Free Love on the Line by Deeanne Gist

finally reached the top. His chest rose and fell from exertion. The entire countryside spread out before him. He’d climbed plenty of trees in his day, but those had branches and leaves blocking his view. Up here, there was nothing. Just him, God, and the land.
    The surrounding prairie stretched in every direction, broken by pockets of dense forest. In another couple of weeks all this would be covered with wildflowers and he’d have the best seat in the house.
    A bird glided by, its tail twice as long as its body. The discordant clanging of a cowbell far away reminded him of the Comer Gang posing as farmers. Wolves in sheep’s clothing who deceived people into thinking they were harmless and evil was okay.
    He scanned the landscape for potential hideouts, but nothing looked promising. What he saw instead were miles of telephone poles like never-ending clotheslines waiting to be strung with wire. He took a deep breath. The manual had been adamant about leaning away from the pole. If he stood too straight, his spikes would cut out and he’d fall thirty feet.
    Still, it’d be tricky to wrap his leg around the pole without sliding. Tightening his grip with his hands, he carefully removed his right climber from the wood and hooked his calf around the pole. Slowly, carefully, he relaxed his handhold and looked down, his heart knocking.
    Lean back. Lean back.
    He leaned back, secured only by his leg. Sweat beaded his forehead. Reaching blindly behind him, he grabbed the rope tied to his belt and began pulling up his bag, hand over hand. Once he had it, he fished inside for the insulator, then hooked the bag over one of two brackets secured to the top of the pole.
    His leg began to burn, but he ignored it and fit the insulator on the remaining bracket. By the time he laid the galvanized wire against the insulator and secured it with a tie wire, his leg was numb.
    Still, he made five complete wraps with the tie wire just like the illustration in his manual. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. Wiping it with his shoulder, he finished off the tie, grasped the pole with his hands, and unhooked his leg.
    Resting his weight on one climber, he allowed his right leg to dangle. Blood flowed into it, stabbing him with needlelike sensations. When he had sufficient feeling back, he jammed it into the pole.
    Step-by-step he made his way down. When he finally reached the ground, he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Take the deuce, but it was going to be a long day.

    Georgie put down her pen and flexed her fingers. She had written forty-six invitations for her inaugural meeting of the Brenham Ladies’ Plumage League. Only eight to go.
    Ding. Capping her pen, she placed her writing box on the floor and answered the call. “Hello, Central.”
    “What’s playin’ at the opry house, Georgie?”
    “Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore. Show times are Friday and Saturday night at eight o’clock. Are you and the new Mrs. Bittle planning to attend?”
    “ ’Course we are. Who’s playin’ Josephine?”
    “Lydia Jones.”
    “And Ralph?”
    “The Zeintiks’ oldest boy is playing Ralph.”
    “Why, he ain’t good enough fer Miss Lydia.”
    “Party lines, Mr. Bittle. Anyone can hear. And it’s just a play. The two aren’t actually courting.”
    A bluebird winged into the yard, landing on Georgie’s starch-box-turned-birdhouse. She held her breath. Bluebirds were among the first to nest in the spring and she’d hosted three separate hatchings last year. This particular male had gone in and out of the house numerous times throughout the day, singing to his mate in an appeal for her opinion and stamp of approval.
    He jumped across the roof, peering down at the entry hole below, then whistled cheer, cheer, cheerful, charming  . . . cheer, cheer, cheerful, charming.
    Seconds later his female settled on the perch and slipped through the entrance inspecting the home’s interior. The hole was small, just