Free Wishing on Buttercups by Miralee Ferrell

rushed from the room, her heels thumping as she headed toward the stairs.
    Beth slumped onto her bed. Despair snaked its tendrils around her thoughts, trying to convince her that Aunt Wilma had purposely ignored her request. But her aunt had looked mortified, and if she wasn’t mistaken, Beth had glimpsed tears before the older woman dashed from the room. She shouldn’t have spoken that way to the only mother she’d ever known.
    Who could she trust anymore? She’d always lived with the knowledge she must not have been wanted by her family, and she’d turned to Wilma Roberts for her comfort and security. Now she struggled to push aside the feelings of betrayal.
    “Put your trust in Me. I won’t fail you.”
    Beth jerked upright and listened. She slipped from her bed and limped to the door, yanking it open and stepping into the hall. Empty. Who had spoken? Had she heard a voice, or was it her imagination?
    The skin on her neck prickled. She’d heard the voice before but hadn’t known what He was trying to tell her. Could it be as simple as choosing to trust when it felt like so much in her life was out of kilter? She didn’t see how, but a gentle peace wafted over her heart.
    Men had failed her in the past. It seemed her father must have deserted her; Uncle George had died a couple of years after she arrived to live with him and Aunt Wilma. Even the man who’d promised to love her had walked away.
    “Put your trust in Me.” Somehow Beth knew God had spoken those words. Hopefully, being willing would count for something, because the most she could do was try.

Chapter Ten
    Sleep had eluded Jeffery for two nights now, ever since he’d carried Beth to her room. What had possessed him to hold her so close? Jeffery tossed back the covers and climbed out of bed in spite of the fact the sun hadn’t yet risen. He gave a wry smile. He couldn’t exactly have held her at arm’s length while transporting her to the house. But he should have listened when she’d insisted she could walk, and deposited her back on her feet.
    His chivalrous upbringing had won out. How many times had his father insisted he play the part of a gentleman, even as a young chap? He’d once pulled a girl’s hair in grammar school and been reprimanded by the teacher, and Father had switched him for it when he’d heard. Jeffery shook his head. He couldn’t have allowed Beth to walk home when she was in obvious pain. But guarding his heart against the surge of emotion and yearning might be wise.
    He sat in his chair and mulled over the details of his life. It had been two years since he’d seen his family. On the one hand he missed them, but on the other it was a relief not to deal with the constant pressures they exerted. He was twenty-six years old, but to his parents he’d always be their child. He wasn’t sure Father would ever look on him differently. To Mark Tucker, writing was a waste of time. Somehow Jeffery must convince his parents he didn’t need their money and could make it on his own. Making this novel a success might be the key.
    A sudden hankering for a hot cup of coffee drove him to his feet. The sun had risen, and the household would be stirring. Hopefully Mrs. Jacobs wouldn’t mind him building a fire and brewing a pot.
    He came to a stop in the kitchen doorway and slowly edged backward, not wanting to intrude on the two women sipping cups of tea at the table.
    Frances Cooper peered over her spectacles. “No need to leave, Mr. Tucker. Come in and have a cup of tea. Or coffee, if you prefer. We brewed both.”
    Mrs. Roberts beckoned, a ring on her finger glinting in the early morning light that streamed through the window. “Yes. Please do. It’s nice to have a little male company. We seldom see you anymore. Are you making good progress on your book?”
    His feet dragged as he entered the kitchen, and he looked askance at them both. He’d experienced more than one uncomfortable scene between these women, but they appeared