He gave her no chance to reply, but swung around and strode out the back door.
After she had seen the others to bed, Johanna went to her father’s room and sat with him awhile, watching him sleep.
“I believe him, Papa,” she said softly. “I trust him.” She set her jaw. “I am not losing my reason. It is possible to think and feel at the same time, is it not? It’s only a matter of finding the proper balance. That is what I must concentrate on. Balance.”
Her father murmured something in his sleep that she couldn’t make out. She took comfort in it nonetheless. She kissed him on the forehead and left him to his sleep.
Chapter 11
Quentin clucked softly to the old mare, encouraging her on her slow, steady pace toward Silverado Springs. The summer morning was warm, the road not unbearably dusty, and he was remarkably content to be holding the reins of a nearly decrepit equipage as different from his old racing phaetons as Daisy was from the fine-blooded horses he’d once ridden in England.
Oscar perched on the seat at his side, face bright with anticipation. His weight lent a considerable tilt to the buggy, but Quentin was glad for his company.
He’d had much on his mind the past several days. The minor incident in the parlor earlier that week, which he ordinarily would have forgotten, continued to gnaw at his thoughts. It wasn’t because Johanna had rightfully reminded him that he had no place in disciplining her patients, or even her vague hint that he might be forced to leave the Haven if he didn’t conform to her rules.
No, nothing so simple. The thing that most disturbed him was the brief but very real gap in his memory immediately following her warnings—the familiar sense of losing himself and returning without knowledge of where he’d gone or what he’d done.
It was the second such blank period he’d experienced since awakening in the guest bedchamber. At the Haven, he’d been out of reach of the drink that had always preceded such spells in the past. But this time, as with the first, he hadn’t been drinking.
Only an instant, this time. Only a few seconds of disappearing, and then all was normal again. Johanna hadn’t shown any alarm. He couldn’t have done anything… said anything… too intolerable.
But he couldn’t be sure. And then there’d been the conversation with Johanna on their walk earlier that same day, when he’d been so possessed by jealousy that he’d felt separated from his own mind and body.
A jealousy to which he had no right whatsoever. Johanna had taken that in stride as well, but even she must have her limits.
All he could do was try to make up for his behavior by promising Johanna the full measure of his future support and cooperation.
He’d lived up to that promise, at least. Today he and Oscar were headed into town to pick up much-needed provisions that Mrs. Daugherty hadn’t the means to bring with her to the Haven. Among those supplies was lumber to replace the rotten planks in the barn, which Quentin had begun to repair.
He generally had company during his daily chores. May was his second shadow more often than not, satisfied to watch him or, on rare occasions, speak shyly of the book she’d been reading. Oscar was eager to imitate his actions, an unlooked-for responsibility that he tried to treat with the seriousness it deserved. He’d never had to hold himself up as a standard for anyone else’s behavior, and it was a daunting task.
As for the others, Lewis responded with guarded civility to his questions about the roses the former minister tended in the garden. Harper was often in Johanna’s office or in his room, but Quentin suspected the two of them might eventually become friends.
Only Irene avoided him, and he was glad enough for the reprieve.
Johanna was too busy to spare much time for him outside of their so-far fruitless hypnotic sessions, but he was constantly aware of her—of her scent drifting out a window, the low, familiar sound of her voice, the firm tread of her step. His heart skipped the proverbial beat every time she came near. He hid his little vulnerabilities from her quite well.