The Measure of a Lady by Deeanne Gist Page B

pork and boiled beans came from a covered pot at his elbow, teasing his nose and reminding his stomach of its hunger.
    He shook some crushed witch hazel out of a tiny bag and seeped it in a small tin of warm water. While waiting for it to take, he lifted the lid from the pork, broke off a large piece, and popped it in his mouth.
    ‘‘Want some?’’ he asked around his mouthful.
    She shook her head.
    He had no doubt that she was hungry. But if she chose stubbornness over sustenance, so be it.
    Poking a cloth into a cup, he poured the witch hazel into it, straining out the solid particles, and reached for a bottle of whiskey on the uppermost shelf.
    Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he poured a splash into the cup and hesitated. Best not wash down the pork. He set the bottle back on the shelf.
    ‘‘If you will just place it here on the table, I will do it,’’ she said.
    He put the concoction and a fresh piece of flannel beside her. She dipped the cloth into the cup and touched it to her palm.
    Sucking in her breath, she paused. He grabbed her fingers, knelt in front of her and blew on the place the witch hazel burned.
    She tugged on her hand. He held it more firmly as he removed the cloth from her other hand and continued to dab on the liquid.
    She bit down on her lip, her eyes blinking rapidly.
    ‘‘Sting?’’ he asked.
    She nodded.
    He blew some more. When each blister had been treated, he reached for her other hand.
    She hid it beneath the folds of her skirt. ‘‘I will do it.’’
    Easily uncovering it, he held firm her wrist and turned it over. ‘‘I’m not making an indecent proposal, Rachel. I am putting witch hazel on your cuts.’’
    ‘‘It isn’t proper,’’ she whispered.
    He dipped the cloth into the cup, lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Why are you whispering?’’ he whispered.
    She thinned her lips and yanked, ineffectively, against his hold.
    He winked and applied the cloth to a particularly raw blister.
    She gasped. He blew.
    When he finally laid the cloth down, he looked up to find silent tears escaping from the corners of her eyes.
    He sat back on his heels. ‘‘Ah, Rachel. I’m sorry.’’
    She swiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her cheek.
    Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the moisture on her face. She reached up to do it herself, but instead of relinquishing his hold, he moved his hand so that it cradled hers.
    She stilled, leveling the full force of her liquid brown eyes on him. He felt their impact clear down to his toes.
    ‘‘Why didn’t you stop when you realized the shovel was blistering your skin?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘I had a job to do.’’
    ‘‘It could have waited until we had a baton. I don’t want you to do something like that again. When you have need of a certain item, just tell me and I will see that you receive it.’’
    Like a puppeteer and a puppet, he guided her hand with his, and together they wiped the tears from her face. He followed each stroke with his gaze, cataloging her prominent cheekbones, the hollows beneath, and the jaw that culminated in a softly rounded chin.
    He paused and lifted his thumb, catching her lower lip.
    She jerked, shoved back her chair, and surged to her feet.
    He stood. Slowly. Not missing the cinched waist and the curves it heightened, though he never allowed his attention to linger. Only to capture. So that later, when he was alone, he could take the images out and examine them in his mind as he longed to do now.
    ‘‘If you will excuse me?’’ she asked.
    He stepped back.
    She all but flew out the back door.
    ————
    ‘‘Is it straight?’’ Rachel asked, touching the gold brooch pinned to her collar.
    ‘‘It’s drooping a little to the left,’’ Lissa responded. The girl had brightened at the prospect of a day off, giving Rachel a momentary reprieve from her sister’s petulance.
    Rachel lifted her chin, released the delicate latch, and