Head in the Clouds (9 page)

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 forgetting the instances of cowboys driving their cattle to market across pastureland that belonged to sheepmen. Devouring grass, draining water holes, trampling earth.”

“So there was guilt on both sides. That doesn’t mean you can automatically accuse cattlemen for your fence-cutting problems without proof.”

Gideon closed what little gap remained between them and glared down at her. She made no move to back down, just tipped her head farther back to hold his stare.

“You know,” he said, “it’s not too late to bring Miss Oliver back. I’m sure she’d make a much more biddable governess.”

The instant the words left his tongue, he tasted regret. The stricken look on Miss Proctor’s face only twisted the guilt knife deeper into his chest.

He immediately stepped back and held out a conciliatory hand. “I didn’t mean that—”

“No, no. You’re absolutely right.” She wagged her head vigorously as she backed away from him, her gaze dropping to the grass. “I overstepped my bounds and spoke without thinking. I have a tendency to do that, I’m afraid. It was disrespectful and presumptuous of me, and I can only beg your forgiveness.” She hesitated, as if searching for the strength to face him. Finally, she dragged her chin up. Tears had pooled in her eyes.

If Gideon were the type of horseman to carry a whip, he would have turned it on himself in that moment.

“I’m the one who should be begging forgiveness, not you.” He wanted to eliminate the distance between them, but he held back. “I never should have made such a threat. It was hurtful, not to mention completely idle. After what you achieved with Bella yesterday, I wouldn’t let you leave, even if you wanted to.”

Miss Proctor blinked. That was all. She didn’t say a word.

Gideon grabbed the hair at the nape of his neck and tightened his fist until it hurt. Then with a sigh, he let go. His hand slapped against the side of his leg.

“You were right about the fence cutting. I don’t know for sure who did it or why. I’m surrounded by cattle ranchers, so I made an assumption. Whether or not the assumption is true doesn’t really matter at this point.” He looked up at the sky. “I lost eleven sheep. A handful of ewes fell into an arroyo. Some even trampled their own lambs in the panic. That’s probably why I was so cross.”

Gideon bit down on his tongue for a moment, then turned back to Miss Proctor. “When you defended the cattlemen, I felt as if you were siding against me, justifying the actions of the man who cut my fence and scattered my animals.”

“That’s horrible. I would never defend such actions. I—”

Gideon held up his hand. “Of course you wouldn’t. Now …” A small cluster of white fleabane near Miss Proctor’s boot drew his attention. He grinned and bent to pluck the tiny daisy-like flowers. Making a deep bow, he held the miniature bouquet out to her. “Will you accept my apology, dear lady, and erase this entire conversation from your memory?”

To his great relief, she returned his smile and even dipped into a curtsy as she accepted the flowers. “Thank you, kind sir. All is forgiven.”

Her eyes no longer glimmered with tears but with playfulness. Gideon found it difficult to look away. A horse nickered off to his right, breaking the spell. A small black mare was nuzzling up to Solomon.

“That’s my cue,” Miss Proctor said as she tucked his flowers into a buttonhole below her collar. “Sheba always lets me know when it’s time to get back to work.”

“Sheba?” Gideon couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Are you mocking my horse?” Miss Proctor crossed her arms and scowled at him in a teasing fashion. “I’ll have you know she was sired from some of the finest stock in Texas. My daddy named her himself before giving her to me for my sixteenth birthday.”

“It’s a fine name,” Gideon appeased. “In fact, I couldn’t think of a finer name for your horse, seeing as how my gelding’s named Solomon.”

Her mouth fell open. Then all at once, laughter spilled forth. The bell-like sound washed over him in delightful waves.

“Well, I’m sure with a name like that your steed must be smart, but can he run?”

Before he could defend Solomon’s honor, Miss Proctor dashed off and bounded onto the back of her mare with astounding agility. He admired her form for a moment before realizing he was being left in her dust. The fire of competition sparked, and he leapt into his own saddle and raced after her.

Solomon’s hooves pounded into the ground, gradually eating up the distance separating him from the mare. Blood pumping through his veins, Gideon thrilled to the chase, not caring to examine why pursuing this woman felt so right.

Chapter 10

Over the next two weeks, Gideon busied himself with preparations for the shearing. He made a point to return to the house for midday meals in order to spend time with Bella, as well as to continue mending fences with Miss Proctor. Thankfully, the governess was not one to hold a grudge. In fact, her sunny disposition and lively conversation at meals never failed to energize him after hours of herding sheep and repairing holding pens and chutes. There had even been a couple of nights where he’d climbed the stairs to Bella’s room to kiss her good-night when he’d caught the end of one of Miss Proctor’s Bible stories.

She had a way of telling the old familiar tales with such enthusiasm and drama that from his vantage point just outside the room, Gideon found himself as delighted as his daughter. Not only did Miss Proctor give each character a distinct voice, but she acted out the roles, as well.

One evening, she had stood on a stool as the towering Goliath and flopped across Bella’s bed, bouncing the mattress in her death scene as the giant fell to the ground in defeat. Bella had giggled and clapped while Miss Proctor smoothed out the mussed covers.

“Why you smile, patrón?” Miguel plodded into the shed, a grim look on his face. Gideon stopped the downward motion of his hammer to give his vaquero his full attention.

“What do you mean, Miguel?”

“The crew is ten days late, no? The sheep, they grow restless, and the men are on edge.”

“Including you, it would seem.” Gideon turned back to his task and pounded the half-driven nail into the shearing platform with a quick swing of his forearm.

“Sí.” Miguel let out a hearty sigh.

“Patience, my friend. Ramirez wired that the river was swollen at Eagle Ford. We knew they would be delayed.”

“Sí, patrón, but that was a week past. They should be here by now.”

Gideon sympathized with his foreman’s frustration. They’d been ready for days. The holding pens had been built and the dipping trough had been set up, and he must have gone over this platform a hundred times, repairing any board that didn’t lay perfectly flush. The truth was, if Bella and Miss Proctor hadn’t been around to distract him, he probably would have been even more irritated than Miguel. Already the first week of June, and he had yet to send his wool clip to market. Not the most sterling of starts for his ranch.

Setting aside his hammer, Gideon strode over to Miguel and clasped his shoulder. “You know how bad the roads get after a rain. If they encountered wet weather, the crew would be hard-pressed to get their wagons through the mud. We must wait.”

Miguel nodded his assent, but before he could comment further, a shout rang out across the yard. Excited voices called to each other in rapid Spanish that Gideon had trouble deciphering. Miguel’s head shot up, though, and a hopeful smile stretched across his face.

“Riders come, patrón! They say there is enough dust for two, maybe three, wagons.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Enough for a shearing crew, eh?”

“ ‘The Lord is good unto them that wait for him,’ ” Gideon quoted, unable to quell the grin that demanded release.

Miguel clapped his hands together and gave a little jig-like hop before rushing out of the shed to join Juan and the other pastores. Gideon chuckled at the man’s antics before leaving the shed at a more sedate pace. Turning toward the house, he left the herders to celebrate in the yard while he warned his household staff of the imminent invasion.

He entered through the kitchen and found Mrs. Garrett shaping bread dough into balls for the evening’s dinner rolls. She glanced up as he pulled the door closed.

“Mr. Westcott. You’re a mite early for supper.”

Gideon winked at his cook. “Want to know a secret? All the setting up I’ve been doing for the shearing is just a ruse. My true reason for lingering about the house is to snitch treats from your cupboards when you’re not looking.” He grinned and strode past her to the crockery jar that held the cookies. He removed the lid with one hand and delved inside with the other. Drawing one out, he popped the entire thing into his mouth.

“Ack! Get out of my cookies, you oversized pup, or I’ll have your head.” She threw a wad of dough at him.

Ducking his head, he plucked the ball out of the air. “Now, now, Mrs. Garrett, no petty theft is worth ruining a fine yeast roll.” He set the dough ball on her tray and wiped the stickiness from his hands with a towel. “I was looking for Chalmers. I need to inform him that the shearing crew has arrived.”

“He and the missus is polishing the silver in the dining room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garrett. And thank you for the cookie, as well.”

“Bah.” She shooed him out, but not before he caught the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

He entered the dining room and discussed the shearers’ arrival with his butler, but when their business was concluded, he found himself loath to leave the house. He told himself he simply wanted to see his daughter, but he couldn’t deny a hidden longing to encounter Miss Proctor, as well.

“Is Bella in the schoolroom?” Gideon forced a heavy dose of nonchalance into his voice. “I thought to check in on her before I headed out to greet the crew.”

Mrs. Chalmers shook her head. “No. I believe she’s still napping. The child didn’t sleep well last night, and Miss Proctor thought the rest would do her good.”

Bella was occasionally troubled by nightmares, so this news didn’t surprise him. He wished he’d been told of it, though. A father should know such things.

“Is Miss Proctor with her?” If not, perhaps now would be a good time to discuss the matter.

“I believe she took a book out to the porch, sir,” Chalmers replied.

Gideon nodded and headed for the front of the house. When he opened the door, however, all thoughts of the impending discussion left his mind. Miss Proctor was sitting not on the wicker chair that backed up against the wall, but on the railing, where sunbeams kissed her cheeks and the afternoon breeze tugged wisps from the hair loosely tied at her neck. One silky strand blew across her face and clung to the fullness of her lower lip. Absently, she raised her hand to brush it away, her eyes never leaving the book she held.

Footsteps sounded from the far side of the wraparound porch, startling him back to his senses.

“You better head inside, missy. The shearing crew’s here.” Gideon recognized Mrs. Garrett’s voice, but the woman retreated without ever rounding the corner.

“All right.” Miss Proctor answered distractedly, her gaze focused on her book as she flipped a page. She did slide down from the railing, though, and Gideon tried not to notice the flash of trim ankle exposed by the movement.

Instead of moving toward him, as he expected, she stepped in the direction from which the cook’s voice had come. She staggered slightly, her gait uneven as her attention remained fixed on the book.

Gideon smiled. The little damsel was so lost in her story, she might require a guide to lead her back out.

She teetered to the right, precariously close to the stairs that led down to the yard. Gideon’s smile faded.

Another step. She wobbled but continued on, unconcerned. Which only concerned Gideon more. He moved across the porch, opening his mouth to call out a warning. But before he could form the words, she stepped again and lost her balance as her right foot hit nothing but air.

He lunged forward and wrapped an arm about her waist, tugging her back against his chest. “Whoa, there.”

Miss Proctor gasped and pulled away from him, craning her neck to discover his identity. “M-Mr. Westcott. Sir.”

Crimson stained her cheeks. Gideon released her, surprised at the reluctance that surged inside him as he did so. “You nearly took a tumble. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” She glanced at the stairs and then at the book dangling from her hand. “I guess I should pay more attention to where I’m going. I’ll … um … just go check on Isabella.”

She dashed past him and disappeared into the house. Gideon rubbed the spot on his chest where her head had briefly rested and watched her go.

Adelaide awoke at dawn the following morning, but instead of donning her riding habit as had become her custom, she pulled her oldest gown over her head. The lemon gingham, once her favorite, had fallen out of favor with her. It was still serviceable enough, but her fondness for the garment had plummeted since wearing it on that horrible night in Fort Worth when she’d discovered Henry was married. Now, whenever her gaze rested on it in the wardrobe, bad memories stirred. It was as if she were looking at an old friend who had betrayed her. Yet today it would be welcome. She had never attended a shearing before, but she had no doubt it would be a day full of dirt, sweat, and greasy fleeces—a fitting penance for the unfaithful scrap of cloth.

She quickly arranged her hair into a simple knot and tugged on a sunbonnet, leaving the strings to drape over her shoulders. On quiet feet, she padded down the hall to Isabella’s room and eased the door open.

“Time to wake up, my sleeping beauty.”

A small hand poked out from under the lacy coverlet as Isabella rolled onto her back. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and forced her lids open, blinking several times. Adelaide slid into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, accidentally squashing the girl’s foot. The child’s face puckered into a pout. Murmuring an apology, Adelaide scooted down.

“It’s shearing day, Izzy.”

Isabella sat up, her eyes suddenly focused. The pout disappeared.

“Today we will both be students.”

Adelaide had decided to forgo their regular lessons for a few days in favor of some experiential education. If Isabella was going to be a sheepman’s daughter, she needed to understand her father’s trade. And if Adelaide was going to teach her, she needed to gain some firsthand knowledge herself. She could think of no better way to accomplish those goals than to observe and possibly participate in the sheep shearing.

After helping Isabella dress, Adelaide slipped into the kitchen and snitched a few biscuits and several slices of bacon. She fashioned her pilfered goods into sandwiches, secreted them in a linen napkin, and stole away to meet her accomplice on the front porch. Isabella had already climbed into one of the white wicker chairs that adorned the veranda, so Adelaide settled into a matching seat and handed her charge a biscuit. She cast a glance at the stairs, memories flashing through her of a knightly rescue—a strong arm around her waist, a muscular chest sheltering her from harm. But now was not the time for silly romantic fantasies. Mr. Westcott had kept her from falling. That was all.
I’d be a fool to read anything more into his actions.

As she and Isabella nibbled their breakfast, the sun cleared the horizon and brightened the sky enough to reveal all the changes that had come over the ranch since the previous evening.

Thousands of sheep had been moved from the pasture into two large corrals. The flocks hadn’t seemed so big when they were spread out over the hillside, but now that all the animals were crammed together into a confining space, they appeared too numerous to count. Adelaide couldn’t tell which head belonged to which body or even where one woolly back stopped and another started. An occasional bell clanged as one of the lead sheep adjusted positions, but the overall melody was a plaintive ballad of bleating that almost made Adelaide feel sorry for the silly creatures. She had to remind herself they were only losing their coats, not their lives.

After dusting the biscuit crumbs from her lap, Adelaide stood and held her hand out to Isabella.

“Ready?”

The little girl shoved the last bite into her mouth and nodded, her cheeks bulging. She squirmed out of her chair and grasped Adelaide’s hand. Together, they stepped off the porch and ambled toward the corrals. A thrill of anticipation bubbled up in Adelaide, tempting her to dash about so that she could see everything at once. But she swallowed the urge and kept a modest pace. She couldn’t very well teach Isabella decorum and propriety if she failed to enact those virtues herself. Sometimes it was just no fun being an adult.

As they neared the edge of the first corral, Adelaide noticed a smaller pen extending toward the shearing shed. One of Gideon’s men stood at the inner gate separating the sheep in the small holding area from the masses in the main corral. Thinking to ask him what his duties were, she led Isabella around the perimeter of the fence toward the pen. Before she could call out to him, however, a small dark-skinned man she didn’t recognize strode up to the pen and hopped over the fence.

Intent on his work, he gave no indication that he was aware of her presence. He simply inspected the wool of several ewes and made his selection. Grabbing one unsuspecting female by a single hind leg, he dragged her toward the edge of the pen. The poor old gal bleated in protest and hopped backward in an attempt to keep up. The shearer turned a deaf ear to her complaints, however, and forced her to endure the indignity of a graceless exit before her watching peers. After he maneuvered her through the gate, he disappeared with her into the shed.