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.
Beth hesitated, drawn by the offer to accompany this man she knew so little about, but apprehensive at the expression he’d cast her way. Had he noticed her hand creeping to her neck, or did his curiosity go deeper? She couldn’t risk her heart again, no matter how appealing the man.
She gave him what she hoped passed for a pleasant smile. She had hardly any practice in speaking with men … other than Brent. But this was certainly not the time or the place to think of him. “I appreciate your offering to accompany me, Mr. Tucker.”
A gleam lit his eyes, and he grinned. “We’ve lived in the same house for a number of months now, and I’d wager a guess I’m not too many years your senior. Would you be averse to addressing me as Jeffery? I’m afraid I have few friends in this town, and it would be nice to hear my Christian name occasionally.”
She raised her brows. “But I barely know you, Mr. Tucker.”
“Quite so. But that could be remedied.”
Her mind raced. “So you’d like to be friends?”
“If that’s acceptable and you’re willing to have a go at it.”
She shot a glance at the man striding confidently beside her. She’d never really thought about their age difference but guessed him to be somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties, possibly six or seven years her senior. His sandy brown hair, flecked with gold, was combed to the side rather than slicked back in the current fashion. Deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners and glinted with a hint of humor while his firm chin gave rise to ideas of strength mingled with tenderness. He’d
be a pleasure to sketch.
Beth dragged her gaze away, praying she wasn’t blushing. Where in the world had those thoughts come from? Certainly, Mr. Tucker was a fine-looking man—tall, well built, and impeccably dressed—but she had no business allowing her mind to stray in that direction. “I’m not certain. People might talk if they hear us use our Christian names.”
He halted and turned. “No one at this house would give a fig if we do. But if it concerns you, we can fall back on more formal address outside the boardinghouse or when company comes to call.”
She nodded, certain she’d heard a note of yearning. Or did she imagine it due to her own loneliness? Either way it shouldn’t matter. He’d proven himself a gentleman since their first meeting, and there was no reason to disregard his request. “All right. I’ll agree, Mr. Tucker, if you think it appropriate.”
A captivating smile revealed a cleft in his chin. “Jeffery, if you please, Beth.”
Her heart fluttered, and she dropped her lashes. “Certainly. Jeffery.”
“Now let’s make our way to supper before they decide to start without us, shall we?” He patted the hand she’d slipped through the crook of his arm, then moved his away.
Something akin to disappointment tugged at her when his hand no longer touched hers. How foolish. She must steel herself against this man’s charm. Beth had felt the same emotions a little over a year ago when Brent swept into her life, and she still had the broken heart to prove it. He had abandoned her without explanation. How many times must she remind herself no one would see her as a prize worthy of marriage? Her own family had cast her off years ago. It wouldn’t do to allow Jeffery Tucker or anyone else inside the walls housing her closely guarded secrets. No. It wouldn’t do at all.
Chapter Three
Jeffery seated Beth at the table and sank onto the chair across from her. What had possessed him to suggest they drop the accepted formality and use their Christian names? One glimpse of those compelling blue eyes, and his heart had melted … but only for a moment. He’d made sure of that.
He couldn’t allow any woman, no matter how sweet and unassuming, to get in the way of his attaining his goals for the future. How many times had his father berated him for allowing a girl to distract him from his studies? Father had done his best to squelch those budding friendships and drilled into him the need to focus on a career.
“Mr. Tucker.” Wilma Roberts tapped his left arm with a fan. “I have a question, if I might be so bold.” She accepted the bowl of mashed potatoes he handed her.
Jeffery mustered a smile. “Certainly, Mrs. Roberts.” The only person bolder than Mrs. Roberts in this house was Mrs. Cooper, the mother of the establishment’s owner. Frances Cooper and Wilma Roberts had settled into a tentative friendship that still amazed him, considering the high degree of conflict they’d encountered shortly after Beth and her aunt Wilma had moved to the boardinghouse.
“What exactly are you writing? You have never been forthcoming about your work, but I seem to recollect earlier this summer you rejoicing over an idea that struck you. I meant to ask about it, but not long after, Mrs. Galloway … er, I mean Mrs. Jacobs …” She cast a flustered glance at her landlady. “I’m sorry. You and Mr. Jacobs have only been married a short time, and I’m still adjusting to your new name.”
Micah Jacobs smiled. “There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Roberts. We’re still adjusting, ourselves.”
Katherine took a sip of her water, then nodded sweetly toward her husband. “We’ve only been back from our wedding trip for ten days, so it’s understandable you’d forget.” She turned her attention toward Jeffery. “And I’d be very interested in knowing the answer to your question as well, if Mr. Tucker doesn’t mind sharing with us.”
He did mind but didn’t see much hope in escaping the direct questions. He’d lived in Baker City for a number of months now and had managed to evade talking about his work. It looked like the time had come to open up to some extent, at least with these people he lived with.
He took a bite of roast beef, chewed it slowly, and swallowed. “I suppose I can tell you a little, if you really care to hear about it.”
Mrs. Roberts clasped her hands. “Yes, I’m sure we all do. Is it a romance, Mr. Tucker? I do hope so.” She removed a slice of bread from the plate in front of her.
Frances Cooper snorted. “What nonsense. I do not understand how anyone can read that drivel. Please tell me you do not immerse yourself in those dreadful books, Wilma.”
The woman dabbed her lips with her napkin, then laid it carefully beside her plate. “Romance is not drivel. Some of the finest books and plays ever written are romance. Look at Romeo and Juliet, for one. Shakespeare was a genius.”
“Piffle.” Mrs. Cooper waved her hand. “It is impossible to understand half of what that man wrote. Poetry is far better. Mr. Henry Longfellow is brilliant. Even Queen Victoria recognized the man when she invited him to her castle.” She turned to Jeffery. “I do hope you are writing poetry, Mr. Tucker.”
Jeffery coughed into his napkin, trying to contain the laughter threatening to erupt. One minute these women were cozied up like two bosom friends and the next they were sparring like two fighting hens. “I am afraid not, ma’am. I don’t seem to have a talent for verse and rhyme.”
She harrumphed and crossed her arms. “More’s the pity. So it is romance then?” She glowered at Mrs. Roberts.
“No, I cannot say that’s the case either.”
The excitement died from Wilma Roberts’s countenance. “What then? Not a textbook or medical journal, I hope?” Her lips twisted in distaste.
Frances perked up. “Now, that would be a worthwhile endeavor. I am so glad to hear you are not stooping to penning trash.”
Katherine’s chuckle cut across Mrs. Roberts’s attempt at a reply. “Ladies, if we could all calm ourselves, Mr. Tucker might enlighten us as to his subject.”
Her older daughter, Lucy, nodded. “I hope it’s a story for girls.”
Jeffery laughed outright and leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like you folks have plenty of ideas. If I ever run dry, I’ll know who to ask.” He looked around the table, suddenly aware that Beth hadn’t offered a comment. He hadn’t expected one from Micah’s fifteen-year-old son, Zachary, or Mrs. Jacobs’s younger daughter, Mandy, but wondered at Beth’s silence. He’d thought she may make an observation after their talk on the way to supper. But on second thought, she’d never been one to chatter and often kept her own counsel. A glimpse at Beth showed her lips were turned up.
He relaxed and allowed a hint of a smile to touch his own lips. “Maybe I should make you all wait until the day it comes out in print.” A memory of the letter in his room returned. “That is, if it ever does.”
“Oh no. That’s not fair.” Cries of disapproval echoed around the table, overlapping one another.
He held up his hand, surprise and pleasure warming his heart. “I had no idea you were interested in my work. I confess this comes as a bit of a shock.”
Micah Jacobs rested his forearms on the table. “I can’t remember you being willing to discuss it, Mr. Tucker. None of us wanted to press you for details.”
Jeffery’s conscience pricked him, and he nodded. Micah was right. He had been more than a little secretive since moving to Baker City. Fear of failure had driven him at first, but once he’d slipped into keeping his own counsel, it seemed easier to maintain that state. He looked from one eager face to the next. On further reflection, it might be pleasant to discuss his work with others from time to time.
“All right. I’m not sure what genre it might fit into, but it is definitely a novel. It is fiction, but …” He wondered what the reaction would be to his next announcement. “It has its basis in a certain amount of fact. I’m writing about a boardinghouse in the West, set in a small mining town, and populated with a number of colorful, interesting characters.”
Mrs. Roberts placed her hand over her heart. “What a wonderfully delicious idea.”
“Delicious? Are you quite sane, Wilma?” Mrs. Cooper’s eyes blazed.
Mandy, Katherine’s seven-year-old daughter, squealed with delight. “Am I in your book, Mr. Tucker? How about Lucy and Zachary? Can we read it when you finish?”
“I will not have it.” Mrs. Cooper pushed to her feet. “I cannot believe you are penning a book of gossip. It is dreadful, that’s what. Simply dreadful.”
Mrs. Roberts laughed and clapped her hands. “Not at all. Think of it, Frances. We might be famous one day. You mentioned Queen Victoria inviting Mr. Longfellow to her castle. Why, if Mr. Tucker’s book is widely recognized, President Hayes might want to meet all of us! I’m delighted, and you should be as well.”
Micah Jacobs cleared his throat. “Ladies, it might be a good idea to allow Mr. Tucker to explain before we all get in a lather.” He swiveled toward Jeffery. “Go ahead. We’d enjoy hearing more about your idea, if you aren’t scared off yet.”
Jeffery shook his head. “Not at all, but I didn’t expect such a reaction.” He glanced at Mrs. Cooper, who sank into her chair, a frown still marring her face. “Please don’t distress yourself. I haven’t used any of your names, and I have no intention of being disrespectful or employing gossip. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Beth dug her heels into the carpet so as not to jump from the table as Mrs. Cooper had done. Why in the world would Mr. Tucker—she could no longer call him by his Christian name and would tell him so at her first opportunity—think it appropriate to write a story using them as fodder? She’d appreciated the man’s offer of friendship but now saw it for what it was. A ruse to worm his way into her confidence and dig into her life. No better than Brent. Well, it wouldn’t work. She would not allow herself to be manipulated or used again, no matter how handsome or charming the man.
Wishing on Buttercups Page 2