Free The Measure of a Lady by Deeanne Gist

lifted her into the saddle. Yards of green cloth bunched against his chest and the horse’s rust-colored hide. A whiff of vanilla replaced the musky smell of animal for barely a moment.
    Rachel hooked her right knee over the saddletree, arranging her skirt and petticoats down her mount’s left side.
    He swallowed. The fabric outlined her unbelievably long legs. He’d have to lengthen the stirrup.
    He hesitated, eyeing the piles of green fabric and the long, long legs between him and the stirrup bar. Taking a deep breath, he placed a hand against the saddle flap and rode it up to the stirrup bar, hid- den beneath Rachel’s dress, petticoats, and thigh. He heard her quick intake of breath as she moved her leg so that it rode just inches from his hand without making contact.
    ‘‘I need you to walk up to my place on Market Street, Michael,’’ he said, careful to keep his voice level.
    Michael pulled back from nuzzling the horse’s head. ‘‘What for?’’
    ‘‘Your sister is uncomfortable being out there alone.’’
    ‘‘Alone? Aren’t you going?’’
    Grasping the buckle, Johnnie pulled it down and away from the saddle until he could easily reach it. He released the breath he’d been holding and pushed Rachel’s skirt to the side. Her leg settled back against the horse.
    ‘‘Yes, I’m going,’’ he replied.
    ‘‘Then why do I need to go?’’
    Lengthening the leather, Johnnie wove it through the buckle, then impaled the boy with a stare. ‘‘Your sister wants you to go, so you go.’’
    Michael looked every bit the fourteen-year-old when he turned pleading eyes to his sister. ‘‘Oh, come on, Rache. It’s Sunday and I was just going to, well, do nothing. I’ve toted and lifted and dug and nearly killed myself these last couple of days. Please don’t make me go all the way out there. He just wants you to look at his trees. What do you need me for?’’
    Leaning forward, Michael unknowingly played his trump. ‘‘Besides, if I go out there with you, then Lissa would be all alone. You don’t want that, do you?’’
    Johnnie jerked the strap, testing it.
    Rachel sighed. ‘‘No, of course not. You’re right. I’ll be fine. You have fun. But do keep an eye out for Lissa.’’
    Michael released the horse and reached up to give his sister’s hand a squeeze. ‘‘Thanks, Rache. I will.’’ Making good his escape, he set the basket on the porch and ran back down the alley.
    Wrapping a fist around the strap, Johnnie’s hand retraced its route against the saddle’s flap, sliding the buckle back up. Rachel adjusted her leg.
    He tried to concentrate on the suppleness of the saddle’s leather but instead felt heat emanating through the yards and yards of pliant cotton wrapped around young, firm limbs.
    His nostrils flared and he once again captured the faintest scent of vanilla. His hand accidentally skimmed her knee. She jumped.
    He secured the buckle, quickly slid his hand free, and looked up at her. ‘‘You don’t have to go.’’
    Confusion played across her features. ‘‘No, my brother said your trees are in a bad way. And I really do want to see them.’’ She smoothed her hand down her skirt, straightening out the places he’d crumpled and bunched up. ‘‘You’ll, uh, conduct yourself with propriety?’’
    This woman was a sunbonnet. The very last thing he wanted was a shotgun wedding. Or a lynching. ‘‘You have my word.’’
    Her foot rooted around for the stirrup but couldn’t find it. Reaching for the metal triangle, he held it with one hand, grasped the delicately shod heel of her lace-up boot with the other, and guided it home.
    ‘‘Are your hands all right?’’ he asked. ‘‘I mean, will it hurt to guide the reins?’’
    ‘‘They’re much better today.’’ She flexed them within her gloves. ‘‘I’ll be fine.’’
    Without another word or glance, he handed her the reins, grabbed the basket, mounted his stallion, and squeezed its flanks.