Wishing on Buttercups
Page 1
Love Blossoms in Oregon Series
Blowing on Dandelions
Wishing on Buttercups
Dreaming on Daisies
To Steven
I’m so proud to be your mother.
You are everything I could hope for in a son, and more.
Thank you for being you.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
—Isaiah 43:2
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD,
thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.
Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me,
and I will listen to you.
—Jeremiah 29:11–12
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
AfterWords
Author’s Note
Great Questions
Dreaming on Daisies
Chapter One
About the Author
Books by Miralee Ferrell
Extras
Acknowledgments
So many people worked to make this book a success. First, all glory goes to: God, my Father; Jesus, my best Friend; and the Holy Spirit, my Guide and Comforter. Without the three-in-one Godhead, I’d be unable to accomplish anything worthwhile. God gives me the strength to get through each day and the creativity to put the words on paper. I write for Him first. If He’s satisfied, I know the rest will fall in place.
My biggest thanks goes to my family—most especially my husband, Allen—for being patient as I work toward my deadlines, while being supportive of all it takes to bring a new book into the world. My children, Marnee and Brian, and Steven and Hannah, and my mother, Sylvia, who is one of my closest friends, and my husband’s parents, Chuck and Dolores, as well as Allen’s daughter, Tricia, and our three wonderful grandkids, Mikayla, Dionte, and Damion, all offer encouragement and support. Also a special thanks to my church family, who pray as I write each new story and eagerly await the publication of every novel. You are special to me.
The writing of a book is never completely about the author; it takes a team working behind the scenes to bring it to life. First are my critique partners, Kimberly Johnson, Vickie McDonough, and Margaret Daley, who also offer valuable brainstorming help. Sherri Sand also read and critiqued my manuscript when it was finished. Wilburta Arrowood, Ginny Aiken, Sherri Sand, Judy Vandiver, and Kimberly Johnson spent time on the phone brainstorming parts of the story line, and a number of friends gave me title suggestions. I love all these wonderful ladies who are an integral part of my team.
My publishing team starts with my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, who champions my work and helps find it the best possible home. Tamela, a friend as well as a business associate, works diligently to make my career succeed.
This is my second book with David C Cook. They graciously accepted my request to assign an exceptional editor, Ramona Tucker, for this entire series. I’m so blessed to partner with Ramona and value her professional expertise and editing, as well as her friendship. The Cook team welcomed me from the start, and I’ve loved working with Don Pape, Ingrid Beck, Karen Stoller, Caitlyn Carlson, Tonya Osterhouse, Amy Konyndyk, Michelle Webb, Michael Covington, and Jeane Wynn, as well as the sales and marketing team. I look forward to interacting with more of these quality people.
And, last, to my readers—I value every email I receive, as well as the posts on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Pinterest, and I’d love to have you drop by. Thank you for your faithful support!
•My Facebook Fan Page: https://www.facebook.com/miraleeferrell
•Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/MiraleeFerrell
•My personal website: www.miraleeferrell.com. View pictures of my book research and travels, family photos, upcoming speaking event updates (via my blog link), and find announcements about future books.
•You can also drop me a note at miraleef@gmail.com.
Chapter One
Baker City, Oregon
Late August, 1880
Beth Roberts willed her hands to stop shaking as they gripped the cream-colored envelope. She hadn’t heard from her magazine editor in months and had about given up.
Stepping toward a corner, Beth licked her dry lips. Dare she open it here? No one lingered in the lobby of the small post office tucked into the corner of Harvey’s Mercantile, and the clerk was working on the far side of the alcove stuffing mail into the slots. Glancing out the window at the bustling street of the small city that became her home a few months ago, she scrubbed at the fabric covering her arm and wished her scars hadn’t chosen this moment to itch. Only a handful of people knew her, so she shouldn’t fear discovery.
Beth sucked in a quick breath and slid her finger under the flap. A folded page fluttered to the floor, opening as it landed. Her heart rate increased as a second piece of paper, long and slender, drifted several feet across the hardwood. They’d sent her another check.
Seconds passed while she stood frozen, unable to take in the renewal of her dream. She stepped forward, then crouched low to pick up her treasure.
Masculine fingers gripped the end of the check before she could snatch it up. Beth found herself staring into the twinkling brown eyes of Jeffery Tucker, a fellow boarder at Mrs. Jacobs’s home. She bit back a gasp, fumbled for the nearby letter, and plucked it off the floor, praying he wouldn’t ask questions.
She extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Tucker. How careless of me.” Her stomach did a flip-flop as his gaze lingered on the paper, then lifted.
“Not at all, Miss Roberts. I apologize if I startled you.” He offered the check, keeping those mesmerizing eyes riveted on hers.
Beth tucked the payment and letter into the envelope, then pressed it against her chest.
His brows drew down, erasing the warm smile as his gaze dropped to her hands. “Is everything all right?”
Panic gripped her, and she covered the scar on her wrist. Her loose sleeve had left her exposed, and she was sure he’d noticed. All she could think of was escape. “I’m fine. I must get home. Good day.” She backed up two s
teps and bumped into someone behind her.
“Umph.” Firm hands gripped her arms and kept her from falling.
Beth gasped and scrambled forward out of the man’s grasp. “Mr. Jacobs. I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Forgive me, Miss Roberts.” Micah Jacobs removed his hat and bobbed his head. “If I’d known you planned on getting your mail today, I’d have offered you a ride. Zachary and I would have enjoyed your company.”
“No need.” Beth sidled toward the door and avoided his stare. If only the sun weren’t streaming in the front window and illuminating everything in its path. “It’s lovely now that fall has almost arrived. I enjoyed the walk.” She smiled, then turned and dashed across the lobby. When she’d entered, the place had been empty; now it seemed almost every person she knew had been drawn to the post office.
Thank the good Lord Aunt Wilma hadn’t appeared. At least these men were too polite to ask questions. Not so with her aunt. That dear woman would dig and pry until she obtained every last shred of information possible. Not that she wouldn’t tell Auntie her news, but first she wanted to savor whatever the letter contained.
Beth bolted outside, keeping a tight grip on the envelope. She had no intention of revealing her secret to anybody, except to Aunt Wilma, of course, who’d been like a mother. Beth had made it this far without anyone else knowing, and she intended to keep it that way.
A shudder shook her at the memory of Jeffery Tucker’s quizzical look after he’d glimpsed the check. Had he taken in the dollar amount and the signature of the sender? Would he recognize the magazine from back East? Probably. Although from what she knew of the mysterious Mr. Tucker, she surmised he had secrets of his own to guard. She could only pray he’d be charitable and keep his own counsel.
Jeffery worked to keep his expression carefully neutral. No need to encourage questions from Micah Jacobs or his son, Zachary. Something certainly had Miss Roberts flustered. She’d appeared self-conscious and worried at the same time. Did the check contribute to her distress, or had he somehow disconcerted the young woman? Another thought struck him. Why in the world would the timid Miss Roberts have a check made out to someone else? He assumed it was a payment, and a large one at that. She may have been picking up the mail for her aunt, but he’d swear the check was made out to someone named Corwin, not Roberts.
Not that he had a right to pry—time to quit attempting to solve mysteries that weren’t his concern. He’d come to town for another reason entirely.
He stepped up to the window. “Mr. Beal, any mail today?”
A tall, gangly man pivoted quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Mr. Tucker. Yes, sir, there is indeed.” He pushed his rimless spectacles up his nose and grinned. “An envelope from a publishing house back East and a letter from your family. Your father or uncle, perhaps? Hope they’re both good news.”
Jeffery bit back a groan. Too bad the timid Miss Dooley wasn’t working today. She never snooped in patrons’ business. Not so with Mr. Beal. He knew the comings and goings of everyone in town, all by inspecting the outside of their mail. “Thanks.” He tucked the missives under his arm and tipped his hat.
“Not so fast there, young man.” The clerk leaned close, his warm breath fanning Tucker’s cheek. “You mailed a package to that same publishing house some weeks back. Does this letter mean they’ve made it into a book or they’re turning it down? If we’re gonna have a famous author in town, I want to be the first to congratulate you.”
He stuck his hand across the divider. Jeffery took the man’s hand and shook it briefly, then backed away. “Sorry. I don’t know what it might be, and I’m not famous for anything. Please excuse me.” He strolled from the post office without looking back, then halted a half block from the building. Micah and Zachary were still standing in the post office lobby, a perfect target for prying questions from that obnoxious man. He’d better return and encourage them to leave or rumors would be flying through town faster than a rabbit fleeing from a prairie hawk. Of course, he’d never personally seen that type of chase, but he’d read about such things in his favorite dime novels.
He glanced at the envelope from his father and scowled. No telling what he might want, but based on his recent correspondence, it probably wasn’t good. Jeffery’s thoughts flitted back to Miss Roberts, and he grunted. Speculation about her behavior no longer seemed proper. He couldn’t speak for anyone else, but his letter was only one of the things he’d prefer to keep private.
Beth slipped into the boardinghouse, hoping she could get to her room without being seen. Not that she disliked any of the other residents, but the letter from her editor begged to be read. She hadn’t dared to stop along the way after her encounter with Mr. Tucker.
She’d made it to the foot of the stairs when the skin on the back of her neck tingled. Gripping the banister, she turned and peered over. “Aunt Wilma.” She released the breath she’d been holding. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Wilma Roberts crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Why are you tiptoeing?”
Beth tried not to roll her eyes. Aunt Wilma never had a problem with subtlety. Maybe a change of topic would deter the dear woman from further prying. “Did you have a good visit with Mrs. Cooper? I hope she’s not feeling poorly again.”
“Frances is as strong as a horse. As long as her gout doesn’t kick up, that is.” Aunt Wilma narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m going to my room to rest, Auntie. It’s been a long day.”
“What are you hiding?” The older woman took a step closer, and her eyes shifted to the handbag clutched against Beth’s chest. “Did you get a letter?”
Beth glanced down. The corner of the envelope peeked out of her reticule. “It’s nothing to worry about.” She stepped onto the bottom stair.
Aunt Wilma raised her chin and glared. “Did that good-for-nothing rapscallion from Topeka have the gall to contact you after I told him to stay out of your life?”
“What?” Beth’s thoughts spun, trying to keep up with the sudden shift in direction. “Brent Wentworth?”
“I’d prefer not to have his name spoken, but yes, that’s the scoundrel I meant.”
Fresh pain knifed Beth’s heart. She’d worked so hard to forget the man who’d won her love a year ago. “I haven’t heard from him since we left Topeka.” She waved a dismissive hand at her bag. “It’s nothing to worry you, truly. Now I want to go upstairs, if you don’t mind.” She touched the small locket hanging on a chain around her neck, finding comfort in the contact.
It wasn’t often Beth spoke to anyone in that tone, but she didn’t care to linger. She trooped up the steps, thankful beyond measure that Aunt Wilma had secured two rooms when they’d arrived in Baker City earlier this summer. As much as she loved the woman who’d taken her in as a toddler, she could be quite overbearing at times.
Sinking onto the brocade-covered chair near the window, Beth pulled out the envelope. What if they no longer wanted her work? This might be the last check she’d ever receive. But even if it was, did the money they paid her really matter?
No. She had not spent a dollar of it since the first one arrived. Getting that initial contract for her illustrations had boosted her confidence, but only in a minuscule way. After all, every drawing was published under the name of Elizabeth Corwin rather than Beth Roberts.
The skin on her arm prickled again. How timely. The scars on her neck, arms, and legs were a constant reminder of the shadows that had dogged her from the age of three. What made her think an important magazine would see her worth if they knew her real identity? So far they appreciated her drawings, but let them catch a whiff of the mystery surrounding her childhood, and that would end. She’d decided early on that hiding her identity would serve her purposes the best.
Time to quit ignoring the inevitable. If her editor decided he no longer needed her work,
she wanted to know. With trembling fingers she withdrew the letter and spread it on her lap, not yet daring to look closely at the check.
Dear Miss Corwin,
Please accept this draft as compensation for the recent illustration you presented, along with an advance payment against your future contract. Our periodical has experienced an expanding readership demanding more depictions of the Oregon Trail as well as life in the West. We’re contracting you to produce a series of four illustrations of your choice capturing the westward movement and living in a town out West. Possibly something with a boardinghouse or cabin theme would be appropriate.
Our readers are quite taken with your art, and we trust you to provide us with more exceptional work. Please sign and return the agreement, and submit your first drawing no more than thirty days hence.
Yours most respectfully,
Byron Stearns, editor, The Women’s Eastern Magazine
Beth slumped against the chair, shock and excitement coursing through her body. Four illustrations of her choice, with a portion advanced. She’d assumed the check to be for the most recent drawing she’d submitted and hadn’t noticed the amount. Her insides quivered so hard she almost felt sick. This couldn’t be real.
Snatching up the letter, she read it again, savoring each word. They trusted her and liked her work. Their readers wanted more. Shivers of delight danced up her spine, chasing away the unease.
She grasped the check and held it to the light. One hundred dollars. “Oh my!” She placed her fingers over her lips to keep from shouting. This would keep her and Aunt Wilma in comfort for a couple of months. Then, as she scanned the document again, her heart plummeted, leaving her cold and shaken. Elizabeth Corwin. The check was made out to Elizabeth Corwin. How had she forgotten that detail?
It hadn’t been a problem picking up her mail, as it came in care of Aunt Wilma. And there’d been no difficulty cashing the three smaller amounts when she’d lived in Topeka, with a childhood friend and confidant as her bank teller. If he still worked there, she’d simply sign and send it to him. Opening an account here in Baker City without proof of her identity—or, rather, confirmation of her alias—could prove difficult. Aunt Wilma could vouch for her, but would anyone really believe her to be an upcoming illustrator for one of the largest magazines in the East? People in this town knew her as Beth Roberts, the quiet, shy young woman who lived with her aunt on the edge of town, and she’d prefer it remained that way.