Wishing on Buttercups (11 page)

Karen slipped into the chair across from her. “I do worry. You didn’t bounce back this summer after being sick most of last winter. I don’t think Steven shoulda left you alone all this time. The boy ought to hightail it on home. You want I should send him a telegram and let him know you’re hurting?”

“No.” The word came out sharper than she’d planned. “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all, but Ina will be back tomorrow, and I’ll rest. I promise. I can’t call Steven home. He’d lose his job, and we need it.” She winced, hating to have anyone, even her closest friend, know their circumstances. “I didn’t answer your question about the bank sending him to Baker City.” Hitching her chair closer, she placed her forearms on the table. “A couple of mines want to borrow money. The banks are getting skittish about loaning big amounts without making sure the mine is run proper.”

“Guess that makes sense. They loan money out, then someone blows the place up … it wouldn’t be too good.” Karen slapped her hand over her mouth. “That didn’t come out right. Didn’t mean anything bad by it, and I’m plumb sorry for talking foolish. Not like your boy will be in any danger looking at those mines. I’m right sure he won’t.”

A shiver ran over Isabelle’s skin, raising bumps the entire length of her arms. Dear Lord, nothing better happen to her boy. She couldn’t abide it. Losing one child was more than any mother should bear.

White pages shimmered at Beth as she smoothed the paper of her new sketch pad under her fingers. So much lost. She’d gone to the place on the trail and hunted through the bushes for over an hour to no avail. Either a person or an animal had found her treasure. No doubt she’d never see it again.

There was no use pining for what couldn’t be. She’d duplicated the illustration for the magazine, along with the rough sketches for future ideas. Sending the first drawing off in the mail a couple of weeks ago had given her an immense sense of satisfaction, but that had quickly been overshadowed by the frustration she felt over the loss of her tablet.

Peace warred with grief when she remembered the picture she’d sketched while working on the hill. She didn’t want that memory of the little girl lying by the fire staring her in the face each time she opened her pad, but neither did she care to lose the elusive fragment from her past.

What to do now? Ever since losing her tablet, her creativity had stalled. Or did it go deeper than that? She placed her pencil on the pad and stepped over to the window, pushing aside the gauzy drape.

Mandy Galloway sat in a swing suspended from the limb of a giant maple, one hand clutching the rope, and the other arm wrapped around the rope while holding her doll to her chest.

Beth smiled as sweet memories of her childhood sprang to life. Not all had been ugly or painful. Aunt Wilma had done her best to provide love and a sense of security those months after Beth arrived. She only had dim memories of Uncle George, who’d died a couple of years later, but they were filled with warmth.

No, it wasn’t the past or the loss of her sketchbook that kept her frozen, but the questions she’d faced since the conversation with her aunt. She’d often thought she wanted a career more than anything in life—that marriage and children weren’t important. Now she wondered if she’d lied to herself to avoid the pain of facing a future without either.

Her aunt thought her foolish for believing no man would want her, but Beth knew better. Too much of her childhood she’d been exposed to ridicule—and not only because of her scars. Other girls at the finishing school tittered behind her back, giggling over her past, thinking she couldn’t hear or not caring that she did. She’d spent so much of her life afraid of girls her own age—their beauty, self-confidence, and often, their snobbery—that she’d had no idea how to fit in.

Now her own aunt reinforced her lack of belief in Beth’s talents as an artist. Aunt Wilma thought it nothing more than a hobby, and one she should abandon for the sake of a family. Beth let the window curtain drop. Family
was
important, but if she ever married and had a child, what if she ended up abandoning that child, like her mother had? To be fair, her mother could have died, and perhaps her father couldn’t keep her. Or there might have been a long line of babies, and by the time she’d come along, their money had run out. But even so, why leave her alone on the Oregon Trail? Her hands shook, and she gripped them together, willing them to stop, hating the flashing images.

Enough. She sat in her chair, clutching her pencil. Her publisher counted on her to get these sketches done in a reasonable time. Leaning over the paper she allowed the pencil to move with broad strokes, letting her mind go and not trying to decipher what the result might be.

An oval formed on the page, taking the shape of a strong jaw and broad forehead. She sketched lips, tipped in a smile, and hair falling forward a bit. She dropped her pencil and drew back.
Jeffery Tucker. Why …?

His was the last face she’d expected to see and certainly not one she thought about enough to have memorized its features. On the other hand, his face had been alluringly close when he’d carried her up the path. She’d been tempted to touch his cheek with her fingertips, but she’d not allowed them to stray from her side. The man didn’t belong in her thoughts.

Beth ripped the page from the tablet and held it in both hands, prepared to rend it in two.

She looked at it one last time and paused. What had she drawn in those eyes? They weren’t blank or flat, but deep, penetrating, quizzical.

Seeking. Always seeking. If only he’d stop digging and leave her alone. She set the page back on the desk, then flipped open the pad and tucked it inside. It was a waste of good paper to destroy it when she might reuse the other side. Yes. That’s what she’d do. And never, ever look at it again.

Jeffery flipped through the pages of the tablet he’d found, admiration stirring as he gazed at first one image of Western life, then another. He allowed the pages to fall open, and his hand rested on the desktop beside it. The pain and terror on the child’s face pulsated in the room. He could almost smell the dust from the wheels of a wagon disappearing in the distance. What had happened to the little girl who lay huddled on the ground by the smoldering fire?

Who had drawn these lifelike illustrations? The artist’s name didn’t appear anyplace in the sketch pad, and only two pictures had any kind of designation—the initials E.C., nothing else. Wouldn’t the artist want credit for work of such quality? He scratched his chin and frowned, trying to remember why the initials felt familiar.

And why would the person who owned it have dropped it in the brush? It appeared as though an animal had dragged it from another location, but thankfully it hadn’t sustained any damage inside. Whoever lost this must surely be grieving.

He’d almost memorized the drawings since finding the tablet, but he shouldn’t hold on to it any longer. Placing an ad for the tablet might alert the owner of his find, but he’d insist they describe some of the contents, for fear a disreputable person intent on getting something for nothing would try to claim it. Indeed, that would certainly be the best plan.

He shut the book and smoothed the damaged cover, then tucked it into a drawer of the desk. No sense in taking chances with something so valuable. Having been raised in the East, he knew quality art when he saw it, and this artist was exceptional.

Chapter Thirteen

Beth slipped out the front door clutching the letter from her publisher. She’d finally made progress after staring at her blank notepad the past couple of days. Ideas had trickled into her mind and gradually come to life on the page. But she’d not expected to hear from the magazine so soon—it didn’t seem possible they’d had time to receive her first submission and reply. All she could do was pray they liked what she’d sent.

After Aunt Wilma’s less-than-supportive comments about her work, Beth didn’t care to chance the older woman walking into her room as she read her letter, so she headed for a grassy nook she’d found in a field not far from the edge of the Powder River. The air had a bit of a nip now that they were at the end of the second week of September. She glanced at the blue sky, thankful no clouds marred the fine fall day. It wouldn’t be long until snow blanketed the ground and made this type of outing impossible.

She settled on a large stone close to the river and slipped her finger under the flap of the heavy, cream-colored envelope. Curiosity tugged. A single sheet slid out, and she unfolded it, taking in the contents in a matter of seconds. What an odd request for an illustration. She gave a quick shake of her head. But it wasn’t hers to question what the editor wanted. At least she had time to change direction and get it sent in before the deadline.

She stared across the river and through the widely scattered trees to the buildings in the distance. Baker City was certainly an attractive town, situated as it was between two sets of mountain ranges. It might make a good study for this newest request. She smiled and smoothed the letter in her lap. Her fingers were itching to sketch.

Beth stuffed the paper into the envelope and jumped to her feet, eager to get to her room and her tablet. She took several long strides, then halted. Aunt Wilma had asked her to stop at the mercantile and pick up a copy of the
Bedrock Democrat
. It rarely held anything of interest to Beth, but her aunt liked to keep abreast of current events. The paper mostly carried local news but occasionally had articles about happenings farther away, giving a sense of connection to the outside world.

A scant half hour later, Beth sat on the parlor sofa and opened the paper, happy she’d have time alone before Aunt Wilma made her appearance. According to Katherine, her aunt and Mrs. Cooper were both enjoying a nap after their afternoon walk.

“Hello, Miss Roberts.” A man’s monotone voice disrupted the peace. Isaac Lansing stood in the doorway.

Beth lifted her head, annoyed at the intrusion. Of course, the parlor was a gathering place for anyone living here, but she didn’t care to share it with Mr. Lansing at the moment. She’d barely had time to scan the articles. She had managed to avoid the man since he’d arrived, other than meals, when Aunt Wilma made certain he left her alone. Annoying and pompous only began to describe Isaac Lansing.

“Good day.” She rustled the paper. Maybe he’d take the hint and find someone else to bother.

“A quaint paper. I’ve found very little of interest in it since I arrived.” He plucked his watch from his pocket, glanced at its face, then put it away. “I’m happy to find you here. It seems I have an hour or two to spare.”

Beth folded the paper and laid it on her lap, scrambling to think of a suitable subject to which she could turn the conversation. “How much longer will you be with us?” She tried to muster a pleasant expression. “I would imagine your business is about concluded by now.”

He perched on the edge of a nearby chair and planted his hands on his knees. “Getting closer, but I’m not in a hurry to leave. I still haven’t had the pleasure of your company.” He leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “What do you say you step out with me and get a bite of supper? I’ve found a couple of restaurants that serve a respectable meal.” He gave her what might pass to some observers as a charming smile.

Beth winced. Only minutes ago she’d been thankful Aunt Wilma was taking a nap. Now she’d give anything if the dear woman would appear. “That’s very kind of you, but Mrs. Jacobs goes to a lot of trouble to fix our meals. I wouldn’t care to be rude.”

He waved a hand. “She won’t care. It’s that much less food she’ll have to supply, and I’m sure she’s not averse to saving money on her food stuffs. Besides, as I’ve pointed out before, you’re a grown woman and don’t need to cater to everyone else.” He stood and held out his hand. “Your name fits you, Beth. I hope you don’t mind my calling you that? Let’s depart before anyone intrudes.”