At Love's Bidding (10 page)

Miranda was well acquainted with every style of curio likely
to appear in a fine home, but she'd never seen an example of each in the same room.

“We shipped most of our furniture from Tennessee, where his family is from,” Mrs. Rinehart said. “Are you familiar with the Rineharts of Nashville?”

“I regret I haven't had the privilege.” Now refreshed from his morning nap, Grandfather accepted a steaming cup of tea and smiled his thanks as Mrs. Rinehart handed Miranda a cup and settled on the sofa next to her husband.

Wyatt seemed unsure what to do with his hands, folding them in his lap, and then with a lurch, sitting up straight in the chair and grasping the arms. Only then did Miranda realize he hadn't been offered a drink. Were his boots clean? When he crossed his ankles and tucked them beneath the chair, Miranda realized he had the same worries. For being married to a plantation owner, Mrs. Rinehart didn't seem as if she'd be forgiving of stains on her thick red carpet.

“You are impressed with our furnishings.” Mrs. Rinehart rocked from side to side as if creating a nest for herself in the sofa cushions.

“Er . . . yes, ma'am,” Miranda answered.

Grandfather came to Miranda's rescue. “I don't know if Mr. Rinehart has informed you, Mrs. Rinehart, but I'm the proprietor of the Wimplegate Auction House in Boston. We deal in fine antiques, estate sales, and works of art, so it's only natural that we'd note your many fine pieces.”

Miranda had to drop her gaze to her bracelet. Some of their furniture was passable, but the way it was lined up wall-to-wall made the room feel more like a warehouse than a living area. Unfortunately, the various items cluttering the table were similar only in their newness and their lack of value.

Mrs. Rinehart rose and made her way to the smaller walnut secretary. She dropped the lid down and came back with a paper-bound book with a woodcut print on the cover. Mr. Rinehart's mouth twisted in rueful patience as she returned to her seat.

“When did you come into town?” she asked.

“Last Friday,” Grandfather answered.

“You may have arrived with one of my shipments. Nearly every week something I've purchased is delivered.”

Never show your interest when making an offer, Miranda reminded herself. If Mrs. Rinehart had indeed organized a purchase from the auction, they mustn't act as if they were interested. If she knew they'd come all this way to retrieve a portrait, she'd ask an inordinate amount for it. Miranda settled her teacup into the saucer and arranged it on the crowded end table.

“Have you recently purchased something from Boston?” Grandfather took another sip, as calm as the harbor on Sabbath.

“No. Not Boston.” She raised the booklet and waved it. “I purchase my treasures from Montgomery Ward in Chicago.”

Miranda sighed. Her shoulders slumped. With a minuscule jerk of his chin, Grandfather telegraphed courage to her. “What manner of treasures would those be?” he asked.

Mrs. Rinehart straightened her head, defeating the considerable weight of the off-centered hair. The paper crinkled as she flapped the cover open and flew through a few pages. Turning it upside down, she extended it toward them. Miranda leaned forward to see the page blotted with circles, stars, and strikes.

“My goal is to work through the Carpets, Curtains, and Linens section this month. In July, I'll start on the Cutlery section.”

“A mail-order catalog?” Miranda asked.

“It's the newest thing. Every item you can imagine is at
your fingertips if you but have the funds. And we do, don't we Charles?”

He took a sudden fascination with the length of his fingernails. “The farm back in Tennessee has done well this year. My brother is very generous. . . .”

“Um-hmm. And I'm picking the best items from each page, but sometimes I just have to order one of each, because you can't have too many damask towels, you know. How could you decide between bleached or half-bleached linen? Hemmed borders or knotted fringe? And the colors? Well, as you can see here, the pictures show the designs but not the colors. You have to see the colors.” She pointed to a sideboard whose drawers stood slightly ajar, crammed full with red and orange linens. “It's nice to have spares, don't you think?”

“If you have room,” Miranda replied.

“We do,” Mrs. Rinehart answered. She rocked back into the sofa. “So where is the supplier for your business located?”

“We deal in estate sales and antiques,” Miranda said.

“Oh? All used furniture, then?” She frowned. “You could get new things if you wanted. They might be more at the onset, but people are willing to pay for quality.”

Quality? Like these shoddy sticks of furniture? Miranda's teacup rattled on the saucer as she retrieved it.

“Miss Wimplegate is particularly interested in art,” Wyatt blurted. “You can't buy that from a catalog.”

Miranda turned to stare at the scruffy man, wondering what could have prompted that admission. How he even knew? But more surprising than his defense of her was the sight of him. Sitting in the red velvet chair in front of the bay window, his arms stretched out with the light streaming over his shoulder, he resembled nothing so much as a Russian tsar on his throne. Wrap
an ermine mantle over his shoulders and she and Grandfather would swear they'd seen his portrait on display. A commanding presence is how she'd describe his pose if she were writing about him in the catalog.

Mrs. Rinehart interrupted her thoughts. “Oh, you can buy art from the catalog. They have some lovely landscapes that would look just the thing.”

Grandfather honed in. “Have you ordered any art or had any shipped in lately?”

Good thing Grandfather remembered their quest, because Miranda couldn't stop imagining Wyatt in various, more noble settings.

“No.” Mrs. Rinehart flipped through the pages before turning it to show them. “Framed pictures have an area on page seventeen, so I haven't reached them yet.”

A quick scan of the walls showed a few family pieces in expensive frames but nothing that looked particularly collectible. Miranda scrunched her nose. Another day gone by and they were no closer to finding the missing piece. What was happening back home today? Had Cornelius tried to help, or was he waiting for her to do her part?

Again she felt Wyatt's gaze. Quickly she blanked her expression.
Never let them know what you're after
. Better to appear unconcerned, bored, and aloof than to tip your hand. Besides, the less interesting she was, the fewer reasons he'd have for watching her. And he still was.

The tea in her cup had cooled and so had their hopes of the Rineharts having the missing painting. Grandfather and Mr. Rinehart had fallen into a conversation about the particulars of healthy livestock with frequent questions to Wyatt for verification. Unease crept across her like the fog from the harbor. Why
did Grandfather need to know anything more about livestock? If they sold all they had Monday, then, please God, she and Grandfather would be gone by next sale day. The thought that Grandfather enjoyed a discussion about livestock concerned her. Maybe Cornelius needed to get another phrenological reading from his skull. Something had changed.

The visit wrapped up cordially. Mr. Rinehart observed manners she hadn't thought to find in this area, especially from one whose pastime involved amassing a small fortune in junk. Wyatt brought up the wagon for them as the Rineharts made promises of seeing them at the church raising. Although she and Grandfather hadn't heard of it before, it sounded like the logical place to go if one wanted to meet people. After helping her to her seat, Wyatt climbed up next to her while Grandfather finished his conversation with Mr. Rinehart.

“Sorry you didn't find what you were looking for.” Wyatt's arm bumped against hers.

Miranda's skin prickled. What had Grandfather told him? She kept her voice even. “What gave you that idea?”

He rubbed the smooth leather rein with his thumb. “You're not the only one who's quietly observant.”

He had been watching her, and if it weren't for the importance of their mission, she might have wondered if he liked what he saw. But this was Wyatt Ballentine, the barn manager, not a European noble, not even a banker. She mustn't let her imagination lead her astray. She and Wyatt had nothing in common.

Grandfather climbed in next to her and adjusted his hat against the sun. “That was a fun visit, wasn't it? Mr. Rinehart's a man of diverse interests, which I didn't expect. And what did you think of Mrs. Rinehart?”

“I don't like her hair all pushed up on one side of her head,”
Wyatt answered. “Makes her look off-balanced . . . like she's fixing to fall over.”

“I was speaking to my granddaughter,” Grandfather said.

And his granddaughter couldn't stop staring at the bearded man next to her. They at least shared one thing in common. Miranda stuttered, “She . . . she's methodical.”

“I could use her to clerk at the auction house, but I'd hate to hear her disdain for our
used
art and furniture,” Grandfather laughed. “You did well, Miranda. The manners your mother taught served you admirably.”

Perhaps, but they didn't fool the intriguing man at her side. Had she been careless or had Grandfather dropped his guard? Either way, sharing company with Wyatt Ballentine was proving risky. Best do as little of it as possible.

Constructing a church didn't sound like much of a party, but Widow Sanders insisted that it was the only diversion available on a Saturday. She'd cooked all day while they were visiting the Rineharts and was convinced there'd be some prize given for the best dessert. Miranda wouldn't put it past the woman to invent a competition just so she could claim to win.

Grandfather and Miranda left a bit later than their hostess, but they wouldn't have any trouble finding the church site in the tiny town. Already the sound of hammers echoed off the hills. The clanging reminded her of the shipbuilders in the navy yard just across the river from Boston. Boston reminded her of Mother and Father. Mother and Father reminded her of all that was at stake.

“Did you telegraph Father yesterday?” Miranda took Grandfather's arm as they rounded the corner of the Walters' Dry Goods Store.

“I told him it might take longer than we hoped to find our treasure, but not to despair. What we have here might be worth more than all our contacts on the East Coast.”

Miranda's heart sank. She should've sent the message herself. “You keep saying that, but I don't understand.”

“Miranda, remember the old wardrobe we hauled off from the abandoned apartment? Had that wardrobe been polished up and unscratched, they never would've asked us to move it. Because of its ugliness, we were the ones to discover the hidden panel and the cache of jewels inside.”

“There aren't any jewels hidden in that stinking building. I looked.”

“But there's potential, and no one else is trying to tap it. Just think of the artisans here who have never had a market where they could sell their wares. Think of the potential if all these people decided to trade their furniture as often as they trade their animals.”

Cram one more piece of furniture into Mrs. Rinehart's house and you wouldn't have room to change your mind. “But animals are different,” she said. “People can't eat their furniture.” They'd made their way past the business district, such as it was, and found themselves once again in a residential park consisting of cabins crammed between large trees. Residential park? Goodness, Miranda's skill at exaggerating the charms of an item were asserting themselves.

“The poor man is just as vain as the rich. I have plans to expand the offerings at this sale barn, and it promises to be wildly successful. You'll see. Soon we'll be shipping rare and precious collectibles out of here by the crate, but first we'll see how the auction progresses. Sale day is the day after tomorrow, Miranda. All our work will pay off.”

His eyes sparkled with religious fervor and they hadn't even built the church yet.

Lord, help him
, Miranda prayed.
Help us.
She'd worked in
their auction house since she could remember and knew a fair bit about the business. Nothing in this situation looked promising to her. She must be alert, for Grandfather's judgment was slipping. Father and the rest of the family were counting on them. They couldn't return empty-handed.

Miranda and Grandfather hadn't missed anything at the church site. People were still walking up, wagons rolling to a stop. She even saw a family of three on the same mule—mother, father, and a boy almost old enough for school sitting in the front.

And there was Isaac, looking dapper in his black waistcoat and white shirt-sleeves. Miranda bit her lip. She'd been away from home for less than a week and here she was thinking a man looked dressed up even without a suit coat. Well, Isaac was the exception. Fortunately, she'd chosen to wear her lightest gown. In the right light, a smidgen of pink would lift off the tan, but it definitely wasn't shaded like an earthworm.

She hadn't meant to interrupt the conversation Isaac was having with the pretty brunette, but when he saw her he ended it. The lady seemed surprised by Miranda's appearance—she thought everyone in town knew about her and Grandfather—but with a troubled look went to join the other girls.

“Who's that?”

“Just a girl from around here,” he said, continuing to shoot worried glances over his shoulder. “I was asking her if she'd seen Wyatt. Being around these church folk might do him some good, but I don't know if he'll dare show his face.”

Hadn't Wyatt given her a word of encouragement about God's care the day before? Before she could ask Isaac to explain, Widow Sanders reached them.

“Isaac, imagine seeing you here on church grounds. Next
thing we know you might come on a Sunday and stay for meeting.” Then she leaned toward Miranda. “This new building will be dandy. I've not missed a meeting since we started assembling at the school in '58. Varina Helspeth hadn't missed, either, but last winter she'd heard that the snow had kept our circuit-riding preacher from making it across the valley. Well, turned out that he did make it and Varina stayed home. Now I'm the only one with perfect attendance.” She turned to hurry away, then spun again. “Well, here comes Wyatt. The reverend was looking for him.”

Wyatt strode through the crowd in his worn trousers and faded blue shirt. As usual, he was dressed for work, and as Miranda scanned the crowd, she realized that Isaac was the exception. He was also the only man besides Grandfather not bent over the wooden framework of the walls that would soon go up. Instead he was talking to the ladies.

One by one the frames were completed and men gathered in anticipation of the raising. The reverend removed his hat, wiped his shiny forehead with his handkerchief, and then motioned someone forward to pray over their endeavor.

It was Wyatt.

Astonished, Miranda turned to Isaac, but he'd already bowed his head and closed his eyes. Miranda's eyes refused to close. Wyatt leading a public prayer? What kind of church was this? But no one else reacted with shock. Just a hearty
Amen!
when he was finished.

Had Grandfather seen that? Miranda turned to look for him, but instead she saw Mr. Fowler, the leader of the vigilantes.

“That Ballentine boy—you keep your eye on him.” He swung his sledgehammer absently as one might swing a pocket watch on a chain.

“Why, what's he done?”

The man fixed her with a withering stare. “I'm not accusing Wyatt, I'm bragging on him. He works hard. He's trustworthy. I'm a sure judge of character, and I'm telling you Wyatt Ballentine is going to be someone.”

Miranda watched as Wyatt bent and grasped the frame on the ground. At the count he strained with the other men and heaved the heavy skeleton upright. He was strong, but they had strong men back home. You could find muscle for hire in any rotting alley. But Mr. Fowler wasn't entirely wrong. Something about Wyatt set him apart. He had the respect of these people, but they weren't completely at ease with him. Besides Betsy, did he have any friends?

Isaac stopped at her side and followed her gaze to his brother. “Wyatt always gets fawned over at church. That's why he likes it so much. When we were little his favorite story was about Joseph. I think he imagined that all his dreams of grandeur and superiority were God-ordained.”

Miranda eyed the man with the ragged beard and dirty work clothes. What was the matter with these two? Must she contradict Isaac and defend Wyatt now? Couldn't they leave her out of their bickering? “I haven't noticed him being too proud,” she murmured.

“Did you know we're not brothers? He's adopted.”

“Adopted?” Her eyes traveled swiftly over Isaac, looking for a resemblance.

“Yep. Ma and Pa told him how his parents died on a wagon train in Kansas. That's how they got him when we were young. But he turned it into some epic saga and liked to pretend he was the son of some rich man from a powerful family.”

Wyatt? Miranda really shouldn't laugh, but the thought
was ludicrous. She shook her head in disbelief. Not rough and tumble Wyatt with his burly shoulders, his raw expressions, and his passionate, barely-controlled temper. Although there was that moment at the Rineharts', sitting in the velvet chair . . .

She tossed her head to dispel the image. “What did your parents say?”

“They encouraged him—speculated on how important he might be, and then they'd hold him up as an example when he did something good. ‘
Why can't you work
as hard as Wyatt? Why don't you say, “Yes
, ma'am,” like Wyatt?'
My brothers couldn't stand it. They left as soon as they were able.”

“So what happened? What brought him down?”

“The truth.” Isaac motioned her toward the water bucket. He took out the dipper and offered her the first cool drink, but Miranda wasn't that thirsty—had never been that thirsty in her life. “Ma had some information about his uncle. They'd tried to contact him right away when Wyatt's folks had died, but they didn't get anywhere. Later, when Ma and Pa were getting on in years, they told Wyatt they'd try again. They did, and this time he got a reply. You should have seen how excited Wyatt was when word came back. He walked into the kitchen and handed Ma the letter, shaking too much to open it himself. Well, she read it, turned white as an egg, folded it up, and tossed it into the kitchen stove.”

“Why? What did it say?”

Isaac crossed his arms and looked over his shoulder at the walls going up behind him before answering. “For all of Wyatt's airs, he was lower than the poorest child in Pine Gap. Illegitimate. Driven from his home. Without my family he was nothing.”

For his smug glee, she nearly dumped the water bucket over
him. Instead, she tucked her hands under her arms, feeling guilty for encouraging Isaac. She'd expected a lighthearted story from their childhood—Wyatt had been bested in a race, embarrassed at school, something to amuse herself with when he was giving her that disapproving look. But there was nothing funny here. And to laugh at Wyatt's horrible discovery? Miranda's good humor vanished. She valued her family enough that she couldn't laugh to hear that someone had lost theirs.

Uncertainty. That's what played across her face. Miranda stood with arms crossed and studied the ground. What had Isaac said about him that made her unable to meet his gaze? Wyatt leaned against the post of the frame, holding it steady as they rammed rocks into the hole around the footing. She didn't seem afraid of him yesterday, so what had changed? As much as she irritated him at first, he was finally seeing the sincere woman hidden beneath her highfalutin ways. And that worried him. As long as she was high and mighty, he knew Isaac didn't stand a chance, but Miranda was letting her guard down—not a safe thing to do when Isaac was around. Isaac's two weaknesses were pretty women and finding ways to avoid work. Marry a rich girl like Miss Wimplegate and he might be able to indulge both failings at once.

And Wyatt wasn't just whistling Dixie about her looks, either. He'd seen her plenty of times over the last week, and still she knocked the breath out of him. Today she had on the finest gown he'd seen yet. The pale pink gave her olive complexion a glow while the wide neckline framed her delicate collarbone and hinted of what lay south of there.