Wishing on Buttercups (8 page)

Hot rage saturated Wilma’s body, and it was all she could do not to curse. She’d never done so in her life and didn’t care to start now, but if there ever were a reason to do so, this would be it. However, it wouldn’t do to allow her fury to bubble over and alarm her darling girl. Not that Beth hadn’t seen her angry more than once in the past, but this was different. Very different. She sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I’m so sorry that happened. Why didn’t you tell me about it then? I would have sought out those children’s parents and insisted they be disciplined.”

Beth shook her head. “That’s why. The last time two of the children came, they said their parents wouldn’t allow them to return. They’d told them what I’d said, and their parents asked around. Apparently, someone knew about my past, and the children were told they couldn’t play with a ‘dirty redskin.’ I was old enough to know if you spoke to the parents you would be as wounded as I. They wouldn’t have been shy about speaking their mind to you.”

Wilma clenched her teeth. “Who were they?”

“It doesn’t matter. After a time I forgave them. There’s no reason to resurrect it.” Her eyes glistened with a hint of moisture, and she brushed it away. “At least, there wasn’t a reason until today. What else do you know, Aunt Wilma? About my past, that is. What haven’t you told me?”

Wilma sagged against the chair, and all her righteous anger oozed away. Her girl had been hurt much worse than she’d imagined. All these years, she’d carried not only the physical scars, but the damage to her heart and soul as well. Now she believed herself to be ugly and not worthy of love. No wonder she’d fallen prey to Brent Wentworth’s charms when he’d slithered into her life. “Very little that you haven’t already surmised. You were badly burned …” A shudder shook her frame, and she placed her hand to her cheek.

Beth leaned forward. “But where did they find me? What did they say? I’ve always known we aren’t actually related by blood, but why did you call yourself my aunt when you took me in”—her voice broke—“instead of my mother?”

Beth gripped a fistful of quilt and waited. She’d always wanted to ask, ever since she could remember, but hadn’t wanted to hurt her aunt. Her adopted aunt. No, that wasn’t right either. To her knowledge no papers had been signed. Or did it go deeper than that? Maybe her real fear came from the possibility of yet more rejection. Her parents had abandoned her, and Wilma Roberts had taken care of her but didn’t love her enough to make it legal. What did that say for Beth Roberts, or whatever her real name might be? Beth didn’t even have that knowledge to hold on to.

She had no identity, no understanding of her past or who her people might be, and—from what she could discern—no way to find out. A couple of times Beth had introduced the subject to Aunt Wilma, but she hadn’t seemed willing to offer more than the fact that Beth had been found and brought to Fort Laramie as a child.

Aunt Wilma opened her mouth, but Beth held up her hand. “Don’t say anything more. I don’t think I want to know the answer right now. Do you think I could rest for a bit?”

The older woman’s mouth snapped shut. She pushed back from her chair and stepped close to the bed. “I love you, Beth Roberts. More than you can imagine. What I did was to protect you from further gossip, not because I didn’t want to claim you as my own.”

“Please. I think we’ve said enough, and I really do want to rest. My knee is aching.” Truth was, her heart hurt worse than her knee, but she couldn’t admit that to this woman who’d raised her. She owed Wilma Roberts too much.

Deep inside, Beth knew her aunt loved her. Knew it with every part of her being. But she didn’t want to hear the excuses as to why she hadn’t adopted her. It must have to do with the stigma of her past. Aunt Wilma wouldn’t have wanted people to know her daughter had been held captive—no, that wasn’t fair. There was still too much they didn’t know.

Regardless, it would have reflected poorly on Aunt Wilma, and her standing in society had always been important. Beth couldn’t blame her, not after the way those children had treated her. At least that family moved out of town not long after, but no doubt they’d spread tales before they’d departed.

It was possible Aunt Wilma had gotten the same treatment when a scarred child arrived in her home. People would have questioned where Beth had come from and who she belonged to. How much easier to claim she belonged to a deceased sibling and quell the rumors of a foundling child rescued by the Arapaho.

Wilma hesitated at the door, casting a longing glance at Beth, then shook her head and walked out of the room.

Chapter Nine

The following morning Beth gingerly removed her covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She’d forgotten to ask Aunt Wilma to bring her sketch pad to her room before she’d gone to sleep last night, but her throbbing knee would have kept her from concentrating on her work anyway.

She lifted the hem of her nightdress and rubbed her fingers over her knee. The swelling was down somewhat, but prodding the flesh around her kneecap caused her to wince. She might need to spend one more day close to home. She slipped back into bed. It wouldn’t be long before Aunt Wilma came to check on her. After the nearly sleepless night, catching a few minutes more rest sounded like heaven.

Sometime later a soft knock woke Beth from a doze. “Come in, I’m awake.” She scooted up against her pillow. A dull pain throbbed in her head, and she felt far from refreshed.

Aunt Wilma stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You didn’t come down for breakfast. Is your knee any better?”

Beth smiled. Trust her aunt to go straight to the issue at hand. “A little. I suppose I should have gotten up.” She struggled out from under the covers again and brushed her hair from her face. “I should get dressed and go downstairs.”

“No need.” Her aunt opened the door. “You can bring it in, child.”

Lucy Galloway, the landlady’s older daughter, walked in, balancing a tray in her hands. “Where would you like it, ma’am?” Her blond head swiveled as she scanned the room. “I can set it down and pull a chair over to the bed if you’d like.”

Mortification pulsed through Beth. She was no sick invalid to be waited on. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I’ll eat downstairs with everyone else.”

“There’s no need. Besides, we’ve all finished, and Ma’s cleaning the kitchen. She told me to bring this up and see if you felt like eating.” Lucy set it on the bureau and grinned. “Mandy’s helping with the dishes, so I’m not eager to return. It’s time my little sister did more chores, even if she is seven years old. I’ve been doing my share for years now.”

Beth worked to keep from laughing. The girl was thirteen, so it hadn’t been too many years since Lucy was her sister’s age, and no doubt had been as carefree at seven. “I thank you kindly for bringing it up, but Aunt Wilma could have brought it.”

Wilma nodded. “I told her, but she insisted.” She shot the girl a playful look, her lips twitching. “Now I understand why.”

Lucy dipped her head. “Oh, I’ll help plenty when I get back downstairs. Ma will see to that, and if she doesn’t, Grandma will.” She heaved a sigh. “Ever since Grandma came, she’s made sure we do our share. Not that I mind too much, but I do enjoy fishing with Zachary whenever I can slip away.”

Beth quirked a brow. “I imagine your mother appreciates the fresh fish you and Mr. Jacobs’s son catch. It adds to the larder and certainly makes for some tasty meals.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, I’d best get back to the kitchen before Ma sends Mandy looking for me. I do hope your knee will be better soon.” She turned toward the door, then stopped. “I forgot. Ma sent this up.” She tugged at the deep pocket of her apron and extracted a glass bottle. “It’s liniment for your knee. Grandma says it helps her gout, and it’s good for what ails you, sore knees and all.”

Beth waited until the girl shut the door carefully behind her, then stood and limped to the bureau.

“What are you doing?” Aunt Wilma demanded. “Trying to make your injury worse? That’s why we brought breakfast up, so you could rest.”

“I’m getting stiff and need to move for a bit. Besides, it’s not as bad today, and I’m sure the liniment will help. Since I overslept, I’m not staying in this bed a minute longer than I must, even if I can’t go outside for a walk.” She took the tray to the wingback chair in the corner and settled into it. “Smells wonderful. Bacon and eggs and hot tea. My favorite.”

The next few minutes passed in silence as Aunt Wilma allowed Beth to eat without attempting to engage in conversation. Beth took the final bite of scrambled eggs and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I realized last night that I’d forgotten to ask you to bring my sketchbook directly to my room. I wonder if you’d mind dropping it by so I can get some work done. If I have to be cooped up resting my knee, I can at least be productive.”

“Oh my.” Aunt Wilma placed her hand over her heart and plopped on the edge of the bed.

A cold wave of dread washed over Beth as the color drained from her aunt’s face. “What?” She set the tray aside and pushed to her feet. “Are you ill?”

Wilma gazed up at her. “No. But I’m afraid you might be after I tell you.”

Beth gripped her aunt’s shoulders and squeezed. “What is wrong, Auntie?”

“I’m so sorry, Beth. I know it meant a lot to you, and I can’t believe I got busy and forgot. Please forgive me.” Her words dropped to a whisper.

Beth sank onto the mattress next to her aunt. “You didn’t look for my sketch pad? Auntie, how could you!”

Aunt Wilma didn’t speak.

“Are you sure you forgot?” Beth jumped to her feet, pushing aside the knifing pain in her knee. She did her best to keep her voice level and calm, but it shook with the effort. “Yesterday you said my work is foolish, and you think I should stop. Well, I won’t. And if I can’t find my sketch pad myself, I’ll go to town and buy another one. I can’t replace what I lost, but I will not give up my work.”

Wilma pressed her fingers over her lips. “Let me, please. I’m so sorry.” She rushed from the room, her heels thumping as she headed toward the stairs.

Beth slumped onto her bed. Despair snaked its tendrils around her thoughts, trying to convince her that Aunt Wilma had purposely ignored her request. But her aunt had looked mortified, and if she wasn’t mistaken, Beth had glimpsed tears before the older woman dashed from the room. She shouldn’t have spoken that way to the only mother she’d ever known.

Who could she trust anymore? She’d always lived with the knowledge she must not have been wanted by her family, and she’d turned to Wilma Roberts for her comfort and security. Now she struggled to push aside the feelings of betrayal.

“Put your trust in Me. I won’t fail you.”

Beth jerked upright and listened. She slipped from her bed and limped to the door, yanking it open and stepping into the hall. Empty. Who had spoken? Had she heard a voice, or was it her imagination?

The skin on her neck prickled. She’d heard the voice before but hadn’t known what He was trying to tell her. Could it be as simple as choosing to trust when it felt like so much in her life was out of kilter? She didn’t see how, but a gentle peace wafted over her heart.

Men had failed her in the past. It seemed her father must have deserted her; Uncle George had died a couple of years after she arrived to live with him and Aunt Wilma. Even the man who’d promised to love her had walked away.

“Put your trust in Me.”
Somehow Beth knew God had spoken those words. Hopefully, being willing would count for something, because the most she could do was try.

Chapter Ten

Sleep had eluded Jeffery for two nights now, ever since he’d carried Beth to her room. What had possessed him to hold her so close? Jeffery tossed back the covers and climbed out of bed in spite of the fact the sun hadn’t yet risen. He gave a wry smile. He couldn’t exactly have held her at arm’s length while transporting her to the house. But he should have listened when she’d insisted she could walk, and deposited her back on her feet.

His chivalrous upbringing had won out. How many times had his father insisted he play the part of a gentleman, even as a young chap? He’d once pulled a girl’s hair in grammar school and been reprimanded by the teacher, and Father had switched him for it when he’d heard. Jeffery shook his head. He couldn’t have allowed Beth to walk home when she was in obvious pain. But guarding his heart against the surge of emotion and yearning might be wise.

He sat in his chair and mulled over the details of his life. It had been two years since he’d seen his family. On the one hand he missed them, but on the other it was a relief not to deal with the constant pressures they exerted. He was twenty-six years old, but to his parents he’d always be their child. He wasn’t sure Father would ever look on him differently. To Mark Tucker, writing was a waste of time. Somehow Jeffery must convince his parents he didn’t need their money and could make it on his own. Making this novel a success might be the key.

A sudden hankering for a hot cup of coffee drove him to his feet. The sun had risen, and the household would be stirring. Hopefully Mrs. Jacobs wouldn’t mind him building a fire and brewing a pot.