Free The Measure of a Lady by Deeanne Gist Page B

leg, and slid to the ground. He didn’t miss the glimpse of ankle her descent afforded before the purple blooms swallowed the sight. She dropped to her knees, skirts billowing out around her.
    She fingered the prolific green leaves, peeking under several. Looking for . . . bugs?
    Standing, she bent over one of the tall showy blooms, inhaling, then reached for Sweet Lips’s reins. The breeze pushed against her fancy bonnet as she pulled the sorrel close and whispered something to her.
    Sweet Lips perked her ears, then snorted, generating a delighted laugh from Rachel. The sound hit him square between the eyes. He stilled, not daring to breathe lest he miss it should it happen again.
    But she turned and led the animal further onto the property with one hand, lightly brushing the hip-high foliage with her other. He swung down from the saddle and followed, J.B. at his side.
    She easily tracked down the hothouse. Dropping the mare’s reins, she moved to the entrance and paused, her hand atop the door latch. She slid her eyes closed. A child savoring a package.
    Blast it. He just wanted her to fix his trees. ‘‘It’s open,’’ he barked.
    She started, turning those incredible brown eyes to him. ‘‘Oh. I forgot you were here.’’
    Yeah. Well. Wish he could say the same.
    She pushed up the latch and swung open the door. He followed close behind, catching the door before it slammed shut. Moist heat. Earthy smells. Pitiful looking trees.
    ‘‘What have you been doing to these trees?’’
    After securing the latch, he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. ‘‘I haven’t done anything.’’
    ‘‘Well, that’s certainly obvious.’’ Peeling off her gloves, she tested the soil. ‘‘How often have you been watering?’’
    He blinked. ‘‘That one? As often as I can. At least once a week, sometimes twice, if I can get out here.’’
    She propped her hands on her hips. ‘‘Good heavens. Cypress trees require deep watering. If you don’t provide enough water, you leave them open to all kinds of pests. Cypress tip moth, cypress canker, oak root fungus. What were you thinking?’’
    For the sake of his trees, he ignored her tone. ‘‘How often do they need watering?’’
    ‘‘At least once a day. Twice if they’re struggling.’’
    ‘‘I can’t get out here every day.’’
    ‘‘Then you have no business trying to raise cypresses.’’
    He took a breath. ‘‘What about the maples?’’
    She scanned his collection, zeroing in on his Japanese maple. ‘‘This one doesn’t look too bad. You just need to protect it from the afternoon sun. I’d move it over there, on the east side.’’
    She continued her diagnosis of each tree, imparting advice, testing the soil, touching the bark, rotating a pot here and there before finally stopping at a double-trunked tree. ‘‘What’s this?’’
    ‘‘A California buckeye. They grow all up and down the coast.
    ‘‘Why, it’s completely leafed out already.’’
    ‘‘Yes, but the ones I’ve seen in the ground drop their leaves by July. I assume due to the lack of rain during those summer months.’’
    Fingering a group of leaflets, she grilled him about its growth rate, light needs, and flowering potential. He offered all he could think of for the sheer pleasure of watching her coddle and caress the plant. Her long, graceful fingers had accumulated a goodly portion of dirt and sticky residue.
    He exhausted his store of information, and she brushed her hands together, cringing as sediment drifted to the floor. Her blisters were no doubt still a bit sensitive.
    ‘‘What are you going to do with all these?’’ she asked.
    He pushed himself up off the entry’s frame. ‘‘Why don’t we get the lunch basket and walk over to the pond. I can tell you there and it’ll be more comfortable.’’
    ‘‘I don’t mind it here.’’ She slipped a hanky from her cuff and dabbed at the moisture collecting against her hairline. ‘‘I