Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [89]
And though he was grateful, he was also, strangely enough, disappointed there’d be no need for a wedding. He found himself wondering what changes he’d have made if she’d said yes.
Would he quit his job? Two months ago the thought would have been ludicrous. Now, however, when he lay down at night, instead of dwelling on lawbreakers and hideouts and desperados, he dwelt on Georgie.
Georgie wearing a blue gingham apron in a bright, sunny kitchen. Clamping her tongue between her teeth when she withdrew his splinters. Laughing when he said something which somehow amused her. Frowning when he refused to capitulate or agree with her.
Even during the days she’d haunt his thoughts. His duties as troubleman required time on lonely roads and quiet hillsides. More and more he’d catch himself ruminating like a lovesick swain.
He’d picture her feeding birds out of her hand. Protecting them by beating off cats, educating children, or spearheading a countywide campaign. He’d picture her at the switchboard looking out her window with opera glasses and exclaiming over every species that visited her fiefdom.
And now, he pictured her squaring up to her intruders, determined to protect those hats without thought to her own safety. His blood turned cold. Thank the good Lord he’d been there. No telling what would’ve happened.
A bystander jostled her, momentarily bumping her into his side. Brief as the contact was, desire flared within him.
She looked up, her face suddenly solemn and mirroring his inner turmoil.
He placed a hand against her waist, under the guise of steadying her, though she’d already righted herself. “Careful. You all right?”
She zigzagged her gaze, as if she couldn’t decide which of his eyes would give her a glimpse into his soul. He grazed his knuckles along the buttons running up her back, the urge to kiss her overwhelming.
Tearing his eyes away, he looked around for an alley, an alcove—anything that would give them a moment’s privacy. But there was nothing. Just wall-to-wall people.
Another jostle. Another bump. This time, he splayed his hand wide, holding her against him for the briefest of moments.
I’m not who you think I am. I’m Lucious Landrum. Texas Ranger of Company “A” and, God help me, but I think I’m in love with you.
Her lips tilted up. Her lashes swept down.
His stomach clenched. Had he said that out loud?
But no, she returned to her own two feet and tugged her gloves into place as if his world had not come crashing down around him.
“You want to head to the pavilion?” She shook out her skirt. “The queen’s coronation will start as soon as the last of the floats arrive.”
He extended his arm. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
With her tiny hand tucked inside his elbow, they turned onto North Street and headed to Firemen’s Park. If his arm skimmed her side or her skirts brushed his leg, neither tried to correct it. But both tried to ignore it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I planted die Cotton pretty thick,” Finkel said. He’d exchanged his overalls for a fancy plaid suit. “‘One for den Cutworm, one for die Crow, one for den Blackbird, and one to grow.’”
Luke chuckled at the German rendition of the old saying, but Georgie tuned out his response.
The sun splashed warmth onto her cheeks, the sky looking as if heaven had been swept clean with a broom. A vast lawn of emerald grass provided a cushion for ladies in wide-brimmed hats and high-necked bodices, their bustlines covered with pouty fronts. Behind them, skirts and trains flowed over ample hips, giving them the popular S-silhouette.
A young man who’d outgrown the length of his trousers removed his hat and bowed deeply to a group of ladies close to Georgie’s age. All but one giggled behind their fans. The sober member was younger than the rest, her heart clearly on her sleeve. She’d yet to receive her womanly curves and sought to help nature along with rows of frills inside her bodice, achieving a rather unnatural ripple effect.
As the