Wishing on Buttercups Page 11

  When she finished reading yet a third time, she folded it, slipped it into the envelope, then sank into her chair, grateful Katherine had furnished each room with a comfortable seat. Caleb confirmed what she had wondered for years. Nothing else had mattered when Beth arrived at her door as a toddler. Caring for the child took precedence over digging into the finer details of her past. She’d known the Arapaho found the girl along the Oregon Trail and brought her to Fort Laramie, and that seemed enough. No one knew which wagon train she had been lost from, and Wilma never thought to inquire how long Beth had lived with the tribe.

  She leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Caleb had talked to an Indian scout who remembered the little blue-eyed girl from seventeen years ago—the girl who spoke with a lisp and said her name was “Bethie.” The Arapaho had kept her well over five months, until her burns were mostly healed and they were ready to move camp. The chief had worried that the soldiers from the fort might discover a white child in their village and cause trouble, so they’d turned her over to the garrison commander.

  One of the Arapaho confirmed Beth was found near a smoldering fire with wagon tracks headed west. It would have been strange if they’d gone east, but it was still good to know. Did she really want to find Beth’s family? Pain gripped Wilma, and she groaned. If it were solely her decision, she’d never turn a hair to track them down. She’d prefer to keep her girl all to herself and go on as they were. If only her husband were alive to advise her. But at least Caleb had given her more information than she’d had before.

  Should she tell Beth or see what more could be done on her own? Wilma opened her eyes. Late-morning sunshine streamed through the parted curtains. No need to worry the girl if nothing came of her inquiries. She wasn’t even sure what to do with Caleb’s information. He’d promised to keep digging and let her know if he discovered anything else. Caleb had been involved from the beginning, as he’d been instrumental in caring for Beth at the fort and making arrangements for her move to Topeka.

  Too bad the scout didn’t have any more information, but that would have been too much to hope for. At least they knew that most of the trains traveling the Oregon Trail in the early 1860s stopped in eastern Oregon, although now they migrated farther south and to the central part of the territory. The possibility of finding Beth’s family so many years later seemed nigh unto impossible. Only the good Lord could bring it to pass, and Wilma would have to leave it in His hands. And if He decided it wasn’t to be, so much the better.

  A pang of guilt smote her. Beth needed to know the truth. Believing she’d been abandoned or cast off by those who should have loved her was eating the girl alive. Suddenly Wilma felt much older than her forty-nine years. She didn’t even want to think what it would do to Beth if she never discovered the truth. Something had to be done, even if it meant losing her girl’s loyalty to another woman. Knowing Beth was finally at peace would be worth any personal cost.

  Jeffery flipped through the pages of the tablet one more time, then shut it with a decisive snap. He had no right to even look at it again now that he knew it belonged to Beth, but the drawings called to him somehow. Especially the one of the little girl curled up next to the fire, her dress in tatters and pain covering her face. Who could the child be, and why did the depiction affect him so?

  With all the excitement at the café yesterday, he’d not realized the tablet still lay on the table. Satisfaction had risen when he’d discovered it, along with the awareness he’d have another excuse to broach the subject of Beth’s art. Maybe when he returned the sketch pad she’d be more disposed to talk. He should have done so last night, but she had claimed a headache and taken her meal in her room. And slipping it to her at breakfast this morning might have embarrassed her.

  Jeffery moved from the parlor to the kitchen, drawn by the rattling of dishes. He paused at the arched doorway and surveyed the scene. Katherine Jacobs and her mother, Mrs. Cooper, worked side by side, hands busy and words flying, but not in the way they’d done when the older woman first arrived.

  “Mrs. Jacobs?” He placed his shoulder against the door frame and waited.

  A genuine smile lit the younger woman’s face. “Mr. Tucker. Have you come to help with the dishes?”

  Mrs. Cooper’s brows rose. “We haven’t had a man in the kitchen for some time, sir.”

  Jeffery tipped back his head and laughed. “As much as I’d love the pleasure of your company, ladies, I’m afraid I must decline. I was hoping to find Miss Roberts. Have you seen her by chance?”

  Mrs. Cooper’s brows arched. “So you are looking for Miss Roberts? Hmm.” She grinned. “I do like the sound of that.”

  Warmth rose up Jeffery’s neck. “Uh, no, ma’am. I mean, I have something I need to return to her. That is—”

  Mrs. Jacobs chuckled. “Now, Mama, stop teasing the man, or he’ll never visit our kitchen again.” She tilted her head toward Jeffery. “Miss Roberts stopped in to say she was taking a walk. I think it might be on the hillside east of here. I’m not sure when she planned to return.”

  Jeffery nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Much obliged. I hope you ladies have a fine day.” He headed for the hall leading to the front door.

  “See what you’ve done, Mama. Made the poor man run off.” Katherine’s whisper followed him, and Mrs. Cooper’s voice rose in reply.

  “Ha. He’s not running from us. Mark my words, there’s another romance stirring in this house. Just you wait and see.”

  “Mama! Shh … he’ll hear you.”

  “Good. I’m not sure the man is smart enough to figure it out for himself, even if he does write novels. Maybe he should have written a romance after all.”

  Jeffery bolted for the door and yanked it open, wanting nothing more than to flee the house before the two women had him and Beth married and expecting their first child. All he wanted to do was return Beth’s tablet and assure himself she had recovered from her ordeal of yesterday.

  He slowed his pace and grinned. If he were completely honest, though, adding a little romance to his novel—and possibly his life—might not be such a terrible idea. But there was no sense in allowing the ladies the pleasure of knowing they had come so close to the truth.

  Beth spread out a rug on the grass and sat at the base of her favorite tree. Melancholy trailed its fingers over her heart. Much too soon the branches would extend bare limbs to the sky. The world would curl into a cocoon and sleep for the winter, while the earth prepared to bring new life in the spring. Spring … the time of year the Arapaho delivered her to Fort Laramie. The tears she had shed for her mother had dried long before, but the pain still lingered. So much had returned lately as she lay in bed piecing together the shattered bits of her life. The Arapaho people had been kind, but they did not countenance children who whimpered or complained.

  She’d been four when they’d brought her to the fort, as near as anyone could tell, but the wrench of leaving her Arapaho family still pricked her heart these nearly seventeen years later. If only she could remember what came before.

  She had arrived in Topeka in the company of Aunt Wilma’s older brother, Arthur, days before Easter. Dr. Caleb had treated her at the fort, and suggested Uncle Art contact Aunt Wilma, knowing she and her husband had lost a young daughter to dysentery.

  Beth leaned against the tree and allowed tender memories to flood her soul. Aunt Wilma’s face streaming with tears as she gathered Beth into her arms, and Uncle George grinning and patting her back.

  She gazed down over the valley, and a deep contentment stroked her heart for the first time in days. Last night she had dreamed again. Or had it been a dream? A quiet voice had called to her in the wee hours, as she drifted in and out of sleep. She’d leaned into the night, yearning, reaching, seeking, hoping. It only lasted minutes, or it might have been seconds, but the voice was distinct.

  “Trust Me. Rest in Me.”


  How she wanted to rest. Trust. Let it all go and not care about the past anymore.

  Was that what He wanted? Should she walk away and quit trying to discover the truth? But didn’t the Bible say that His truth would set us free? Why, then, did she feel so bound? So … broken?

  The troubling images of nights gone by had been replaced with a warm cocoon of tranquility, wrapping its threads around her spirit and weaving an invisible blanket of peace. The sense of God’s presence was real—more so than anything she’d known before.

  She’d try to continue to trust, but she couldn’t quit seeking the truth about her past. Would God help her find her family if she asked? Was that what He was trying to tell her? Maybe she didn’t have to pretend not to care, but where was the balance between trusting and doing it all herself? So much she didn’t understand. So much she wanted to accomplish and discover. And for some reason, her aunt had been little help.

  A movement at the base of the hill caught her eye. Beth sat up straighter. Jeffery. A shiver coursed through her. Anticipation—or fear? Not that he would ever hurt her … she knew that now. Not intentionally, anyway. But there were other ways of inflicting hurt. She should know; she’d been on the receiving end often enough.

  There was no place to run, no way to hide. He lifted a hand and waved. Beth sat back on the rug and moaned. She’d come up here to think about her future as well as her past. Ever since he’d carried her home in his arms, she’d had to fight to keep Jeffery out of her mind. She’d noted a spark of interest in his appraisal, but what interested him? The oddity of a woman who drew pictures she didn’t want to take credit for? Or something else?

  People had told her often enough that she was a mouse, hiding in her room and nibbling at the edges of conversations and social affairs, always hovering in the shadows and only darting out when she thought no one noticed. More than likely Jeffery saw her as an object of pity, not a woman he might one day care about.

  As he grew closer she steeled herself against the smile brightening his face. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

  Jeffery focused on the solemn girl sitting on the rug at the base of the tree and slowed his pace. What a picture she made. Her emerald-green skirt was spread out around her. Her slender fingers were clasped in her lap and wide, lovely eyes met his. Yearning, mixed with confusion, flashed in their depths before she turned aside.

  So much he didn’t know about this young woman, and it made him all the more determined to plumb the depths of her personality. Her intelligence had been the first thing that drew him, along with her spunk and determination. Sparkling glints at first, but apparent to someone with a willingness to see, and the traits had only grown and blossomed.

  He drew to a halt nearby and swept his hat from his head. “I followed you up here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She averted her eyes, then a giggle escaped. “How delightfully honest you are, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Jeffery.” The word came out automatically. “And I see no reason to prevaricate. I can’t exactly claim I was out for a walk and chose this hillside to hike.” He wrinkled his nose. “I enjoy the great outdoors as much as the next man, but I’ll admit climbing isn’t at the top of my list. A nice buggy ride or on horseback across a meadow is more pleasant, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose it depends on what you want.”

  “Ah, that does beg the question, doesn’t it?” Jeffery took a step closer. “What if I said your companionship?”

  Her lips quirked to the side. “I’m not sure how I’d respond.” Her gaze traveled to his side. “You brought something along. Your manuscript perhaps?”

  Jeffery plucked the paper-wrapped parcel from under his arm. “No. Although I would love to share that with you sometime, if you’d ever care to listen. This concerns you.”

  Her movements stilled—all except her hands, which clutched her skirt until the knuckles whitened. “Oh?”

  He unwrapped the tablet and held it up. “You left this on the table yesterday. I wanted to return it sooner but didn’t have a chance to do so privately.”

  Beth drew in a quick breath. “Thank you. How kind to be so sensitive. Won’t you sit down?” She tucked the folds of her skirt against her leg, leaving room on the rug.

  He lowered himself onto the cleared area and handed her the sketch pad. “I hoped you might be willing to discuss your art.”

  She dropped her gaze to the book, her lashes hiding her thoughts. “I’m not sure what you mean. It’s fairly simple. I draw.”

  Jeffery pointed at the tablet. “Quite the contrary. Your material is complex. It has the power to stir the imagination and touch the heart. They are not just drawings; they are works of art.”

  Beth slowly closed her gaping mouth. The man sounded serious. From what she could tell he had nothing to gain by paying her a compliment, but hearing those words was astonishing. “Are you serious, Mr., er … Jeffery?”

  His brown eyes sparkled. “Extremely. You seem surprised. Surely you know your own level of talent? You wouldn’t be selling any if you weren’t good.” He cocked his head. “But that’s not what shocked you, is it? No, I think not. More likely that I recognized your gift.”

  Warmth stole up Beth’s neck, and she tucked her chin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t astute. That’s not the case at all.”

  “Hmm. That only leaves one option, then. You don’t believe your work is of significant consequence and find it difficult to accept that others would see your worth. Or, at the least, they might not be willing to recognize it to the point of speaking it aloud. Why is that, I wonder?”

  Beth raised her head and met his eyes. “A moment ago I said I found your honesty delightful. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to appear rude or overly inquisitive. I hope you’ll forgive me?” He braced his elbows behind him and leaned back.

  “Of course, but I’d prefer not to discuss my work. I hope you don’t mind.” She plucked a yellow buttercup from the grass and lifted it to her nose. Something tugged at her heart, darting in and out of the shadows of her mind, barely out of reach. Buttercups. They’d drawn her for years—always her favorite flower—and she’d never understood why. She’d been delighted to find some still blossoming this late in the fall.

  “Not at all.” Jeffery pointed at the flower. “Do you ever sketch them?” He grimaced. “There I go again.”

  She laughed and closed her eyes. “No, but I should. I love them.”

  “I suppose you used to make wishes on them when you were young, like all the other girls?”

  Her head jerked up. “What did you say?”

  “My sister and her friends were always picking buttercups and pulling the petals off. Saying silly things like, ‘I wish this and that,’ and ‘he loves me or doesn’t.’ I’m not sure what all, as I didn’t listen closely. I assumed it might be some secret code among womenfolk. Fond childhood memories and all that.” A charming smile caused a dimple to appear.

  An image coalesced in her mind, but not of little girls playing together. She’d not had many happy memories of times like that. This one was of a woman, her face hazy, holding a deep yellow flower. Plucking a petal and smiling, she offered it to the little girl standing so still. Where had that memory come from? Was it real or something created from Jeffery’s words? She stared at the blossom clutched in her hand and tried to relax. The crushed stem fell from her fingers onto the rug.

  “Is something wrong?” Jeffery extended his hand, then drew back. “Did I say something to upset you? I’m afraid I’ve been doing that quite often since I arrived.” He pushed to his knees. “I’ll bid you good day and head back to the house. You would no doubt appreciate privacy since you came up here alone.”

  Beth caught the wistfulness on his face. “Please don’t go. I’m fine. Really …” She shook her head. “A memory
I can’t quite place.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Completely. In fact, I’d appreciate the company at the moment.” She drew in a breath. “I’d like to hear about your book. Tell me about it?”

  Surprise burned in his eyes. “I’d be honored, but I must ask if you’re certain. I’ve gotten the impression it wasn’t a subject you wanted to broach.”

  She allowed a smile to emerge. “You’re right, and now it is my turn to apologize. I’ve not been very courteous where your work is concerned.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “We’ve both done enough apologizing today. I’d be happy to talk about it. Do you have a specific question?”

  “You mentioned that you hoped it would be under contract someday. Have you submitted it to any publishers yet, or is it in the early stages? I’m afraid I don’t know much about writing, so forgive me if my questions aren’t sensible.”

  “No more forgiveness needed, remember?” He tossed her a cheeky grin. “Your questions are quite welcome, and I’m happy to inform you that things have changed since my remarks about my prospects. An editor accepted my manuscript.”

  “Wonderful!” Pleasure vibrated through Beth. Where she’d had nothing but dread, she now experienced joy that this man might actually achieve his dream. She’d seen no evidence of his prying into her affairs of late—rather, she’d glimpsed something she perceived as genuine interest, although some of his questions still came too close to areas better left alone. On the whole he’d been kind and friendly. “I’m quite happy for you. When will you be able to hold your book in your hands?”

  A shadow crossed his face. “I don’t honestly know.”

  “They haven’t given you any indication? Surely that’s not typical.”

  “No, it’s not. But apparently my book won’t follow the normal course of publication.” He plucked a blade of grass and placed it between his teeth. “They’re concerned that as an unknown author and with subject matter that isn’t scandalous, readers might not purchase it. So they offered another solution they believe will increase sales.”