6
" Miss Gail yanked open the screen door and charged straight into her room, immediately to the left of the front entrance. He jumped to his feet, the cord of the earpiece pulling him up short like a dog on a leash. She slapped the door shut behind her. In the brief seconds he had, he catalogued mussed hair, pale face, red nose, and fresh tears. “Would you like to join my family for supper, Mr. Palmer?” Miss Honnkernamp asked. “Now that we know what your favorite is, I’m sure—” Throwing off the earpiece, he yanked the cable from the jack and rushed to her bedroom door. “Miss Gail? Are you all right? Are you hurt? What’s happened?” No answer. He cocked his ear and held himself still. The sound of suppressed sobs came from the direction of the veranda. Pushing open the screen, he stuck his head out. The crying was louder. He looked toward the swing, then remembered. Her window. It was open. Easing onto the porch, he stood and listened. Whatever happened had been catastrophic. She took deep, broken breaths, followed by a long series of quiet, staccato sobs. He rubbed his mouth. What in tarnation? "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
7
" You were robbed on a train?” Her face lit. “Yes. By Frank Comer himself. He knew I had money, too, but he let me keep it. He actually gave some coins to a widow and a poor boy. It was terribly exciting.” She must have been on that train from Dallas. He tried to recall seeing her but couldn’t. “You got a pretty good look at Comer, then?” “I did, though a neckerchief and hat covered everything but his eyes.” She looked out the window, her face softening. “They were blue. Not a subtle blue, like robins’ eggs, but a vibrant blue, like the feathers of a blue jay.” His eyes were blue, too. He wondered if she’d noticed. Stuffing down his irritation, he shifted his weight onto one foot. "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
8
" As soon as she finished, she cupped his elbow, taking the weight of his forearm in hers, and sat back. The motion pulled his wrist toward her, bringing his knuckles within grazing distance of her rib cage. He relaxed his fingers, allowing them to curl down toward his palm. But if he unfurled them, they’d reach the top of her corset. Swallowing, he moved his attention to the window. A bluebird landed on the starch box in her yard, a tiny twig in its mouth. She blew on his arm. He jumped, the recoil pulling his arm back, then forward, straight into her. His hand opened instinctively, before he immediately closed it. “Oh!” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” “No, I am. Did that sting or something?” Her face filled with concern. He searched her expression. Had she not noticed? How could she not notice? “No, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I was just looking out the window and wasn’t, I didn’t . . .” He took a deep breath. “No, ma’am. Didn’t sting. I’m sorry to have jumped.” “It’s almost ready. Just another minute or so.” She tapped the edges of the mixture and blew on it again. He slammed his eyes shut, but it only heightened his other senses. What the blazes was he doing, letting this woman tend to his needs as if he was some drugstore cowboy? He should have known better. "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
9
" Did you know he named his pistols?” she asked. He felt his jaw begin to tick and immediately forced himself to relax. “I think I’ve read that before.” “Well, I just read it recently. As if having a boy pistol and a girl pistol wasn’t bad enough, he goes and names them. Odysseus and Penelope.” She laughed. A full-throated, from-the-belly laugh. “But what can you expect from somebody named Lucious?” Over his four years as a Ranger, he’d traveled seventy-four thousand miles, made two hundred scouts, and one hundred eighty-two arrests. He’d endured cold, hunger, and fatigue without a murmur. He’d been said to have the eyes of a fox, the ears of a wolf, and the ability to follow scent like a hound. Yet this tiny bit of fluff could throw him off-kilter like no other. He counted to ten. “What’s wrong with the name Lucious?” She looked at him, incredulous. “What’s wrong with Lucious? It’s . . . it’s . . . I don’t know . . . silly, don’t you think? Sounds like luscious.” He was named after his father. The father whose life had been senselessly snuffed out by Mother Nature. Carrying his dad’s name was a great privilege and a source of pride for Luke. How dare she make fun of it. Anger simmering, he twisted the wires together and forced himself to respond as if he had nothing personal at stake. “Don’t guess I ever thought about it. Can’t say the name’s ever bothered me, though.” “That’s probably because it isn’t yours. I’m sure if it were, you’d think differently.” “Maybe so.” Picking up a cloth on the switchboard, he wiped his hands. “Did you get a look at this Lucious fellow?” “I did.” He raised a brow. “And was he luscious?” “Ha!” Folding the paper, she tossed it on the desk. “Hardly. If anybody was luscious, it was Frank Comer. "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
11
" He slipped his arm around her and pulled her close to keep them in unison. Even so, the tassel on her hat slapped him with each bound. Reluctantly, he had to admit she hadn’t been lying when she said she could ride without a saddle. She kept her back straight, her body in tune with the horse. In another minute, he’d slow them down. But for now, he enjoyed the feel of her in his arms. He wished he could see her costume in daylight. He felt sure she wouldn’t fool anyone. With their positions as such, he could tell she’d bound her chest. Why go to all that trouble only to wear a lady’s shirtwaist? And that stocking cap was about to drive him— The cap flew from her head, releasing a bounty of hair and a burst of cinnamon. She whipped her face around. “My hat!” A thick braid, loosened from the cap’s constant agitation, began to swiftly unravel. He tightened his grip on her. “I’ll go back for it later. First, we get you home.” “But my mother—” “Shush.” Reaching around her neck, she grabbed the remains of her braid and pulled it over her shoulder, holding it tight against her collarbone. Instead of slowing them, he continued at a trot, bouncing as one atop the horse. Finally, when the cottage came into sight, he slowed to a walk, but kept his arm where it was. "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
18
" He tugged on her hand, but instead of going to him, she looked at the timepiece above her breast. “It’s getting late.” “Are you coming over here or not?” “Not.” But she smiled to lessen the refusal. After a moment, he stood. “I was planning to cover the south side tomorrow. Sales have been kind of slow and I need to find us some new subscribers.” Unfolding herself from the couch, she rose as well. “Does SWT&T know who you are?” “Only the chairman. Everyone else thinks I’m a troubleman, including our boss.” She tilted her head. “Are you really going to try and sell phones or are you doing your, um, other work?” He ran the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “Both. I’m always doing both.” Twisting her face to the side, she gave his hand a peck. “You be careful, then.” He slid his hand around the nape of her neck, and gently pulled her toward him. Defenses melting, she let him reel her in as surely as if she were one of his fish. The kiss was slow, gentle, and devastating. “If I don’t see you tomorrow,” he whispered, “I’ll see you on Tuesday. "
― Deeanne Gist , Love on the Line
