Wishing on Buttercups

by Miralee Ferrell

  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.

  He came to a stop in the kitchen doorway and slowly edged backward, not wanting to intrude on the two women sipping cups of tea at the table.

  Frances Cooper peered over her spectacles. “No need to leave, Mr. Tucker. Come in and have a cup of tea. Or coffee, if you prefer. We brewed both.”

  Mrs. Roberts beckoned, a ring on her finger glinting in the early morning light that streamed through the window. “Yes. Please do. It’s nice to have a little male company. We seldom see you anymore. Are you making good progress on your book?”

  His feet dragged as he entered the kitchen, and he looked askance at them both. He’d experienced more than one uncomfortable scene between these women, but they appeared friendly enough this morning. “Thank you. Coffee sounds good, but I hate to intrude.”

  Mrs. Cooper stood and plucked a mug off a shelf. “Not at all. We are quite happy to have you. Katherine should be up soon and fixing breakfast, but we wanted to let her sleep. She looked a little peaked to me. Didn’t you think so, Wilma?”

  Wilma’s head bobbed, and a brown curl, sprinkled with gray, broke free from the knot at the base of her neck. “She certainly did. Besides, we had a lot to discuss and decided to make an early start to the day.”

  Jeffery halted in front of a chair, his hand poised above the back of it. “Then I really shouldn’t stay.”

  “Nonsense, young man,” Mrs. Roberts scolded in a light voice. “Take a seat and enjoy your coffee before it gets cold.” She plucked a cloth off the table, wrapped it around the handle of the coffeepot, filled the mug to the brim, then pushed it toward him. “Sugar or cream?”

  He eased into the chair and cradled the mug of steaming coffee between both hands, inhaling the fragrance. “Black is perfect, thank you. It smells wonderful. You ladies certainly know how to brew a fine cup.”

  Mrs. Roberts leaned close. “So tell us all about your novel. We’re dying to hear what you’ve decided to include about the happenings here. Is there going to be a romance or a murder?”

  Mrs. Cooper jumped in before he could take a breath. “Of course he is not going to kill off someone at our house.” She shuddered. “How could you suggest such a thing?”

  Wilma took a sip of her tea. “I think it’s a fine idea. We could help ferret out the killer, don’t you know? Mr. Tucker could sprinkle clues for us to follow.” She shivered and rubbed her hands together. “It would be positively delicious!”

  Mrs. Cooper set down her cup, and it clinked against the saucer. “Why, there is not a single person I would care to have die. I am horrified you would even suggest such a thing. Although I suppose …” A gleam lit her eyes, and she cocked a brow toward the stairwell.

  “What?” Mrs. Roberts clasped her hands on the tabletop. “What are you thinking, Frances? Maybe an itinerant peddler or a cowboy passing through mysteriously dies? Or perhaps outlaws come to town and hold up the bank—they could even take someone hostage.…” She almost bounced in her seat.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Mrs. Cooper admonished. “I was thinking of the romance question. Now mind you, I do not read that type of novel, but if you insist on writing one, Mr. Tucker, I might have just the thing.”

  Jeffery controlled the urge to grin. Good thing he’d awakened over an hour ago and wasn’t facing this barrage with a sleep-befuddled brain. “And what would that be, Mrs. Cooper?”

  “Why, you and Beth! I must admit, after I got over the initial shock of seeing her in your arms, I decided it was quite romantic. The two of you would make a fine couple.” She aimed a gleeful look at Mrs. Roberts. “For your book, of cours
e.”

  Mrs. Roberts glanced from Mrs. Cooper to Jeffery. “I think that’s a fine idea.” A sly grin crept across her face. “For a book.”

  Beth had been cooped up in her room for too long and couldn’t countenance allowing Lucy to bring her another meal. At the moment, she was grateful she’d made the effort, after overhearing the two scheming women. What were Mrs. Cooper and her aunt thinking, planting such a foolish notion in Mr. Tucker’s head? Surely he’d repudiate it.

  She took a quiet step into the kitchen and waited. Thankfully both of the conspirators’ backs were to her, and Mr. Tucker didn’t seem to notice her approach. But then he turned his head, met her gaze, and gave a slow wink. Neither of the other women seemed to observe the gesture. Was it possible she’d imagined it?

  “Ladies.” He leaned forward, assuring that both Aunt Wilma and Mrs. Cooper would keep their attention on him. “While that sounds like a most creative idea, I regret to say I do not have a romance planned for this novel. Not that your niece wouldn’t make a perfectly charming heroine, should the need arise.”

  Irritation rose. She didn’t care who saw her now, and she wasn’t about to go back to her room. That wink proved it—the rascal was toying with her. A charming heroine, indeed. She didn’t believe that for a moment. She clenched her hands and stalked into the room. “Good morning, Auntie. Mrs. Cooper.” She nodded at both women and turned her face away from Mr. Tucker.

  His voice held a hint of humor. “Miss Roberts. How is your knee faring this morning?”

  “Much better, thank you. The swelling is down, and I’m walking with barely a limp.” She took a step toward the stove. “The coffee smells delicious.”

  Jeffery pushed back his chair. “Here, let me get you a cup. It’s quite hot from sitting on the stove.” He reached for the pot. “I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself.”