Introduction

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Baker City, Oregon

Late August, 1880

Beth Roberts willed her hands to stop shaking as they gripped the cream-colored envelope. She hadn’t heard from her magazine editor in months and had about given up.

Stepping toward a corner, Beth licked her dry lips. Dare she open it here? No one lingered in the lobby of the small post office tucked into the corner of Harvey’s Mercantile, and the clerk was working on the far side of the alcove stuffing mail into the slots. Glancing out the window at the bustling street of the small city that became her home a few months ago, she scrubbed at the fabric covering her arm and wished her scars hadn’t chosen this moment to itch. Only a handful of people knew her, so she shouldn’t fear discovery.

Beth sucked in a quick breath and slid her finger under the flap. A folded page fluttered to the floor, opening as it landed. Her heart rate increased as a second piece of paper, long and slender, drifted several feet across the hardwood. They’d sent her another check.

Seconds passed while she stood frozen, unable to take in the renewal of her dream. She stepped forward, then crouched low to

pick up her treasure.

17

Masculine fingers gripped the end of the check before she could snatch it up. Beth found herself staring into the twinkling brown eyes of Jeffery Tucker, a fellow boarder at Mrs. Jacobs’s home. She bit back a gasp, fumbled for the nearby letter, and plucked it off the floor, praying he wouldn’t ask questions.

She extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Tucker. How careless of me.” Her stomach did a flip-flop as his gaze lingered on the paper, then lifted.

“Not at all, Miss Roberts. I apologize if I startled you.” He offered the check, keeping those mesmerizing eyes riveted on hers.

Beth tucked the payment and letter into the envelope, then pressed it against her chest.

His brows drew down, erasing the warm smile as his gaze dropped to her hands. “Is everything all right?”

Panic gripped her, and she covered the scar on her wrist. Her loose sleeve had left her exposed, and she was sure he’d noticed. All she could think of was escape. “I’m fine. I must get home. Good day.” She backed up two steps and bumped into someone behind

her.

“Umph.” Firm hands gripped her arms and kept her from falling. Beth gasped and scrambled forward out of the man’s grasp. “Mr.

Jacobs. I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Forgive me, Miss Roberts.” Micah Jacobs removed his hat and bobbed his head. “If I’d known you planned on getting your mail today, I’d have offered you a ride. Zachary and I would have enjoyed your company.”

“No need.” Beth sidled toward the door and avoided his stare. If only the sun weren’t streaming in the front window and illuminating

everything in its path. “It’s lovely now that fall has almost arrived. I enjoyed the walk.” She smiled, then turned and dashed across the lobby. When she’d entered, the place had been empty; now it seemed almost every person she knew had been drawn to the post office.

Thank the good Lord Aunt Wilma hadn’t appeared. At least these men were too polite to ask questions. Not so with her aunt. That dear woman would dig and pry until she obtained every last shred of information possible. Not that she wouldn’t tell Auntie her news, but first she wanted to savor whatever the letter contained.

Beth bolted outside, keeping a tight grip on the envelope. She had no intention of revealing her secret to anybody, except to Aunt Wilma, of course, who’d been like a mother. Beth had made it this far without anyone else knowing, and she intended to keep it that way.

A shudder shook her at the memory of Jeffery Tucker’s quizzi- cal look after he’d glimpsed the check. Had he taken in the dollar amount and the signature of the sender? Would he recognize the magazine from back East? Probably. Although from what she knew of the mysterious Mr. Tucker, she surmised he had secrets of his own to guard. She could only pray he’d be charitable and keep his own counsel.

Jeffery worked to keep his expression carefully neutral. No need to encourage questions from Micah Jacobs or his son, Zachary. Something certainly had Miss Roberts flustered. She’d appeared self- conscious and worried at the same time. Did the check contribute to her distress, or had he somehow disconcerted the young woman?

Another thought struck him. Why in the world would the timid Miss Roberts have a check made out to someone else? He assumed it was a payment, and a large one at that. She may have been picking up the mail for her aunt, but he’d swear the check was made out to someone named Corwin, not Roberts.

Not that he had a right to pry—time to quit attempting to solve mysteries that weren’t his concern. He’d come to town for another reason entirely.

He stepped up to the window. “Mr. Beal, any mail today?”

A tall, gangly man pivoted quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Mr. Tucker. Yes, sir, there is indeed.” He pushed his rimless spec- tacles up his nose and grinned. “An envelope from a publishing house back East and a letter from your family. Your father or uncle, perhaps? Hope they’re both good news.”

Jeffery bit back a groan. Too bad the timid Miss Dooley wasn’t working today. She never snooped in patrons’ business. Not so with Mr. Beal. He knew the comings and goings of everyone in town, all by inspecting the outside of their mail. “Thanks.” He tucked the missives under his arm and tipped his hat.

“Not so fast there, young man.” The clerk leaned close, his warm breath fanning Tucker’s cheek. “You mailed a package to that same publishing house some weeks back. Does this letter mean they’ve made it into a book or they’re turning it down? If we’re gonna have a famous author in town, I want to be the first to congratulate you.” He stuck his hand across the divider. Jeffery took the man’s hand and shook it briefly, then backed away. “Sorry. I don’t know what it might be, and I’m not famous for anything. Please excuse me.” He strolled from the post office without looking back, then

halted a half block from the building. Micah and Zachary were still standing in the post office lobby, a perfect target for prying ques- tions from that obnoxious man. He’d better return and encourage them to leave or rumors would be flying through town faster than a rabbit fleeing from a prairie hawk. Of course, he’d never person- ally seen that type of chase, but he’d read about such things in his favorite dime novels.

He glanced at the envelope from his father and scowled. No tell- ing 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 bot- tom 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 sud- den 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 forgot- ten 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, confirma- tion 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 con- tract? 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, pull- ing 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 pre- cisely, 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 grudg- ingly 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 misgiv-

ings or expectations: “Come home and take your rightful place in

27

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 mat- ter. 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 unas- suming, 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.

33

“What exactly are you writing? You have never been forthcom- ing 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 flus- tered 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 care- fully 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 reac- tion 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 wonder- fully 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 swiv- eled 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 disrespect- ful 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 con- fidence 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.

“Please, will you excuse me? I find I’m quite tired and not feeling well.” She scooted her chair away from the table and stood.

Katherine’s brow creased. “Would you like someone to walk you to your room?”

Beth felt a movement and saw Jeffery turn her way. “No. Thank you. An early evening will put me to rights, and I’ll be fine tomor- row.” She avoided his gaze. “I’ll say good night now.”

A chorus of well wishes followed her into the hall. Beth forced herself to walk slowly. No sense in letting them suspect her desire to get out from under Mr. Tucker’s probing stare. How dare he write a story about the people who lived here? She didn’t care if it was fiction and he didn’t use their names. It would be nearly impossible to pen a novel set in a place he lived and not incorporate traits of the people around him.

She gripped the banister on the way up the stairs, then slipped into her room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. Jeffery had been observing their actions for months, she realized. He’d probably made notes of their conversations. How he must have laughed at the antics of Aunt Wilma and Mrs. Cooper as they quar- reled like a couple of chattering squirrels. From now on she’d make herself scarce. It would not do to let that man get close.

A rap at the door, followed by the rattle of the knob, catapulted

Beth forward onto her bed.

Aunt Wilma swept into the room and quite deliberately shut the door. She stepped close and placed her palm against Beth’s fore- head, then drew back, lips pursed. “You don’t appear feverish, and your appetite was fine through supper. Are you truly ill, or did your desire to leave have something to do with Mr. Tucker revealing his unique plan for his story?””

Beth cringed. She knew Aunt Wilma loved her, but her brusque manner could be abrasive. She didn’t want to lie but didn’t care to be frank about her reasons either. At least not all of them. “I suppose I didn’t care to listen. I felt Mr. Tucker had taken advantage of our proximity to attain information about our lives.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure that is not the case. But when you chose to leave, I felt obligated to follow, so I didn’t get to hear all the details. There is nothing distressful about a story set in a boardinghouse, and I see no reason why you or Frances should take offense.” She walked to the high-backed chair in the corner and settled into it, as though that put an end to the subject. “It has been a long day and my feet hurt. So. You are feeling fine. Your decision to leave was based solely on not wanting to listen to Mr. Tucker?”

“Not entirely. I am tired, and my stomach is a little upset.” At least it had been when he’d made his announcement. It had tightened to the point she thought everything she’d eaten might be pushed right back up.

“Then you’d best lie back and rest. No sense in taking chances.” Aunt Wilma beckoned toward the bed. “I still don’t understand why all the fuss. I think Mr. Tucker has a perfectly splendid idea.”

Beth blew a light breath between her parted lips as she settled against the pillow. “I am not comfortable with him watching our every move so he can put it in his book. I don’t see anything splendid about it. What if he keeps digging and …”

“You worry too much, my dear.” Aunt Wilma rose from the chair with a sigh. “Get some rest, and I’ll check on you before I go to bed.” Her face broke into a smile. “I’m going to the parlor to chat with Mr. Tucker and ferret out what fascinating things he has decided to include.” Leaning over the bed, she stroked the hair off Beth’s forehead. “Physical marks and family connections mean nothing, my dear. God looks at the heart, not the outward appearance. Never forget that.” She pressed a warm kiss on Beth’s forehead and headed toward the door.

“Maybe not.” Beth whispered the words, not wanting Aunt Wilma to return and take up the debate. Her aunt meant well, but she didn’t understand. Beth burrowed deeper into her pillow. God might love her, but she didn’t know a single man who could look at her scars without cringing.

Wilma Roberts plopped in a horsehair chair near Frances Cooper and dropped her voice. She’d been worrying over her niece’s strange behavior for the past four days and would burst if she didn’t talk with Frances about it. “I’m not sure this is the best place to talk. What if someone comes in? Beth would never for- give me if she returns from her walk and hears me discussing her with you.”

Frances lifted her chin and glared. “Exactly what do you mean,

‘with you’? Does she have something against me that I am not aware of ? I do hope you have not turned the girl against me, Wilma.”

Wilma waved her hand in the air. “I did not mean it that way. You are forever twisting my words. I meant it would distress her to discover me discussing her with anyone, as I’m sure you understood.” “Nonsense. I take what people say, not what they hint at. Be

more concise so you do not hurt a person’s feelings.”

Wilma rolled her eyes. She didn’t care a whit if Frances noticed. At times like this she couldn’t remember why she had worked so hard to befriend this woman. “I wasn’t aware you had feelings, Frances.” She worried her lip a minute. “Oh dear. That was unkind, and I didn’t mean it at all.”

The rigid planes of Frances’s face slowly relaxed. “You are for- given. I suppose I should not have snapped at you either.” She gave a wry chuckle. “It is a lot of work trying to be the right kind of person, don’t you think?”

“Most assuredly.” Wilma nodded. Gratitude filled her as she remembered the early days of her friendship with Frances. Back then, they had both stormed out of the room and refused to speak for days, but God had done a work in their hearts that continued to amaze her. Frances still had times when she rubbed people the wrong way and snipped at everyone around her, but they didn’t occur as often or last as long. “Now, getting back to Beth …”

“Do you know exactly what the trouble is?” Frances set her teacup on the cherry wood end table.

“I’m not certain, but I am concerned it might have to do with a young man she believed herself to be in love with in Topeka.”

“I believe you mentioned something about a lost love.” Frances fiddled with the handkerchief in her lap. “It may have been when I was questioning you about Beth’s prospects.”

Wilma chortled, trying not to take too much pleasure in her friend’s discomfort. “Ah, you mean the time you tried to convince me to move out and find accommodations at the Arlington Hotel?” “I was hoping you might not remember that.” Frances turned

her face away.

Guilt pricked at Wilma. “Now I must apologize for my rude behavior. I was only jesting, Frances. I didn’t mean to bring up an unpleasant memory.”

“Let’s forget about it, shall we?” Frances squared her shoulders and sniffed. “I think we have both apologized more than enough for one day. I, for one, am quite weary of it. Now, what were you saying about the young man and Beth?”

Wilma glanced over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard footsteps on the stairs, but it would pay to be cautious. “Four days ago she received a letter. I saw her slipping upstairs with it sticking out of her handbag. I accosted her and asked if Brent had written to her.”

Frances nodded approvingly. “You were correct to do so, in my opinion. Young people can so easily get in trouble if left to their own devices.”

“Exactly.” It felt good to have a friend who understood and agreed, especially one who had raised two girls and was involved in her granddaughters’ lives as well. “She claimed it wasn’t from that rapscallion, and I needn’t worry about it. I want to trust her, but back in Topeka she sneaked out one time to meet him without my permission. Which makes me worry all the more.”

Frances sat a little straighter. “Did you pursue the subject?” “She refused to speak more of it and stalked up to her room.” “Well, I never!” Frances exclaimed. “That certainly does not

sound like the placid young woman we have come to know.”

“That concerned me too. I’ve been keeping an eye on her since, to no avail. When she left the supper table in a huff the other day, I followed her to her room. But I may as well have been talking to the wall for all she’d volunteer. At least not beyond stating she did not care to be the subject of Mr. Tucker’s book.”

A smug expression settled on Frances’s face. “I stand up with Beth on that account. She is showing wisdom beyond her years in disapproving of that nonsense. I hope some of what I said to Mr. Tucker influenced her.” She held up her hand and frowned. “Do not get all high and mighty with me, Wilma. I remember Beth excusing herself from the table, not leaving in a huff. I think you were miffed because she agreed with me, rather than you.”

Wilma gritted her teeth and held in the words she’d like to say. She forced herself to relax, not wanting another argument to mar this time with Frances. Besides, if she were completely honest with herself …

“All right. I’ll admit I didn’t understand why she was upset when I thought his plan quite splendid.” She thought for a moment. “Or maybe I do.”

Frances laced her fingers in her lap and leaned forward. “And?” Wilma frowned, not realizing she had spoken the last few words

out loud. “I am sorry, Frances. I have spoken out of turn. I was reminded of something that might be troubling Beth, but I’m unable to discuss it.”

Frances snorted and stood. “I declare, Wilma Roberts, you do beat all. You invite me for a cup of tea and a cozy chat, then refuse to tell me a thing. My patience has been stretched to the limit and beyond. I am going to my room to rest.”

Wilma raised her hands in the air. “Frances, wait. I didn’t mean to be such a goose, but …” What was there to say? She couldn’t reveal Beth’s concerns over her past or her desire to keep her work a secret, no matter what she thought.

“But what?” Frances stared at her.

“Nothing.” Wilma allowed her arms to drop to her sides. “Nothing at all. I hope you rest well.”

“Humph. That is not at all likely.” Frances limped from the room.

Wilma’s heart sank. Her friend’s gout must be acting up again. Frances’s body was hurting, and now she’d added to that pain by making her feel she couldn’t be trusted, but there was no help for it. Beth’s secrets were her own to reveal, no matter how much Wilma longed to share the burden of the girl’s past with someone else.

But one of these days her niece might want answers, and if anyone could aid Wilma’s investigation, it would be Doctor Caleb Marshall. Besides her brother, Arthur, Caleb was the only person who knew the details of Beth’s childhood. Wilma gave a quick nod, her mind made up. It was time to write a letter and see if Caleb would be willing to help her unearth some old secrets. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. When Beth receives a letter from a publisher about her illustrations, she experiences the fulfilling of a dream. When have you experienced the first-time fulfillment or renewal of a dream? How did you get to that point in your life? How did it feel when you accomplished that dream?

2. Jeffery looked to his family—especially his father—for approval. Whose approval is important to you, and why? How have you handled that longing for approval?

3. Have you, like Beth, ever felt scarred and unlovable? Afraid to love for fear of being hurt? If so, when … and why? How have those feelings influenced your life now?

4. When has a person seen you—with all your scars—as worthy and lovable? Tell the story. How did that moment change your perception of yourself?

5. Have you felt regret or guilt over a past situation? If so, how might you take a step forward today into a healthier frame of mind, instead of staying mired in the past?

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