of town today, though. Would it be all right if he stops by tomorrow?”
Luke stepped back into the living room and gathered up the last of the entries.
“Could it be first thing in the morning, then?” The wire crackled, distorting the mercantile owner’s voice. “I’m not sure it’ll last much longer than that. ’Course, it lasted longer than Leatherman’s.”
“Oh?” She kept her eyes on her bedroom door.
“Yep. We were having us a contest to see whose would last the longest.”
She shifted her weight. Why hadn’t Luke come out yet? “I’m assuming Mr. Palmer needs to bring a battery to Mr. Leatherman, then?”
“Yep. But bring mine first.”
“I’ll let Mr. Palmer know.” Removing the plug, she allowed its cord to retract, then hurried to her room.
Luke stood beside her washstand, fingering a hand towel on its rung. Her bedroom had never been big, but his presence dwarfed it even further.
He lifted his gaze, his fingers still pinching the cloth. “My mother used to do this to her towels.”
“Huck toweling?”
“Yes.” His finger grazed the blue stitches woven into the thin fabric. “Did you do this?”
“I did.”
“It’s nice.”
She looked at the towel. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a huck towel she used to dry her hands and face. “Thank you. And thank you for helping me with the boxes.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was quiet, still lost on some distant memory.
“Do you see your mother very often?”
“Not since I left home.”
“Me neither.”
His eyes connected with hers. So blue. So very blue.
After a moment, she widened the door. “You should probably come on out.”
He snatched his hand back and took a quick glance at her bed, as if just realizing where he was.
“Excuse me.” He strode from the room.
She closed the door behind them, its soft click loud in the quiet of the cottage.
“I’m sorry.” He stood in the center of the room like a chastised child. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking—I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. And I do appreciate your help.”
He swallowed. “Right. Well. I guess I better go.”
“Schmid Brothers Mercantile needs a new battery for their wall unit, as does Mr. Leatherman over on West Street.”
“Yes. I heard. If I can’t get to it today, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Clearing his throat, he grabbed his hat and pushed through the screen.
She caught the door with her hand, guiding it shut. She never knew what to expect when she saw him. One minute he’d be grouchy, the next just the opposite. But no matter his mood or hers, the tension between them remained constant.
She watched through the tightly woven mesh of the door as he strode to his horse and unbuckled its breast collar. The pinto turned her head toward him, the reins holding her to the hitching post. He stroked her neck and murmured something, his tone deep, gentle.
Unsaddling a horse was as everyday as washing one’s face, yet seeing him undo the flank strap, toss up the stirrup, and release the cinch fascinated her. Each movement sure, fluid, and economic. She pressed a hand against her midriff, but it did little to settle the commotion within.
He grabbed both ends of the saddle blanket and tugged. His back and shoulder muscles bunched as saddle, pads, and bags slid off the horse and into his hands. With a shortened stride, he hauled his burden to her side-yard shed, disappearing inside.
Moments later, he reappeared with the cart harness. His pinto perked her ears and swished her white tail. It was a beautiful horse. Deep brown head, neck, and shoulders. White mane, tail, girth, and legs from the hocks down. Georgie still couldn’t believe he’d named it after a brand of chewing tobacco.
Did he chew? she wondered. If he did, she’d never seen him, nor did he ever reek of it.
He sorted out the tangle of leather straps in his arms. Attaching a cart harness was every bit as complicated as attiring a woman for a night at the ball. He buckled