Dreaming on Daisies (22 page)

A week before Ma died.

She drew in a long breath and blew it out hard.

Before Ma ran away.

Everything in her life came back to that one pivotal point. She still found it hard to believe. Ma had loved her. She’d been sure of it. She had counted on the memory of that love to get her through so many difficult times with Pa and the lonely days without Tom. Couldn’t God have left her at least one anchor to hold on to? Did everything have to be stripped away?

Leah shaded her eyes and studied the wide expanse of the ranch. She’d almost waited and asked Steven if he wanted to accompany her to the top of the hill. He could have seen the beautiful view and maybe come to better appreciate the ranch.

But she’d decided against it. This first trip must be made alone. She’d avoided this hilltop for years, but now she had to face the memories.

Not much had changed—but everything had changed.

Everything that mattered.

It was the same hillside, the same view looking down toward town, with the towering Wallowa Mountains as a backdrop. But nothing had ever been the same since the day Ma had gone. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and a warm breeze stirred the wisps of red curls that escaped the bow at the base of her neck.

She looked around, half expecting to see the white daisies with the rich yellow centers dotting the hillside, but it was still early. Memories threatened to swamp her. She’d sat near here, holding a special box in her hands, one that Pa had carved for her seventh birthday. Only very special things were to go in that box, he’d told her. Then he tickled her belly, kissed her cheek, and called her his precious little girl.

When had that affection and sparkle in his eyes disappeared? When had Pa grown morose and turned to the bottle instead of to his children’s love?

When Ma died.

It was like something inside him had shriveled up and died as well.

She shuddered and shook her head, angry that she’d allowed herself to slip back into that lie. She’d never imagined her pa or ma as a liar, but that’s what they were. Pa lied when he told them Ma had died.

Ma lied by running away and only telling Tom.

And Tom lied when he kept the secret for three long years before he, too, left without a word. Then he returned and tried to claim he’d left a note. She didn’t believe it.

A pang rent Leah’s heart, leaving it sore and throbbing. If Ma was still alive and she could talk to her, would Leah want to listen to whatever she might have to say? Maybe, if she could be assured her mother spoke the truth. Longing rose in her chest and threatened to choke her. She fought against the pain, but it wouldn’t subside.

How could she still ache for a woman who’d deserted her without so much as a word? She should hate her—never want to hear her name or think of her mother again. But she couldn’t stem the tide of loneliness that threatened to drown her. It was worse now than when Ma left, if that were possible.

She turned in a slow circle, staring at the ground. How could she find the exact spot where she and Ma had buried the box, after so many years? It had been near the base of a tree.

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. The single towering pine was only a dozen paces away. Leah moved in that direction, keeping her gaze trained a short distance before her, every step deliberate. She still didn’t understand why she’d awakened this morning with such an urgent desire to see this place again—her and Ma’s special place.

But there was no denying or escaping that desire.

One pace from the base of the tree, she tripped over a slight rise in the ground. She stopped, her heart thudding. The spot was no longer bare of weeds, and a number of new trees had sprouted in the vicinity, but she could still see the barely discernible rectangular outline under the surface of the dirt. Falling to her knees, Leah tugged at the grass and weeds, easily plucking them from their shallow home.

Leah’s fingers touched the lid of the wooden crate her mother had used to house the keepsake box, then carefully removed the lid. She grasped the oilcloth wrapped around a smaller box and lifted it from the depths. Excitement stirred as she felt the firm outline of the carved treasure box beneath the folds of oilcloth.

She clearly remembered the last time Ma and she had sat here, looking at the items they’d placed in her memory box over a span of seven years. A curl from her first haircut. The first tooth she’d lost. A note a boy had given her at school. A faded ribbon she’d worn so many times it was ready to fall apart, but she couldn’t stand to throw it away. Her favorite set of spurs that she’d outgrown as a young child.

Ma had gently wrapped the box in the thick folds of oilcloth and smiled. “You’ll be a woman soon, Leah,” she’d said. “I want you to come back here every birthday and look in this box. It will remind you of your life and those who love you. But I want you to be sure and come on your sixteenth birthday. No matter what happens between now and then, I want you to come. Will you do that for me, sweet girl?”

Leah had nodded, loving the cadence of her mother’s voice. Ma was so beautiful, but that day her beauty had been marred by sadness. A shadow chased itself across her face and dimmed the bright light that usually shone in her eyes when they spent time alone.

But after Ma died—after she ran away—Leah hadn’t come back. She’d been afraid to stir up the past, afraid of the pain that swamped her every time she thought about losing her mother. The box and its contents would only bring that rush of pain to the surface again.

So she’d stayed away.

Until now.

Slowly she unwrapped the box and stared at the ornate carving of a horse on the lid, wanting to delay the tide of emotion. Maybe she’d been foolish to come here again after such a long absence.

She traced the outline of the box with her fingertips. Somehow she’d forgotten how lovely it was. What a fine gift her father had given her so many years ago. She hadn’t appreciated the craftsmanship as a child, hadn’t realized the hours of love he’d poured into it, just for her.

Where had that father gone? The one who laughed and loved and cared? And why couldn’t she get him back? Was Tom right? Was Pa bitter because his pride had been wounded? He’d pushed everyone away, drowning himself in liquor.

If only she could help. At times she got so frustrated she wanted to shake the man, but beneath his gruff exterior and drunken binges she still glimpsed a father who yearned to be what he had been in the past. He was the only father she’d ever known, even if they weren’t related by blood. She prayed she could break through the walls he’d erected and show him the unconditional love that God spilled out on her.

She should have retrieved this box years ago and not left it so long. What a blessing that the heavy folds of oilcloth had protected it from moisture, as the outer container was beginning to rot. Leah lifted the lid, almost forgetting to breathe. A heavy sheet of folded parchment paper sat on top of the other items.

Leah plucked it out of the box and turned it over. Her name was written in her mother’s clear, decisive script. Leah gasped and dropped the missive. When had Ma returned and placed this inside? And why had Leah waited so long to discover it?

Charlie grunted as Buddy halted the wagon in front of the boardinghouse where Frances Cooper lived, not sure he’d made the right decision in coming here. What if she thought he was sweet on her? Worse yet, what if she told him to skedaddle and leave her alone?

He ran his finger under his collar, trying to loosen the blamed thing before it choked him. “I changed my mind. Let’s go home.”

Buddy stared at him, then shook his head. “Can’t go home now, boss. You know I got to go to the store for supplies. Millie will have my hide if I come back without everything on her list.”

Charlie slumped against the high backboard. “I’ll go along and help you load the wagon.”

“Don’t reckon that’s a good idea either. Not with that busted wing you’re still coddling.”

Charlie almost wished he were a praying man. He could use the good Lord’s help to get out of this spot.

The front door of the house opened, and a woman stepped out, clutching a large braided rug in one hand and a broom in the other. She took in the wagon and its occupants and stepped to the front of the porch. “Why, Charles Pape. I declare. What brings you out our way? Might you be here to talk to Micah or Jeffery?”

Buddy grinned and nudged him in the side. “Guess you oughta get out and go help the lady with her rug, boss. I’ll pick you up soon as I finish Millie’s shopping.”

It seemed there was no help for it. Charlie climbed down from the wagon, panting from the pain that shot up his arm when he bumped it against the wheel. Keeping his head low, he trudged up the path toward the waiting woman.

What would she think when she discovered he’d come to see her, not one of the men? Maybe he’d visit with Jacobs or Tucker until Buddy got back, and she’d be none the wiser.

Mrs. Cooper stepped aside as his foot touched the landing at the top of the steps. “So, who have you come to see, Micah or Jeffery?”

Charlie raised his eyes to meet hers and froze. He couldn’t lie to this woman. There’d been too many lies the past few years. Wasn’t that what he’d decided as he lay in bed most of last night? But here he was again, considering spewing a passel of lies before the sun was three hours in the sky. He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. “Neither, ma’am.”

“Oh? Do you have a message for Beth from Leah or Steven? I can get her for you. Is everything all right with your daughter?” She half turned and reached for the doorknob.

“Wait. Please.” The air whistled between his teeth as he searched his mind for something more to say. “I ain’t here to see none of those people. I came to see you.” He ran his hand over his bare head. “I was hopin’ you might be able to spare a few minutes to talk some.”

He glanced at the rug and the broom. “Maybe it ain’t such a good idea. I can see I’m interferin’ with your work. I’ll mosey on toward town and sit in the wagon till Buddy’s ready to head home.”

She dropped the broom and rug to the floor. “You will do no such thing. That rug can be beat in an hour as easily as now. Would you care to sit out here or come into the parlor and have a cup of coffee?”

He gripped the rim of his hat, feeling it crinkle beneath his fingers. “Coffee sounds right good, ma’am, but I don’t think I’d care to sit in the parlor.” A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. “Thank you kindly for the offer, though.”

She waved toward one of the rockers positioned off to the side. “Please take a seat. I will return in a moment.”

He edged toward the steps, wondering if he should bolt. More than likely Mrs. Cooper would run him down and drag him back by the ear if he tried. He sagged into the rocker. Why had he thought this woman could help him? It wasn’t like he really knew her—beyond the few visits she’d paid to the ranch when he was abed and ailing.

He scratched his head. In all fairness, though, he had to admit she had a sight more sense than most women he’d met.

She pushed through the door, carrying a heavily laden tray. Two mugs of steaming coffee and a plate heaped high with cookies made Charlie’s mouth water.

He jumped to his feet and strode forward. “Let me help you with that, ma’am.”

Mrs. Cooper almost yanked the tray out of his reach. “No, sir. You certainly will not juggle a heavy tray with a broken arm.”

She placed it on a low table between their two chairs, then stood erect and leveled him with a no-nonsense look. “All right, out with it, Charles. Why are you being so polite and continuing to call me ‘ma’am’? This is not like you at all. Have you done something for which you are feeling guilty and have come to confess, or are you planning some dire deed and hoping I will give my blessing?”

Charlie sat bolt upright, his growling stomach forgotten as his ire crept to the fore like a coyote on the hunt. “Woman, what kind of talk is that? I got nothin’ to confess or feel bad about—leastwise if I did, I’d not be blabbin’ about it to you.” He got up from his chair.

Mrs. Cooper huffed. “There is no need to get in a lather, Mr. Pape. I meant no offense. I simply wondered why you are being so polite. It is not like you.”

She waved him back toward the chair and settled into her own. “Sit down and stop pouting. Your coffee is getting cold, and the cookies need to be eaten.”

Charlie glared, but the enticing aroma of freshly baked molasses cookies drew him back to his seat. “All right. I suppose I can manage to eat one or two before Buddy returns.”

They munched in silence, and Charlie downed three cookies and half of his coffee before Mrs. Cooper leaned forward. “Now, out with it. What brought you by today? Are Leah and Millie well?”

He plunked his mug onto the tray. “You do beat all. I’ve never in all my born days seen someone who can ask so many questions. Can’t a man stop by for a little socializin’ without somethin’ havin’ to be wrong?”

She stared at him so long he thought she’d bore a hole clear through his brain and out the back of his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Socializing, is it? Are you implying that you have come calling on me and are considering asking to court me?”