Head in the Clouds by Karen Witemeyer Page B

and began to push to her feet.
    “Don’t get up, Miss Proctor.” He waved her back down. “I won’t begrudge you your bit of morning freedom. Not when I was seeking some of the same.”
    She complied, although uncertainty lingered in her expression. After resettling herself on the grass and tucking her legs around beside her, she tipped her chin up to him. A tentative smile graced her lips. “You’re welcome to share my tree, if you like. The view is splendid, and I promise not to make a nuisance of myself.”
    “Why, thank you, ma’am,” he drawled in his best imitation of Texas twang. “Don’t mind if I do.”
    Her gentle laughter put him at ease as she slid over to make room for him. He sat with one leg bent upon the ground while the other tented up to give his arm a place to rest. A touch of pink colored her cheeks when he smiled at her, but she dutifully resumed her reading, reminding him of why he had come out here in the first place.
    Reaching into his coat, he drew out his pocket Bible. He thumbed through the pages for several minutes but had a devil of a time concentrating on anything. He lowered his head to block the sight of yellow fabric and managed to read a handful of verses from a passage in Isaiah. Then a puff of breeze wafted something his way—a clean, sunshiny, and very feminine scent. He drew it in for a moment, enjoying the pleasant fragrance until he realized he couldn’t recall a single word he’d just read.
    Readjusting his position, he turned his back slightly to her and bent over his Bible once again. Then he noticed her breathing, the brush of fabric as she moved, the soft crackle of the page as she flipped it.
    Botheration! Gideon pushed to his feet, scrunching twigs and pebbles noisily beneath his boots. Miss Proctor started.
    “Forgive me.” Gideon took a couple of steps toward the river. “I’m having trouble concentrating.”
    “That’s all right,” she said from behind him. “I’m sure you have a lot on your mind.”
    He latched on to the excuse. “You’re right. I do. Shearing is around the corner and we have to get everything in readiness before the crew arrives. Bella’s situation is never far from my mind. And if that weren’t enough to worry about, I’ve got a fence cutter on the prowl.”
    A rustle of skirts or grass or both teased him as Miss Proctor stirred, but Gideon kept his gaze forward.
    “Do you know who the culprit was?”
    “No. Probably some unprincipled cowhand trying to make a point about free range.”
    “Unprincipled cowhand?” Something in her voice changed. It tightened.
    Gideon turned and found her advancing on him.
    “I’m sorry that someone cut your fence, Mr. Westcott, but there’s no need for you to jump to unsavory conclusions. It could have been anyone. A drifter. A boy bent on mischief. A hungry thief in the mood for mutton. No cattleman of my acquaintance would ever cut another man’s fence or behave in any other – unprincipled manner.”
    “And are you acquainted with many cattlemen, Miss Proctor?” Gideon asked with no small dose of sarcasm. For once he felt no compulsion to diffuse the rising conflict with an artful dodge or a bit of flattering repartee. The woman had been making him itch since the moment he caught sight of her blasted yellow skirt flapping in the breeze, and he was ready to scratch.
    She slapped her hands on her hips. “As a matter of fact, I am. My father was a cattle rancher for twenty-three years, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a man of greater integrity. And the men who worked for him shared his values.”
    “I’m sure your father was above reproach, but not all cowhands share his scruples. Even in England, we heard tales of the range wars that have afflicted your country in the last decade.”
    “And most of those were due to migratory sheep ranchers letting their flocks graze on land that belonged to cattlemen.” Miss Proctor thrust out her jaw, her loyalty unwavering.
    “You’re