The Measure of a Lady

Her eyes grew wide and wary.

  Better, Lord. That’s better.

  Still, he did not withdraw. But she did, then skirted around him and back out onto a winding path.

  Johnnie followed her past huckleberry bushes, through shady corridors, and across glistening pools. He’d grabbed their lunch but tied the horses back a ways, as this particular section of the redwood thicket was like a forest of poles, one after another, after another.

  ‘‘This is what I imagined the forests in all those fairy tales to look like,’’ she said, weaving through the trunks as if practicing the choreographed steps of some fancy ballroom dance.

  She picked up her skirts and flitted to one of the giants that had fallen and lay sprawled across the earth from which it had sprung. It was clear she wanted to climb atop it, but its circumference was huge and there was no ladylike way in which to manage the feat.

  Finally, she squatted and carefully began to pick at the dead tree. He moved up behind her, casting a shadow across both her and the trunk. She peeled back a large section of bark, unearthing countless bugs of every sort.

  ‘‘Ohhhhh,’’ she sighed. ‘‘Would you look at all those?’’

  He swiped a hand across his mouth.

  ‘‘Look in the lunch basket, would you, Johnnie? And see if there is something I can put these in.’’

  He didn’t move and she twisted around to look up at him.

  ‘‘I didn’t bring any empty jars,’’ he said. ‘‘Just food.’’

  Puckering her lips, she stood and brushed her hands against her skirt. ‘‘Let’s eat then, and clean some of those jars out.’’

  He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘‘You misunderstand. I don’t have any jars at all, only food. But I am hungry. Would you like to go ahead and eat anyway?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  He’d forgotten to grab the blanket when he tied the horses, but she didn’t seem to mind and plopped right onto the dirt, hands folded primly in her lap.

  He smiled. A child waiting to eat her meal so she could move on to dessert. Or in this case, bugs.

  He unpacked biscuits, bacon, and boiled eggs, as well as some elderberries he’d picked while she was exploring.

  Peeling the shell off an egg, she glanced at the bugs she’d uncovered. ‘‘Mayflies can’t eat during their adult life.’’

  He paused. ‘‘Not at all?’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’

  He looked at the tree. ‘‘Are there any in there?’’

  ‘‘Oh no. But just one little section like this can turn up beetles, millipedes, and all kinds of worms.’’

  Breaking open his biscuit, he sandwiched slices of bacon inside. ‘‘How did you get so interested in bugs?’’

  ‘‘Insects.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Mother let me have a flower bed when I was little, but my favorite part was seeing what lived in the soil and on the leaves of the flowers. So Mother took my shovel away.’’

  ‘‘That, apparently, didn’t stop you, though.’’

  ‘‘Heavens, no. I simply dug a secret garden behind the shed then cultivated poison ivy around it so everyone would leave it alone.’’

  He hesitated before taking a bite of biscuit. ‘‘Didn’t it get in your way?’’

  ‘‘What? The poison ivy?’’ She shook her head. ‘‘No, I’m immune to it. Doesn’t bother me in the least.’’

  He lifted his brows.

  ‘‘After that, I spent hours outside, checking on bird’s nests, collecting insects, studying leaves. One time when Mother had a tea party, she grabbed a china pitcher I’d been using and poured water filled with tadpoles right into the cups. She was soooo angry.’’

  He settled back against the tree trunk and stretched out one leg. Gone was the prim-and-proper Rachel, and in her place was a rebellious little minx full of life and mischief.

  A breeze ruffled her bonnet’s brim. ‘‘Even Michael didn’t know I used to slip out of my window at bedtime. I’d shinny down the porch posts so I could run to the pond, and oh, you’ve never heard anything so lovely as a pond at night. Crickets, cicadas, frogs. It was heavenly.’’

  He wondered if she and Lissa had shared a room. If Lissa knew she’d snuck out. But he didn’t ask. Didn’t want to make her think anything she’d done might have influenced her sister. Though he couldn’t help but wonder if it had.

  ‘‘By the time I was eight, I had confiscated six of Mother’s hatboxes. I filled them with insects, and hid them under our bed.’’ She dabbed the sides of her mouth with her hanky. ‘‘But the little insect guide I had didn’t identify all of my specimens. Only some.’’

  Pulling out a huge cluster of elderberries the size of a dinner plate, he shared the tart treat with her. She popped several in her mouth, pursing her lips and batting her eyes as she chewed the sour berries.

  ‘‘What did you do about the insects you couldn’t classify?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Asked for divine intervention, mostly. Then, when I was thirteen, Papa took me to the dentist, and on the way home we stopped at the Natural History Museum.’’ Her face lit up. ‘‘Oh, it was something to see, Johnnie. Row after row after row of insects. All labeled with their Latin names.’’

  Her hands stilled; her eyes grew distant. He stayed silent, leaving her back in that museum.

  After a moment, she smiled and gave a short little huff. ‘‘The next day I locked myself in the water closet, jabbed my gums with a pencil, and told Papa my mouth hurt.’’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘‘The second he saw those swollen red gums he took me straightaway to the dentist.’’

  He grinned and felt his chest tighten when she smiled back.

  Then her smile turned into snickers and her snickers into suppressed laughter. ‘‘You know what?’’

  He shook his head, amused simply because she was.

  ‘‘I had to visit the dentist so many times that Papa became disgusted with the man for not doing his job and ended up becoming one himself.’’ She doubled over, grabbing her waist, laughter filling the glade as his joined hers.

  ‘‘Your father was a dentist, then?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Toward the latter part of his life,’’ she said, sitting up and swiping the water from her eyes.

  ‘‘What did he do before that?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘A little of this. A little of that. My earliest recollections place him clerking in a general store—that went bust. Then he was a minister who, after Mama’s death, lost the faith. Before finally becoming a dentist . . . whose debts exceeded his income.’’

  Faint sunlight broke through the gathering clouds, glazing the bark of a nearby redwood. Its branches cascaded down one side of the tree like a woman’s unbound hair flowing across one shoulder.

  ‘‘I suppose it was the lure of pocketing a fortune in gold,’’ Johnnie said, ‘‘that incited him to drag you and your family here?’’

  ‘‘That about sums it up.’’ She brushed some crumbs from her skirt. ‘‘So, Mr. Parker, I’ve told you a secret or two about me. Now you must tell me one about you.’’

  Without giving himself a moment to consider the consequences, he gave her a whopper. ‘‘I used to be a missionary.’’

  Her jaw dropped. Literally. He could see a streak of purple elderberry stain running down the center of her tongue before she snapped her mouth shut. ‘‘You don’t say so. Do tell.’’

  He regretted his revelation immediately, but it was too late now. So he mentally shrugged and decided to give her the short and sweet version.

  ‘‘I had long yearned to share the holiness of saving heathen souls, so I signed up with the Commissioners for Foreign Missions out of Connecticut. And though they desperately needed engineers, they liked their missionaries to be tempered with the wisdom and tolerance of marriage—and I was but an adventure-seeking bachelor.’’

  He offered her more berries. She waved her hand no.

  ‘‘So what did you do?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘As it happens,
an unmarried woman with a passion for planting the vine of Christianity in faraway lands had applied to them the day before. So the board did a bit of divine appointing, informed me of what God had ordained, and prepared Gwendolyn to enter into marital bliss and sanctification.’’

  He smiled a humorless smile. ‘‘We met in Westport on February 19, married on February 26, and immediately thereafter headed with three other couples to the Oregon region. When we arrived, we found out the Indians were perfectly happy as they were and had no interest whatsoever in converting.’’

  Her face had completely paled. ‘‘You are married?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He heaved a great sigh. ‘‘My wife is dead.’’

  ‘‘Oh. I’m so very sorry.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be. I’m not.’’

  Her eyes widened, and he, once again, wished he could call back his words. The breeze had picked up and the sky had suddenly darkened, though noon had passed less than two hours earlier.

  ‘‘Perhaps we should think about heading back,’’ he said. ‘‘Looks like we might be caught in a shower otherwise.’’

  But she didn’t move. ‘‘Johnnie, you cannot just say something like that and then leave it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, yes, you can.’’ He gathered up the remains of their lunch and returned them to the basket. Thunder cracked above their heads. ‘‘Come.’’

  They made it only halfway to the horses when the deluge began. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to a group of redwoods gathered about in a circle and ducked inside one whose base had a scar big enough for four people to stand. A curtain of water separated them from the outside, adding intimacy and solitude to their hiding place.

  ‘‘Where are the horses?’’ she asked, shaking the water off her skirts.

  ‘‘They’ll be fine. Wet, but fine.’’

  The silence between them stretched into subtle awareness. She untied and removed her saturated bonnet, then wrung it out. ‘‘How long do these usually last?’’

  He squinted. ‘‘They vary. Maybe this will be a quick one.’’

  Bending down, she tested the dirt with her hand then sat down and leaned against the tree wall. ‘‘You may as well sit. It’s not wet right now and we might be here a while.’’

  He hesitated, then sat down beside her. ‘‘I’m sorry you didn’t get to capture any bugs.’’

  ‘‘Insects. And it’s okay. I’ve had a marvelous time. Truly, I have. I wouldn’t even mind riding home in the rain if we must.’’

  He looked at her, realizing from what she’d revealed earlier that she was most likely very serious. ‘‘No, let’s give it a chance to settle down first.’’

  But she wasn’t listening to him. She was searching his eyes as if trying to plumb into the depths of his soul and see what was buried there.

  ‘‘What happened on your mission journey?’’ she asked.

  He tightened his lips. ‘‘I don’t want to talk about it.’’

  ‘‘Have you ever talked about it? With anyone?’’

  He didn’t answer.

  She covered his hand with hers. ‘‘Tell me, Johnnie. I want to understand how a missionary could end up running a saloon.’’

  ‘‘Ah, Rachel. It’s a cautionary tale and not even a good one at that.’’

  ‘‘Please?’’

  Resting his head back against the tree, he surveyed the intricacies of the inner bark patterns, trying to focus on that rather than the warmth coming from her palm. ‘‘The whole thing was a disaster. We started out so full of ourselves and our mission, recharging every night with a prayer meeting, and if the train stopped long enough, we’d hold one by day.’’

  ‘‘Then what went wrong?’’

  ‘‘Eventually our piousness so consumed us that we became patronizing and haughty toward each other.’’ He sighed and looked down. ‘‘We argued all the way from Westport to Columbia. Mile by mile.’’

  ‘‘Who? You and your new wife?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘The couples. Two against two. Unless, of course, the enemy wasn’t at hand, at which time we’d turn on each other. And over the most asinine topics. A calf would be wounded by a wolf pack and we’d bicker over whether it was a sign of provision and we should eat it or God was testing our mercy and we should save it.’’

  He spread his fingers wide, allowing hers to drop between them, fitting within his as smoothly as cogs on a wheel. He grazed their length. So long. So graceful.

  ‘‘With the forced companionship of the trail,’’ he said, ‘‘and our intolerance for the others, it wasn’t long before the fragile relationship between Gwendolyn and me started to corrode.’’

  He listened to the water pound outside their shelter. ‘‘It was a dismal trip. Cold, rainy, exhausting. We hadn’t even reached Missouri before Gwendolyn was crying because her father’s hogs were more comfortable than she was.’’

  Rachel straightened her legs, crossing them at the ankles as she flicked her skirt down. ‘‘Go on.’’

  ‘‘Some wayfarers and free trappers overtook us and rode with us a while. One man in particular had traveled a good deal and held the women mesmerized with his tales of Switzerland and Italy and some country where dogs dug men out of the snow.’’

  He looked down at her.

  ‘‘Did you like him?’’

  He offered her a sad smile. ‘‘Actually, I did. I liked him very much. He visited our caravan often, even after we had reached Popo Agie. Over the course of the next year he would breeze through and entertain the ladies with his fine manners, his buffalo robes, and tales of his military past.’’

  ‘‘So what happened?’’

  ‘‘We needed ministers, teachers, doctors, machinists, supplies, and funds. We had none. Not only that, but the Indians just were not interested in the gospel of Jesus Christ. The whole time we were there, we only converted one. And he ended up being disowned by his tribe and simultaneously rejected by white society.’’

  Rachel moved onto her hip, facing him. ‘‘What of Gwendolyn?’’

  He sat a long time before answering. ‘‘The truth is, she could barely endure my company. And the Indians—whose souls we were supposed to be saving—frightened her. As it happens, the last time our trapper friend came through for a visit, he brought us olives, potted meat, candies, and fruit pastes. Then he left . . . with my wife.’’

  He heard her quick intake of breath.

  ‘‘I received word later that year that Gwendolyn had died in childbirth.’’ He brushed some dirt off his pant leg. ‘‘Because of the timing, I never did know whose child she’d birthed. His or mine.’’

  ‘‘And the child?’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Stillborn.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Johnnie.’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘So I joined the Missouri Mounted Volunteers and marched three thousand miles from Fort Leavenworth to the mouth of the Rio Grande. No commissary, no uniforms, no pay, and no discipline.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Fought two battles, lived off the land, and when our one-year stint was over, none of us reenlisted. Been in California ever since.’’

  Dampness had begun to infiltrate their dirt floor, loamy smells filling the cavern.

  ‘‘That is a cautionary tale,’’ she said softly.

  He looked down at her. She shivered.

  ‘‘Are you cold?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’m all right.’’

  But the temperature had dropped and all she had on was that brown work dress, wet from being caught in the rain. He shrugged off his jacket and, taking it by the collar, draped it around her shoulders.

  Yet after he had it securely about her, he did not relinquish his hold of the lapels. Her thick hair strained against the pins within it. Several tendrils had escaped to tickle her face and coil down her back.

  He explored the delicate lines of that face, the pinkish hue the sun had painted onto her cheeks this day, the long, thick lashes framing her rich brown eyes.

  She moistened her lips.

&
nbsp; He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. ‘‘I’m going to kiss you now, Rachel.’’

  Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away.

  He applied some pressure to his jacket, drawing her closer. ‘‘Have you ever been kissed?’’

  She slowly nodded her head. ‘‘By you. Last night.’’

  ‘‘That’s not the kind of kiss I mean.’’

  She frowned in sweet confusion.

  He slipped an arm about her waist. ‘‘If you want me to stop, you just say stop.’’

  ‘‘I want you to stop,’’ she whispered.

  But her eyes said something much, much different.

  He lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘‘That’s cheating. I haven’t started yet. You have to wait until I start. Those are the rules.’’

  And with that, he leaned into her and captured her lips with his. They were soft and smooth and very still. He gathered her nearer, trying to coax a response from her. But she moved nary a muscle, like a doe that senses danger.

  He followed the line of her jaw with his lips, then nipped the lobe of her ear. ‘‘Kiss me back, love. Kiss me back.’’

  He felt her exhale-inhale in quick succession.

  Touching her chin with the crook of his finger, he stroked her lips with his thumb. ‘‘You might ought to breathe, as well.’’

  He bent his head and this time she relaxed a bit. Need flooded him, but he held it in check. He just wanted a little taste. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. But it was all he would allow himself.

  Kissing her sealed lips, he slid his hands through her hair, down her back, and underneath to scoop her up onto his lap.

  Raising his knees to better hold her, he felt her hands flutter about his shoulders before finally resting against his chest. He angled his head, deepening the kiss.

  Her lips gently parted beneath his. Euphoria shot through him. By jingo, but she was sweet.

  A soft sigh came from the back of her throat as her hands landed on his cheeks, where she held him securely in place.

  But she needn’t have bothered. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  She gently pushed him back, breaking their seal.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ she gasped, eyes round and filled with passion.