Sycamore Hill Read Online Free Page B

forgotten. He reached under the seat
and pulled out a canteen. I didn’t move and he extended his arm offering me the
canteen. I smiled.
    “Is that all you have? I was praying for a river.”
    He laughed. “Take it slow,” he said when I gulped thirstily from
the canteen.
    “Oh, that tastes so good,” I breathed. “I think I’ve swallowed
half the dust between Oakland and Sycamore Hill.” I started to hand back the
canteen and then realized I should wipe off the top. With what? I wondered,
looking down at my dusty skirt and the soiled handkerchief stuffed into my
pocket.
    Lean, hard fingers closed over mine. I released the canteen as
though his touch burned. A smile bent his mouth as he raised the canteen and
drank from it. There was something very intimate about that action, and I felt
my embarrassment revived. When he finished, he held out the canteen to me
again.
    “Would you like another drink?” he asked, a faintly taunting
glitter in his eyes.
    “No... no, thank you,” I declined, unable to keep from looking at
the finely shaped mouth that had just drunk from the container I had so
recently used. He seemed to know what I was thinking and grinned again.
Nervous, I fingered the loose tendrils of hair about my face, pushing them back
into the serviceable coil. The man watched, and I stopped my tense actions,
trying to appear relaxed.
    “You’re from Boston?”
    “How did you know that?” I asked, raising my brows in surprise.
    “Your accent. And other things....”
    “Other things?”
    “No one that I know of would walk dressed like that, carrying a
carpetbag, without a canteen in the middle of August. Not if they were from
around here. And not if they had any brains.”
    My mouth tightened, though I saw the teasing light in his eyes. “I
was eager to reach Sycamore Hill,” I said coolly. “The stagecoach had already
broken down twice before, and when it lost a wheel, I thought I’d have a better
chance of reaching my destination if I walked. Besides, it was mild enough this
morning.”
    “It starts out cool,” he agreed. “But it can end up hotter than
hell in the afternoon.” I flushed at his easy swearing, and he chuckled.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked, though I suspected he knew very
well.
    “Not a thing.”
    “Boston through and through, aren’t you?” he needled.
    “What do you mean by that?” I demanded, piqued by his laughter.
    “All prim and proper. A little earth language brings sundown into
your cheeks.”
    “I’m not as prim as I look,” I flared, his tone indicating some
slight at which I took immediate offense.
    “Aren’t you now?” he asked, raising his brows speculatively. His
gaze moved down again, and I tried unsuccessfully to ignore it. My experience
with men was almost non-existent, and I was finding this conversation
increasingly baffling and disturbing.
    “Thank you for the water,” I muttered, clutching my bag and
turning away.
    “Just a minute,” he said quickly. “All right,” he relented. “I’ll
try not to tease you anymore. But I think you ought to sit down for a few
minutes before you faint dead away. Your face is a little too red.”
    “I do wish you would keep your observations to yourself, Mr....
Mr.... ” I searched frantically for a name, then remembered he had not offered
one.
    “Jordan Bennett,” he supplied with a slight smile.
    “Mr. Bennett,” I finished rather lamely, pulling my eyes
determinedly away from his.
    “Visiting or staying?”
    “Pardon me?” I asked blankly.
    “Sycamore Hill. That is your destination, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “And?” He obviously expected an answer whether it was his business
or not.
    “I’m not sure,” I hedged. Jordan Bennett didn’t say anything for a
minute, but his blue eyes narrowed fractionally on my flushed face.
    “You wouldn’t be one of Ross Persall’s new girls, would you?” he
asked almost hopefully.
    “No. I’ve never heard of him,” I answered