Wishing on Buttercups (15 page)

“I saw you sneak out of the house.”

“Sneak?” Beth thought back over her actions earlier in the day. She couldn’t deny she’d hoped no one would notice her leave as her errand had left her quaking, but sneaking seemed a bit strong.

“Maybe not, but you certainly did tiptoe and slip quietly out the door. And your clothing—” She appraised Beth from head to foot with a frown.

A tad bit of irritation rose. Her aunt was taking this too far. Beth tipped back her head, struggling to gain control of her emotions as she noted the clouds skittering along in the brisk breeze. A swallow soared overhead and lit on the branch of a tree swathed in green and yellow. She brought her gaze back to her aunt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? It’s decent and modest.”

“Certainly it is. In fact, you are quite stunning. I assumed you must be meeting someone you hoped to impress. You’ve socialized with very few people since we arrived. With the amount of time you spend in your room working, and no eligible men having called, that left one conclusion.”

“Brent.” Beth breathed his name and tried to force back the memories. Tender scenes in the garden behind her home, his declaration of unending love … and one not so lovely—his disappearance without saying a word. “You assumed he followed us out here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Wilma clasped her hands in her lap.

Beth’s heart contracted. Her aunt was too silent. “You surely didn’t think I’d run away with him?” The truth hit her. “You don’t trust me.” She stood in one fluid motion.

“I am so sorry, dear one. I do trust you, although I must admit to a certain amount of concern where that man is involved. It is Wentworth I don’t have faith in.”

“But why? You’ve never given me any details, except he wasn’t good for me. He walked away without a word. After he’d told me he loved me.” Beth stared at her aunt for several long heartbeats. “Did you chase him off?”

Wilma shook her head, her eyes moist. “I can’t discuss that. Someday, but not now.”

“That is
not
fair.” Beth clenched her hands. “I cared for him, more than any man I’ve ever met.”

“You didn’t know the real man, Beth. You’ll find someone else who is so much better than that rascal.”

“You keep calling him that, but you won’t give me a good reason for it.” She took a couple of steps, then turned. “We’re very close to the house, and I’d like a few minutes alone. Will you be all right walking the rest of the way?”

Wilma nodded and got to her feet.

Beth waited until her aunt was a short distance ahead, then gathered the newspaper. Remorse swept her. She shouldn’t let Aunt Wilma go too far without her. Truly, she couldn’t fault her aunt for her concern. Truth be told, if Brent had arrived in town and sent word he wanted to meet her, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

A memory of Jeffery flashed … standing over Isaac Lansing and telling him to leave or the man would answer to him. Then another of Jeffery’s kind offer to accompany them home and his obvious concern for her well-being. If only they hadn’t been interrupted. They’d enjoyed a nice visit after they’d realized their appointment was with each other. It was the first time she’d told anyone else the truth about her pen name as Elizabeth Corwin, and it felt good to trust him—almost as though there was hope they might become more than friends.

Beth released a soft groan. Her tablet. In all the excitement at the restaurant she’d left it on the table. She sank back onto the log and put her face in her hands. So much to think about. Brent. Jeffery. Aunt Wilma’s suspicion and reluctance to tell her the truth. Would life ever get easier? She needed to collect her tablet. Sticking with her drawing and avoiding men altogether was certainly simpler than trying to figure out her past—or her future.

Chapter Seventeen

Wilma spread the missive flat on the bureau in her room and adjusted her spectacles, thankful for the strong morning light filtering through the window. She hated keeping anything from Beth, especially after upsetting the girl yesterday with her suspicions about Brent. But this was one document she didn’t care to have anyone see—at least, not yet.

Her heart pounded as she bent over and read the letter from her old friend, Dr. Caleb Marshall. Disappointment struck her. She had hoped Caleb might visit Baker City, but it appeared that wasn’t the case. She huffed a sigh and scanned the letter from start to finish, taking time to absorb every word.

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.