Wishing on Buttercups (18 page)

Beth shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that. Not after what happened.” She slipped her fingers through the crook of Jeffery’s arm. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me back to the house?”

“Certainly.”

“Beth, wait. Please.” Brent held up his hand. “What I did was unforgivable, but I can explain. Please give me a chance. I must speak to you.” He took a step closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “It’s urgent.”

Jeffery could feel Beth stiffen beside him. The nerve of this man, trying to force himself on a young woman of her quality. Or on any woman, for that matter. “I say, Mr. Wentworth, you’ll have to excuse Miss Roberts. She and I are returning from a walk, and her aunt is expecting her.” He drew her forward.

Wentworth followed. “Allow me a few seconds. That’s all I ask. I won’t bother you again if you’ll give me that much.”

Beth slowed and released her hold on Jeffery’s arm. He halted. “Do you wish to speak to this man?”

She leveled a gaze at Wentworth, then raised her eyes to Jeffery. Indecision wavered there, and then was replaced by resolve. “Not especially, but it might be for the best. Would you do me a favor?”

Jeffery bowed. “If it is within my power.”

“Go inside and let Aunt Wilma know I’ll be along shortly. But …” She shivered. “Don’t tell her I’m talking to Mr. Wentworth.”

“I don’t understand.” And, most decidedly, he did not. She had appeared quite angry at first, and now she seemed more than willing to stay. Something was wrong. He stared at Wentworth. A lazy smile tipped his mouth, and he arched a brow. Sly, that’s what he was—and not to be trusted. “I’ll walk over to the steps and give you privacy, but I am not comfortable leaving you with this man.” He lifted his voice loud enough for Wentworth to hear.

She shook her head, her dark ringlets dancing on her shoulders. “Please, if you’d do as I asked, I’d be grateful.” Beth’s lips puckered.

His heart wavered at the pleading expression, but wavering wasn’t an option. “I’m sorry, but your reputation is more important. I’ll move out of earshot, but I plan to stay where I can see you—and him.”

“All right.” She whispered the words and touched his hand, then drew back. “Thank you for understanding.”

But he didn’t. Not at all. Something was amiss here, and he planned to make it his business to find out what.

Chapter Nineteen

La Grande, Oregon

Isabelle patted Steven’s cheek as he leaned over her bed. “I’m fine, Son. I probably shouldn’t have walked to the stage station, but I think it was all the standing around that tired me. Now that I’ve rested I’ll get up and start supper. You must be hungry after your long trip.”

Steven gently pressed her back against the pillow. “I insist you stay put, Ma. I’m perfectly capable of fixing my own meal. I’ll go wash some of the trail dust off first and change my shirt, then rustle up supper for both of us.” He cocked his head. “You look like you’ve lost more weight. Have you been eating? Has Ina kept an eye on you?”

She laughed and waved him away. “Yes, Ina’s been here, and Karen has been clucking over me like a broody hen. Quit fretting and change your clothes. A bite to eat does sound good. There’s cold sliced beef in the spring house and fresh bread and butter there as well.” She pushed up on her elbow. “Before you go, would you hand me a pencil and my journal?”

He looked askance at her, then seemed to relent. “All right. Let me put another pillow behind you so you can sit up. But you stay on that bed until I get back. Promise?”

“Yes, Son. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll catch up on my writing while I wait.” Isabelle held out her hand, eager to work on her project. She had never shared her journals with anyone, not even Karen or Steven. Somewhere inside she knew Steven wouldn’t understand. Karen might, but these were too precious, too private, to disclose.

She opened the book and a yellow flower fell out, drifting to the floor. Leaning over the bed, she carefully plucked up the dried buttercup and placed it back in its hiding place. Only one of the little treasures she kept as a reminder. Her pencil labored over the paper, and sweat formed on her brow. One more page. She had to get it all down—her emotions, desires, dreams—everything Steven’s sister would want to know about someday when she presented the journals to her. Bessie would come back home; she knew it. And she planned to live until she did.

Beth waited until Jeffery moved to a discreet distance, then walked the opposite direction. The last thing she wanted was Aunt Wilma looking out a window and racing out with her parasol. Footsteps crunched on the gravel walkway announcing Brent’s decision to follow.

She stayed within sight of the house and drew to a stop next to a tree. Pivoting, she crossed her arms and stared at the man she thought she’d never see again. “What do you want?”

His lips quirked to the side. “The last time we met you were a quiet little thing. I admit to finding this new Beth Roberts more attractive than the old one. Did you fall in love with the stuffed shirt who walked you home?”

She slapped him. Hard.

Brent’s head jerked back, and he stroked his reddened cheek with his fingertips. He studied her through the thick, dark lashes she used to love. “My comments were uncalled for. I owe you an apology.”

Beth snorted. “You owe me much more than that. Earlier you said what you did was unforgivable. I agree. You also said you would explain. Do it.”

He reached out, and she took a step back.

“Don’t touch me, Brent. I don’t trust you, and it’s doubtful I ever will again.”

Brent sucked in a harsh breath. “Fine. I had that coming.” He managed an ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry for teasing. You used to like it.”

“That wasn’t teasing; it was rude.” A shiver ran down her spine. “But maybe I never saw that before now.”

The smile faded. “Now, Beth, honey, don’t be that way. I said I was sorry, and I meant it.” He touched her hand, gently tugging her toward him. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Beth jerked away, and anger sent her blood pounding through her veins. “Don’t do that again. You said you had something urgent to tell me.” A sense of freedom soared over her spirit. Brent’s touch had done little to move her. Not many months ago she would have listened to his protest with a willing heart and open mind. Maybe she was growing a backbone, along with some common sense, at last.

“Won’t you come with me? I don’t care to talk outside in the open. Someone might overhear.”

She lifted her chin. “What do you have to say that can’t be said right here?”

He stripped a branch off the tree and tapped it against his trouser-clad leg. “Let’s say I’d rather not take a chance of being spied upon.”

“Why?” The word came out flat and harsh, but Beth didn’t care. She was tired of playing games. He’d toyed with her heart in the past, and she didn’t plan to let it happen again.

“Because I have … things of a personal nature I need to share, and I don’t have time right now. I waited a long time for you to get back, and I’m going to be late for an appointment in town. Please, Beth. I know I don’t have the right to ask, and you have no reason to trust me. But for old time’s sake, won’t you come and have dinner? We can go to a quiet little restaurant, if that’s what you prefer.”

Beth considered his request. There’d been a time she’d have gone anywhere with this man without thinking twice about it, but that was a lifetime ago. She’d longed to see Brent again, and more than once had prayed his leaving had been a mistake, but now? Warring emotions tugged her back and forth, twisting her heart and mind into knots. What if she’d misjudged, and he had a valid reason for leaving? Tiny warning bells jingled deep in her belly. “I can’t go anywhere with you now. Aunt Wilma would ask questions, and I don’t care to deceive her.”

He leaned against the trunk of the tree with a slight smile. “Do you ever go to town alone for any reason?”

“Certainly. I often go to the post office to pick up the mail.”

“Will you be there tomorrow?”

“Possibly.”

“Tell me when, and I’ll meet you. Surely you can take time for a cup of tea, can’t you? There can’t be any harm in spending a few minutes with an old friend.” He straightened. “I’ll head back to my hotel as soon as you promise.”

Beth slowly nodded. “I suppose I might. Lately I’ve enjoyed stopping in a shop or two while in town, so Aunt Wilma won’t worry if I don’t come directly home.”

“Good. You’ll be glad you decided to trust me.”

Beth stepped away from his extended hand. “I said nothing about trusting you, Brent. I’m meeting you and giving you the opportunity to unburden yourself, that’s all.”

His smile grew more confident, and he allowed his arm to drop to his side. “You won’t be sorry, my dear girl. You can count on that.”

Wilma stepped away from the window and sank into the overstuffed sofa in the parlor, trying to still her shaking hands. Nothing had moved outside for at least ten minutes. Had he spirited Beth away or convinced her to leave with him? Maybe she should check. Her dear girl could be in danger.

She pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her neck.
Stop it, Wilma. You raised the girl well. You must stop it, or you’ll have indigestion and be awake half the night.
Look what happened the last time she thought she’d seen Brent Wentworth—she clubbed a man over the head and could have landed in jail.

Frances hobbled into the room. “Would you care for some company?” She peered over her spectacles and moved a little closer. “Your face is quite pale. Whatever seems to be the problem?”

Wilma patted the cushion beside her on the sofa and grimaced. “I do not particularly like my own company at the moment. Please sit.”

Her friend settled her small frame and sighed. “It feels wonderful to be off my feet. Now tell me what is troubling you, and do not attempt to steer me off course this time with any more folderol. I can tell when a person is in distress.”

“I believe I’m seeing things. Do you think it’s possible I might be losing my mind, Frances?”

The older woman snorted. “That is a bunch of poppycock. Why, you are one of the most sensible persons I know. Besides myself, of course.” A smile stretched across her features, and she patted Wilma’s hand. “Whatever led you to ask such an outrageous question?”

“I saw Beth talking to someone outside. I thought …” She paused, hating how suspicious she’d become.

Frances leaned forward. “What? Go on, now, finish your sentence.”

Wilma glanced at the window. “I came downstairs from taking a nap and wondered if Beth was back from her walk. I looked out the window and saw her talking to a man. It was impossible to see who he was, shaded by the tree boughs, but there was something about the way he stood …” She shook her head. “I am sure I was mistaken. Again.”

“Again? Whatever do you mean?”

“The distressful business with Mr. Lansing at the Arlington Hotel restaurant. I am certain I told you about that.”

“Only that Mr. Lansing accosted Beth and you gave him his just deserts. The man should have been horsewhipped and ridden out of town on a rail. You let him off quite easily. But what do you mean about being mistaken?”