Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [60]
In between each step, his large hands stroked, patted, and checked for a tight but comfortable fit. Georgie wished she could hear what he was saying to the mare, for he kept up a steady stream of dialog.
He slipped a bridle with blinders over the horse’s nose and ears, fluffing the forelock as if it were a woman’s coiffure. Georgie smoothed the back of her hair, tucking loose tendrils into her twist.
Honey Dew bumped Luke with her muzzle. He leaned in and whispered. The horse gave a long, blustery sigh, flicking her ears. Luke chuckled, the deep tenor of it causing Georgie’s stomach to drop.
Releasing Honey Dew from the hitching post, he led her to the side of the house where he stored his installer’s cart. Georgie couldn’t see them, but she could hear the creak of the wheels, the looping of straps, the undertone of Luke’s voice. Finally, he walked Honey Dew to the street and climbed onto the green driver’s seat. Picking up the reins, he turned his head toward Georgie, his eyes connecting with hers, his gaze intense.
She fell back and out of sight, her breath lodged in her throat. He’d known. He’d known she stood there and ogled him. She pressed her hands against her cheeks.
After a moment, he clicked his tongue, signaling his horse. Georgie stayed in the shadows of her living room until the jangle of harness and creak of wheel had long since faded.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hello, Central.”
“It’s me,” Luke said.
A slight intake of breath. “Oh. Well, um, hello. Did you want to connect to someone?”
“No. I’m at the Oodsons’. In order to isolate the trouble, I’m going to stop at each farm or ranch on this line and ring back to you until I find one that doesn’t work properly.”
“All right.”
“Everything’s good here, sounds like.”
“Yes. I believe the earth would have stopped spinning had Mrs. Oodson’s line been down.”
He smiled. “Party lines, Miss Gail. Anyone can hear.”
A soft snort carried over the wire. “I guess she isn’t there, since the Reading Circle’s meeting at Mrs. Patrick’s right now?”
“No, she isn’t here. I let myself in.”
“You’re off to the Klebergs’ next?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll talk to you in a bit, then.”
“All right.”
Neither hung up.
He pictured her as he’d left her, standing at the screen door, watching his every move. Why did she do that? But he knew why. And try as he might, he couldn’t deny his fascination with her, either.
She’d looked like a living sunset in a dress he’d not seen before. High yellow collar, fawn-colored yoke, deep maroon gown, all trimmed with golden fringe which quivered at the tiniest encouragement. He’d wanted to trace the fringe with his finger, follow it from epaulets to the vee of her yoke.
“Is that a new dress you’re wearing?” he asked.
“No. Yes. A little.”
He propped a shoulder against the wall. “It’s nice. I like it.”
A pause. “Thank you.”
“What’s going on in your backyard?”
He heard her chair creak. “Mr. Bluebird’s nowhere in sight. He must be out hunting for food. Mrs. Bluebird is incubating her eggs.”
“They’re married?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?”
“Because . . . they’re, you know, they’re having a family.”
“Did Audubon’s publication tell you birds who nest are married?”
“I’ll have you know, sir, bluebirds mate for life.”
“They do?”
“They do.”
“Well, then. I stand corrected.” Across the room a pair of carved cuckoo birds in an ornate clock poked out to announce the quarter hour. “Are cuckoo birds monogamous?”
“Mostly.”
“In that case, Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo say hello.”
She chuckled.
He pushed away from the wall. “Listen, I better go. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”
“All right.” This time, she pulled the plug.
“Hello, Central.”
“It’s me.”
“Hello.” Her voice dropped to an intimate level.
Slipping a hand into his pocket, he looked down. Mud caked the toe of his left boot. He’d have to be careful not to leave a mess in Mrs. Dobbing’s hallway. “Sounds like this line is working, too.”
“Yes. What took you so long to get there?