Head in the Clouds (6 page)

“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.

“Forgive me, señor. I not come to the big house dirty again.”

Gideon laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are welcome in my house at all times, Miguel. The state of your attire is immaterial.”

Miguel hung his head. “
Gracias
, but I not make the same mistake again. The little señorita, she is too tender for my rough ways.” He paused for a moment. “She reminds me of my little Rosa.”

“Rosa?” Gideon took a step back. When he’d hired Miguel to herd with him back in California, the man had given no indication that he’d be leaving family behind.

“Sí, my niece. Only she’s not so little anymore.” He lifted his face and gazed off to the west, a touch of a smile on his lips. “One of the young vaqueros from the
rancho
where I used to herd had his eye on her. He is a good man. Maybe they are wed by now, eh?”

Miguel met Gideon’s gaze finally, and for a brief moment their friendship seemed to supersede their business relationship. How could he have worked side-by-side with this man for two years and not known about his family in California? Perhaps Miguel had his reasons for not sharing, but most likely he took his cues from his gringo employer, who never saw fit to ask.

Gideon understood how difficult it was to be apart from one’s family. He looked forward to the newsy letters his mother sent twice a month, chronicling the lives of his brothers and their wives, the neighbors, and the latest social buzz. Yet Gideon couldn’t recall a time when a letter for Miguel had arrived in the post. “Have you not heard from them since you left?”

The herder shrugged. “My sister, she no read so much. And Rosa is young. Her mind is filled with other things. But
no es importante
. How is the little señorita?”

“Better.” Gideon leaned his back against the smokehouse wall, bracing the heel of his boot on a protruding board. “Sleeping, I think.”

“Bueno
.”

Gideon nodded. “It’s odd, though. Bella has seen blood before and not made a fuss. Remember when I sliced my finger open on that broken window glass? She held my hand and watched you stitch me up like an experienced nurse.”

His foreman’s eyes lit with a thoughtful gleam. “Sí. That is true.”

“Miss Proctor believes there was something specific about the stain on your shirt that triggered her reaction.”

Gideon turned back toward the house, imagining Miss Proctor sitting at his daughter’s bedside. In actuality, they’d not discussed it much further than the brief exchange in the kitchen, but knowing her supposition matched his brought assurance and, with it, control. Odd that it had stemmed from a woman.

His experience with the fairer sex had been derived predominantly from the social sphere. He’d never witnessed a female, outside of his mother, deal with any crisis more serious than a torn ball gown or an impertinent servant. And even his mother depended heavily on his father when difficulties arose. As was only right. After all, it was a gentleman’s duty to protect women from hardship. The man should bear the burden as the stronger vessel. Yet his new governess had not recoiled from adversity. She’d waded right in, her feminine shoulder proving quite capable of sharing his load.

She had also proved immune to his charm. Well, perhaps not immune. He had felt the tremors in her when he touched her hand in the study, but she’d held fast to the information he sought. And in the process, her earnestness had left him feeling like the serpent in the garden, tempting Eve to sacrifice her principles. Not a complimentary comparison.

“There is more I need to tell you, patrón.” Miguel’s voice broke into his thoughts. “When I rode out this morning to check on the
borregos
in the north pasture, I found the fence cut.”

Gideon frowned and pushed away from the smokehouse. “Deliberate?”

“Sí.” Miguel nodded, his swarthy face grim.

Many of the ranchers in the area had warned Gideon that fencing off the rangeland might anger some of the old-school cattlemen. They were accustomed to free range where they could herd their animals wherever the grass grew thickest. However loath they were to admit it, though, the time of free range was coming to an end. More and more people were moving into west central Texas now that the Indian threat had passed, which meant farms and ranches competed for the same resources. In order to protect their water and land, owners turned to barbed wire, and those who opposed it turned to wire cutters.

“Juan say a man came through the fence after dark and shot his rifle in the air many times to scatter the borregos. The night hid his face, but he rode a painted horse with white markings that glowed in the moonlight.”

Gideon filed away that piece of information, but his anger would not be pushed aside so easily. No one had the right to trespass on his land and harass his sheep. It was illegal, unethical. This flock represented his chance to prove to his father that his trust in his youngest son had not been misplaced. For two years, he’d trailed these animals from California, enduring filth, solitude, and unsympathetic weather in order to furnish his ranch with the finest Rambouillet stock available. And now some disgruntled cowboy thought he could waltz onto his land and try to intimidate him? Not a chance.

Instinct urged him to mount up and confront his neighbors about the incident, to uncover the truth. Yet a more rational, spiritual voice penetrated the haze of his indignation. Turn the other cheek, Jesus had taught. Vengeance belongs to the Lord. If Gideon allowed the aggression of this unknown man to beget more aggression through his response, he might inadvertently provoke a range war, putting Bella and all the others on this ranch in danger. Such a consequence was unacceptable.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Gideon kicked at the corner of the smokehouse with the tip of his boot. The rhythmic thuds and repetitive motion calmed him somewhat.

“How many head did we lose?”

“Maybe a dozen.
No más
.” Miguel tugged his hunting knife free and went back to work removing the deer’s hide. “Juan worked all night to gather the borregos. Most were only frightened. A few lambs were trampled, and a handful of ewes fell into an arroyo. Juan, he treat the cuts and scrapes on the rest. I returned to get wire for mending the fence, but this buck crossed my path, and I could not refuse such a gift.”

Miguel looked over his shoulder, a roguish grin exposing the gap in his teeth that Gideon had come to associate with the man who had been more mentor to him than employee.

“No, I guess you couldn’t.” Gideon shook his head and smiled back. “I’ll take care of the wire and check in with Juan. When you finish here, notify the other pastores that they can start bringing in their sheep. The shearers are due next week, and we’ll be able to keep a better eye on things with everyone close to home.”

“Sí, Señor Westcott. I take care of it.”

Pulling his leather work gloves out of his hip pocket, Gideon headed to the shed to collect a coil of barbed wire along with a wire stretcher. He’d repair the damage done last night, and pray there would be no further altercations.

The door to the shed creaked as he pulled it open, and the darkness inside seeped into him, bringing with it a new fear. What if doing nothing emboldened the man who had paid them a visit? Would he return and inflict more damage?

Am I making the right decision, Lord? Guide me and protect those in my care.

His mind immediately centered on Isabella and how she had clung to him and called him Papa. His mouth flattened into a determined line. He would do everything in his power to ensure her safety and happiness—which included setting aside his pride and allowing a petite brunette to help shoulder his load. Although if Isabella should decide to speak again, the load would be a good deal lighter.