Sycamore Hill Read Online Free Page A

leather-and-brass-work belt that circled a lean, hard waist, the brown
pants that indicated long, well-muscled legs. He sat comfortably with those
legs apart, one booted foot raised on the brake. His hands were relaxed with
the reins. I noticed those hands, work-callused but clean even unto the trimmed
nails. I felt even more disheveled beside the man’s crispness, and a surge of
unreasonable resentment stiffened my spine.
    With a careless movement, the stranger took off his hat and wiped
his forehead with his arm. I was sure it was the heat that made me feel
suddenly flushed and light-headed.
    He was young, not more than 35, and very attractive in a rugged,
tanned sort of way. He had thick, tawny hair, sun-streaked blond in the front.
But it was his eyes that caught my immediate, if dismayed, attention. They were
the bluest I had ever seen, and they were filled with laughter.
    With sudden understanding I realized he had witnessed my
ungraceful collapse into the dirt. My face turned an unbecoming beet-red, and
the resentment altered to growing irritation.
    “You could give a person some warning,” I flared, “without
sneaking up behind her and scaring her half to death!”
    There was the slightest narrowing of those blue eyes, but the
smile changed to a wide grin that disclosed even, white teeth.
    “Now, little lady,” he drawled, lazily mocking. “You aren’t going
to pretend it was my presence that brought on that little dance routine you just
did.”
    I deserved that unkind reminder, I thought, immediately regretting
my rude outburst. Then I became acutely aware that the man’s gaze had dropped
to the part of my anatomy that Marcella Haversall had tried to bound.
Instinctively I raised my hand only to come in contact with bare skin.
Humiliated to be caught in my misdemeanor of propriety, my fingers flew to
repair the oversight.
    “I liked it better the way it was,” the man commented, not
intending to spare me anything. I glared up at him. Insensitive, he continued
his embarrassing scrutiny of my form.
    Snatching up the carpetbag I had dropped, I began to march down
the dusty road again. I did not hear the buckboard moving and chanced a quick
look back over my shoulder. The man was sitting there watching me with an
enigmatic expression. I jerked my head back around, afraid that if I did not
watch where I was going, I would stumble into another gopher hole and make a
worse fool of myself.
    I heard the buckboard move behind me.
    “Why don’t you sit down and take a load off your feet. You look as
though you’ve walked for miles,” the stranger observed unkindly when he drew up
next to me. I did have some feminine pride, and I bristled at his blunt
assessment of me. I knew I looked a mess, but I did not appreciate his telling
me so.
    “Thank you very much for your kind observations,” I said dryly
without looking at him or slowing my pace. Maybe he would take the hint and
keep going. I could feel his eyes on me and hoped he blamed the heat for the
rush of color. He flicked the reins again, guiding his two sorrels toward the
side of the road. They came very close, and I side-stepped. He kept on his
path, herding me like an unruly cow until I was pressed off the road.
    “What are you doing?” I gasped, just managing to back step yet
again before my foot was squashed beneath a large hoof.
    “How long have you been walking?” he countered.
    “Since eight this morning,” I stammered, taking several more
backward steps to avoid colliding with the horses. “Will you stop those animals
before they walk all over me!”
    “Happy to.” The man grinned, setting the brake and tying the reins
securely before jumping down to tower over me. My eyes widened, and I backed a
few more paces while staring warily up at him. Then I began to ease around the
buckboard.
    “I’ve no intention of molesting you,” he commented derisively.
“But I thought you might need a drink of water.”
    Escape, for the moment, was