Wishing on Buttercups

by Miralee Ferrell

  Beth slid her fingertip under the glued flap and raised the edge until she exposed the creamy stationery inside. She stared at it, drawn to the paper like a child to a candy counter.

  Gathering her courage, she pinched the exposed portion of paper, tugged it out, and lay it facedown on her skirt.

  How childish. It was only a letter from a stranger and might have no meaning at all. Resolutely Beth flipped over the missive. She closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and opened them, staring down at the beautifully scripted words.

  Dear Miss Corwin,

  I’m not certain how to present this. At best, you might find it ridiculous, or at worst, it will come as a shock. My name is Steven Harding, and my mother’s name is Isabelle Mason, as she married again after my father’s death. I would like to inquire—

  Forgive me, I find it hard to know how to proceed. I’ve rewritten this letter five times now and am on my last sheet. My mother and I have been searching for a missing family member for a number of years. She saw your drawings in The Women’s Eastern Magazine and noted your name. I realize it will sound fanciful and presumptive, but my sister’s name was Elizabeth. We called her Bess. My mother’s maiden name was Corwin, and when she saw your name, it gave her hope that you might know something about her daughter.

  Mother felt you might be she, but after careful reflection, I am more of the opinion this is a mistake. But I must keep my word and inquire, as Mother has numerous spells of weakness, and I fear another disappointment could cause grave consequences. Is it possible you might be related to our family? My father was Charles Harding, and my maternal grandmother was Mary Ann Elizabeth Corwin. We traveled by wagon train to Oregon seventeen years ago.

  I am hesitant to go into much detail by post, as my mother has suffered deep guilt over the loss of her child, and it is something she should explain. I am feeling most foolish writing this, as my sister’s name was Harding, not Corwin. But if you can convey any information concerning a young woman named Bess, I would be forever in your debt. You can reach me by post, and we’ll await your reply with humble gratitude.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Steven Harding

  Beth fell against the pillow, clutching the letter. Seventeen years ago. Headed to Oregon. His father was dead. The thoughts flew through her mind faster than she could process them. Why hadn’t he explained how his mother had “lost” her child? What did that mean, anyway?

  Hope tried to surface but was quickly replaced with a deep sense of dread. Was it possible a child could be accidentally lost for so many years, or was the woman having pangs of supposed “remorse” after seeing the illustrations in a national magazine?

  Beth rubbed her hands over her face, not sure what to think. Jeffery had admitted he’d found Steven Harding to be a decent sort, but they’d only spent a short amount of time together, and anyone could put on airs if the need required. She’d certainly learned that from personal experience.

  She could conceive of no reasonable explanation as to how they could have lost a three-and-a-half-year-old child. And even if they had, why hadn’t the parents come looking? Plucking the letter up, she scanned it again, searching for the sentence that struck her so hard.

  My mother has suffered deep guilt over the loss of her child, and it is something she should explain.

  Why would the woman be suffering guilt if she hadn’t done something inherently bad? Beth’s fingers relaxed, and the letter fluttered to the floor while her thoughts continued to race. And why care now, so many years later, unless she had something to gain?

  Beth had waited seventeen years for the truth, and right now she wasn’t positive she could handle it. Too often truth only brought pain and deeper loneliness.

  Maybe she would pray about it and talk to Jeffery, then give it a few days, or weeks, and see how she felt.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and grew louder as they progressed up the hall. Beth bolted from the bed and swept the letter off the floor. She stuffed it into the envelope and hurried to her desk. This was not something she cared to discuss with her aunt. Not now, and possibly not ever. The last thing Beth wanted to do was to hurt the woman who had poured so much love into her life.

  Jeffery paced the floor of the parlor across from his father, situated on the sofa. He had wanted to dash up the stairs after Beth, hold and comfort her, and assure her everything would be all right. Hope had blazed in her eyes when he’d given her the letter from Steven Harding, but within minutes it had withered, replaced by anxiety. Had he done the wrong thing in conveying the message? Why hadn’t he thought it through longer, rather than rushing home and delivering the envelope? He should have known how it would affect her.

  “Son, why don’t you sit down so we can talk?” his father requested. “I would guess your trouble has to do with a certain young woman who appears to be in distress. But I have something I want to discuss with you as well.” He waved toward the chair flanking the sofa. “Sit.”

  The habit of boyhood years made Jeffery halt, but he took his time doing his father’s bidding. His guard slipped into place. He had little doubt that the subject up for discussion was returning home at the earliest possible convenience. It didn’t matter—he had no intention of going anywhere. Not with Beth upset and her future at stake.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time. You’re correct. Beth is upset. I appreciate you noticing, but I doubt there’s anything you can do to help.”

  Mark Tucker gave a slow nod. “Perhaps so; we’ll have to see. But, first, the item I want to discuss.”

  “Yes, about that.”

  His father quirked a brow. “Tell me a little more about Miss Roberts and her aunt.”

  Jeffery’s heart stilled, and he eyed the parlor door. “Anyone could walk in, you know.”

  His father nodded. “Quite so. But I do have a reason for asking, and I’d appreciate an answer.”

  Jeffery restrained a snort. It was amazing how kind his parent could be one moment and how haughty the next. “Then I suggest we retire to my room, if you don’t mind.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They traveled upstairs in silence. Jeffery pulled the door shut and motioned toward the overstuffed chair, then took his own seat at the straight-backed chair next to his desk. “What did you want to know?”

  “From what Beth said, I gather they traveled here from Topeka, but I didn’t catch what brought them so far west. Do they have family here?”

  Jeffery winced. A couple of days ago he could have honestly answered in the negative, but now that he knew about Steven … yet what did he really know? No proof had been offered by Harding or his mother, and Beth had not confirmed their suspicion as correct. “I can’t say, sir. From what I understood when they arrived, Mrs. Roberts made the decision to travel for personal reasons.”

  “Do they plan on relocating here or returning to Kansas?”

  “I’m not certain, but I haven’t heard either of them discuss leaving.”

  “It’s curious they would be content to remain in a boardinghouse and haven’t found a home of their own.”

  Jeffery laced his fingers around his knee. “May I ask where all of this is leading?”

  His father hesitated, then gave a short nod. “I suppose that’s a fair question. I am trying to determine if you will ever be willing to move back to civilization where you belong.”

  Jeffery could not tolerate another round of pressure about returning home. “Father, I’m sorry. Let me make it clear for the last time. I am not going to Cincinnati with you. I want to visit, but I have no immediate plans to live there again.”

  “I understand that, and I imagine I have enough sense to decipher the reason. But that is not what I have on my mind at the moment.”

  “What do the Roberts ladies have to do with it?”

>   “Everything, from my perspective, as it appears you are in love with the young woman.”

  Jeffery could only stare. He finally shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come now, Son. You never have been good at hiding your emotions—at least not from your mother or me. If she were here, I’m confident she’d make the same observation. The only thing I’m not positive of is whether the young lady returns your affection. At times I would swear she does and then at other times I am not so certain.”

  Jeffery dropped his gaze to the floor. “That is an interesting observation, sir.”

  “Enough dithering. I find it difficult to believe you can’t—or won’t—own up to your feelings for Miss Roberts. She seems an intelligent person who is well spoken and decent. Are you ashamed?”

  Jeffery sat upright, fighting to contain his astonishment and temper. “Absolutely not! I simply do not see a reason to discuss my business.”

  His father rubbed his hands over his knees. “Not even with your father?”

  Jeffery couldn’t be certain if he’d imagined the slight trembling in the older man’s hands. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He shook his head. “I am saddened our relationship has grown so strained these past years that you can’t trust me. What have I done to earn that, Jeffery?” He ran his hand over his hair, disrupting it from its normally orderly state. “I am most sincere in asking and quite tired of the constant strain between us.”

  Could his father truly want to know? How many times had he tried to talk with him in past years, only to have him turn a deaf ear? He couldn’t imagine things would change now, and he hated to chance baring his soul, only to be ridiculed.

  “Please, Son. I did not travel all the way from Cincinnati to continue fighting. In fact, in spite of my demands when I first arrived, I find my eyes are opening to certain facts. I promise to listen this time.”

  Jeffery took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. “I appreciate all you and Mother have done for me. Please understand that. You were more than generous, and I know I’ve been a disappointment by not studying law. All I’ve ever wanted is to write.” He rubbed his hands on his trousers. “I do not want to sit through one social occasion after another, trying to impress the right people, nor do I care to live off your money.”

  His father started to interrupt, but Jeffery raised his hand. “Wait. Hear me out. I know you and Mother desire the best for me and feel I’m wasting my life. But I love what I’m doing. My first book was contracted and three chapters were printed in The Women’s Eastern Magazine with more to come. It’s not huge, but it is a start, and one that I am proud of—because I accomplished it alone. They did not offer the contract because my father is Mark Tucker or because I travel in the correct social circles or because I may inherit money someday. They offered it because they saw merit in my work. That is all I have ever hoped for or wanted.” He dropped his voice. “I wish you and Mother could understand that and be proud of me as well.”

  Mark Tucker sat as though frozen in ice, his gaze never wavering. “We are more proud of you than you can imagine. I had no idea …” He blinked. “Writing means so much to you, then?”

  Jeffery nodded. “It does. A year ago I would have said more than anything, but now I’m beginning to see there are other things more valuable. But it still holds a very important place in my life.”

  “I see. I wish we had understood—had listened before—so you wouldn’t have felt the need to leave home. You could have pursued your dream there just as well.”

  Jeffery gave a sharp shake of his head. “No, sir, I couldn’t. It was essential I strike off on my own. I needed another perspective. I had seen so little of real life. It was important that I experience disappointments and work for what I wanted, for it to have meaning. Besides, if life always comes easily, there would be very little passion to pour into one’s work.”

  “I meant it when I said your mother and I are proud of you. We were angry at first that you chose to leave, but the longer you were gone and the more determined you were to find your own way, the more we began to understand what a strong man you’d become.” He gave a dry laugh. “Not that I was willing to accept that for a long time, but your mother has a way of being … persuasive.” He raised his brows.

  Jeffery chuckled. “I remember.”

  “She told me to come out here and ask if you would return home, but if you insisted on staying I was to accept your decision and assure you of our love. I’m afraid I didn’t handle it the way she would have liked when I arrived. I was so certain that all I’d have to do was crook my finger and beckon.” He hung his head. “I owe you an apology, and I will have to give your mother one as well.”

  Shock rippled through Jeffery. “Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know. But, sir?”

  His father’s head came up. “Yes?”

  Jeffery offered a smile. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

  His father exhaled, then laughed. “I would be most appreciative. Your mother can be quite formidable when she’s angry.” He placed his hands on his knees. “Now. You mentioned there are other things in your life you’re coming to realize are important. I assume that includes Miss Roberts?”

  Jeffery gave a brief nod. “It does, but it goes deeper than that. Not long ago she challenged me to reexamine my relationship with God.”

  His father rubbed his hand over his chin and frowned. “Why? Haven’t you attended church since you arrived?”

  “That’s basically what I said to Beth. She informed me there is more to faith than church, and I need to dig deeper. That God wants me to know Him more intimately.”

  “Interesting concept. What exactly have you done with it?”

  Jeffery smiled. “For starters, I’m reading the Bible that sat in my trunk for the past year. It’s amazing what I’m learning—that God actually has a plan for my life. And I’m talking to Him more.” He shrugged. “I’m not certain where it will lead, but I know I’ve had more internal peace than ever before.”

  His father tipped his head. “Hmm. I like the sound of that. Now, back to Beth. There is something troubling that young woman, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. I like her, Jeffery. Truly like her. And should you ever decide to marry Beth and bring her back to Cincinnati—” He laughed. “There I go again. But all the same, she would be an asset to the family should that happy event transpire.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s good to know.”

  “On another subject, I have decided to deal with the man who is tormenting Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs—Isaac Lansing, I believe.” His lips tightened to a stern line. “The Jacobs are a delightful family. I have taken a fancy to all of them, but particularly their little girl, Amanda. If Lansing has his way, she could lose her home, and I cannot countenance such an action.”

  Jeffery knew that look well. He’d seen it more times than he could remember, when his father came home fired up over a case he was determined to win. And rarely did he lose. “What do you propose?”

  “I am still quite well known in legal circles, and I believe my name will carry weight even out here in this uncivilized country. I propose to speak to Mr. Lansing’s attorney and acquaint him with some facts.”

  “Such as?”

  “That I am prepared to take the case myself and stay as long as needed to see it through to completion—and I plan to win.”

  A new degree of respect settled in Jeffery’s heart. This was a side of his father he hadn’t seen for years. Could the trip out West have softened him somehow—possibly helped him glimpse life from a different perspective? Jeffery leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Father—than to win, that is. But I must say I am elated you are offering to help. I know it will be a burden off Mrs. Roberts and Beth as well.”

  Jeffery hesitated, not wanting to break the fragile thre
ad of newly woven trust. “There may be something more you could do. But you must keep it a secret as I don’t want to get Beth’s hopes up for nothing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  October 23, 1880, La Grande, Oregon

  Isabelle could only stare at her son. Steven had been home from Baker City for two days, and his explanation still didn’t satisfy her. “Tell me again why this Mr. Tucker wouldn’t give you more information about Elizabeth Corwin and why you came home instead of staying to press him further.”

  Steven pulled the hard chair close to her rocker. “I’m not sure what you want to hear, Ma. I’ve told you at least four times now that I didn’t feel we should give our private information to a stranger.”

  “I know what you said.” Isabelle relaxed her pursed lips. “But I had such high hopes you could get her address or that she might be living out West.” She blinked, trying to quell her tears. “I suppose it was too much to expect you might speak to her and find out if she’s actually our Bess.”

  Steven patted her hand. “I’m sorry it wasn’t better news. But at least Mr. Tucker promised to send her my letter.”

  “Yes.” She swiped at the lone tear making its way down her cheek. “As saddened as I am, part of me wonders if it might be better this way.”

  “What do you mean?” Steven tilted his head.

  “I’ve been stewing over this since you left, trying my best to push the thoughts aside, but the worry keeps returning.” She heaved a sigh and tried to straighten her weary shoulders. “I realized something. If Elizabeth Corwin is our Bess, then I reckon she’s living a fine life with a good family and won’t care about poor relations. Why, she’s a talented illustrator, more than likely raised in a big city. I couldn’t stand it if she looked on me with shame.”