Wishing on Buttercups (33 page)

The next morning Beth leaned her head against the overstuffed chair in the parlor, reliving the evening before.

She knew exactly why she’d gone—Jeffery had asked her. The longing in his expression had been so intense she couldn’t say no, even with his father glowering his disapproval. And when Jeffery had stepped to her side and looked down at her, she had almost melted at his nearness. Beth relaxed, remembering the strong touch of his hands as he’d kept her from falling.

“Beth?”

She sat upright and blinked. Jeffery leaned against the door frame of the parlor. Had thinking about him made him materialize? “Hello. Is your father with you?”

“No, he’s working on some correspondence. Writing to Mother, I assume.”

Beth smiled up at him. “I had a wonderful time last night, and I’m so glad you asked me to come.” She hesitated before plunging into what had been on her mind since awakening that morning. “I hope you don’t object to my asking, but are you going home with your father? He made it quite clear last night that he expects you to.”

Jeffery indicated the sofa across from her chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Please do.”

He frowned. “I’m afraid I will continue to be a disappointment to my parents.”

“I’m sure you aren’t a disappointment, Jeffery.”

He offered a rueful grin. “Oh, but I am. I have been so for several years, and when I refuse to accompany him home, it will only intensify.” Leaning forward, he held her eyes. “I do not care to leave Baker City.”

Beth’s breath caught, and her heart tripped before settling into a faster rate. “I know you are working on your second book, and I’m so sorry we’ve not had a chance to discuss it.” She bent her head.

Jeffery scooted forward to the edge of the sofa cushion, his knees only inches from hers. “That is not why I’m choosing to stay, Beth. I hope you know that.”

“I’m not sure …” She shivered at his nearness, and she didn’t know whether to move back in her chair or inch closer toward him. Her heart pulled her toward him, but she settled for staying exactly where she was.

“I think you are.” A smile hovered around the corners of his mouth. “We haven’t discussed that I kissed you. I must admit, I am not sorry at all. In fact, if I had it to do over again …” Jeffery took her hand in his. “Surely you know by now that I care for you. We haven’t had a lot of time to get properly acquainted, and I’ll confess I took unfair liberties when I kissed you, but I couldn’t help myself.” He squeezed her hand. “If I stay here in Baker City, would you allow me to court you?”

“
If
you stay?” Visions of Brent’s desertion so many months ago loomed, and she drew back in the chair, her hand slipping free of his. Almost immediately she longed to grasp it again.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply I might leave,” he explained. “I plan to stay, regardless of your decision. I know that you’ve been hurt by Wentworth. I’m not sure what he promised you, but I understand he lied to you and cheated your aunt. I am not that kind of man.” His tender gaze held hers. “Won’t you give me a chance?”

Beth hesitated. If she said yes, and Jeffery later discovered her terrible scars, would he flee in revulsion and horror? The only reason Brent returned was the hope of gaining access to her aunt’s money. He’d said as much himself. And he had scorned her womanhood and cast aspersions on her past.

Jeffery
wasn’t
that type of man. If she said no and walked away, would she ever be certain she’d made the right decision?

She drew in a quick breath. “All right. I’ll trust you, but let’s move slowly, all right?”

He nodded, his eyes shining with hope. “I’m praying you’ll learn to believe in me before too long.”

October 15, 1880, La Grande, Oregon

The creak of the wooden door signaled Steven’s arrival, and Isabelle eased up from her chair. She held the magazine carefully extended before her, unwilling to crumple the pages she’d been staring at for what seemed like hours.

Steven shrugged out of his coat and hat and hung them on a peg behind the door. “It’s getting mighty cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get snow early this year. Maybe we need to think of moving sooner.” He turned and studied her. “Is something wrong?”

A strangled cry broke from Isabelle’s throat. “Look.” She thrust the magazine into his hands, open to the page that continued to haunt her.

He glanced down, then raised his eyes. “It’s a story about a boardinghouse. What is it you want me to see?”

“The illustration.” She pointed a shaking hand to the picture near the top of the page.

“It’s very nice, but I don’t understand …”

“Look at the name of the person who drew it, Steven.” Isabelle held her breath, almost afraid to breathe in case the name should disappear. Had she imagined the connection? Was it possible the past had finally caught up to her?

He stared at the illustration but only saw the initials E.C., so he flipped to the front of the magazine and purused the scant information about the story and the illustrator. “Elizabeth Corwin.” He stepped over to the window and placed the page squarely in the dim light filtering through the heavy clouds. “I’m still not sure what you’re upset about.”

Isabelle moved to his side and peered over his arm. “Surely you remember that name.”

“Yes, I know Corwin was your maiden name, but we don’t know any family members called Elizabeth Corwin. Do you think it might be a relative we haven’t met?”

She plucked the magazine from his hands. “Could it … do you think it possible, Steven?” Her shaking hands could barely hold the magazine as hope and fear collided, leaving her weak.

He jerked as if hit with a branding iron. “Now, Ma, don’t get your hopes up. How many times have you thought you’d found her, only to be disappointed? If Bess is alive, why would she use Grandmother’s name?” He shook his head. “It seems highly unlikely this person is Bess. It’s possible she’s a distant relative … or not related at all.” Steven gently took the magazine and flipped to the first page. “It says here it’s published in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Do you know of any family back East?”

Isabelle struggled to keep the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. She couldn’t be disappointed again. All day she’d been staring at this story and imagining her little girl all grown up and drawing these pictures. Bess had liked to draw when she was a wee thing, always scribbling on any scrap of paper or making pictures in the dirt. “Do you think we could contact the publisher or talk to the man who wrote the story? He might know who she is or where she lives.”

Steven shrugged. “I don’t know if the magazine would give a stranger that kind of information.” He flipped the pages until he located the story again. “It says the author is Jeffery Tucker, but no address or other information is given.”

She sank into her rocker and pushed with her toes, the creak of the old wood a comfort to her ears.

Her son suddenly stilled. “I met this man.” He lifted his head. “On my last trip to Baker City.” Steven jabbed at the page. “And it says right here he’s working out West writing the story but originally comes from Cincinnati. And the picture of this valley and town could easily be Baker City.”

Isabelle slumped against the wooden spindles and started to sob. “You’ve got to go back.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Please, Son. And you must take me with you.”

Chapter Thirty

October 18, 1880

Jeffery fiddled with his spoon and glanced around the restaurant, wondering if the man would put in an appearance. Why had Steven Harding sent word asking to meet him away from the boardinghouse? What could he possibly want? He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the face. Ten after four. A glimpse out the window showed the October sky was already growing dim with heavy clouds, and the sun sank over the mountains toward the western horizon.

Hard to believe it was already the eighteenth of October, and his father had yet to depart. If he didn’t leave soon, he could be trapped by an early snowfall, if what he heard from the old-timers was true. Most years, winter didn’t set in until the middle of November, although the Wallowa Mountains could get a coat well before then. He’d noticed a dusting of white on the Elkhorn Mountains while walking to town today and brought a heavy neck scarf to tuck into his woolen coat.

He pushed back his chair. It appeared Harding wasn’t going to appear. Just as well—dusk would arrive in a little over an hour.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Tucker, for keeping you waiting.” Steven Harding strode the last several paces to the table and held out his hand. “I had to stop by the bank, and they kept me longer than I expected.”

Jeffery rose and took the man’s hand, appreciating the firm grip. “I’m glad I waited, then. Would you care for something to drink? It’s quiet this time of day.”

Steven seated himself and nodded. “A strong cup of black coffee sounds perfect.” He twisted around and caught the server’s eye.

She hurried over, coffeepot in hand, and filled his cup. “Anything for you to eat, sir?”

“This is fine for now, thank you.” Steven took a sip and closed his eyes.

Jeffery chuckled. “Your first time to sit today, I take it. You can always tell a tired man by the way he appreciates his coffee.”

“It has indeed been a long day.” Steven took another drink and set his cup down, cradling it with his hands. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked to meet.”

“I am.” Jeffery saw no need to waste time. The man was tired, and he had no desire to linger after dark.

“All right then. I’ll lay it out for you. I didn’t care to bother Mrs. Jacobs, and I didn’t spend much time with anyone else for the short amount of time I was at your boardinghouse.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then his body tensed. “I’ll get right to the point. I want you to tell me everything you know about a Miss Elizabeth Corwin.”

Jeffery sat back and stared. “I beg your pardon?” Anger caused his muscles to tighten. Was this another good-for-nothing like Brent Wentworth, out to discover a young woman he could take advantage of? He hadn’t gotten that impression on their first meeting, but this type of question was highly unusual. He suddenly jerked up short. Harding had asked about Elizabeth Corwin, not Beth Roberts—he apparently didn’t know they were one and the same—and Jeffery had no intention of disclosing that fact. “Why do you ask?”

Steven shrugged. “I saw your name in a magazine alongside hers.”

Jeffery nodded and relaxed his clenched jaw. “She’s the illustrator for my book that’s running in
The Women’s Eastern Magazine
. But, to be blunt, I don’t care for your question.”

Steven held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I went about that wrong. Let me back up and start over.”

Jeffery crossed his arms over his chest. “That would be wise.”

“My mother begged me to return to Baker City, and she wanted to come along, but I wouldn’t allow it. Her health is poor, and the trip is too long. It will be hard enough moving her here in a couple of weeks, and I’m wondering now if that’s even possible, the way the weather is looking.”

“What does your mother have to do with Miss Corwin?”

The tension seemed to ooze out of Steven, and he slumped in his chair. “She thinks it is possible Miss Corwin might be my sister.”

Jeffery stiffened, his mind abuzz. Slowly he reexamined the man sitting across from him. Similar eyes, hair a shade darker, and a warm smile that somehow resembled Beth’s. He had known Harding looked familiar the first time they’d met him, but had no idea—

He jerked his thoughts to a halt. Having a family resemblance meant little. There were swindlers on every corner these days. Just look at Brent Wentworth. “What makes your mother believe that?” He narrowed his eyes as another thought occurred. “And why would you not know your own sister?”

Steven placed his forearms on the table. “Both good questions, but not ones I care to explain fully at the moment. I will tell you that we’ve been separated for a number of years, but beyond that I’d prefer not to say.”

Jeffery straightened his frame. “Then I’m afraid I am not at liberty to give you more information.”

Steven drew in his breath and expelled it with a soft grunt. “All right. My sister disappeared when she was very young, and Corwin is a family name. I would rather not go into a lot of detail now, if you please. Can you at least tell me if you know her?”

“I might.” Jeffery’s mind shot forward, trying to work through the scant information. “Although I don’t see why you can’t tell me more.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you, Tucker. I didn’t come here to tell you my family history, but to inquire if you have a way for me to get in touch with Miss Corwin. Is that too much to ask?”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about your mother first?”

“Fair enough.” Steven settled against his chair and took a drink of his coffee. “She was widowed a number of years ago and lives in La Grande. Her health is poor, and she’s been holding on, hoping to find Bess again.”

Jeffery started. “Bess? Your sister’s name?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Jeffery drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I can’t personally introduce you to Miss Corwin, but I’d be willing to see that a letter gets to her, if you’d care to give me one before you return to La Grande.”