The Measure of a Lady

by Deeanne Gist

  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. ‘‘Here we go, fella.’’

  chapter 6

  Rachel 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 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 love the smell and feel of a hothouse.’’

  ‘‘Even so.’’ He held the door, and she reluctantly preceded him through it.

  The crunch of the lupine beneath their feet offered the only sound. The pond came into view, rather forlorn looking without a single tree to offer shade of any kind.

  Rachel didn’t seem to notice, though, heading straight for its banks and squatting down once she reached them.

  He flipped the cloth open and settled it onto the ground, dropping the basket in its center. His stomach growled. Looking over at Rachel, he frowned.

  Arms hiked above her head, she removed her hatpin and hat with exaggerated slowness. The very stillness of her body gave him pause. Ever so carefully, she set the hat beside her, poised the pin just above the brush on her right, then jabbed.

  A glorious smile spread across her face as she held the pin up in front of her, examining what could only be a bug skewered to the bit of feminine frippery.

  Her chocolate-colored hair sagged around the edges, tendrils loosening in the cooling breeze. She examined her catch from all angles, then looked up. ‘‘Come see. It’s a Phoetaliotes nebrascensis. I’ve never seen a real one. Are they common here?’’

  Slipping a hand into his pocket, he drummed his leg before making his way to her side. ‘‘Looks like a plain old grasshopper to me.’’

  She sent him a puzzled glance. ‘‘This isn’t just some plain old grasshopper; it’s a largeheaded grasshopper. See how big his head is? I can’t believe I was able to actually catch it. It was basking.’’

  ‘‘Basking?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Some will bask for as long as two hours in the afternoon. This one was basking vertically right there. That’s why I had such an easy time catching it.’’

  Removing his hand from his pocket, he knelt beside her and acquired the pin from her grasp. He flipped it over and frowned. ‘‘Male or female?’’

  She peeked around his fingers. ‘‘Oh, it’s a female. They weigh almost twice as much as the male.’’

  ‘‘You saw a male?’’ He pulled back some lupine to better see the ground she sat in.

  ‘‘Oh no. You hardly ever catch two largeheads together. As a matter of fact, there have been no observations of largehead courtship at all.’’

  ‘‘No?’’

  She shook her head, clasping her hands in her lap and tilting her head as she scrutinized the insect. ‘‘One mating pair was seen in some mixed-grass prairie once. They were basking head up vertically in the usual mating position of grasshoppers. The male’s head rested immediately behind and above the female’s. Because of the smaller size of the male, the female had to curve up to meet the male, which was curving down.’’

  He had no idea what to say to that.

  She glanced up, red flooding her face. ‘‘Oh. Oh my goodness. Please forgive me. I get carried away sometimes. I wasn’t thinking. I can’t imagine—’’

  She started to get up. He placed his hand over both of her clasped ones, halting her ascent.

  ‘‘Michael told me about your interest in insects.’’

  ‘‘He did?’’

  ‘‘Hmmm. He said you had to leave your collection behind.’’

  She pulled the sides of her mouth down and looked out over the pond. He hadn’t realized before what an incredibly long neck she had. Graceful, white, and very inviting.

  No tasting, Parker. Absolutely no tasting.

  ‘‘What did you do with your collection?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I donated it to Amherst Academy. Though I’m not sure they understood the full value of it.’’

  ‘‘Most likely not. You are extremely well versed in the habits and identification of largeheads. Do you know all insects so well?’’

  She pulled her hands out from under his. He withdrew and handed her the hatpin, grasshopper and all.

  ‘‘Thank you, and no. Grasshoppers are my passion. I had collected a good many of them. But I’d never seen a largehead. Only drawings.’’

  He couldn’t hold back the smile that pushed its way out. Standing, he extended a hand. ‘‘Well, Miss Van Buren, you may come out to my place and kabob as many grasshoppers as you like. Anytime. With or without me.’’

  She answered with a smile of her own and took his hand. ‘‘I’m not going to eat them, Mr. Parker.’’

  His grin widened. ‘‘Well, what a relief. I was beginning to fear what exactly might be hiding in yonder food basket.’’

  She was up. He should release her. He did not.

  Her smile fading, she retracted her hand and headed to the blanket.

  The lupine was so tall that the frayed brown blanket rested like an inverted canopy several inches above the ground, anchored in the center by the basket. She had to lift her skirts to step onto the cloth, then bend over to press it more firmly to the earth.

  He took a moment to admire the view before retrieving the bonnet she’d left behind. Finally, she settled down, removed the checkered fabric covering the food, and wiped her hands clean with it. From inside, she pulled forth cheese and some potpies.

  Inhaling deeply, he could hardly remember when he’d last had potpie. Or gone on a picnic.

  He stepped onto the blanket. ‘‘How are your hands?’’

  She shaded her eyes and looked up. ‘‘Much, much better. Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Let me see.’’

  She held her palms out. Only one spot still looked fairly raw.

  ‘‘You have continued with the witch hazel?’’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  He sat across from her, stretching one leg out and pulling the other up next to him. Enticing as the food was, he couldn’t quite release her bonnet without lingering a bit.

  It was a useless thing, really. Nothing like the homemade ones his late wife had worn to protect her from the sun. Instead, this narrowrimmed bit of fluff trimmed in ribbon, flowers, and berries offered ornamentation only.

  The rays of the hot California sun penetrated his consciousness. It would eat her alive if she didn’t start wearing something more practical.

  He set the hat aside and reached for a potpie. Its flaky, crisp crust and savory creamy stuffing were the closest he’d come to having a religious experience in years.

  He glanced up. A bit of filling slipped from the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out to capture it and bring it back into the fold.

  ‘‘Ummm,’’ she said. ‘‘I didn’t realize how hungry I was.’’ She placed the tip of each finger in her mouth, licking them one by one.

  His stomach clenched. Concentrate on the food, Parker. The food. ‘‘Did you make these potpies?’’

  ‘‘Yes, though Lissa makes
them better.’’

  He couldn’t imagine that. Breaking off a corner of crust, he popped it into his mouth, but the flavor was lost on him. He wanted something else for lunch. Something he could not, would not, have. Ever.

  ‘‘So, what are you planning to do with those trees once they are well, Mr. Parker?’’

  ‘‘I am performing a grand horticulture experiment.’’

  That caught her attention. She paused in the eating of some cheese. ‘‘Are you, now?’’

  ‘‘Indeed. I intend to turn this landscape of sand, marshes, and scrub brush into forest and glade.’’

  She set her cloth down. ‘‘How exactly do you plan to do that?’’

  ‘‘Well, I served as field engineer for the Corps of Engineers, have surveyed and conducted detailed topographical mapping, and have extensively studied European sand-dune reclamation. That has allowed me to complete phase one of my plan already. Thus the ground cover you are now sitting upon.’’

  She scanned the area. ‘‘This used to be nothing but sand and brush?’’

  ‘‘It did.’’

  ‘‘My. I’m impressed. You’ve completely tamed the entire area. And the pond?’’

  ‘‘Man-made.’’

  ‘‘Good heavens.’’

  He finished off the last potpie. ‘‘Yes. I’m well pleased with the reclamation phase. I’m not having as much luck with phase two, though.’’

  ‘‘And what is phase two?’’

  ‘‘Planting decorative grounds.’’

  She frowned. ‘‘I’ve not seen a full grown tree in all of San Francisco. Surely you do not think to duplicate the green pastoral landscapes that the big cities have back home?’’

  He wiped his mouth. ‘‘I don’t see why not. I’ve been studying the work and writings of landscape theorists and have come to the conclusion that the good arable land here can be converted into picturesque parks.’’

  Gathering up their lunch, she began to pack the remains in her basket. ‘‘Arable land? This?’’

  ‘‘I think so.’’

  ‘‘And you plan on using those trees in your greenhouse?’’

  ‘‘To start with.’’

  She nibbled on her lip. ‘‘Most of those are deciduous. If you threw in a few conifers, then you would add wild, bold drama to your grounds.’’