Head in the Clouds

by Karen Witemeyer

  “Glad to be here, my dear.” He released her hand, and a boyish grin spread across his face. “Martha’s going to be beside herself when I tell her.” The preacher glanced sideways at James. “My wife has been speculating on the matchmaking possibilities between these two since the first Sunday Westcott brought her to services.”

  “I had much the same thought when she waltzed into my Fort Worth office.” James winked and held out the packet of papers he had just folded up. “And now I have proof that I was right.” He tucked the papers into his jacket pocket and patted his chest where they protruded. “Your wife will have to fight me for the bragging rights.”

  “Listen to you two.” Adelaide shook her head at them in mock reproof, her mood lightened momentarily by their silly banter.

  “Martha will probably take me to task for denying her the chance to do up the church for the ceremony. There’s nothing she loves more than all that feminine froufrou that goes into a wedding. Perhaps after Gideon recovers, the two of you can have a second ceremony at the church so Martha and the other ladies can make a big fuss.”

  Her eyes burned with the tingle of oncoming tears at the hope inherent in his statement. He spoke of Gideon’s recovery as if it were assured. After all the dire predictions from everyone, including Gideon, the minister’s faith-filled statement served as a salve on her battered spirit. She blinked away the tears and cleared the excess emotion from her throat. “I would like that very much.”

  Isabella, who until then had been waiting patiently while the adults conversed, grabbed hold of Adelaide’s arm and began swaying back and forth. The swaying turned into hopping, which caused Adelaide to have to catch her balance several times. Anxious to redirect the child’s energy, Adelaide glanced over her shoulder to check on the doctor’s progress. He was packing his bag, the injection completed.

  She turned back to her guests. “Mrs. Garrett is preparing some refreshment downstairs for you, gentlemen. James, would you show Brother Kent to the dining room?”

  The men accepted her not-so-subtle hint with graciousness and headed toward the door. James slowed his step for a moment, however, and drew her aside.

  “Gideon asked me to post a letter to his family,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll hold it for a day if you would like to add a personal note.”

  His parents. All this time, she had been so wrapped up in her own distress, she had not spared them a single thought. How the news of Gideon’s injury would grieve them. She was sure James would supply a detailed account of what had happened and explain why their son had felt compelled to marry in haste, but he couldn’t assure them of her love or how she would do everything in her power to help make him well. James wouldn’t think to write of Isabella and her speaking, giving Gideon’s parents something to rejoice about even in the face of their worry for their son’s survival.

  “Yes. Thank you, James. I would like to write to them very much. I’ll see to it in the morning.”

  Isabella jumped up and tried to hang from Adelaide’s arm, but slipped off when Adelaide tipped to the side. The little monkey was driving her to distraction. She clamped her mouth shut on the snippy reprimand that tried to dart out. If Isabella didn’t cease her tugging and grabbing soon … Adelaide inhaled a deep breath through her nose in an effort to hide her frustration. Her emotions had been seesawing for hours now, and her control was quickly reaching threadbare status.

  “Now, Miss Addie? Now can I sing?”

  Adelaide gladly seized the suggestion. “Yes, Izzy. This is the perfect time for you to sing.”

  With a grin, Isabella finally let go of Adelaide’s arm and skipped over to Gideon’s bedside.

  “Papa Gidyon, Papa Gidyon. Are you ready for your song?”

  Adelaide reached the bed at a more sedate pace, her gaze intent on Gideon’s face. His brows lifted first, then his lids, too heavy to rise more than half-mast. His brown eyes were clouded. From the pain or the morphine, she didn’t know.

  “I’m ready, Bella mine,” he slurred. He attempted a smile, but it ended up looking more like a twitch. Isabella didn’t seem to mind, though. She pirouetted until her gown belled out around her ankles, then curtsied as if the impromptu dance was part of the performance. Stepping closer to the bed, she drew breath and began to sing in a clear soprano that shocked Adelaide with its purity.

  “Sleep my child and peace attend thee,

  All through the night.

  Guardian angels God will send thee,

  All through the night.

  Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

  Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,

  I my loving vigil keeping

  All through the night.”

  The tune of the familiar folk song pierced Adelaide’s heart as she gazed upon the man she loved. Her lips didn’t form the words, but her mind echoed them, praying for God to send guardian angels and vowing to keep a loving vigil throughout the long night ahead.

  Isabella continued on with a verse Adelaide had not heard before. As she sang, Gideon tilted his chin up just enough to peer into Adelaide’s eyes.

  “Love, to thee my thoughts are turning

  All through the night.

  All for thee my heart is yearning,

  All through the night.

  Though sad fate our lives may sever

  Parting will not last forever,

  There’s a hope that leaves me never,

  All through the night.”

  No longer able to hold back her tears, Adelaide had to turn away. Thankfully, Isabella launched into yet another verse of the lullaby, providing Adelaide a chance to step aside and compose herself. A handkerchief swam before her, attached to the blurry arm of Dr. Bellows.

  “Thank you.” Adelaide took the proffered cotton square and dried her eyes. She smiled self-consciously as she handed the handkerchief back to the doctor.

  “Would you like to discuss the treatment for your husband while the child is distracted with her song?”

  Adelaide’s nurturing instincts snapped to attention, shoving aside her more weepy emotions. She glanced back at the bed, but neither father nor daughter seemed aware of her at the moment.

  “Yes, Doctor,” she said, ridding herself of her melancholia with a final sniff. “Tell me what to do.”

  He guided her toward the door and spoke in a quiet voice so as not to be overheard. “Don’t allow him any solid food for several days, and only enough water to keep him hydrated. With a puncture wound like this, the damage goes too deep for sutures, so I simply packed the wound and replaced his bandage. You will need to change the dressings twice a day. I’ll leave you some laudanum to help with the pain, and I’ll administer another morphine injection before I leave in the morning.”

  Adelaide nodded, making mental notes of his instructions.

  “Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked as he grasped the handle of his bag and swung the small satchel off the bureau.

  She could only think of one. “When will we know if he is going to live?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and let out an audible breath. “It’s hard to say, ma’am. I’ve never seen a man in this condition recover. However, I have read of cases where soldiers survived similar wounds during the war. Recovery depends on how much damage the bullet does as it passes through the abdominal cavity. If it doesn’t hit any major organs or cause internal hemorrhage, the patient has a chance to survive. It’s not likely, but it is possible. As long as infection doesn’t set in.”

  “So, how long until we know?” she repeated, needing something tangible to grasp.

  Dr. Bellows tugged on the corner of his mustache. “I don’t know for certain, Mrs. Westcott. But if your husband survives the next two or three days, I’d say his odds would be greatly improved.”

  Adelaide clung to the number the doctor had given her. Three days. She just had to keep him alive for three days.

  She squared her shoulders and flicked a crisp nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”

/>   He collected his hat and disappeared through the doorway. She probably should have offered to escort him downstairs, but she didn’t want to leave Gideon. Dr. Bellows was an intelligent man. Surely he could find the dining room by himself. His nose would lead him there if nothing else.

  Suddenly the quiet in the room hit her. Isabella had finished her song. Adelaide spun around to see a little nightgown-clad angel kneeling by the side of Gideon’s bed. The mattress stood too high for her to place her elbows on top, so she folded her hands in front of her and rested her forehead against the edge of the ticking.

  “Dear God, you made Papa Gidyon a little better, but his hurts are still there. Did you forget to take them away? I’ll keep ’minding you till they’re all gone.”

  Adelaide smiled, her own head bowed as she listened.

  “Oh, and thank you for giving me a new mama. If I can’t have my old mama back, Miss Addie is the next best thing. Amen.”

  Contentment seeped into Adelaide’s heart like warm oil, softening every hardened edge and renewing each tattered corner. She padded over to her daughter and helped her get up from the floor.

  “Papa Gidyon fell asleep during my song,” Isabella whispered as she regained her feet, “but I think he liked it.”

  Adelaide lifted the girl into her arms and braced her on a hip. “I’m sure he did, sweetheart. It was lovely.”

  Isabella’s jaw stretched down in a wide yawn, eliciting an answering one from Adelaide. Time for bed.

  After tucking Isabella in and kissing her cheek good-night, Adelaide exited the child’s room and stood, unmoving, in the hall. An absurd tingle of nervousness ran through her. What did she have to be nervous about? Yes, it was her wedding night, but Gideon was certainly in no condition to perform his husbandly duties. However, that fact did nothing to stop Adelaide’s stomach from flopping around like a landed fish as she finally goaded herself down the hall.

  At Gideon’s door, she grasped the handle and paused. Tonight was her chance to finally be a wife—to be Gideon’s wife. She didn’t know how much time the Lord would grant them, so she dared not waste a moment of it. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and crept into the room.

  With all the visitors gone, the room seemed large and a bit intimidating. Adelaide crossed halfway to the bed and stopped. She hadn’t thought to get a nightgown. Fiddlesticks. Now what? She could sleep fully dressed, but that would be horribly uncomfortable. After the day she’d had, how could she deny herself the pleasure of finally removing her stays and relaxing in unfettered sleep? Simple. She couldn’t.

  She looked over at the bureau. Every bride should be wrapped in her husband’s arms on her wedding night. Gideon might not be able to hold her, but she could still be wrapped up in him. A grin tugged at the corners of her lips.

  Quietly sliding one drawer open after another, Adelaide finally found what she was looking for. She peeked behind her to make sure Gideon continued to sleep and dashed over to the corner farthest from the bed. The chamber had no screen to shelter her as she disrobed, so she turned her back to the room and hastily yanked the clothes from her body. Feeling scandalous, she dropped Gideon’s soft flannel work shirt over her head and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Even though the hem of the shirt fell past her knees, her sense of modesty wouldn’t allow her to remove her drawers. It also compelled her to button the shirt up to her chin—or collarbone, seeing as how the oversized shirt hung like a tablecloth on her petite frame.

  It was his, though, and she imagined him holding her as she hugged herself and lifted the fabric to her nose. The smell of soap and sunshine was pleasant, but she wished it carried Gideon’s scent. She rolled the sleeves up to her wrists and, leaving her discarded clothing heaped in the corner, tiptoed to the bed.

  Careful not to wiggle the mattress too much, she lifted the sheet and crawled in next to him. Ah. There was the aroma she’d been craving—in the sheets and on the man himself. Adelaide closed her eyes and inhaled. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, curled onto her side to face her new husband, and watched him sleep. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The gentle rumble of his breathing—not quite a snore, but loud enough that she didn’t need to strain to hear him. It was comforting, peaceful.

  All at once, the peace shattered as he moaned in his sleep and thrashed his arms about. Heart racing, Adelaide leaned over him and grasped his wrists.

  “Shh, Gideon. It’s all right. Be still.” She continued to murmur soft words to him and hold him down until he relaxed. Even after he settled, she continued hovering over him, stroking his thick, dark hair and dropping occasional kisses on his forehead.

  Outwardly, the peace had returned, but inwardly, Adelaide’s fears began to churn once again.

  “I expect you to fight for me, Gideon Westcott,” she whispered, her jaw tense. “Just because I agreed to marry you doesn’t mean the battle is over. I signed up to be a wife, not a widow, and I demand a happy ending to our story. It is your duty, husband.”

  He moaned again, and she thought she saw his lashes flutter. She ducked away and curled back onto her side, letting out a moan of her own. Stealing the man’s sleep was no way to speed his recovery. Laying more burdens and foolish demands on him probably didn’t help, either. She just wanted a life with him so much. So much, she ached with it.

  Am I asking for too much, Lord?

  She fell asleep waiting for an answer that never came.

  Chapter 34

  Reginald Petchey squinted at his solicitor through the dim glow of a single greasy lamp that stood atop the table between them. Hazy shadows confounded the man’s features.

  “Are you telling me that Westcott is still alive?”

  Farnsworth’s Adam’s apple bulged from his scrawny neck as he swallowed long and slow. “I-I’m afraid so, my lord.”

  Reginald charged to his feet, sending the rickety chair flying out from under him. “It’s been a week, Farnsworth. A week!”

  He stalked his assistant. The coward backed away until the weathered planks of the wall halted his retreat. Reginald pounced with one vengeful strike, slamming his fist into the wood behind the man’s head. Farnsworth flinched, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but he held his chin up. The show of mettle only enraged Reginald further.

  “I’ve endured the squalor of this … this …” He gestured around at the insect-infested shell of a building he had condescended to live in.

  “Line shack, sir.”

  Reginald’s eyes snapped back to Farnsworth, and he wished he could bore into the man with something more substantial than a heated scowl. His hands itched to encircle the man’s throat and squeeze just enough to … He gritted his teeth. Through his clenched jaw, he spat out his disgust one word at a time, his enunciation so fierce that tiny specks of saliva sprayed across Farnsworth’s pinched face.

  “I … don’t … care … what … it’s … called.”

  Could the idiot not see what was important here? Like any good hunter, he’d been prepared to wait. He’d set up the ambush and timed everything to perfection. Unfortunately, the worthless Mexican he’d hired had proven to be a flawed weapon, wounding his prey instead of killing it with a clean shot. Yet Reginald hadn’t panicked. Weapons malfunctioned occasionally. One could not escape that. A good hunter must simply adjust his strategy and choose a new method for taking down his target. When José, bleeding and whining, staggered into the saloon to collect his pay last Friday, he assured Reginald that he had left Westcott with a gaping hole in his gut and a guaranteed appointment with death.

  So Reginald had waited, selecting time as his new weapon of choice. He’d packed up his belongings and holed himself up in this miserable shack that sat on the western border of Westcott’s property, waiting and listening for the chance to make his move. For a week! And now Farnsworth was telling him that it had all been for nothing?

  A roar exploded from him, and he punched the wall again before turning away from his solicitor.

  “Perha
ps we should g-g-go back to England, my lord.”

  “And admit defeat? Out of the question.” Rage grew within him until he could no longer think clearly. He wanted to strike something. Someone. But brute strength couldn’t give him the results he needed. No. He required cunning, and cunning required thinking. Reginald forced himself to stop prowling around the square room like a caged beast. He straightened his cravat, brushed the lint from his brocade vest, and buttoned down the anger that seethed beneath the surface.

  “I’m not like you, Farnsworth. I don’t abandon my purpose at the first sign of adversity. I persevere. I look for new paths of attack, unthought-of strategies, hidden weaknesses not yet exploited. …”

  A faint inkling tugged at his consciousness, taking nebulous shape. The energy that had fueled his rage immediately rechanneled to feed his mind. Possibilities flashed before him, almost too fast for him to keep up. But he did. A familiar rush of power surged. He loved being brilliant.

  “I’m not suggesting we run away, my lord, just relocate temporarily.” Farnsworth’s voice buzzed like a fly in his ear. Distracting. Irritating. Making him want to swat the fellow with a giant rolled newspaper. “Our funds are nearly depleted, after all.”

  “And they won’t be restored without the girl,” Reginald barked without looking up. He paced around the tiny room and shoved Farnsworth out of his way as he circled the table. “Now, cease your bellyaching and let me think.”

  Westcott was still alive. And if he’d survived a week with a hole in his gut, he couldn’t be counted on to succumb any time soon.

  “Tell me again what the Menardville doctor said,” Reginald ordered.

  “It was much the same as when I traveled to town three days ago. I reiterated how thankful I was to find a doctor in the wilds of Texas who had the capability of bringing a man back from the very brink of death. This time he didn’t question me about how I had heard about the case, and was more forthcoming with the particulars. Apparently tales of the rancher’s recovery have spread all over town since my last visit.