Head in the Clouds Page 4

  The ivory two-and-a-half-story Queen Anne home sat elegantly atop a rise, a fairy-tale vision contrasting sharply with the rustic Texas landscape. A dreamy sigh escaped her. It was the most romantic house she’d ever seen. It boasted a wraparound porch that encircled the entire lower floor, gabled roofs, large bay windows, and even a turret. All it needed was a handsome prince to fulfill every girlish fantasy she’d ever had.

  The wagon dipped, and Adelaide tumbled off the trunk, banging her elbow against the wooden slats at her side. The throbbing pain in her arm brought with it a dose of reality. She wasn’t a princess in a gilded carriage journeying to find her prince. She was Adelaide Proctor, unemployed teacher, journeying to find a job.

  The harness jangled as Mr. Bevin pulled the wagon to a stop. Instead of waiting for him to come around for her after assisting the other two women, Adelaide climbed over the rail and used the spokes of the wheel like a ladder to take her to the ground.

  “You know, you really should allow the gentleman of the party to help you alight.” The suppressed laughter in Mr. Bevin’s voice drew an answering smile from her.

  “You seemed to have your hands full.” Adelaide brushed off her skirts and bent to untie the lead line that tethered Sheba to the buckboard.

  Placing one hand on the edge of the wagon, Mr. Bevin leaned close to her ear. “Just between you and me,” he murmured, “I don’t think I could last another minute with those two. I have a terrible feeling that Westcott is going to hire you and stick me with the wilting violet and tart persimmon all the way back to Fort Worth.”

  Adelaide giggled. “Shame on you, Mr. Bevin.” Then she rose up on her tiptoes to whisper back to him. “I’ll make you a deal. If I don’t get the position, I’ll spell you by driving the rig half of each day and letting you ride Sheba.”

  He put his hand over his heart and gazed at her with overdone adoration. “You are an angel, Miss Proctor. Truly an angel.” Then his adoration shifted to a look of pure mischief. “You realize, of course, that I now have no motivation to put in a good word for you.”

  She grinned up at him, not afraid of his threat in the slightest.

  “Must you leave us standing out here all day, sir?” Mrs. Carmichael rasped. “Escort us to the house.”

  Mr. Bevin pulled a woebegone expression for Adelaide’s amusement and then set his polite mask back in place. “Coming, ladies.” He offered her his arm, but she shook her head.

  “I’m going to see to Sheba first.”

  “Abandoning me already?” He winked. “The stables are just beyond the house to the west.”

  Adelaide led Sheba in the direction Mr. Bevin had indicated. Once she moved past the house, her surroundings looked much more like a ranch. Several outbuildings stretched across the yard. A bunkhouse, barn, stables, and what looked like smaller storage sheds dotted the area. As she headed for the stables, she noticed several large fenced-off pastures covering the land beyond. A handful of sheep grazed dispassionately in the closest pen, most with lambs hopping playfully nearby. The young ones danced around their sedentary mothers with a glee Adelaide found impossible to resist. Maybe sheep weren’t so bad after all.

  Sheba snorted as she caught the scent of other horses and nudged Adelaide from behind.

  “All right. I’m going.”

  They entered the stable, but no one arrived to offer assistance. Deciding it would be easier to locate an empty stall herself than wait for someone to find them, Adelaide led Sheba down the alleyway. The mare’s hooves clicked against the planked floor, drawing the attention of the other residents. Numerous heads bobbed over stall doors to inspect the intruders. Adelaide’s experienced eye noted two saddle horses of Thoroughbred quality mixed in with quarter horses, a draft animal or two, and even a pony—which surely belonged to the young princess of the castle. Mr. Westcott had quite an eclectic collection of horseflesh.

  “Here we go, girl.” Adelaide found a tie stall near the rear of the stable and hitched Sheba in. She checked the hay in the feedbox and picked up an overturned bucket from the ground. “I’ll get you some fresh water and see if I can’t rustle up some oats for you.”

  The bucket handle creased her palm as she headed back to the stable entrance. A feed bin along the wall drew her attention. She veered to the side to investigate and caught the sound of approaching male voices.

  “Esmeralda finally dropped her lambs, Miguel. Twins.”

  “Ah. Muy bien, señor.”

  “Keep a close eye on her, though. She didn’t seem too fond of the little tykes. You’ll probably need to tie her up and force her to nurse them for a while.”

  “Sí. I watch her, patrón. You go clean up for your guests.”

  Patrón? The first man had spoken with a British accent. Was she about to meet Mr. Westcott? Her pulse raced in alarm. She hadn’t had the chance to freshen up yet. Adelaide retreated until her rear bumped into the feed bin. She clutched the bucket tightly against her chest and held her breath. Just her luck. The proper ladies were up at the house awaiting him in the parlor, and she was off cavorting in the stable. She could only hope she hadn’t stepped in horse droppings. Nothing like the smell of manure on a person to win over a potential employer. Her hair was probably a wreck, too. Why hadn’t she gone inside with Mr. Bevin when she’d had the chance?

  She stood utterly still and trained her ears on the noises outside the stable. The pad of footsteps moving away from the building buoyed her spirits. Maybe she’d get out of this unscathed. She continued to listen, not sure if one man or both had left. When everything remained quiet, she inhaled deeply and let her muscles relax. Determined to get Sheba taken care of as quickly as possible so she could skedaddle up to the house, she took a nose bag down from the wall and heaved open the heavy, wooden hinged lid of the bin, leaning it against the wall.

  Drat. It held oats all right, but the bin was nearly empty. She bent over the side, the worn edge digging into her stomach as she reached for the large tin scoop. Pushing up on her toes, she stretched her arms down as far as she could and managed to get a fingertip grip on the scoop handle. The scoop scraped against the bottom of the wooden box as she cornered the grain. It would have to be enough. All she needed was for someone to come in and see her dangling over the side of the feed bin, bottom up.

  “Might I be of assistance?”

  The rich, masculine, and very British voice startled her so badly that she flung herself backward too fast. She lost her footing and knocked her knees against the bin. As she swung her arms out in a desperate bid to regain her balance, the oats sailed out in a powdery arc and splattered all over the front of the man who could only be Gideon Westcott.

  His blue chambray shirt must have been damp from his exertions with the laboring ewe, for the oats stuck to him. Dread settled into the pit of her stomach.

  “I’m so sorry, sir.” She rushed forward and began swiping at the front of his shirt, but after the first contact, her hands became as oats-covered as his clothes. Not knowing what else to do, she stepped back and tried to explain.

  “I wanted to get my mare some grain, but the bin was nearly empty, and I’m so short I couldn’t reach … had to lean over the edge, then you came in and startled me … the oats flew … I … I’m sorry.”

  The poor man just stood there, stunned. He wore ordinary work clothes like any other Texas rancher and had a strong, capable stance that communicated experienced stockman, not arrogant dandy. He was nothing like she had expected. Consumed with the need to get away before he could chastise her, she thrust the bucket at him.

  “If you’ll just see that she gets some water … ?”

  Then she fled, praying his shock would keep him from recognizing her when next they met. Westcott Cottage did have a handsome prince as it turned out, and she’d just floured him like a drumstick headed for the frying pan.

  Chapter 4

  Gideon shrugged into his morning coat and tugged his shirt cuffs beyond the end of the charcoal coat sleeves as fashion
dictated. While he straightened his silk Windsor tie, his mind traipsed back to the stable. He couldn’t get the image of frothy petticoats and yellow calico out of his mind. It wasn’t every day a man found a woman draped over the edge of his oat bin.

  She’d been a tiny slip of a thing with thick sable hair that threatened to burst out of its pins and hazel eyes that danced with life … and a healthy dose of panic. He chuckled softly. No doubt she was one of the candidates Bevin had brought down from Fort Worth, and if her eagerness to make amends was any indication, she’d probably deduced his identity the moment she showered him with grain. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction when he joined the group in the parlor.

  He hoped the other candidates were a bit more seasoned. The girl from the stable looked barely out of the schoolroom. What kind of experience could she possibly have acquired in her short life? Isabella didn’t need a playmate; she needed someone who had dealt with a wide variety of children and issues. Someone capable, dedicated, patient. The girl in yellow might be chipper, and no doubt would prove fun to tease, but judging by the impetuous display earlier, patience didn’t seem to be one of her virtues.

  Before descending the stairs, Gideon stopped by Isabella’s room. She sat on the light-colored Brussels carpet, a village of wooden blocks encircling her. Painted iron men and women, horses and dogs, carts and wagons went about their business in the miniature town. Two of the figurines faced each other, leaning in and out at Bella’s direction. She shifted them back and forth, a single finger atop each head. Her face portrayed alternating personalities and emotions as the characters took turns in a conversation only she could hear.

  He stepped into the room and hunkered down in front of her, careful not to disturb the building blocks. She looked up at him, the hint of a smile playing across her lips. His heart constricted. Thankfully, his presence still brought her a small measure of happiness, but he wouldn’t be satisfied until she returned to full-faced toothy grins and girlish giggles. God, grant me the wisdom to choose the right person to help accomplish that feat.

  “I’m on my way to the parlor to meet the women Mr. Bevin brought. Will you join me?”

  She shrank back, but Gideon held out his hand.

  “Remember, I’m counting on you to help me select the best candidate.”

  She laid her fingers tentatively in his palm, and he helped her to her feet. She used his arm for balance as she maneuvered over her blocks, but when they came to the doorway, she faltered. Letting go of his hand, she darted back to her bed and snatched up the doll that lay across the white lace bedspread. A gift from her mother, its golden hair and blue eyes matched Bella’s own. He knew she drew comfort and security from it, so he made no protest when she went back for it.

  “Ready?” he asked when she returned to his side.

  She nodded. Together they moved down the hall and descended the stairs. The door to the parlor stood open. Gideon led Bella in without slowing his step. He feared any hesitation on his part would simply allow her insecurities time to resurge. Like loading sheep up the chute, once you got them started it was best to keep them moving until the job was done. Otherwise, you left your gate open for all kinds of trouble.

  “Westcott! It’s about time you got here.” James Bevin pushed himself away from the hearth and approached Gideon with a warm grin. “These ladies have been subjected to my inferior conversation long enough, old boy. I fear they’ve grown weary of my company.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Bevin.” A graceful blond woman rose from the sofa and floated toward them, her face serene. “You have been a delightful companion.”

  “Gideon Westcott, may I present Miss Lillian Oliver?”

  “Miss Oliver.” Gideon bowed toward her, and she answered with a deep curtsy elegant enough for any London drawing room. By the time she rose, the other two women had come to stand behind her, waiting for their introduction—one a rather severe-looking female with streaks of silver in her tightly pulled-back hair, and the other a petite young woman with a delightful blush staining her cheeks. The elder of the two stepped forward first.

  “Mrs. Esther Carmichael,” Bevin announced.

  Gideon dutifully sketched a bow and noted a distinctive medicinal odor emanating from the older woman. It reminded him of one of his own childhood nurses. She had rubbed liniment into her joints every day and preferred the comfort of the schoolroom over outdoor excursions that required chasing after him and his brothers. Would Mrs. Carmichael be the same?

  Finally, the brunette in yellow calico took her place in front of him. Bevin opened his mouth to introduce her, but she beat him to it.

  “Mr. Westcott and I met briefly in the stable earlier today.”

  Bevin’s brow arched. “Oh?”

  Gideon dipped his head in agreement. “Quite true. But I’m afraid she left before I learned her name.”

  The rose in her cheeks deepened from a dusky pink to a vivid scarlet.

  “Well then,” Bevin said, “allow me to present Miss Adelaide Proctor.”

  The energetic Miss Proctor bobbed a quick curtsy and then thrust her hand out to him before he could complete his bow. She didn’t offer him dainty fingertips or the back of her hand for him to kiss. No, she offered a straight-out, flat-palmed, thumb-up handshake, which until now he had only associated with other men. Not wanting to offend or embarrass her, he took hold, surprised at the strength of her grip. And when he glanced up, he got the distinct impression that she was taking his measure. For some odd reason, he found himself hoping that he passed her test.

  She released his hand after a second and stepped back, her gaze dropping from his face to somewhere beyond his right hip.

  “Hello.” Genuine warmth lit her face.

  His mind jerked back into motion. Isabella.

  He cleared his throat. “Ladies? My daughter, Isabella.”

  Gideon placed his hand between the girl’s shoulder blades and steered her forward. She resisted slightly and smothered her doll against her chest, but she came around to face the three women.

  “Make your curtsy, child.” Mrs. Carmichael spoke with authority yet not unkindly, and Bella hurried to obey. The older woman nodded her approval to the girl and faced Gideon with satisfaction, having demonstrated her proficiency.

  “She’s a lovely girl, Mr. Westcott. A true beauty. You must be very proud.” Miss Oliver smiled up at him like a debutante. He almost expected her to start batting her eyelashes. It bothered him a bit that she addressed her comments to him instead of speaking directly to Isabella, but he pushed the feeling aside, for she spoke the truth. He was proud of his daughter.

  “Thank you.” Gideon cupped his palm around the upper part of Isabella’s right arm and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “She’s the sunshine in my day.”

  The sound of an indrawn breath brought Gideon’s attention back to Miss Proctor. Her eyes glowed with quiet intensity, and he felt as if he were stealing a glimpse into the private recesses of her heart. A film of moisture appeared, which dulled the effect and left him wanting to clear it away so he could look deeper. She blinked the wetness away, but before he could delve into the mystery behind her eyes again, she lowered herself to face Isabella.

  “Did you hear that?” She spoke intimately to the child, as if there were no one else in the room. “You’re the sunshine in your papa’s life. That’s just about the highest compliment a girl can get. My own father used to say much the same thing to me. In fact, he once told me that yellow was his favorite color and that whenever I wore it, it was like having his own personal sunshine whether indoors or out, clear sky or gray. And do you know what?”

  Isabella slowly shook her head from side to side, entranced. Gideon felt entranced, too. Not so much by the story, though, as by the effect it was having on his daughter.

  “Now that my father’s gone,” she continued, “yellow is the only color I ever wear. It reminds me of him and makes me happy to think that maybe if he looks down on me from heaven, he will see his
little sunshine and smile.”

  Isabella loosened her grip on the doll and reached out to pat Miss Proctor’s cheek. The woman covered the girl’s hand with her own and leaned into the touch. Gideon stared, his eyes burning. All these months, he had tried to comfort Bella in her grief, and now, with a single story, this woman had bonded with his daughter in a way he had been unable to. They had connected through the shared loss of a parent, and for the first time in ages, Bella was reaching out to another instead of withdrawing into herself. The Lord had brought him a miracle after all. A miracle wrapped in yellow calico.

  Later that evening, Gideon sat alone in his study. He had read every recommendation letter, scrutinized each diploma, and weighed the prospective candidates on an imaginary credential scale. Miss Proctor didn’t have the experience of Mrs. Carmichael or the refined social graces evident in Miss Oliver, but what she did have was tipping the balance decidedly in her favor—Isabella’s vote.

  Yet it wouldn’t be responsible of him to rely solely on a child’s first impression in making such a decision. All Bella knew was that she and Miss Proctor shared a common grief. She didn’t understand the qualifications a governess should posses or the ramifications of this decision on her future. That was his obligation.

  He’d come to Texas to prove to his father that he could be responsible, to establish and perpetuate a profitable business, to rise above his desultory ways and make something of himself. No more rounds of parties, meaningless flirtations, and a fly-by-night existence. So how exactly did turning a vital decision over to a child demonstrate his competency?

  Gideon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to alleviate the dull ache throbbing between his brows. A knock sounded on the door. Gideon dropped his hand and looked up from the papers strewn across his walnut pedestal desk.