Wishing on Buttercups (5 page)

Jeffery wanted to race after Beth—no, Miss Roberts, as she’d made clear she preferred—and convince her of his good intentions. His mind returned to his last pointed question concerning Elizabeth Corwin and Beth’s pained response. Somehow he’d hurt her again, and he didn’t have an inkling of how or why. When she’d stopped and looked into his face, her expression exuded confusion and fear. His heart twisted. Somehow he must find a way to win her confidence and trust.

Beth held her chin up as she continued to town. Her heels thudded on the wooden planks of the bridge, giving emphasis to the pounding of her heart. Her illusion that she might find a friend in Jeffery Tucker was simply that: an illusion. That had become apparent the moment he admitted to shaping a story after their lives. The knots in her stomach had yet to untangle since the day he’d escorted her to supper. If only she hadn’t allowed herself to envision a relationship with him. But no matter how badly she might want to take the chance, she’d found out the hard way that men couldn’t always be trusted.

And asking about Elizabeth Corwin.
Oh my.
Beth’s hand went to her throat. Thankfully it appeared he didn’t suspect anything was amiss. Her stomach coiled tighter. She wasn’t sure how she would continue to avoid his questions. Would he persist in trying to discover who Elizabeth might be, and if so, how would she answer?

Would it be so bad letting the world know she was the magazine illustrator whose reputation was slowly garnering wider acclaim? People often wrote under pseudonyms, and no one seemed bothered by it, so it shouldn’t shock anyone to discover the truth about her. Aunt Wilma knew, and although she didn’t put much stock in a woman having a career, she was tolerant of what she’d labeled “Beth’s little hobby.” Of course, her solution to Beth’s life was to marry her off and make her dependent on a man. “That should be enough,” Aunt Wilma lectured, “to fulfill any woman.” Truth be told, most people felt the same way.

But Beth longed to succeed at what she loved most—being creative. Most men wouldn’t tolerate that in a wife. They’d want her cooking, cleaning, and raising babies full time, not staring off into another place, allowing her imagination to simmer until it finally boiled over and produced another glowing image on her tablet.

Not that having her own family didn’t pull at her heart, but she couldn’t imagine it happening for her. She wasn’t certain a man existed who would love her for herself. A memory of Brent flashed, followed by a vision of Jeffery’s warm, inquisitive eyes. She shivered. Would she even be a good wife or mother when the time came?

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 personality 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.…