Read Online Love on the Line by Deeanne Gist - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deeanne Gist
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it to her. “Is this the one?”
She put her stack aside. “Oh, it is. Yes. Thank you so much. Excellent.”
Standing, he helped gather the other publications and return them to her shelf. She reached up to tuck a few more on top, stretching her shirtwaist against her and calling attention to an hourglass figure no man could fail to notice.
All that magnificence, he thought, wasted on a woman who had no more sense than a grasshopper. A woman who cried over a few dead birds, but had no qualms about knocking around a tomcat. A woman he had to put up with for the entire spring and summer, possibly more.
Retrieving his hat, he bid her good night and let himself out. He’d go crazy if it took that long. He needed to find Comer and his gang. Now.
Chapter Seven
Luke pulled up on the reins. A long line of naked telephone poles bordered the farm road, disrupting the serene countryside. Pecan, elm, and oak trees shouldered each other for a spot closest to the road, but the redbud’s early pink blooms drew all the attention.
Birds of every variety welcomed the morning. He tried to discern the nuances of each, but there were too many to separate. He wondered if Miss Gail knew which was which. A brown bird darted from an elm to a grassy opening. It raced a few steps, stopped, and raced a few more before hammering the ground in search of food. Swallowing its prize, it flew atop a wire tacked to the trunk of an oak.
He followed the path of the wire as it stretched from tree to tree. The thought of voices traveling along that thing was hard to comprehend. After manning the switchboard, though, he realized just how inferior the wire was. The buzz on the line made it almost impossible to hear sometimes. Of course, much of that was the result of too many folks listening in. But even still, the galvanized wire he had in the cart ought to help tremendously.
Shaking the reins, he turned the cart so it sat parallel to the poles, then jumped down. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d be done. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could begin the real work—ingratiating himself with farmers under the auspice of selling phones.
Still, he hoped the stringing wouldn’t be a total waste. It should give him plenty of opportunity to comb the area for hideouts without raising suspicion. Cinching a belt around his waist, he buckled it tight, then grasped a wire from the nine-hundred-pound spool mounted inside the cart. He tied it to the back of his belt and started walking, straining forward like a plow horse.
Bit by bit the wire unfurled, but he was only able to make it past two poles before it refused to budge any further. Untying it, he left it on the ground, walked back to the spool, and cut that end.
Digging in a side compartment of the cart, he removed a pair of steel J-shaped climbers with a spike poking out of each. He placed his boot over the curve of the J, then secured it at his ankle and calf with buckle straps. Flexing his leg, he recalled seeing a child once in braces not too different from these.
A deep canvas bag held his wire cutters, splicing clamp, and insulator. He secured it to a rope, then pulled on his gloves. A surge of energy sluiced through him. This was going to be fun.
The live white cedar pole had been peeled and the knots trimmed close. He ran a gloved hand up and down her, then tipped back the brim of his hat and looked up the pole’s length.
The thing had to be thirty feet tall. His pulse quickened. Anxious to get to the top, he tied the rope and galvanized wire to the back of his belt, left them to dangle, then reviewed in his mind the instructions from his manual.
Placing both hands on the pole, he sank his right climber into the wood. Lifting himself up onto it, he adjusted to the feel of it, then stabbed the left one into the pole, raising himself even higher. Shimmying his hands, he took step after step watching each stab to be sure it gripped the pole.
It took him a good two minutes, but he
She put her stack aside. “Oh, it is. Yes. Thank you so much. Excellent.”
Standing, he helped gather the other publications and return them to her shelf. She reached up to tuck a few more on top, stretching her shirtwaist against her and calling attention to an hourglass figure no man could fail to notice.
All that magnificence, he thought, wasted on a woman who had no more sense than a grasshopper. A woman who cried over a few dead birds, but had no qualms about knocking around a tomcat. A woman he had to put up with for the entire spring and summer, possibly more.
Retrieving his hat, he bid her good night and let himself out. He’d go crazy if it took that long. He needed to find Comer and his gang. Now.
Chapter Seven
Luke pulled up on the reins. A long line of naked telephone poles bordered the farm road, disrupting the serene countryside. Pecan, elm, and oak trees shouldered each other for a spot closest to the road, but the redbud’s early pink blooms drew all the attention.
Birds of every variety welcomed the morning. He tried to discern the nuances of each, but there were too many to separate. He wondered if Miss Gail knew which was which. A brown bird darted from an elm to a grassy opening. It raced a few steps, stopped, and raced a few more before hammering the ground in search of food. Swallowing its prize, it flew atop a wire tacked to the trunk of an oak.
He followed the path of the wire as it stretched from tree to tree. The thought of voices traveling along that thing was hard to comprehend. After manning the switchboard, though, he realized just how inferior the wire was. The buzz on the line made it almost impossible to hear sometimes. Of course, much of that was the result of too many folks listening in. But even still, the galvanized wire he had in the cart ought to help tremendously.
Shaking the reins, he turned the cart so it sat parallel to the poles, then jumped down. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d be done. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could begin the real work—ingratiating himself with farmers under the auspice of selling phones.
Still, he hoped the stringing wouldn’t be a total waste. It should give him plenty of opportunity to comb the area for hideouts without raising suspicion. Cinching a belt around his waist, he buckled it tight, then grasped a wire from the nine-hundred-pound spool mounted inside the cart. He tied it to the back of his belt and started walking, straining forward like a plow horse.
Bit by bit the wire unfurled, but he was only able to make it past two poles before it refused to budge any further. Untying it, he left it on the ground, walked back to the spool, and cut that end.
Digging in a side compartment of the cart, he removed a pair of steel J-shaped climbers with a spike poking out of each. He placed his boot over the curve of the J, then secured it at his ankle and calf with buckle straps. Flexing his leg, he recalled seeing a child once in braces not too different from these.
A deep canvas bag held his wire cutters, splicing clamp, and insulator. He secured it to a rope, then pulled on his gloves. A surge of energy sluiced through him. This was going to be fun.
The live white cedar pole had been peeled and the knots trimmed close. He ran a gloved hand up and down her, then tipped back the brim of his hat and looked up the pole’s length.
The thing had to be thirty feet tall. His pulse quickened. Anxious to get to the top, he tied the rope and galvanized wire to the back of his belt, left them to dangle, then reviewed in his mind the instructions from his manual.
Placing both hands on the pole, he sank his right climber into the wood. Lifting himself up onto it, he adjusted to the feel of it, then stabbed the left one into the pole, raising himself even higher. Shimmying his hands, he took step after step watching each stab to be sure it gripped the pole.
It took him a good two minutes, but he
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