Free The Measure of a Lady by Deeanne Gist Page A

‘‘Here we go, fella.’’

chapter 6
    R achel luxuriated in having a horse beneath her once again. Its rocking rhythm, its earthy smell, the shaking of its head filled her with pleasure.
    The fog that had cloaked the area at dawn had lifted to reveal a sunny day and the onset of spring. A slight breeze rippled across her skirt like waves, cascading down to her white petticoat frothing at the edge. She surveyed the town that had no trees. No songbirds. No women.
    Only hills, mud, and men. But soon she would see some trees. Sick trees, but trees nonetheless. She could hardly wait.
    She peeked at the man riding beside her. What a paradox he was. Miner’s garb in the morning while he read his newspaper. Gambler’s garb in the evenings when his saloon was at its busiest. And fashionable gentleman’s clothing when escorting a lady on a Sunday afternoon.
    She had no business going with him and certainly not alone. But the temptation to ride and tend to fledgling trees overpowered all else. How could she possibly resist?
    She couldn’t. But she must resist the man.
    She shifted her weight, readjusting her position on the horse, as her mind began to convict her of the numerous compromises she’d already made. His beating of the mattress for her. His ministrations with the witch hazel. His sun-darkened hand disappearing while adjusting her stirrup, grazing through the fabric places no man had touched before.
    Goose pimples raced across her arms, her mother’s voice ringing inside her head.
    A girl of good breeding has always sufficient force of character to steer clear of such difficulties . She ran a hand up the back of her neck, smoothing her hair. She must strive to do better.
    Bending down, she patted her mare’s long cinnamon-colored neck. ‘‘What’s my horse’s name?’’
    Mr. Parker looked at her horse, then at her, humor brightening his eyes. ‘‘Sweet Lips.’’
    Her mouth parted. ‘‘That is not amusing.’’
    ‘‘Be that as it may, it’s her name.’’
    She glanced at the mare, appalled. ‘‘You must change it. It is simply not to be tolerated.’’
    He quirked a brow. ‘‘If it’s a good enough name for George Washington’s dog, I think it will do just fine for my mare.’’
    Her spine straightened. ‘‘President Washington did not have a dog named Sweet Lips.’’
    ‘‘Oh yes. Yes, he did.’’
    She drew her mouth down into a frown. ‘‘I don’t believe you. But even if that were true, I could not possibly call her such.’’
    Johnnie said nothing but instead took in the sight she made sitting atop the well-trained mustang. She handled the animal with ease and proficiency, her feminine geegaws the only splash of color for miles around. If the wind blew just right, he could pick up the hint of vanilla he’d come to associate with her.
    No harm in looking. Smelling. Maybe even touching. But no tasting. No, sir. No tasting whatsoever.
    ‘‘What’s your horse’s name?’’ she asked.
    ‘‘J.B.’’
    Worrying her lip, she eyed his mount. ‘‘What does that stand for?’’
    ‘‘Jim Beam.’’
    ‘‘You gave your horse a first and last name?’’
    ‘‘I guess I did.’’
    ‘‘Well, at least it is a good, respectable name.’’
    He smiled.
    ‘‘Perhaps I should call mine by her initials, too. S.L.’’
    ‘‘You just do that.’’ Touching his heels to his mount, he picked up the pace. They were almost there. He wanted to be in front where he could see her reaction when his property came into view.
    The horses’ hooves squelched through the mud keeping cadence with each other. Johnnie crested the hill and pulled J.B. up. Rachel immediately slowed, her eyes widening as she took in the mounds and hillocks he’d shaped with his own hands.
    ‘‘Oh, Johnnie. Is this your place?’’
    She’d used his forename but didn’t seem to have realized it. Nor did she appear to want an answer. For she rode right down into the property, onto the lupine, unhooked her