Wishing on Buttercups (2 page)

He glanced at the envelope from his father and scowled. No telling what he might want, but based on his recent correspondence, it probably wasn’t good. Jeffery’s thoughts flitted back to Miss Roberts, and he grunted. Speculation about her behavior no longer seemed proper. He couldn’t speak for anyone else, but his letter was only one of the things he’d prefer to keep private.

Beth slipped into the boardinghouse, hoping she could get to her room without being seen. Not that she disliked any of the other residents, but the letter from her editor begged to be read. She hadn’t dared to stop along the way after her encounter with Mr. Tucker.

She’d made it to the foot of the stairs when the skin on the back of her neck tingled. Gripping the banister, she turned and peered over. “Aunt Wilma.” She released the breath she’d been holding. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Wilma Roberts crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Why are you tiptoeing?”

Beth tried not to roll her eyes. Aunt Wilma never had a problem with subtlety. Maybe a change of topic would deter the dear woman from further prying. “Did you have a good visit with Mrs. Cooper? I hope she’s not feeling poorly again.”

“Frances is as strong as a horse. As long as her gout doesn’t kick up, that is.” Aunt Wilma narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m going to my room to rest, Auntie. It’s been a long day.”

“What are you hiding?” The older woman took a step closer, and her eyes shifted to the handbag clutched against Beth’s chest. “Did you get a letter?”

Beth glanced down. The corner of the envelope peeked out of her reticule. “It’s nothing to worry about.” She stepped onto the bottom stair.

Aunt Wilma raised her chin and glared. “Did that good-for-nothing rapscallion from Topeka have the gall to contact you after I told him to stay out of your life?”

“What?” Beth’s thoughts spun, trying to keep up with the sudden shift in direction. “Brent Wentworth?”

“I’d prefer not to have his name spoken, but yes, that’s the scoundrel I meant.”

Fresh pain knifed Beth’s heart. She’d worked so hard to forget the man who’d won her love a year ago. “I haven’t heard from him since we left Topeka.” She waved a dismissive hand at her bag. “It’s nothing to worry you, truly. Now I want to go upstairs, if you don’t mind.” She touched the small locket hanging on a chain around her neck, finding comfort in the contact.

It wasn’t often Beth spoke to anyone in that tone, but she didn’t care to linger. She trooped up the steps, thankful beyond measure that Aunt Wilma had secured two rooms when they’d arrived in Baker City earlier this summer. As much as she loved the woman who’d taken her in as a toddler, she could be quite overbearing at times.

Sinking onto the brocade-covered chair near the window, Beth pulled out the envelope. What if they no longer wanted her work? This might be the last check she’d ever receive. But even if it was, did the money they paid her really matter?

No. She had not spent a dollar of it since the first one arrived. Getting that initial contract for her illustrations had boosted her confidence, but only in a minuscule way. After all, every drawing was published under the name of Elizabeth Corwin rather than Beth Roberts.

The skin on her arm prickled again. How timely. The scars on her neck, arms, and legs were a constant reminder of the shadows that had dogged her from the age of three. What made her think an important magazine would see her worth if they knew her real identity? So far they appreciated her drawings, but let them catch a whiff of the mystery surrounding her childhood, and that would end. She’d decided early on that hiding her identity would serve her purposes the best.

Time to quit ignoring the inevitable. If her editor decided he no longer needed her work, she wanted to know. With trembling fingers she withdrew the letter and spread it on her lap, not yet daring to look closely at the check.

Dear Miss Corwin,

Please accept this draft as compensation for the recent illustration you presented, along with an advance payment against your future contract. Our periodical has experienced an expanding readership demanding more depictions of the Oregon Trail as well as life in the West. We’re contracting you to produce a series of four illustrations of your choice capturing the westward movement and living in a town out West. Possibly something with a boardinghouse or cabin theme would be appropriate.

Our readers are quite taken with your art, and we trust you to provide us with more exceptional work. Please sign and return the agreement, and submit your first drawing no more than thirty days hence.

Yours most respectfully,

Byron Stearns, editor, The Women’s Eastern Magazine

Beth slumped against the chair, shock and excitement coursing through her body. Four illustrations of her choice, with a portion advanced. She’d assumed the check to be for the most recent drawing she’d submitted and hadn’t noticed the amount. Her insides quivered so hard she almost felt sick. This couldn’t be real.

Snatching up the letter, she read it again, savoring each word. They trusted her and liked her work. Their readers wanted more. Shivers of delight danced up her spine, chasing away the unease.

She grasped the check and held it to the light. One hundred dollars. “Oh my!” She placed her fingers over her lips to keep from shouting. This would keep her and Aunt Wilma in comfort for a couple of months. Then, as she scanned the document again, her heart plummeted, leaving her cold and shaken. Elizabeth Corwin. The check was made out to Elizabeth Corwin. How had she forgotten that detail?

It hadn’t been a problem picking up her mail, as it came in care of Aunt Wilma. And there’d been no difficulty cashing the three smaller amounts when she’d lived in Topeka, with a childhood friend and confidant as her bank teller. If he still worked there, she’d simply sign and send it to him. Opening an account here in Baker City without proof of her identity—or, rather, confirmation of her alias—could prove difficult. Aunt Wilma could vouch for her, but would anyone really believe her to be an upcoming illustrator for one of the largest magazines in the East? People in this town knew her as Beth Roberts, the quiet, shy young woman who lived with her aunt on the edge of town, and she’d prefer it remained that way.

She leaned back in her chair and a sigh escaped. If she didn’t cash the check, would the magazine editor think she didn’t want the contract? Surely not. She’d sign the agreement and get it in tomorrow’s mail before they changed their minds. It would be legally binding whether or not she spent the money. After all, Auntie had plenty of money of her own and certainly didn’t need her help. She’d tuck it away for now and quit worrying.

And while payment was nice, it wasn’t the reason she sketched. When her pencil flew over the paper, creating new worlds and half-forgotten scenes, she knew what it was to truly be alive. Something inside cried to be released and nothing satisfied so completely as her work.

No one could understand the depths of insecurity she’d lived with all her life—the bottomless pit of fear and anguish that struck her every time the shadowy memories surfaced. The scars on her limbs … she had only vague recollections of where they’d come from, but a definite knowledge of what they represented. But all of that disappeared when she escaped into her chosen field.

Art. It drew her, calmed her, healed her, in a manner little else had ever done.

Somewhere along the way, a voice had started to whisper in the early-morning hours while she lay in bed. Often she thought it must be her own mind playing tricks, hoping to convince her the past didn’t matter. She’d pushed it away at first, but it had persisted, pulling her into the warmth of its embrace. Trying to persuade her to accept—something.

Rising to her feet with new resolve, she neatly tucked the letter and check into the envelope. Tomorrow she’d sign the contract and place it in the outgoing mail. Right now she must make her way downstairs to supper and put on an unassuming face. How would she avoid Aunt Wilma’s badgering questions? It didn’t bother her to tell Auntie about the contract offer, but the world, including Aunt Wilma, must never see her uncertainty.

She touched a spot on her arm where the scars were prominent. Not knowing what exactly had happened in the past—or more precisely, why—had caused her so much pain.

And her early childhood was only a portion of what she’d had to endure. Beth’s thoughts flashed to Brent Wentworth, the reason she and Aunt Wilma had left Topeka, Kansas. After years of guarding her heart, Beth had finally chosen to open herself to love. She’d been so certain she’d found a man who would love and accept her without condition. She lifted her chin. Never would she make that mistake again.

Chapter Two

Jeffery paced the narrow confines of his room looking for something to kick … even if that action wouldn’t solve his dilemma. The last thing he wanted was to return home, or worse, have his father come storming westward to “knock some sense” into him, as the recent letter from his parents had threatened. He didn’t know how to respond, or whether to simply ignore the demand and hope they’d leave him alone.

Not that he didn’t love his parents and younger siblings, but Mother and Father didn’t understand his hopes and dreams. Sure, he knew they’d always hoped he’d marry the girl they’d picked out for him and settle near them. It made sense that as the oldest he’d want to travel that route, but his heart had never been inclined to live off his family’s wealth or follow in his father’s footsteps. Writing was life’s sustenance for him. Even as a boy he’d penned wild stories rather than doing his schoolwork. One teacher had seen his promise and encouraged him, much to his parents’ dismay. They’d grudgingly allowed his foray into the newspaper world, but their patience had waned when he’d left his last job and moved west, looking for inspiration.

This newest bit of correspondence left no doubt to their misgivings or expectations: “Come home and take your rightful place in the family,” they demanded, “or don’t expect an inheritance in the future.” Not that he cared about his parents’ fortune, but he
had
hoped for their understanding, if not their approval of his chosen profession.

Then there was the letter from the publisher to whom he’d sent a sample of his manuscript. Another rejection. Unlike what Mr. Beal suggested, Jeffery wasn’t a famous author, but rather a failure who, it appeared, couldn’t write anything worth printing. He’d been sure this newest idea would find acceptance, if not outright delight, but three editors had turned it down and only one remained. He’d gotten to the point where his heart sank at the thought of picking up the mail.

Jeffery tossed the letter on the bureau and grabbed his hat. He needed some air to clear the dust from his brain. Yanking open the door, he strode into the hall and collided with a soft body clothed in sapphire blue. His arms encircled her briefly, and his heart jumped as his hands touched the curls cascading down her back.

“Oh!” Beth Roberts leaped out of his grasp and stumbled over the hem of her gown.

“Pardon me, Miss Roberts. My fault entirely.”

She shook her head, setting the dark curls to dancing. Just as swiftly she placed her hand over her hair at the base of her neck and took a step back. “No. I was daydreaming and didn’t hear your door open. I’m on my way to supper.” A flush rose to her cheeks and her eyelids fell, masking the radiant blue of her eyes. “Is—is that where you were headed?”

“Supper? I’d forgotten the time.” He blinked but couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face. Why hadn’t he noticed the depth of her eye color before? “Of course.” He extended his arm. “Would you care to accompany me?”

She slipped her hand through his crooked elbow. “Thank you.”

He’d not taken especial note of her before, but he couldn’t deny his intense feeling of curiosity since their encounter at the post office earlier today.

Maybe she would merit a bit more investigation. He drew in a long, deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beat of his heart. Surely his interest in Miss Roberts was simply that of a curious writer. After all, he’d been a budding journalist before he’d branched off on his own, hoping to write a book that would gain attention in the literary world—both careers his family disparaged, but he didn’t care. Jeffery hazarded another glance at the quiet young woman beside him. The light touch of her hand on his arm sent a wave of awareness through him—another thing his family wouldn’t approve. His mother had made it clear she hoped he’d one day marry a socialite from one of her circles. He turned an encouraging smile on Miss Roberts. He’d prove to his family he could make wise choices and prosper on his own and hopefully win a new friend in the endeavor.