Wishing on Buttercups (42 page)

She opened her lips to reply but stopped short. How could she have forgotten? He wouldn’t want her when he knew. Beth drew back against the seat.

Jeffery dropped his hand to his lap. “Beth? Did I say something wrong? Is it too soon? I’m so sorry if I’ve rushed you.”

She turned away. “That’s not it at all. You did nothing wrong.”

He gently drew her around to face him. “Then what? Please explain it to me, so I can make it right, whatever it is.”

Sorrow swelled in her heart. “No one can make it right. It all happened so long ago, and there’s no changing it.”

“Beth, look at me. Please.” He waited until her eyes met his. Warmth flowed into her, and she drank it in like someone too long in the cold. “If you’re talking about the fact that the Arapaho had you for a number of months, or that you didn’t know who you were much of your life, that doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t care if you still didn’t know, or if you’d lived with the Indians for years instead of months. I love
you
, Beth, and your past is part of who you are. Surely you see that.” He tucked a wayward curl under her hood, and the touch of his hand sent shivers up her spine.

She wanted to pull away—insist he drive her back to the house and allow her to go her way—but she didn’t have the strength to break free of his touch. Longing for his love drew her, but disillusionment from so many rejections in her past pushed her away. She felt like a piece of warm taffy, tugged first one way, then the other, stretched almost to breaking. “It’s not that either, Jeffery. You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand. Tell me what is troubling you.”

Beth grasped her sleeve and shoved it up almost to her elbow. She thrust it toward him, the rigid scar uppermost. “Look.”

He wrinkled his brow as he peered at her arm, then raised a quizzical glance to hers. “What am I supposed to see other than your perfectly lovely arm?”

Was he teasing her or trying to make her feel better? “The scar.” The words were more curt than she’d planned, but she needed to disguise her hurt.

“I see that. Does it have some significance?”

She slumped in her seat. He didn’t understand. “That is only one of many. The bits and pieces of memory have been coming together these past weeks. I’d been playing with the other children and got tired. I must have fallen asleep in the tall grass of a meadow and maybe that’s why no one saw me. By the time I woke, the wagons were gone. I don’t think I actually saw them leave. That memory might have come from being used to walking behind at times and watching them roll across the prairie.”

Jeffery nodded and offered an encouraging smile.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I remember running and crying. I stumbled and fell into a fire pit still full of hot coals. My arms, legs, and part of my back were burned.” She shivered at the dark memory that returned stronger each time she revisited it. “I am horribly scarred, and even I have a hard time looking at some of the more deformed places.” She shook her head and drew farther away. “I don’t think you could see them and still love me.”

Jeffery grasped her hand. She tried to pull away, but he clasped it tighter. “Is that all?”

She stared at him, not sure she understood. Was the man daft or being purposely obtuse? “All what? I told you I have many of these.” She lifted her arm again, determined he appreciate her words this time. “All my life I’ve lived in fear of these scars. At an early age I recognized they set me apart from other children—made me less desirable as a person in their eyes. I was damaged and not someone they cared to bring into their innermost circle. I learned to live on the outside and raised the walls of my heart to keep out the pain, but I always knew. I am not like other women and never will be.”

Jeffery gave her a tender smile. “And thank the good Lord for that wonderful fact.”

She pulled back, stung by his words, but somehow comforted by his tone. “I’m not sure I understand.”

He sobered and squeezed her hand that he’d managed to retain. “I meant that you are not like other women, or I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. You are not silly or obnoxious or flirtatious, or any of the other half-dozen things that often irritate me about young women. You are beautiful in form as well as actions, intelligent, kind, well-spoken, talented—the list goes on. I do not see what those scars have to do with my feelings for you.”

More than anything Beth wanted to believe his words—longed to trust that he wouldn’t change his mind when he truly saw what her dress kept hidden—but the hurt of the years went too deep. Brent’s betrayal still lingered in her thoughts, even while she worked to push it away. “But you can’t know that, Jeffery. What if you were to see more and be repulsed? I don’t think I could stand that.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It would destroy me.”

Sympathy mixed with tender love warmed his expression. He scooted closer to her side and stroked her wrist, his fingers running over the ridge of skin on the inner surface. “Does it hurt?”

She shivered at his touch. “Not anymore. It hasn’t for years.”

He gently picked up her arm and leaned over, placing his lips against the scar. “Nothing about you could ever repulse me.” He kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger a little longer. “I don’t care if your entire body is covered with scars ten times worse than this one. A hundred times worse. It does not matter to me.
You
are what matters. The woman who resides inside and who shines out for the entire world to see. That is who I fell in love with, and who I will continue to love, regardless of the condition of your skin. That is nothing to me and never will be.” He raised his face to hers and drew her close. “Do you believe me, Beth? And do you love me?”

Tremors of pure joy ran over her skin, and she leaned toward him. “Yes, I love you so much, Jeffery.”

He dipped his head as though to kiss her but stopped. “But do you believe me? Do you trust me?”

Everything within her seemed to slow as she searched for the answer.

Trust.

God had asked her to trust Him in those still times of the night.

To wait.

She hadn’t understood what she was waiting for at the time, but now she knew. For this moment, this man, this declaration of love. The hope for her future. And, more than that, the opportunity to open her heart and be vulnerable—to trust another person fully and completely—without reservation or fear.

God had given her this gift. There would be no more wishing on buttercups, wondering if the man of her dreams would love her, or love her not. Through God’s grace and in so many ways, Jeffery had proven that he did.

And now she would make the choice that would change her life forever. “Yes, I believe you. And I trust you more than any person in the world.”

He bent his head and brushed her lips with a sweet, soft kiss. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“I cannot think of anything that would bring me more delight. I love you, Jeffery, with all that is within me.”

His face broke into a deeply satisfied smile, and he lowered his head once again.

She clung to him this time, drinking in his love like nectar from a flower. She’d waited for this man all of her life … a man who looked beyond the scars of the past, a man who had shown a steadfast love and helped her to trust again … and she would never let this man go.

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer ...

AfterWords
—just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

Turn the page for ...

• Author’s Note

• Great Questions for Individual Reflection and/or Group Discussion

• A Sneak Peek at Book Three:
Dreaming on Daisies

• About the Author

• Other Books by Miralee Ferrell

Author’s Note

Why I Wrote This Story

A question many authors are asked is, “What prompted you to write this particular book?” I had to think about it for a while to truly decipher what drove me this time. I discovered it was more than one thing—in fact, one issue came to light that I hadn’t realized until recently.

Naturally I hoped to find a story line that would entertain readers, and I wanted to continue with the characters created in
Blowing on Dandelions
. But each book needs a theme. I don’t ever want to write a simple romance without something that drives it. In this case, it was a young woman who’d been damaged—not only physically, but emotionally, due to the scars from her childhood.

As I thought about that, I realized many of us carry hurts and scars from words spoken or actions taken that we had little or no control over. I had a wonderful childhood with caring, supportive parents, and I grew up having a best friend, Kit, from the time I was three. At first I wasn’t sure I could relate to Beth and her inner turmoil; then memories started to surface. My third-grade teacher, disgusted that I couldn’t write cursive (I’d transferred from a school that taught it starting in grade two), openly ridiculed me before the class and other teachers. Her actions colored my self-perception that entire year and the next, and my eagerness to learn and belief in myself declined.

Later, as a committed Christian attending a public high school, I didn’t fit in with any of the popular kids. I didn’t endure the bullying that so many do now, but I was often on the outside looking in. Thankfully my personality is such that it didn’t affect me to a deep degree, but nevertheless, I understand the angst so many teens endure at the hands of their peers.

Later, as an adult, I endured an unintentional wound from a friend who allowed me to believe something within my personality was unattractive enough to sever our friendship—that blow set me back emotionally to the point that, for a while, I struggled to even attend church, certain others must see the same flaws.

My hope in writing this book is to show that God is able to take even the wallflowers of this world and cause them to blossom. No matter what we’ve been through in our past, He is able to heal the deepest hurt. Our Lord accepts us where we are, for who we are, scars and all. He looks beyond our overweight bodies, our acne-scarred skin, and all our other “deformities” we think or know we might have, and sees what’s inside—the lovely person He created us to be.

I used my daughter, Marnee, as my role model in my first historical romance—and she’s another of my “treasures.” Now it’s my son’s turn. I dedicated this book to my son, Steven, even though he’s a different personality type than the character by that name. Steven is a US Marine who served in Iraq, a husband, and a brand-new father, but he’s also the epitome of an excellent son. I named a character after him because
my
Steven has a similar trait—he’s tenderhearted and compassionate toward his family. He was always the one who noticed if I was upset and was the quickest to apologize or show compassion. I’m so proud he’s my son.

Within the confines of
Wishing on Buttercups
, there are a couple of true threads. One is the Oregon Trail, which lies within a mile of the outskirts of Baker City, Oregon. Many trains passed along that route, although by the time of my story it had dwindled to only a trickle. Baker City was on the edge of being a booming mining town and would see rapid growth over the next few years, and many historical buildings built during that time period still stand today.

When possible, I try to weave either a historical or family event into my plot, and the episode with Micah losing his grip on the paint can and it toppling onto Isaac Lansing’s hat is a perfect example. When my father was a child, my grandfather accidentally lost his grip on a can of paint while working on a roof. It bounced over the eaves and landed upside down on the head (and hat) of a neighbor who caused trouble every time he showed up at the farm. My grandfather exploded in laughter, and quite understandably, the neighbor left in a huff. No lawsuit or action was brought against my grandfather, but the neighbor found fewer reasons to come around from that time forward.