Dreaming on Daisies: A Novel (Love Blossoms in Oregon Series Book 3)

by Miralee Ferrell

  They worked side by side for nearly an hour. Then Jeffery paused and wiped his shirtsleeve across his damp forehead. “I’m ready for a breath of fresh air. The smoke has died down a lot, but it’s still hard to breathe.”

  Steven walked a few paces from the far edge of rubble. He plunged his shovel blade into the soft ground and leaned on the handle. “I appreciate you coming. It doesn’t look like there’s much that survived.”

  “What happens now? Will the mine rebuild the cabins? I hope you didn’t keep your savings here, and you can find somewhere to live. I wish there was a room open at the Jacobs’ right now.”

  “Thankfully, I opened an account at the bank. I saved most of my money since we arrived last November, what with Ma rooming with Beth until the two of you married. Mrs. Roberts refused to accept help for the cost of the room, since she’d paid for herself and Beth several months in advance.”

  He twisted his lips to the side. “I’ll probably find the cheapest room available in a hotel.”

  “And you’ll be paying for yourself and your mother now that Beth and I are married. I imagine that’s going to dip into your savings a bit. Maybe we can help. We’ve been thinking of finding a little place of our own. If it’s big enough, we want to have Isabelle live with us there.”

  Steven tipped his head. “That’s good of you, but she’s my responsibility. Before we moved from La Grande, I sold three nice broodmares I’d kept from our farm, and I’ve set that money aside, hoping I can invest in land one day. You and Beth should start your married life on your own, if possible.”

  “Beth missed having a mother for so many years that I’m not sure she’ll agree. She’s of the opinion you’ve more than carried your share of responsibility, and now it’s her turn. Besides, we love Isabelle, and she’s not a burden at all. But since we haven’t found a place to move to yet, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

  Steven walked forward and pitched a shovel of dirt onto a smoking pile, then kicked the embers around with the toe of his boot. Thank the Lord none of Ma’s belongings were here. She’d be heartbroken if she’d lost her journal or any of the few things she’d retained from her old life. “Give me a hand with this mattress, will you?”

  Jeffery gripped the end of the bedding and they heaved it out of the way. Sunlight flashed off a corner of an object that lay beneath, and Steven stuck his blade deeper and lifted.

  Relief flooded through him. “My strongbox. I planned to take this to the bank weeks ago but never got around to it.”

  Jeffery squatted and examined it. “I hope you didn’t keep paper money in there. It’s apt to be singed from the heat.”

  “Only a few gold coins. Mostly it contains things I hold dear.” At least nothing the world would see as valuable—but precious to him.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed aside the ashes and soot, testing it for heat. Taking the blade of his shovel, he lifted the lid and exhaled. Ten gold eagles lined one edge, and a thick bundle filled the balance of the box. It appeared the layers of cowhide he’d wrapped the papers in, as well as the mattress, protected it from the heat.

  He unwrapped the long strip of leather and lifted out a tintype. Peering at the portrait of himself and Beth as children, he smiled, then laid it aside and extracted a knife—a gift from his father before his death.

  His eyes lit on a paper scrawled in childish script. Why had he saved this? So much had changed since his youth, including his dreams and desires. He blew on the paper, sending bits of soot flying.

  Jeffery leaned closer. “What you got there? Looks like it was written by a child. It wasn’t Beth’s, was it?”

  Steven smiled. “No, she wasn’t even four when she disappeared. I wrote this when I was seven. Our teacher asked us to write a short essay on what we were thankful for and what we hoped to do when we grew up.”

  He handed it to Jeffery. “I’m not sure why I kept this. Maybe because Beth disappeared not long after I wrote it.”

  Jeffery held it up and scanned it, then read it out loud.

  “I am thankful for our cabin and my dog and my ma and my pa. My baby sister talks all the time, but I guess she is nice too. When I grow up, I am going to own a big farm and raise horses and tend the fields with Pa.”

  A grin formed on Jeffery’s face. “She talked a lot, huh? I guess I’ll have to tease her about that.” He aimed a curious look at Steven. “It appears you decided to go a different direction than farming or ranching.”

  “I suppose a seven-year-old boy is too young to know what he wants. Besides, when Pa died, it was all Ma and I could do to keep food on the table. She remarried a few years later, and while my stepfather was a good-hearted man, he wasn’t much of a money manager.”

  He shrugged. “I guess my hope of farming died along with my pa.”

  “What happened to the farm?” Jeffery handed the paper back to Steven.

  “We lost it a couple of years after my stepfather passed away. I hunted for work in La Grande after that, and moved Ma to a little cabin on the outskirts of town.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Steven placed the paper back in the metal box and closed the lid, praying he might find something else of value. At least he’d kept his savings in the bank and wasn’t destitute, although he’d need to use some of this gold to purchase new clothing and boots.

  His mind flew to Miss Carlson and her request for money to invest in her ranch. Rather, her father’s ranch. Did the man even know what she was up to? Steven had a feeling he didn’t, and that any money lent to her would be wasted. Not that she’d misuse it, but if Mr. Pape continued down the path he’d started to tread, no amount of money would pull him out of the looming quicksand. It would take a miracle to save the man if drink had as tight a hold on him as Steven assumed.

  A shudder coursed through him. He hated the idea of anyone going through the loss he’d felt when the farm was sold to pay their debts, and he guessed Miss Carlson’s love for her ranch ran even deeper than his had for their land.

  Though it wasn’t his concern, he dreaded telling Miss Carlson her request had been denied. Maybe he could talk to Mr. Hunt again. After all, the amount she wanted wouldn’t create a problem for the bank, and surely her father would stand behind her. If he could be certain Miss Carlson managed the money and it would help improve the ranch profits, there would be little risk. If she got her father to sign for the loan, they might be able to manage.

  He slapped Jeffery on the back. “Thanks for your help. I don’t think there’s much else to be gained here. I’m going to visit a few hotels and see what I can scare up for a room.”

  Jeffery grimaced. “I hate to see you do that. If you don’t find accommodations soon, swing by the boardinghouse. I’m guessing Katherine would let you bunk in the parlor for at least one night.”

  Steven waved and turned away. He tucked the box under his arm and strode toward Front Street. Then he pulled up short. Maybe there was another way he could help Miss Carlson, even if he couldn’t acquire a loan.

  He’d have to think on it awhile and make sure she didn’t get wind of what he was up to. In fact, if she thought she was aiding him, so much the better. From what he’d seen, the lady wouldn’t take kindly to charity. He’d have to tread carefully or they’d be back where they began—squared off with mistrust on her part, and his hands tied.

  Portland, Oregon

  April 1, 1881

  Thomas Pape inched the small wood box from under his bed and brushed away the cobwebs and dust. It had been a long time since he’d opened it. If he’d followed his first instinct, he’d have burned the thing years ago. He reached for a hammer and pried the two short boards off the top, trying to steady his shaking hands.

  April was supposed to be a time for new beginnings, so perhaps he’d best deal with this now, although he doubted there could ever be anything new or good springi
ng to life in his future. Every dream and desire he’d ever nurtured had withered and died these past few years.

  He rocked back on his haunches, recalling Ma crying her heart out over her daughter. He clenched his teeth, forcing the roiling emotions back where they belonged. Didn’t his sacrifice count? The contents of the wooden box taunted him, daring him to light a match as he’d yearned to do countless times in the past.

  The only thing that stayed his hand was the pain it would have cost Ma. He wiped at his cheek and sniffed, ashamed of the moisture that traveled down it. Grown men didn’t show their emotions, and having attained his twenty-first birthday, he was certainly a man.

  But she wasn’t here to care anymore, so why shouldn’t he do as he desired? He sat on the dirty floor that would have shamed Ma, not caring that his trousers were stained.

  Tom extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, then stuffed it back in his trousers. The dilemma of the box was all that mattered right now. He lifted one missive and stared at it, torn with the desire to rip it open and read what it contained. Just the thought of that action shot fire through him, and he dropped the thing back in the box as though he’d been scorched.

  Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. There was something he could do that might put his life back to rights, although the work that it would involve didn’t excite him.

  No matter, he couldn’t sit in this run-down excuse for a home much longer. He grabbed the lid and pressed it back on the crate, then pulled out his pocket watch—the only item he owned that had belonged to his father. The steamboat office didn’t close for another hour … enough time to find out the cost of passage up the Columbia River. Everything within him fought against returning, but he could see no other recourse. Besides, Pa owed him, and if it was the last thing Tom did, he aimed to collect.

  Chapter Six

  Baker City, Oregon

  April 4, 1881

  Leah entered the bank and paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. She’d wanted to come the day of the explosion but decided she should wait a few days. Somehow she doubted she’d find Mr. Harding at his place behind his desk tending to business the day his home was destroyed. Besides, as anxious as she was to obtain her loan, she wasn’t callous to the man’s loss, and she hadn’t yet gathered the courage to approach her father about signing the papers.

  It was probably a mistake coming here without Pa’s approval, but a part of her hoped Mr. Harding was wrong. Maybe Mr. Hunt would agree to give her the money without Pa’s endorsement. No matter what, she had to try.

  Leah stepped into line at the teller window behind a woman she vaguely recognized—Mrs. Evans, if she remembered correctly, who occasionally filled in on the piano at church. They’d not had occasion to talk much in the past, and Leah cringed at the idea of doing so now. The older widow had a reputation of being a gossip and a busybody. Leah kept her face averted, hoping the woman wouldn’t sense someone behind her.

  Mrs. Evans pivoted and tapped her on the arm. “I say, aren’t you Mr. Charles Pape’s daughter?” She tipped her head to the side and the outrageously ornate hat teetered precariously. The gaudy assortment of flowers, butterflies, and birds danced as though working to right the creation.

  Leah swallowed the giggle that threatened to erupt. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Leah Carlson.”

  Mrs. Evans nodded, and her double chin quivered. “I knew your mother. Too bad about her. And a real shame your father never attends church. I’m sure it would make a powerful difference in his life if he were to start.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’re right.”

  The matron raised her brows. “So? Why doesn’t he?”

  Leah stiffened. The woman was certainly direct. “He has a lot to take care of on the ranch.”

  “As does every man who owns a business or farm, but most of them manage to find time for the Lord.” She looked down an imperious nose at Leah. “But the majority of God-fearing men don’t spend their evenings in the saloon, either, I suppose. He needs a woman to take him in hand.”

  Leah bit back a grin. “You seem to know quite a bit about my father, Mrs. Evans. Are you applying for that position?”

  Mrs. Evans recoiled, her face blanching. “I should say not! It appears the teller is free, and I’m next. Have a good day, Miss Carlson.” She rushed toward the teller’s cage.

  Someone touched Leah’s shoulder, and she swiveled.

  Steven Harding stood nearby, his lips twitching. He stepped a little closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “I came to rescue you, but from all appearances you did fine on your own.”

  This time Leah allowed a chuckle to escape. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Harding. I wondered if I’d escape being crushed by that hat, but I managed to survive.” She looked up into the man’s warm gaze, suddenly noticing how close he stood. A spicy scent wafted to her, and her eyes strayed to his strong jaw and cleanly shaven cheeks. Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a half step back. “I hoped to speak to you, if you have time.” She followed him, chagrined now that he’d overheard her comments to Mrs. Evans.

  He stopped at his desk and held the chair for her as she sank into it. Leah waited for him to take his place on the other side. “I suppose I should apologize for my behavior with Mrs. Evans. It wasn’t courteous to speak to an older woman in that manner.”

  “Actually, I rather enjoyed the exchange.” He placed his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together.

  “I beg your pardon?” Leah’s lips parted, and she snapped them shut before her mouth hung open.

  He dropped his voice. “She gives no end of grief to my tellers, and it was a nice change, seeing someone else get the last word. I’m not sure how you managed it, but I applaud you for pulling it off.”

  Leah settled against the round spindles, amazed at the difference in the man when he smiled. His deep blue eyes gleamed with laughter, and his normally serious face encompassed her in warmth. She’d thought him handsome before, in a more austere fashion, but he was anything but severe now. In fact, she was having trouble corralling her galloping heart and runaway thoughts. That must change, and quickly. “Do you have word on my loan application, Mr. Harding?”

  The smile faded. “Yes, but I’m afraid it may not be what you’re hoping for.”

  Disappointment smote her, and she couldn’t tell if it was due to his words, or the departure of that charming smile. “Mr. Hunt turned down my request.”

  “I’m afraid so. As I expected, he wants to speak to your father. If he were to come in, it’s very possible Mr. Hunt would reconsider.”

  “Possible?” Her throat closed over the word, and she worked to breathe. “But I thought you said there would be no problem if Pa agreed.”

  Mr. Harding’s eyes were sympathetic. “That is what I had hoped Mr. Hunt would agree to, and he still may. But I have another idea you could mull over, if you’ll be so kind as to listen?”

  “Of course. If there’s another way of securing the funds, I’d love to hear it.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly the case.” He held up his hand as she started to speak. “Give me a moment, and I’m sure you’ll understand. Then if you have more questions, I’ll be happy to answer.”

  “All right.” She placed her folded hands in her lap.

  He hesitated. “I assume you heard about the explosion at the mine?”

  Leah gave a brief nod, unsure what this had to do with her situation.

  Mr. Harding kept his steady gaze on hers. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll get right to it. My cabin was destroyed, and I’ve moved into a hotel. An expensive one, I’m afraid. I’m looking for another place to live, and you need another hand at your ranch. You did say that’s what part of the money would go for, correct?”

  She scrunched her forehead. “Yes, but what does that …?”


  “I thought you might consider allowing me to live in your bunkhouse for a while. It would be a great favor, and I would help with chores in the evenings and during my days off. That would save you from hiring someone right away, in case your father doesn’t agree to the loan.”

  Leah was rarely at a loss for words, but she felt as though every last one had dried up in her brain—or gone to sleep and refused to awaken. She blinked a couple of times, trying to take in what he’d offered and what it would entail.

  Finally, she managed, “I appreciate the offer, and I truly am sorry you lost your home, but I don’t think it would work. I need a full-time, experienced ranch hand, not a banker with his roots in the city who probably doesn’t know one end of a branding iron from the other.”

  A twinge of guilt tugged at her conscience, remembering how the women at church had prayed, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t offer a home to every displaced man in Baker City, or she’d fill her bunkhouse ten times over.

  “I may not be as uneducated about ranch life as you might think. I have some experience from childhood on a farm.”

  She smiled, hoping to soften her response. “It would be a long drive each day to and from town, and doing work you aren’t accustomed to.”

  Gathering her reticule from the chair beside her, she got to her feet. “But thank you for trying to help. If you wouldn’t mind talking to Mr. Hunt one more time, I’ll see what I can do about getting my father’s consent.”

  “Of course.” He rose and held out his hand, grasping hers in a gentle but firm hold.

  Her heart fluttered again, and she stepped away. “Would it be all right if I come back at the end of the week?”

  “Yes, and if your father will sign the paper I gave you, and I can present it to Mr. Hunt, it may take care of the issue. Thank you for considering my suggestion, and I do understand why you don’t care to accept it.” His stiff smile said otherwise, but Leah didn’t want to delve deeper.