Dreaming on Daisies (23 page)

He reared back in his seat, his mind awhirl, and almost choked on his last cookie. “Courtin’ you? Me?” The last word came out in a high-pitched squeak, and he ran his finger under his suddenly too-tight collar. “Weren’t it you who suggested we be friends?”

He held up his hand. “No, ma’am. I don’t wanna court nobody, nohow!”

She sighed and raised her gaze to the sky. “I do declare. You have the worst manners and grammar of anyone I know.” Turning her attention back on him, she spoke in a frosty tone. “And, might I ask, what would be so terrible about courting a woman? You are all alone in the world except for your children, and they are not apt to live with you forever. I would imagine you must get lonely.”

One corner of her mouth tipped up. “And lest it might have slipped your notice, I did not say I would be willing to let you court me even if you were to inquire.”

He groaned and placed his face in his hand. Why had he sought out this opinionated, rude woman instead of heading to the saloon to chew the fat with some of his old cronies? He raised his head. “Well, I ain’t askin’, so you can get that worry out of your head. And I won’t ask you why you wouldn’t because you’d probably start naggin’ again.”

She arched her brows. “Now that we have that subject out of the way, what is on your mind?”

He grabbed one arm of the rocker and maneuvered to his feet. “I reckon that whatever it was has been scared right out of me. Thanks for the cookies and coffee, Mrs. Cooper. I’d best be on my way.”

Gaping, she started to rise, then sank back into her chair. “It is not an easy thing for me to say, Charles, but I beg your pardon for offending you. It was not my intention at all. I bid you a good day.”

Charles slapped his hat onto his head and strode down the steps and along the walkway to the dirt road, suddenly at a loss as to why he’d come in the first place. He’d worried over matters concerning the ranch, and guilt over his wife’s passing and Leah’s feelings of loss, but he’d be ding-blasted if he could put his finger on it any closer than that.

Court her? Where would she have gotten such a tomfool idea? If she were the last woman on earth …

His thoughts drew up short, and he almost stumbled as he remembered her kindness in the past. He had to admit he’d enjoyed their bantering exchanges and matching wits with the woman, even if she did irritate him at times.

He headed toward the center of town, one thing on his mind—getting a good, long drink. A few minutes later he skirted around the end of a wagon parked in front of the general store and stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon.

His steps slowed as he drew closer. Frances Cooper’s face flashed in his recollection—her disapproval and disgust the time she’d encountered him in this very spot.

Then Buddy’s rebuke about Leah’s hurt and disillusionment rose to the surface. He halted abruptly and winced. How much more pain could his daughter take and still tolerate having him around? He’d been the cause of too much sorrow already.

Slowly, with a longing look at the batwing doors, he turned. Then he picked up his pace and almost ran, feeling as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. And maybe they were—he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was he must get away from the sight and odor of that building, before the evil sucked him back into the darkness once again.

Frances sat on the porch, her coffee forgotten, and stared down the empty path toward the road. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t keep her comments to herself? Why did she think it necessary to blurt out everything? That had almost destroyed her relationship with her daughter and oldest grandchild, and she thought she had learned. Apparently not.

She slipped out of the rocker and gathered the tray, suddenly feeling every one of her sixty years. Nonsense. It wasn’t in her nature to give up or back down. She straightened her spine.

Something was plaguing Charles Pape, and she intended to get to the bottom of it. Although holding her tongue to some degree while she did so might be a wise idea, it wouldn’t be easy. But, with God’s help, maybe she could manage—a chuckle broke from her lips—as long as the irritating man didn’t drive her to blurt out anything more or cause her to take a rolled-up newspaper to his thick head.

Chapter Twenty-One

Steven unsaddled his horse in the barn and turned him out to pasture, anxious to finish the chore and find Leah. He hadn’t had more than a minute to call his own in days, and it felt even longer since he’d spoken more than an occasional sentence to her. He sauntered to the house and rapped on the kitchen door, then poked his head inside. “Millie? Is Leah here?”

The older woman stepped into sight, wiping flour-caked hands on her apron. “No, sir, she’s not.”

Steven’s exuberant spirits slipped a notch. He’d been so certain he’d find her at the house, as she hadn’t been in the barn or out in the pasture gathering cattle. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find her?”

Millie gazed at him, as though considering whether she should answer. “Reckon I might.”

“Uh-huh.” Steven stepped into the kitchen and settled his head against the doorjamb. “Are you willing to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“Depends.” She dipped her hands back into the bowl of dough and smiled.

He grinned. “On what?”

Her face turned serious. “On whether whatever you aim to say to her will bring her more grief. The girl’s had more than her share of worries since Tom arrived, and I don’t care to see any more heaped on her shoulders.”

Steven straightened from his position against the door. “Then you needn’t worry. I have no intention of causing Leah more stress. In fact, I’d like to alleviate some of it, if I only knew how.”

Millie peered closely at his face. “Are you startin’ to care for my gal?”

Steven jerked in surprise. He hadn’t been willing to face that question too deeply. “She’s a very special woman, but I can’t seem to get close. Leah keeps me at a distance, and I’m not sure why.”

“And you haven’t figured that out?” She scattered flour onto the breadboard and slapped the lump of dough onto the surface. Her fingers dug into the dough, flipping it over and scrunching it into itself.

Steven stared for a minute, fascinated by the movements of her hands, then raised his eyes and met hers. “I suppose not.”

She gave a lopsided grimace. “The girl’s been hurt too many times. First her ma dying.” Her eyes darkened. “Runnin’ off, is more like it. I still find that hard to believe. Her pa takin’ to drink and lyin’ to Leah all these years. He might as well have left her when her ma did, as much good he’s been as a pa. Then Tom disappearin’. The girl is scared to let anyone get close. I reckon she figures they’ll up and walk off if’n she does.”

The truth of her words sank in. Of course. Why hadn’t he realized all this on his own? Leah was an amazing woman to have stayed as strong as she had and not crumble under the pain.

He breathed a quick prayer for wisdom. “I promise you that I’m not going to do or say anything to upset her, Millie. I believe I am coming to care for Leah, but I have things to sort out. I’m not ready to tell her that yet. I do want to talk and spend some time with her, if you’re willing to share where she might be.”

“All right. Guess you’ll do.” She jerked her chin toward the kitchen window. “She has a favorite place on top of that hill, yonder. Hasn’t gone up there in years but I saw her trudging up there maybe an hour ago. Surprised me she hasn’t come home yet.”

A shadow passed over her face. “Leah and her ma used to go up there together and talk. I’m not sure what all they done up there, but Leah always came back happy. Hope she will this time too, but I’m afraid it might stir up hurtful memories. Maybe you can help. I surely do hope someone can, and that’s a fact.”

Steven tipped his head. “Thank you for trusting me, Millie. I can’t promise, but I’ll do my best. At least I’ll listen, if she wants to talk. That is, if she doesn’t send me packing.”

“You go on and give it a try, son. My ma always used to say, nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained.” She flashed him a saucy smile. “You never know, she might decide to take a shine to you.”

Heat seeped into his face, and he backed toward the door, not wanting to prolong this conversation until he sorted out his own turbulent thoughts. But as he drew the door shut behind him and headed toward the pasture, hope for the future surged in his heart.

Leah sat perfectly still, her hands clasped on top of the box still resting in her lap. The sight of her mother’s handwriting had prompted warm recollections for several minutes. She hadn’t yet opened the missive to see what it contained.

Now, with trembling fingers, she plucked at the wax seal and pried the pages apart. She smoothed the deep fold and saw what appeared to be a letter, then took a deep breath before she read.

My dearest Leah,

My heart is breaking as I sit here in the meadow and write this, knowing you might not read it for a year or two. I pray you’ll remember my wish that you return to our special place on your sixteenth birthday.

You are a woman now and entering a time when you’ll make your own decisions. I don’t know what your pa has told you about my departure, but I hope he spoke the truth—that staying here with him any longer wasn’t working.

I wanted to come to you, to ask you to leave with me, but Charles begged me not to. I agreed that you were too young to be put in a position to choose between your mother and the ranch you loved and where you wanted to live the rest of your life. I will never put you in that position, my darling.

But I want you to know how much I love you. Should you decide to do so, I’d love to have you join me in Portland. If not to live there permanently, then at least I hope you might visit once a year or so. I’ve agreed not to put pressure on you. It shall be up to you to write to me, but my heart will be longing to hear from you.

Leah’s shaking fingers could no longer retain their tentative grip on the paper, and it fluttered to the ground beside her. Ma wanted her to come live with her in Portland? She hadn’t forgotten her or totally abandoned her? Sorrow mixed with rage at her father and brother threatened to choke her, and she tried to stem the tears.

What would her life have been like if she’d been given a choice? She raised her eyes and stared across the expanse of meadow rolling down the hill toward the ranch house in the distance. Could she have left this for more than a visit, even if she’d known? Or would she have traveled to Portland, unwavering in her youthful eagerness to convince her mother and brother to return, only to have her heart break anew if they refused?

She plucked the letter from the grass, determined to somehow finish this disturbing and revealing missive.

I’m so sorry that I couldn’t stay with Charles on the ranch. To be brutally honest, I never loved him the way he loved me. I was a very young widow with a baby when we met, and I agreed to marry to protect you from a life of poverty and possibly worse. In short order, I realized I’d made a mistake.

Then Tom came along, and I decided to stay. But as the years continued, my unhappiness grew. I missed the city. I missed the companionship I’d known by having people close by. I saw myself growing old and bent, and never having the life I’d dreamed of.

And even more than that, living on the ranch was a constant, painful reminder of Aaron, your father, the only man I’ve ever loved. I saw him everywhere, in everything—the house he built with such love and care before we married, which I now live in with a man I don’t love—and it cut me to the quick.

It is horribly selfish, I know that, and that troubles me more than I can say. A part of me is selfish, I suppose, or I wouldn’t be running away. I would force myself to continue in this life that I hate (or I should say, dislike, for you and Tom have made it endurable, even joyous at times), but it is no longer enough. At this point all I can do is hope you will forgive me, and that someday soon you and Tom will come to live with me.

Your brother doesn’t care for the ranch as you do, and I’m considering telling him my plan. He is a child, but he has the same love of adventure and hunger for companionship as I do. Please don’t blame him for not telling you anything beyond what your father tells you, for I will swear him to secrecy.

One more thing you must know. When I pledged to marry Charles, I told him he must promise to care for you like his own, no matter what might befall me in the future. One thing I’ll say, he fell in love with you when you were a baby, and that love has endured to this day. He might be gruff at times, and rough around the edges, but he truly adores you. He would have cared for you even without his promise.

But I wanted to be sure. And in exchange, I told him I would consider giving him the deed to the ranch someday. I didn’t change your name to Pape, out of respect for your real father, and because I wanted the ranch to remain in the Carlson family.

We’ve never told you, but the ranch belonged to Aaron, your father. I loved him, and that made living so far from others bearable. Baker City is so tiny, so dirty, so quiet. Now that I’m leaving, I’m not certain it’s the right thing to put the deed in Charles’s name. I’m sorry for him, and I know I’m not doing right by him by leaving. He married me and has taken care of his family, the best way he knew how. But it’s not enough.

I must make a decision, even though I know it will hurt and possibly anger Charles. Your father lived long enough to see you, and he wanted the ranch to be your inheritance. So I’ve put the deed in your name. It’s enclosed in this box. When you’re old enough, you will need to make the decision to keep the ranch or sell it.

When Aaron died, a part of me died as well. I want to take you and Tom with me, but I’ve promised Charles two years with you both, before you decide whether to join me or not. It is the least I can do. Please write to me, Leah. Tell me you forgive me for leaving you and that you’ll visit. And, please, promise you won’t hate me.

Your loving mother,

Mary Carlson Pape

Leah dropped the letter into her lap, her fingers numb and cold, her heart unable to take in all that she’d read. She picked it up again, fumbling with the pages, her eyes blurred. Fighting to keep the tears from falling, she rubbed her sleeve across her eyes, then forced herself to focus on the flowing script once again.

Hope, fear, joy, pain, anger, and, finally incredulity, all dipped and soared, each taking their turn raging through her heart. At times the sorrow was so deep she thought she’d be ill. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking and crying.

Her mother hadn’t hated her. She hadn’t walked away without caring or thinking of her. Ma had left a letter, had left the ranch to her, had wanted Leah to come live with her. She hadn’t told her of the decision to leave to be fair to Pa—to give him time with her and Tom, to allow Leah to grow up and make decisions for herself. But she’d still chosen to leave. Couldn’t she have stayed a few more years, until Tom and she were both grown?

Pa had never told her the truth. The pain of that fact was almost her undoing, and a fierce anger grew. It had been bad enough when she’d heard the facts from Tom. But to hear that same truth from her mother—that cut deep.

Pa was supposed to tell her that Ma wanted her to visit or live with her in Portland. Ma thought he would tell her. Why had he lied? Why had he allowed her to think her mother had died? And once Tom returned and revealed the truth, why hadn’t Pa explained? Didn’t he know she’d figure it out?

He had to know she’d despise him for letting her think Ma died when she could have been in touch with her all these years. Leah could have visited her, been there for her when she took sick, maybe cared for her and kept her from dying.

Sobs racked her body, and her shoulders shook. Her fists clenched, and the paper crumpled within her grasp. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Since Tom’s return, she’d believed her mother a liar—believed she hadn’t loved her, and Pa let her continue to think that. But it wasn’t true.

Well, maybe a little bit. Ma admitted she was selfish to leave, and Leah had to agree. What could be so awful that she couldn’t stay a few more years? She’d never seen her mother as shallow or self-centered, and it hurt to do so now, but the truth was there, all the same. But better that than to believe Ma didn’t care.

Leah scrubbed at her tears again, hot and wet beneath her fingers. A hiccup took the place of the sobs. She pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and blew her nose, then folded it and tucked it back. It was time to look at the situation squarely. She was an adult now.

A pang hit her. An adult. She hadn’t kept her word to Ma when she’d asked her to come back here on her sixteenth birthday. The pain of her mother’s loss had been too deep even then. This field where the daisies bloomed had been their special place. After Ma left, and Leah believed she’d died, keeping her promise no longer seemed important.

If only she had. She’d have found the letter, confronted her father, and written to her mother. At the least, Leah would have gone to see Ma. Maybe a trip to Portland with Tom would have kept him from running away.

Leah glanced down at the open box and tentatively reached in, setting aside the dried daisy chain Ma had made for her hair. She pulled out another paper, her heart pounding, and her mouth going dry. It had to be the deed.

What would Pa say when he discovered Ma put it in Leah’s name instead of his? Should she tell him, or let him go on thinking Ma had kept her word? Would that be any worse than what he’d done? But Ma said she hadn’t promised. She’d only said she’d consider it, and Pa probably assumed she’d follow through.