Wishing on Buttercups Page 4

  A sound pulled Beth out of her reverie, and she moved in time to avoid a collision.

  A man heavily burdened with wooden crates bobbed his head and smiled. “Sorry, miss.” He sidestepped around her, his boxes scraping against the hotel wall.

  She picked up her pace, determined to watch where she trod, or she’d cause an accident for sure. Why fool herself dreaming about marriage and babies? That future would never be within her grasp. Besides, she wanted a career—as long as her past didn’t get in the way and ruin it.

  That’s when she knew. Elizabeth Corwin must continue to be the growing-in-fame illustrator, not simple, scarred Beth Roberts. No one other than Aunt Wilma could ever know her true identity.

  Chapter Five

  Jeffery flung the most recent letter from an editor onto the desk in his cramped room and scowled. This wasn’t a rejection, but it might as well be. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and prowled the room. They wanted to use his story as a magazine serial. Of all the harebrained, ridiculous notions he’d ever heard, this beat all. He plucked the letter off his desk and reread the pertinent section.

  We feel your manuscript has merit, and we’d like to extend an offer. However, we’re not confident readers would purchase your book with your status as an unknown author. Our magazine would like to serialize your book, chapter by chapter, one week at a time. If it garners enough interest, we will accept a proposal for a follow-up book to release sometime in the future.

  There is one condition. Our magazine articles and stories are ofttimes accompanied by illustrations.

  Jeffery groaned and sank onto his bed. He almost wished he’d not gone to the post office, but after his encounter with Beth yesterday, he’d wanted to get away from the house. He couldn’t believe the public would care about a bunch of drawings woven through his work.

  Snatching up the page, Jeffery searched for a clue. A sentence he’d missed caught his attention, and he froze. They thought his manuscript needed dressing up—readers would find the story more interesting with fitting depictions? What in the world were fitting depictions? He had no idea.

  The publisher must not be convinced of the merit of his novel, or he’d print it immediately instead of putting it in a magazine. And if his tale were serialized, would his parents see it? If so, his father would scoff at his son’s name being bandied about as a two-bit writer of dime novels.

  His mouth twisted. He couldn’t imagine the publisher would pay much for a monthly series—not as much as he’d hoped to garner for a book. But there was no way he’d go back to accepting help from his family. A knot lodged in his throat. He’d ended that a couple of years ago, but without a successful contract, he might not have a choice. However, returning to the newspaper industry would be an option … certainly a better one than giving his father control over his future.

  Jeffery’s glance fell on the fat envelope tucked into a cubbyhole in his rolltop desk. Stuffed with rejections. He’d saved each one. It smarted to do so, but someday when he acquired a modicum of success he wanted a reminder of the road he’d traveled. Now he wished he’d destroyed them all. Maybe he should go back to his family. In truth, it wasn’t exactly charity when at least a portion would be his inheritance someday. His parents didn’t think he should be writing; they’d made that abundantly clear over the years.

  But Jeffery wouldn’t take their money in order to live. He hadn’t worked for it, hadn’t earned a penny of it with his own hands. If his father chose to leave all or part to him in the future that was one thing, but living on it now was not to be considered. Not if he were to retain even a remnant of pride.

  Then where did that leave him? He suppressed a shudder. Nowhere, really. The choice was simple. Allow the editor to do as he wished with his book and pray the readers loved it.

  La Grande, Oregon, August 30

  Isabelle Mason hugged her son, Steven, again, hating to let him go but knowing she must. He’d stayed close to her side over the years since her husband had died, and she loved him all the more for his tender solicitude. “You take care on your trip, you hear?” She followed him onto the packed dirt in front of their humble cabin and shaded her eyes against the rising sun.

  He ran a hand over dark, wavy hair and frowned. “I don’t know why my boss chose to send me to Baker City now. He knows you haven’t been well.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “I haven’t been well for several years, so you can’t fault his decision. Besides, I’m better, and I’ll get along fine while you’re gone. Ina promised to help if there’s a need.”

  “Give me your word, Ma, that you’ll let her lend a hand every day, or I’m not going.” His jaw tightened even more, and his blue eyes darkened. “Do I have your promise?”

  “Ina’s a good neighbor and an even better friend. More than likely she’ll be over here with a hankering to work even if I don’t ask.” She heaved a sigh. “I suppose if that’s what it’ll take for you to go peaceful-like, I’ll allow her to help.”

  “It is.”

  “All right.” A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “How many hours will you be on the stage?”

  “I should arrive at company headquarters in two days.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be praying for you until you get home.” Biting her lip, she worried another matter in her mind. “One more thing, Son.”

  His back stiffened. “Now, Ma. We’ve talked about this before.”

  “Please. It can’t hurt to ask around.”

  “You’ve got to let it go. All this worry is what’s made you sick. Doc says you’ll never get better if you don’t move on.”

  “It’s not that easy. I don’t know how many months or years I have left, and I can’t die without knowing what happened.” Tears sprang, unbidden, and she blotted them, hating for Steven to see her like this. He had been strong for her sake over the years, and she must do the same. It wouldn’t be right, letting her older child leave for God-only-knew how long, with the memory of his mother’s collapse fresh in his mind. “Forgive me. You’re right. Go on with you, now. It won’t look good to your new employer if you miss the stage.”

  Steven hesitated, searching her face, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I won’t be gone any longer than I have to. And I’ll keep my ears open, Ma. I promise.”

  Isabelle wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him one last time. “Thank you, Son. I’ll be praying. Maybe this time we’ll get some answers. Maybe God will listen at last.”

  Chapter Six

  Beth slipped out the front door, praying no one would follow. Jeffery Tucker had been a bit too inquisitive for her peace of mind lately, and she didn’t need him following or noticing the sketch pad tucked under her arm. She’d spotted a towering shade tree on a small rise a mile or so from the house some time ago and had wanted to visit ever since. It might have a good view of the valley, and she could use some inspiration for her work right now.

  She loved this time of year, when the trees were starting to turn all shades of orange, red, and gold. But homesickness nipped at her heels as she stepped off the main road and swung up a dirt path. It had been months since she and Aunt Wilma left Kansas, and sometimes she longed to return … yet not as much as she had at first, come to think of it. In fact, it had been days—maybe weeks—since she’d thought about her old home at all. Brent, on the other hand, she thought about frequently. She gathered her skirt in one hand and stepped over a fallen log. The morning sun warmed her face, and she lifted a hand to block the light. Good. No sign of anyone under the boughs of the tree or anywhere on the hillside.

  Why couldn’t she forget about Brent? He’d walked away without a word. She’d always thought Aunt Wilma had driven him away somehow, and part of her hadn’t been surprised he’d left. It had surprised her that he’d been attracted to her in the first place. She had never seen herself as pretty. Her body was marred, and her personalit
y was little more than a flat surface with no ripples or peaks to stir a man’s imagination.

  She trudged up the hill, forcing herself to plant one foot in front of the other. The man she thought she’d loved had disappeared without explanation, and although she cared for Aunt Wilma as much as if she’d been a blood relative, she didn’t have a clue to whom she belonged. She bit the inside of her cheek. That wasn’t fair. Aunt Wilma loved her more than she deserved and was the only mother she’d known … or at least remembered clearly. Lately, snippets of memory flickered. Images kept coming and going, making it hard to discern what was reality and what might be imagination.

  Then there were the dreams, and the memories and emotions they’d begun to stir.

  The lush grass and soft breeze blowing the russet-colored leaves drew her, and she settled onto the green carpet blanketing the ground. The valley spread out before her. The towering Wallowa Mountains loomed in the distance while the Elkhorn Mountains guarded the other side of the valley, and the sparkling Powder River wended its way through the center, right at the edge of town.

  The peacefulness of the setting should have soothed her, but the memory of her dreams tightened her shoulders. She had awakened in the night several times this past month, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking. Getting out of bed and rinsing her face helped break the spell at times, but at others she sank back into the murky waters as soon as she lay back down.

  Beth blew out a frustrated breath. Time to get to work. She’d finished one drawing for the magazine but hadn’t been able to concentrate of late. Opening her bag, she drew out her pencils, thankful she’d sharpened them last night. She closed her eyes, trying to envision what she’d bring to life, then bent over the pad. Her fingers moved swiftly, and an image emerged of dust kicked up from horses’ hooves as they trudged across the page, moving away.…

  Away? From what? She paused, struggling to put her finger on what niggled at her mind. She saw smoke rise from an abandoned cooking pit and her pencil flew, filling in the details. No sign of life appeared, no scattered litter from the campfire or utensils showing people had recently camped there.

  Wait. There was something … a child. Huddled on the far side of the clearing. Crying and clutching herself, rocking back and forth. She sketched in the scene until she noticed the red welts on the girl’s skin and smoke rising from her burned clothing. What in the world?

  Beth dropped the pad and stared at it as though it might poison her if she touched it. Her body shook so hard she didn’t dare try to stand, as much as she’d love to flee from this place.

  She remembered now. They’d left her alone.

  Her parents must not have cared.

  The smoke rising from her clothing. The pain. The horrible, searing pain. She rubbed the length of her arm. That was all she could recall. The rest was blackness. Awful, scary blackness. Until they came and carried her away.

  What in the dickens was Beth doing on that hill? Jeffery stood at the bottom and stared toward the tree towering above its neighbors. Why didn’t she come down? He’d seen her wander up the slope two hours ago with a bag looped over her wrist and a book tucked under her arm. He’d wanted to follow but hesitated. The last time they’d spoken he’d offended her somehow, and he still wasn’t sure why.

  Had Beth experienced the same loneliness he had since arriving in this mining town? Jeffery had hoped she’d want to be friends as much as he did. He hadn’t realized how much he’d looked forward to getting to know Beth until she’d turned her back and walked away. Something about her drew him that he couldn’t quite explain. Beth had shown a surprising spunk when she’d refused to answer his questions. He wasn’t concerned that she didn’t care to share her past—neither did he. But he grieved the loss of the relationship that might have been, if she’d only given them a chance.

  What was she doing up there, anyway? He wasn’t certain it was safe for a young woman to ramble on a hillside alone, although he could sympathize with the desire for privacy. Maybe he should hike up, approach her, and offer an apology for whatever he’d done to upset her.

  Those curls the color of dark chocolate and deep blue eyes held a definite appeal, and when she smiled—well, now. He moved forward, joy sprouting.

  Then a thought gave him pause. He’d assumed Beth would want companionship based partly on the amount of time she spent alone—unattended by a man. But she might not have any callers because she was promised to someone. His heart sank. That should have occurred to him earlier. It was more than possible her trek up the hill was a tryst with a suitor.

  Jeffery headed back toward the boardinghouse, discouragement dogging his steps. It might be best to wait and see if he could speak to Beth another time and not impose on her now. Another thought struck Jeffery, and his pace quickened. Maybe he’d linger on the trail near the house in case Beth came home soon and accompany her back home.

  Beth scrambled down the hill, anxious to get away from the memories and back to her room. She hurried along the trail, unmindful of where her feet led. All that mattered was putting her sketch pad away and burying her head under the covers.

  She faltered. No. That was foolish. She’d responded the same way when Brent stepped out of her life. She hadn’t so much as protested when Aunt Wilma dragged her away from her home and out here to the wilderness. She gulped in a shaky but resolute breath. This nonsense was going to stop. She was a grown woman with a mind of her own, and it was high time she used it.

  Why had her aunt insisted on coming so far west? Aunt Wilma had never wanted to discuss her reasons and avoided the subject whenever approached. Not that Beth had tried too hard at first. Brent’s abandonment had struck a hard blow and, coupled with the other dark things that had happened in her past, she hadn’t had the energy to care.

  This new contract had sparked something to life. Things looked brighter, and hope had bloomed again … until today. She had to talk to Aunt Wilma.

  Beth increased her pace. She rounded a bend in the trail and tripped on a tree root. Her pad went flying into the dense brush, and she sprawled onto the ground, striking her foot on a rock. “Ouch!” The word came out louder than she’d intended, but sharp, paralyzing pain shot up her leg. She rolled over, hugging herself and rocking.

  Footsteps thudded on the path ahead, and Beth stiffened. She didn’t care to be found flat on her backside with dirt staining her dress. She hitched over onto her side and tried to stand, but her knee wouldn’t allow it.

  “Beth?” Jeffery Tucker slid to a stop, apprehension widening his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” Consternation bit deep. Of all the people who had to appear, why Jeffery—Mr. Tucker? She would not call him Jeffery, even in her mind. “If you would be kind enough to help me up, I’ll walk home.”

  He bent over and extended a hand. “If you are sure you can stand? I’ll find a buggy if you’re seriously injured.”

  She shook her head. “Truly, I’m fine. I caught my toe on a root. My knee was numb for a moment, but it’s better now.” Reaching out, she allowed him to take her hand, but he didn’t stop there. He slipped his other arm around her waist and gently lifted her to her feet. Warmth rushed through her body. She found herself trembling, although she wasn’t certain it was solely from her knee.

  “Are you sure? Do you think you can walk?” He steadied her for a moment, then dropped his arm from her waist but kept her hand firmly in his grasp. “Try it while I steady you. I do not want to take a chance of you falling.”

  She could still feel the heat from where his arm had encircled her waist. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to allow herself to at least think of him as Jeffery. Beth took a step forward and then another, and a spasm of pain shot up her leg.

  His brows rose in alarm. “You’re limping. I insist on procuring a buggy.”

  “No. My knee is getting better, and it’s not far to the house. It would be foolish to
sit here and wait for a buggy when I can make it back home.”

  His jaw set with a stubborn firmness, and his grip tightened. “Beth, I really—”

  “Please, Mr. Tucker. I do not want you to go to any trouble. If you care to walk with me, I’d appreciate that, but I truly don’t need a ride.”

  His eyes were soft but determined. “Beth, please call me Jeffery.”

  Her heart jolted. “I, uh … all right, Jeffery. But right now I want to get home and sit.”

  Jeffery nodded. “Forgive me for being insensitive.” He extended his arm. “Would you take my arm and lean on me?”

  “Thank you.” She slipped her fingers through the crook of his arm. “Whatever brought you this way, I am in your debt. I must admit I might have sat there for a while before attempting to hobble home.”

  He shot her a smile, revealing a dimple. Why had she never noticed that attractive feature before? “I suppose I could say I was only out for a walk, but that wouldn’t be honest.”

  “Oh?” Her heartbeat raced, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him again.

  “I saw you leave the house and followed, hoping to talk.”

  Beth stumbled, and he steadied her. Why would he follow? The stark truth washed over her. Was he hoping to interview her for more information for his book? “But it’s midmorning. I left the house quite early.”

  “Two-and-a-half hours ago, to be exact.” He grinned. “I saw you go up the hill but didn’t want to impose on your time alone.”

  Her tablet! She pulled to a halt and planted her weight on her injured leg. “Oh my.” It had flown out of her hands when she’d fallen and must have landed in the brush, but she’d been in too much pain to remember. If he retrieved it, he might ask questions. No. He certainly would ask questions. That could be dangerous. He might even ask to see her drawings. All of her finished ones were initialed E.C. She started to shake, unsure what to do.