Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [76]
She tried to convince herself they were only things. But they weren’t. It was as if they took her dreams and threw them into the fire.
With a deep, gripping ache in her heart, she finished reciting the Twenty-third Psalm. She moved to the Lord’s Prayer, then every memory verse she knew about fear, courage, grief, heartache, and vengeance.
Luke shut off the part of him which ached to respond to Georgie’s distress. First and foremost, he must do whatever it took to protect her from a fate much worse than being bound at wrists and ankles.
He felt sure Necker’s intent was to impair the Plumage League, not bring harm to Georgie. Duane, however, was another matter. The boy had had too much to drink and, from what Luke could tell, had allowed his mind to wander.
Still, Luke would need to make amends with Duane once the boy sobered up. He didn’t want tonight’s rough handling to sabotage his chances of getting into Comer’s gang.
He tossed a hat into the fire. The frilly confection burned like corn husks and produced an abundance of smoke. Flames high, heat stifled the room. Sweat beaded along his forehead and neck.
Moaning, Duane finally pushed himself to his feet.
“You finish up in here,” Necker murmured to Luke. “I want every last one of ’em destroyed.”
He nodded. Necker looked at Duane, signaling him to follow. The two left the room.
Tempted as he was to check on Georgie, he concentrated on his task. But that didn’t keep him from picturing her in his mind. Her thick blond braid reached clear down to her waist, and her white nightdress looked nothing like his mother’s.
His mother’s had always reminded him of a flour sack with sleeves and a bow at the throat. But Georgie’s was light as a feather, had a scoop-necked, lacy yoke, and a tiny ribbon gathering up the gown just below her breasts. Its sleeves tied below her elbows, trimming them with a ruffle of lace.
When she’d struggled with Duane, her gown had twisted and hiked up, exposing not only delicate ankles and well-formed feet, but a good portion of shapely calf.
He hated knowing the other men had seen her so tousled. Were probably picturing her in their minds, as well. At least he’d managed to cover her up some with the wrap. Still, the suppleness of her ankles and the high arches of her feet as he tied them seared his brain. He swallowed. The less interaction he had with her the better.
For a moment, he’d thought she’d recognized him. But if she had, she never called him by name.
A giant crash came from the living area. He glanced at the door, but couldn’t see anything beyond a chair and the bookshelf. Kicking empty boxes out of the way, he found the last dozen and started on them.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice soft enough to keep from being overheard by the others.
He threw in a hat, shoving it to the back with a poker.
“You have a reputation to uphold,” she continued. “Why would you mar it over a bunch of women’s hats?”
He frowned. A reputation? What was she talking about?
“I know who you are.”
He stiffened.
“You’re Frank Comer.”
He wheeled around, startled.
“You needn’t act so surprised. I was on the train you robbed in February. The switchboard operator. Remember?”
Instead of answering, he pulled a lid off the next box and snatched the hat from packing tissue.
“I’ve followed every article they’ve written on you. Read the pulp fiction novels about you. Sang your praises to my friends and neighbors.” She wiped a tear with her shoulder. “I just don’t understand. This isn’t like you at all.”
He gave her his back and continued his task. But her words confused him. He knew Comer was broad of shoulder and had blue eyes, but he was well under six feet. Could she be mistaken about having met him? But no, if she’d been on that train from Dallas, she’d definitely met the man.
“I can’t feel my feet and my wrists are bleeding.”
He hesitated. Her wrists shouldn’t be bleeding. Tossing the hat in the fire, he approached her and pulled back the bindings. Sure enough,