“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.
Chapter 8
The child hadn’t said a word. She’d been awake for an hour, helping Adelaide collect books and other items that might be put to use in the schoolroom, yet she remained as mute as before. Adelaide followed Isabella up the narrow stairway to the third floor, her arms burgeoning with alphabet blocks and art supplies. Had she dreamt that moment in the kitchen? No. The lo
ok of awe on Gideon’s face when his daughter spoke had been too real to be a figment of her imagination. Maybe Isabella’s nap had erased the incident from her mind. It would be a blessing if the young girl had indeed forgotten the painful memories evoked by Miguel’s bloodstained shirt, but did she have to forget her success in breaking through her wall of silence, too? It seemed unfair somehow.
When Isabella had awakened, Adelaide set aside the copy of Jane Austen’s Emma she’d been reading and posed dozens of questions to the girl. But to her dismay, Isabella pantomimed each answer without uttering a solitary syllable. After about thirty minutes Adelaide had admitted defeat.
Her charge now held the door wide as Adelaide moved into the large storage area at the top of the stairs. It was really more of an attic than a third story, since the back of the room sloped downward with the roof line. A couple of gabled windows cut into the slanted ceiling, however, letting in a good deal of sunlight.
The alphabet blocks plinked and plonked against the hardwood floor as Adelaide clumsily deposited her load in the corner where they had chosen to stash their treasures. She pulled herself upright and swiveled from side to side to stretch her muscles as she examined the room. The dust dragons must have scared off the furnishings, for the only things brave enough to inhabit the space were the crates of books Gideon had told her about and two large trunks shoved against the side wall. The cobwebs curtaining the recessed windows looked fierce, as well, but she was ready to do battle. A good sweep, some soap and water, and this storage area would make a fine classroom.
Adelaide wandered around the room, planning where to place her desk and Isabella’s to best exploit the light. They would probably need a lamp for cloudy days, and she would have to talk to Gideon about putting in a stove for when the temperature grew cool. She ran her fingertips across the sloped ceiling a few inches from her head as ideas continued to percolate in her mind. For once in her life, her lack of height came in handy—she managed to roam through the majority of the room without having to stoop, but a taller person would have had much less freedom.
Out of the corner of her eye, Adelaide glimpsed Isabella climbing into one of the window niches. The squared opening was the perfect size for a young girl to curl up in for a daydream or two on a sunny afternoon. Unfortunately, judging by the somber expression on her face, Isabella had lost not only her voice but also her ability to dream.
Well, as her teacher, Adelaide had no choice but to remedy the situation as soon as possible. No happy girlhood could be sustained without a healthy dose of castles in the air and daring heroes who slew dragons to rescue fair maidens. Or even fair maidens who outwitted dull princes to rescue friendly dragons. A smile curved Adelaide’s lips. How many times had she imagined her pony to be a mighty dragon flying over the land with her on its back, breathing fire with every snort that passed through its nostrils?
Of course, as she grew older, she became less enamored with the dragon and more enchanted by the handsome prince on his stately steed, but that was neither here nor there. The point was that Isabella needed to pretend. Life had treated her harshly of late, and while Adelaide would never condone a full escape into an imaginary world to avoid reality altogether, learning how to visit such a place upon occasion might remind the girl how to smile.
“Front and center, Private Izzy!” Adelaide thumped her heel into the floor with military precision and stood at attention.
Isabella startled at the abrupt sound. She turned to look at her governess, her brows raised in bewilderment. Adelaide broke her pose long enough to wink at her charge, hoping to reassure her that she still possessed all her faculties, and then immediately returned to character.
“The third floor of Westcott Cottage is under attack, and I need every available soldier at my disposal. Are you with me, Private Izzy?”
Adelaide held her breath as Isabella regarded her as if she were a curiosity at a sideshow. The poor child probably couldn’t figure out if it was better to humor her crazy governess or run for her father. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Come on, Private.” She stamped her foot again and motioned for Isabella to join her. “There’s no place for dillydalliers in this militia. If we don’t defend our position from the dust balls and spider-web snares fired at us, all of Westcott Cottage will fall into enemy hands. We are the last line of defense. Your country needs you. Your family needs you. Your schoolbooks need you.”
Finally, a corner of her mouth quirked. One leg swung out of the window seat, then the other. Adelaide fought to keep her expression screwed into the stern visage of her commanding-officer persona while her heart gamboled about in her chest. Isabella slowly made her way to the center of the room, her wary face infused with a glimmer of interest. Adelaide hid her pleasure by marching a circle around the girl as if inspecting her fitness for battle. When she completed her circle, she clicked her heels and addressed her recruit.
“Stand tall, Private. That’s it. Shoulders back. Chin up. Good.” Isabella looked like a young rooster learning to crow with her shoulders near her ears and her neck stretched up to the sky, but Adelaide found it charming. Isabella had agreed to join the game.
“This is no duty for the faint of heart,” Adelaide cautioned. “Only the bravest soldiers are chosen to serve with me. You must be willing to venture into dark corners and arid flatlands with only a broom rifle and a bucket of soapy ammunition. If you think you can handle this assignment, salute.”
Adelaide demonstrated the motion as she said the word, then waited. A second or two ticked by, but Isabella’s flat hand eventually crept up to her temple before falling back to her side. Though not the crispest or most confident salute ever executed, it would do.
“Excellent. Now, off to the armory. We need to be outfitted with uniforms and collect our weapons. We can’t wade into this battle unprepared. Follow me, Soldier.”
Adelaide marched out of the room and started down the two flights of stairs, her ears straining to catch the sound of light footfalls behind her. They raided Mrs. Chalmers’s broom closet and armed themselves with tied-kerchief helmets, apron shields, two broom rifles, and two wooden ammunition bins that bore a striking resemblance to ordinary wash buckets. Isabella took charge of the dry rounds, dutifully holding her bucket of clean rags, while Adelaide commandeered a cake of soap and pumped liquid firepower into her bucket from the hand pump by the sink. She had just begun dipping warm water from the stove reservoir into her bucket when Mrs. Chalmers walked in.
“What’s going on in here?” she asked in a voice that held more inquisitiveness than accusation.
Isabella shrank back toward the wall as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. Not wanting to retreat after making valuable headway with the girl, Adelaide brazenly pressed forward.
“We are battling to retake the third floor, ma’am. In order to protect Westcott Cottage from falling into enemy hands, we plan to clear out the dust mines and web snares and set up our base camp there. Then we can educate the troops from our position on the front line and fight off any future invasions at the same time.”
Mrs. Chalmers eyed Adelaide askance. “If something needs cleaning, miss, I’ll see to it. There’s no need to put the child to work.”
Adelaide finished dipping out the heated water and turned to face the housekeeper, keeping her back to Isabella. “That’s a very courageous offer, but this business is too dangerous for civilians.” She tipped her head ever so slightly in Isabella’s direction and mouthed the words play along. “It’d be safer to leave this job to us military types. Isn’t that right, Private Izzy?”
Isabella stepped out of the shadows and signaled her agreement with a salute. It was even a tad snappier than her last attempt. A little thrill ran through Adelaide. They were making progress.
“Well …” The housekeeper’s gaze softened as she looked at Isabella. “If you’re going off to war, the least I can do is pack you some provisions.”
In a blink, she halved a
pair of biscuits, slathered peach jam on them, folded them back together, and wrapped them in a linen napkin. She laid the bundle in Isabella’s bucket and pulled an oatmeal cookie from a jar sitting atop the jelly cupboard. Mrs. Chalmers placed the treat in Isabella’s hand.
“To keep your strength up, young soldier. We’re all depending on you.”
The girl nodded and began to salute but stopped when she realized her hand was full of cookie. Then, toting her bucket of munitions, she fell in line behind Adelaide, who slung two brooms over her shoulder and gathered up her sloshing pail before leading the short procession to the battleground.
Afternoon faded into evening as Gideon rode into the yard, tired, hungry, and anxious to check on his girl. The whole time he’d been stringing wire and helping Juan herd the stragglers up in the north pasture, he’d worried that leaving her alone with the new governess had been a mistake. He didn’t doubt Miss Proctor’s ability, but after the frightening episode in the kitchen, Bella might have needed her papa.
Papa. Just the memory of that word made his pulse jump.
Gideon dismounted and walked his bay to the stable. As he rubbed the gelding down, his concerns melted into anticipation. Would Bella greet him by name tonight? She must have stored away quite a few words during the last four months. He couldn’t wait to be swept up in her rush of chatter.
With a newfound lightness to his step, he crossed the yard to the side of the house and cleaned up in the washroom. Delicious smells wafted to him from the kitchen. The savory aroma of Mrs. Garrett’s beef stew mingled with the sweetness of what Gideon hoped was an apple pie. His stomach rumbled in response.
Avoiding the temptation of the kitchen, Gideon walked through the door that led directly to the hall. Bella often helped Mrs. –Chalmers set the table at suppertime, so he stuck his head into the dining room. He found Mrs. Chalmers exacting her usual meticulous standards on the placement of the china, but tonight she was doing it without his daughter’s assistance.
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