Head in the Clouds Read online

  “I keep them out to remind me that success requires sacrifice.”

  Her hand twitched, and she nearly reached out to lay hold of the books, but at the last second, good sense suppressed the impulse. She primly folded her hands in her lap, hoping he didn’t notice that her grip was tight enough to cut off the circulation to her fingertips.

  “I can understand how the Bible might bring sacrifice to mind,” she ruminated aloud, “but Shakespeare? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

  He answered with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “You caught me. The truth is not nearly as noble as I tried to make it sound. The reminder is actually more physical than philosophical.”

  “How so?”

  “Those two books were my bosom companions for the two years I trailed sheep from California to Texas.”

  “You trailed sheep?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Shock must have stolen her manners. She fumbled to repair the damage. “I didn’t … mean to imply …”

  He waved off her sputtering apology, his eyes dancing with humor. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe, too, and I’m the one who lived through it. Barely.”

  Heat crept up the back of her neck. Why did she never think before she opened her mouth? She bit her tongue before it could cause any more trouble. Unfortunately, her hesitation bogged the conversation down in awkward silence, leaving her employer to wade into the mire to rescue her.

  “I am the youngest of three sons, and I’d always been something of a gadabout.”

  He picked up the Bible and thumbed through the pages, the thin paper crinkling. “My mother hoped I would follow in her father’s footsteps and join the clergy. I considered it for a time, but something held me back.”

  “How did you end up in Texas?”

  “Propaganda.”

  She waited for more, but he just sat there with a smug look on his face. The rascal. He was going to make her ask, wasn’t he? She’d bet in his childhood he was one of those boys who pestered his brothers to the precise point where they would retaliate so that he could escape punishment while they received a scolding for beating on him. He probably had a full arsenal of crocodile tears to go along with those devastating dimples.

  “You gave your brothers fits growing up, didn’t you?”

  Belatedly, Adelaide realized her comment made no sense in the context of their discussion. At this rate, she was going to talk herself out of a position before she ever truly started. However, Gideon seemed to follow without difficulty. He exhibited no blank stare or puzzled frown the way most people did when she made a radical mental shift. Instead, his eyes danced with mischief.

  “Every chance I got.”

  She grinned, and he steered them back on course without a single bump.

  “Word had it that any man with money to invest could earn vast profits with little to no effort in the American West. Buy a half-dozen sections of land, fill it with stock, and let the money roll in while you hunt big game and host parties.”

  “Don’t tell me you believed that nonsense?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I was intelligent enough to know there would be some work involved, but it sounded too good to pass up. My father, bless his wise soul, gave me a condition. He would provide the capital for me to invest in land, build a house, and purchase stock if I agreed to learn the wool business through firsthand experience. I consented, never imagining what a hard teacher experience could be. But everything worked out. The pastores I hired on in California had me trained right and proper by the time we arrived in Texas, and several of them stayed on to work the ranch with me.”

  He laid the Bible back on the table, leaving it open. Adelaide couldn’t read the tiny print from where she sat, but she recognized the number 23 and figured it must be Psalms.

  “I never realized how many verses there are about sheep and shepherds until I spent two years of my life outside with the silly creatures. Gave me a whole new appreciation for the Lord as the Good Shepherd and for how much grief his flock must put him through.”

  Gideon Westcott might be a rascal, but he had depth.

  “What about you, Miss Proctor? What circumstances led to your coming here?”

  She couldn’t exactly say she followed a cloud, now could she? He’d think her deranged. Instead she opted for the bland version of the truth. “I came across the advertisement Mr. Bevin ran in the Gazette and decided to apply.”

  Her employer shook his head at her and clicked his tongue, the frown lines in his brow at odds with the twinkle in his eye. “For shame, Miss Proctor. Surely there’s more to the story than that dull explanation.” He leaned on the chair arm nearest her and winked. Her heart stuttered. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead just as she imagined any true rake’s would, tempting her to reach out and comb it back into place with her fingers.

  “The chairman of the Cisco school board wrote you a glowing recommendation. Obviously they would have preferred you to stay. So what made you leave? Wanderlust? An overzealous suitor? A sick friend?”

  Panic knotted her stomach. Not even the little-boy grin he was favoring her with could ease the tightness. Had Mr. Bevin told him of her marriage fiasco? She hadn’t revealed the details to him and he hadn’t pressed her for them, but if he had said something to Mr. Westcott … No. She shouldn’t borrow trouble. She’d learned her lesson about saying too much during her interview in Fort Worth. She’d not make the same mistake here. A woman was due some privacy after all, and a true gentleman would never pry.

  “My reasons for leaving were of a personal nature. I’m sure you understand.” Adelaide smiled, hoping her words didn’t sound as prudish to him as they did to her.

  “Of course.” He splayed his hands before her, palms up, as if accepting her vague response. Then he touched her. His index finger pressed lightly on the back of her hand, and shivers danced up her arm. “But it doesn’t seem fair for me to reveal a piece of my personal story without you doing the same. I promise to hold whatever you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

  Adelaide bit her lip. He had opened up to her. She wanted to reciprocate, especially when he looked at her as he did now, as if she alone held the key to his future happiness. He wasn’t asking for much, just an answer to his question. But that answer could jeopardize her position.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Westcott.” She glanced down, her eyes glued to where his hand touched hers. “I’d rather not go into specifics. I can assure you, however, that the situation that led me to Fort Worth will in no way affect my ability to carry out the duties you hired me to perform.”

  He sighed. “Very well.”

  Gideon withdrew his hand, and his demeanor subtly changed. He shifted away from her in his seat. His smile faded to a polite curve. No dimples. No twinkle in his eye. No flirtatious wink. He once again became lord of the manor.

  Another shiver ran through Adelaide—only this time it held foreboding instead of delight. Henry Belcher had charmed her with sweet words and false promises in order to get what he wanted—a female companion to toy with while he was away from his wife … and promotion-worthy book sales. Was Gideon Westcott cut from the same cloth?

  He didn’t strike her as the type to lure her into a tawdry affair under the same roof as his daughter, but he had certainly been working his wiles to try to get her to divulge her secret. And she had nearly done so. If she had learned nothing else from her experience with Henry, she’d learned charm could not be trusted.

  “So, Miss Proctor … about your duties.”

  Relieved that her employer had assumed a more professional mien, Adelaide sat up straight and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Isabella is a very quiet child, and not just because she chooses not to speak. Ever since—”

  “Excuse me. Did you say she chooses not to speak?” Adelaide’s mind spun. If the child wasn’t truly mute, then why didn’t she speak? Was she afraid? Obstinate? Unstable?

  Gideon’s v
oice cut into her thoughts.

  “She used to prattle on about everything under the sun.” Regret tightened the corners of his mouth. “I think it is somehow tied to her mother’s death. She hasn’t spoken a word since.”

  Adelaide pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. It had been years since her father’s passing, but she recalled the heartrending pain of the loss. She’d never really known her mother as anything more than a pretty woman in a picture on the parlor mantel. Anna Proctor had died trying to birth a stillborn son when Adelaide was two. But she remembered everything about the day her father passed, as well as the anger and resentment that flooded through her when Aunt Louise whisked her away to Boston, forcing her to leave everything familiar behind.

  Well, except for Sheba. Adelaide had refused to leave without her filly. She’d slept in her horse’s stall every night until Aunt Louise finally agreed to bring the animal along. The sale of the ranch paid for Sheba’s boarding as well as Adelaide’s schooling, leaving her a small portion on account at the bank that could tide her over in an emergency. But even if her father had left her an inheritance equal to that of a British nobleman, she would have traded it all to have him back.

  Was that what Isabella was going through? If Gideon had been trailing sheep the last two years, he surely would have left his wife and child back in England. Out of necessity he would have been absent from them for most of that time, becoming a near stranger to the child. Isabella lost her mother—not the only parent who loved her, surely, but the only one she truly knew. And on top of that she’d been pulled from everything familiar, from friends and grandparents and the house she thought of as home. No wonder the child was detached.

  “Miss Proctor, I need your help.” The muscles in Gideon’s jaw clenched, and his dark eyes pleaded with her. “She’s slipping away from me, and I worry that the melancholia won’t let go. I tried to give her time to grieve, but this can’t be healthy for her. She withdraws more and more. I don’t want you just teaching her reading and arithmetic. I want you to teach her joy.”

  Moved by his genuine love for the child and by the pain of one so young, Adelaide arose from her chair and went to him. He quickly gained his feet but seemed to have difficulty looking at her. She knew she had no right to offer him comfort, yet her heart demanded that she try. Putting her hand on his arm, she drew his attention and peered up into eyes that brimmed with desperation.

  “I don’t know if I am capable of the task,” she said, “but I will give everything I have to the effort. If the Lord wills it, we will find a way.”

  He held her gaze for several seconds, then nodded. “Thank you.”

  Gideon stepped back and cleared his throat. When he looked at her again, all evidence of vulnerability had vanished. He motioned for her to walk with him to the door.

  “I purchased a selection of schoolbooks several weeks ago. I wasn’t sure what you would require, so if an area is lacking, let me know and I will order whatever materials you need.” He occasionally glanced her way, but for the most part kept his head angled toward the floor as they made their way across the room. “You’ll find the books stored on the third floor, along with various other supplies. Set up the schoolroom however you see fit.”

  They slowed as they reached the doorway. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Explore the house. Get to know Isabella. Ride that horse of yours all over the countryside. This is to be your home now. I want you to be comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Westcott.”

  “Keep me informed of—”

  A high-pitched scream rent the air. The tormented sound tore away all pretense of formality, leaving nothing but raw emotion visible on Gideon Westcott’s face.

  “Bella.”

  He sprinted out of the room toward the sound. Adelaide followed close at his heels.

  Chapter 7

  It took only a minute to reach the kitchen, but Gideon felt as if he’d aged ten years by the time he burst into the room. The screaming continued, piercing his ears as well as his heart. He expected to find Bella crumpled in pain, wounded in some way, but she stood hale and hearty before him, not a wrinkle on her dress or scuff on her shoe. He rushed up to her and fell to his knees. He scrutinized her from head to toe, yet he saw no visible injury. Panic mingled with helplessness and caused him to grip her arms tighter than he intended.

  “Bella. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  All at once the screaming stopped, but the anguish didn’t. Isabella’s pain-filled eyes stared past him as if he weren’t there. Chills speared through him.

  “Bella.” He shook her gently. “Bella!”

  “Señor.” Miss Proctor’s voice. “Quitarse su camisa. Take off your shirt.”

  What was she talking about? And why was she addressing him in Spanish? But then she moved into his line of sight, and he realized she wasn’t talking to him at all.

  His foreman, Miguel, stood directly across from Bella, his features frozen in shock. Gideon looked back to Bella. Then to Miguel. Then Bella. His daughter’s eyes were locked on the vaquero. More specifically, on his bloodstained shirt.

  “Please, señor. If she sees that you are unharmed, it might calm her.”

  The governess’s instruction roused Miguel from his stupor. He started yanking the shirttails out of his waistband, then hesitated when Miss Proctor spun around, turning her back to him.

  “¿Patrón?”

  Miguel waited for permission. Gideon wavered. A man never disrobed in front of a lady, let alone a young girl. However, Miss Proctor seemed to think it would help, and right now he would do anything to break Bella free from her torture.

  “Do it.”

  Miguel complied. A feminine squeak emanated from somewhere off to Gideon’s right. Only then did he realize that Bella’s screams had brought the rest of his staff to the kitchen, as well. Mabel Garrett, his cook, turned the color of a ripe tomato and disappeared through the door connecting to the dining room. A calmer Mrs. Chalmers followed Miss Proctor’s example and turned her back while her husband slipped his arms out of his morning coat and handed it to the herdsman. The butler then collected the soiled shirt and took his wife’s arm.

  “We’ll launder this and have it returned to Mr. Ruíz.” The two quietly exited into the hall.

  Gideon turned his attention back to Bella. She stared blankly at Miguel. He wanted to shake her and force her to wake up from her nightmare, but what if that made it worse? His palms grew moist where he held her arms. God, help me. He knew nothing about healing little girls with wounded souls. Then again, he knew next to nothing about anything having to do with little girls.

  Miguel approached them, holding the edges of the borrowed coat together. Gideon stood and stepped aside, but he grasped Bella’s limp hand, unwilling to sever his connection to her. He hated being helpless. Where was Miss Proctor? Wasn’t she supposed to be an expert on dealing with children?

  Then he heard her voice, and some of his tension eased.

  “Show her, Señor Ruíz. Talk to her.” Her soft voice projected patience and confidence, diluting the panic in the room.

  The herdsman tentatively lowered himself down on one knee in front of Bella. “Is all right, chica. Estoy bien. See?” He took Bella’s other hand and lifted it to his chest where the blood had stained his shirt—directly over his heart.

  Gideon felt Miss Proctor’s warm breath near his neck. “Did her mother die violently?” she whispered. “From some kind of wound that would cause a great deal of blood?”

  Their thoughts obviously ran along the same lines—a past trauma had elicited Bella’s panic. However, it couldn’t have been her mother’s death. There were no similarities to this situation at all.

  “No,” he whispered back, careful to turn his head away from Isabella. “She died in her bed, from an illness.”

  She frowned a bit at that. Her confusion mimicked his own. He knew so little about Bella’s life before he met her. What
had she seen that a bloody shirt should trigger such a horrific reaction?

  Just then, Bella tugged free of Gideon’s grip and began scraping at Miguel’s shoulder with both hands. Her movements grew more and more frenzied, as if she were trying to unearth something. The truth?

  “Open your coat, Miguel.”

  His foreman shot him an uncertain glance, but complied. Bella immediately shoved the fabric to the side and patted his chest with her hand. Once she convinced herself there was no injury, she turned back to Gideon with tears welling in her eyes—eyes that were once again cognizant of her surroundings.

  “Papa.” The rusty sound broke his heart the instant before she buried her face in his stomach and sobbed.

  Gideon lifted her into his arms and hugged her close, his breath catching as her small arms tightened about his neck. She had spoken. Only one word … but, oh, what a word. She’d called him Papa.

  Bella cried herself out and fell asleep thirty minutes later. Miss Proctor promised to watch over her until she woke, so Gideon changed his soaked shirt and headed outside, thanking God that she had been there. The fear he had felt in those moments before Miss Proctor took control of the situation haunted him still.

  He searched out his foreman and found him by the smokehouse skinning a deer strung up by its hind feet. Chalmers’s coat dangled from a nail protruding from the side of the smokehouse, well away from the butchering.

  “Well, that explains how the blood got on your shirt.”

  Miguel, bare from the waist up, whirled around to face him. “Señor Westcott.” He wiped his knife across his trousers and slid it into the small sheath attached to his belt. Remorse creased his face as he moved toward Gideon.

  “Lo siento, patrón. I’m so sorry. I only went to la cocina to ask Señora Garrett if she want a fresh venison roast. Then the little señorita, she walk in and start screaming. I … I not know what to do.” His shoulders arched upward and his hands followed, palms out. Gideon recognized his helplessness. Bella’s screams had debilitated him, as well.