At Love's Bidding (11 page)

The rocks had been fitted, and here came Josiah Huckabee with a wheelbarrow of cement. “Howdy, Wyatt.” He smiled
as he tilted the wheelbarrow and dumped the contents into the hole. “Betsy's been telling me about that new gal in town. I reckon that's her over there?”

Wyatt glared at the sixteen-year-old. “She's a lady, Josiah, not a new gal. You be on your best manners. You hear?”

Josiah's eyes twinkled. “I hear ya, chief. Gonna go over to that Katie Ellen and try to spark myself a gal, too.”

Wyatt rattled the post, tamping it to make certain the cement had settled in the bottom. “I don't know what sparking has to do with it,” he said. “I'm building the church.”

Fowler approached, his powerful forearms bared and already smudged with toil. “Wyatt, been meaning to tell you that we lost that fellow who'd been poking around Rinehart's place.”

“You lost him?” Wyatt picked up a shovel to clean where Josiah had spilled. “How in the world?”

Fowler shot a juicy stream of tobaccy to the ground. “It's a sight when a dozen men can't keep an eye on one outlaw. We got thinned out going through Watson's pass, and when we regrouped on the other side, there wasn't hide nor hair of him. Just the rope. Goes to show we need to get ourselves organized, especially if the law don't do their job.”

Wyatt's skin crawled. As far as anyone knew, the man hadn't harmed anyone, but what had he been doing at the sale barn that night?

“I'll be watching for him,” he said.

“If the man has any sense, he's put Hart County behind him. He's got to know we take care of our own.” Fowler's spine stiffened. “Lookee there. Caesar Parrow came to town. I've got a word to speak with him about his coon dog. Hear tell it's getting into Mrs. Rankin's chickens, and we can't have that.” And he strode off to do his unassigned duty.

The four walls were up and set, along with one of the interior support walls. Three more to go when they called for dinner. The church ladies had put out a hearty spread. Wyatt helped himself to chicken and dumplings and went to join the workers in the shade.

With her skirt blowing behind her, Miranda stood into the wind, shading her eyes as she peered down the road. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was looking for her grandpa. Cutting across picnic blankets and baskets, Wyatt took the short path to join her, plate in hand.

“He took out?”

Miranda blinked into the wind and nodded. “I worry about him so. He's changed since Grandmother died, and it's gotten worse since we left.”

“Should we go fetch him?”

Miranda lowered her hand. “If I find him, I can't make him come back.” The lace around her collar flipped up and brushed against her neck.

“You're very patient with him.”

“I love him. Taking care of him is part of the deal.”

Wyatt rubbed a sore spot over his heart. “I don't think you realize how special you are.” Seeing her startled reaction, he wished he could swallow the words back down his throat. Instead, he motioned to the table. “Food's over there.”

“Isaac,” Fowler cried out. Seated by the Moore girl, Isaac's shirt was still clean and white. “Why don't you favor us with one of your poetry recitals?”

Isaac leaned toward Miss Moore, and whatever he whispered in her ear made her blush. He got to his feet. “I'd be glad to entertain you, seeing how you've been working so hard, but since this here is holy ground, maybe I should quote something from the Bible.”

The women nodded in unison with their fans as they stretched their feet on the ground before them. Miranda had her plate now and Wyatt followed her to the shade. Isaac stepped into the open space, boxed in by the empty frame of a church behind him, and began.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.”

Wyatt remained standing, transfixed by the simple words his mother had insisted they learn. Isaac's voice was as smooth as corn silk. He did a fine job of elocuting, for sure.

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind.”

Wasn't that what Miranda was exhibiting?

Isaac continued, but then there was a pause. “ ‘Charity envieth not; nor does it . . . it doesn't . . .' ” He floundered.

Before Wyatt thought, he heard his own deep voice taking over.

“Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own . . .”

He hadn't realized what he'd done until he saw the surprised looks around him. Behaving unseemly? The very words stabbed
his conscience. He halted. “Go on, Isaac,” he said. “You know the rest.”

Isaac flapped his hand in a helpless gesture. “No, you go on, little brother. You've bested me again. Go on and show them how good you are.”

“I didn't mean to stop you.”

But Isaac was done. With a perfect blend of resignation and nonchalance, he gathered his plate and Miss Moore and meandered away from the church yard.

“Don't worry about him,” Fowler said. “He's a sore loser. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.”

Used to having a little brother who would never let him win? Isaac and their two older brothers were a family. They'd merely picked up Wyatt along the way like a stray dog allowed to follow them home. If it weren't for Pa and Ma, their pa and ma, he would've run away many years ago, but his parents tried to cover for their sons' resentment. And maybe that made it worse. Maybe they covered too well and brought more attention to him.

Wyatt dropped to the ground next to Miranda as she murmured some polite words of praise for his performance, but he took no joy in her comments.

She sacrificed for her family, while he couldn't stop competing with his. What must she think of him?

She'd met nearly every woman at the barn raising . . . or church raising, rather. Betsy had been most helpful in dragging ladies over to meet her, although her introductions were usually awkward at best. But still, Miranda had no clue where the painting could be. Who bought it in Boston and to whom did they send it? Scanning the yard, she didn't see one person
likely to appreciate an oil painting of a French American from the last century. Not one. Now, if it'd been a thick quilt or a pair of sturdy boots, there'd be no end to her suspects.

And then there was Wyatt, whom she'd completely misjudged. On top of the building he lay stretched out on a beam, reaching down to nail the wooden peg into the support at the corner. She'd thought him unsocial, proud, but now she understood. He didn't think he'd be accepted. He had to prove himself. She knew what it was like to be the lowest ranked person in the room, and while she usually elected to hide, he tried to compete.

Wyatt's mallet clattered among the rocks below him.

“Wyatt dropped his mallet,” Betsy's brother sang as he hopped from beam to beam.

Tired of standing by, observing, Miranda stepped forward. “I'll get it.” Snatching the mallet, she raised it above her head, but didn't come near to reaching Wyatt.

He rested his head on the beam. “I'll come down.”

“No need,” she said. “I'll get a ladder.”

With Betsy's help she leaned one against the corner post. Wyatt held it steady above her. She climbed up, juggling the mallet while holding on to the rungs. Miranda wanted to do this for him, but she hadn't counted on it being so far up. She also hadn't counted on the way the ladder leaned right into where Wyatt lay. He let loose of the ladder to reach for the mallet and it swayed. Miranda's eyes widened. Wyatt made a mad grab and caught the top rung with his left hand.

“I guess you're going to have to come closer.”

That's what she was afraid of. Another step brought her to his shoulder. He waved with his right hand on the other side of the beam. That was her goal. Another step lifted her level to
him. Face to face. She'd never noticed how green his eyes were, or how strong the cheekbones emerging above his beard were. They stood there before the whole town, waiting . . . on what?

“Your mallet.” The rungs pressed into her chest as she reached around to place it into Wyatt's empty hand.

“Thank you.”

Josiah Huckabee shimmied across the beams. “Ain't you gonna give her a kiss, Wyatt? She came all the way up here.”

Wyatt's eyes turned a shade darker. Miranda couldn't move away, for lying there she saw the young man who was rejected by his family and picked on by his older brothers. She didn't mean to sway toward him. She should just refuse. . . .

With a clang, Wyatt dropped the mallet again. Miranda straightened as it dashed against the rocks.

“Josiah, you get my mallet this time,” Wyatt ordered. “Miss Wimplegate has already done me a favor. I can't ask for more.”

His eyes held hers, but she had no reason to stay. Jerking out of her trance to start down, she bounced the ladder off its resting place against the post. Wyatt pulled it back again. “This ladder has got a bad case of the wobbles,” he said.

So did her knees. Without another word, Miranda descended while silently chastising herself. The unfortunate children of Boston had found their way into her heart, but Wyatt Ballentine wasn't a child. He was a laborer, a working man, and as such he needed neither her pity nor her charity.

Beyond that she had nothing to offer him.

Monday had finally come. The wagon broke through a tight spot in the trail. Wyatt leaned to the side to keep from getting whacked by a branch that jutted into the road. Mustn't get his spanking new duds snagged before the boss man saw him. On second thought, the sooner his clothes were ruined, the sooner he could return to dressing like a reasonably intelligent man. He directed the mules to Widow Sanders' house, threw the brake, hopped down, and jogged through the scattered bushes to the door. Before he could knock, the door swung open and Elmer Wimplegate stepped outside with hat in hand and cane on his arm.

“Glad to see you early.” The man consulted his watch, closed it with a click, and dropped it into his pocket.

“It's sale day.” Wyatt tugged on his waistcoat, eager to start the day well with his boss. “I've been waiting for weeks to get this mess cleaned out.”

The door cracked open and Miranda eased out. Wyatt removed his new hat. Her skin still bore the softness of early morning. Her hair had been freshly combed and styled. He
reckoned she still smelled like soap, or even something fancier. Roses, maybe?

“You look nice today,” he said. If only she'd give him half a chance.

She looked down as if she didn't remember that she wore a pale green dress. “It's nothing special.”

“It's nice,” he persisted.

“And look at you.” She gestured to his fancy suit, but before he could respond she'd gone all pink and turned away. “Grandfather, what will we do for lunch? I don't have one packed.” Her dark eyes shone warmly on her grandfather.

Wyatt rolled a button on his new coat between his fingers. Why did her gentle concern make him sad? Was it because he had no one who made it their business to fuss over him?

“No need to bring food,” Wyatt said. “The ladies bring vittles to sell.”

Elmer poked at Wyatt with his cane. “Widow Sanders is cooling your rhubarb pie even now. She said to tell you she'd have it to the ring in plenty of time.”

His rhubarb pie. The only part of the sale day he didn't mind missing.

“What time will we be back?” Miranda asked, her eyes falling somewhere lower than his chin. Yes, he still had the beard. Elmer might buy him a new suit, but no one was going to tell him when to shave.

“That depends. We keep selling until the last item has been auctioned or until it's too dark to see the arena. And then we have to write up all the bills and settle up with the bidders. It's not unusual for it to go into the night.”

She bit her lip and his heart did a funny dropping thing. “I don't want Grandfather to become overspent.”

“Nonsense, girl!” Elmer dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You know Cornelius says I have permanent stamina. It's dictated by the bone structure of my skull.”

“Cornelius?” Wyatt tilted his head. “Who's Cornelius?”

The question must have tickled Elmer, for he strolled away to the wagon chuckling.

“He . . . well, it's not official,” she said, “but he's . . . he's my cousin.”

“You have an unofficial cousin?”

“If you must know, Cornelius and I are to marry.” She tucked her chin, her mouth tightened. “At least that's what he wants.”

Wyatt found he couldn't swallow. He'd never considered that she might have a beau back home, but the thought made him boil. “What do you want?”

“I want my family to be taken care of, but I might not be able to do that on my own.”

“But why Cornelius? What makes him so special?” Wyatt had already taken a dislike to the man and only wanted more reasons to hate him.

“He's nice. Respectable. He's a doctor. A phrenologist.”

“I've never heard of any such thing.”

“He's a specialist. He measures the size and shape of his patients' heads to discern their character, personality, and mental state.”

Wyatt's eyes rolled heavenward. “What kind of monkeyshine has he been selling you?”

“His readings are very helpful. It does one good to know his or her natural mental strengths and limitations.”

“Has your cousin Cornelius taken a gander at your grandpa's head?”

Miranda's eyes wandered to the wagon where Elmer was waiting. “Of course he has. Why?”

Elmer's cane beat against the wagon's floorboards. “The sale,” he called.

The sale. The sale! “Yes, sir. We'd best get going.”

They loaded up and no further words were spoken until they reached the sale barn. People were already congregating in the yard. Shouts of greetings filled the air, as well as cold looks of hostility. Friends who'd missed their weekly meeting had finally perambulated over the hills, giving the sale as an excuse to leave their farms and talk to someone besides their wives and their mules. Enemies availed themselves of the chance to find new offenses. Either way, there were buyers and sellers aplenty. His overstocked pens would be empty by day's end, and Wyatt's troubles would be nigh to solved.

He would've been in high cotton had he not been wearing a fancy suit.

Eyes widened as he passed. Women tittered. Men chewed their cigars slowly and grinned like possums at his foolishness. And all Wyatt could do was tip his new stovepipe hat and pretend he didn't look like a St. Louis politician.

No one wanted to sit before the sale started, but once the bell sounded they would rush to the arena. Elmer had continued to fret over the lack of a catalog, and Wyatt had run out of explanations. Elmer would understand once he saw the sale in action. Wyatt didn't need a book to tell him the attributes of the animals before him.

He'd introduced Miranda to Fred Murphy—Betsy's uncle and the newspaper man who helped in the office on sale day—and left her there, presumably to help with the accounts. Then he took Elmer into the arena and positioned him at the auctioneer's
table before the animals entered. One less chance for the old coot to get injured. He handed him the receipt book, having already gone over where to fill in the seller's name, the buyer's name, the head count, weight, and price of each lot. True to his word, Elmer seemed to understand the importance of keeping all the particulars straight. And knowing that Wyatt had reliable help in the office and out back in the pens, he was set to sell, and sell fast. They'd never had so many animals waiting, and who knew what household goods and miscellany would arrive before the day was over? Efficiency was the key.

He walked around the arena, greeting people as usual, even though he looked like a grinder's monkey. When he finally reached the auctioneer's platform, the catcalls and whistles had to be acknowledged. Pushing back his suit coat, Wyatt hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat and walked the length of the platform and back before taking his seat. The audience howled in appreciation before quieting down for him to begin.

At his signal, the south door to the arena opened and five milk cows jogged inside. Betsy's brother Josiah followed them. With his cattle prod he chased them around, allowing everyone to view the offering before he stepped out of the ring, allowing Wyatt to swing the rider of the scale down the arm until it swayed into balance. He announced the weight, casting a glance to make sure Elmer had all the pertinent information recorded, and Wyatt reached for his gavel to open the bidding, but it wasn't there. He bent to peer under the table, but the wooden gavel had vanished.

Knock! Knock!
Knock!
He sat up quickly, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the table. There it was. His father's gavel in Mr. Wimplegate's hands. Elmer stood.

“Welcome to the Wimplegate Auction House.” His pompous
voice rang out over the shocked gathering. A woman pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. A man spat into the empty coffee can on the stairs. “Today's sale includes priceless offerings from estates throughout the area. Anyone who has procured a bidding number at the office will be allowed to participate. If you'd like to use credit we will finance any buyer who has applied—”

Every eye was on him. Feeling like a child, Wyatt tapped his arm. “Excuse me, sir.”

Elmer stopped cold. He glanced down at Wyatt, still seated. “This better be important.”

“The people don't have buyers' numbers. I just write down who bought what.”

“But how do you know who they are?”

“I just know. And we don't offer credit. They have to have cash on the day of the sale.”

Elmer's mouth tightened. As much as Wyatt hated to correct him in front of the crowd, they had to do this right. Once the auction began you couldn't undo all the sales. You'd never have the same group, the same opportunity to get the same price. One shot, that's all you ever had.

Elmer cleared his throat. “My assistant tells me that for this week the bidding cards are unnecessary, but in the future be prepared to register at the office.”

Wyatt tried not to notice the snickers. He tried not to feel as stupid as he undoubtedly looked.

“So let's begin now with these fine bulls.”

“Cows,” Wyatt whispered.

“There are five bulls in the arena. Who would like to open the bidding?”

Wyatt rubbed his forehead. At least everyone else knew the
difference between a milk cow and a bull. Surely he wouldn't have to void the sale based on Elmer's mistaken description, but was he not going to get to auctioneer at all? Did Elmer plan to do the actual selling, too?

“Seven cents,” Caesar Parrow called out.

Elmer dropped the gavel against the table. “Seven cents, my man? You must think me ignorant. Even I know that bulls don't sell for a penny each.”

Wyatt spun to face him. “They are sold by the pound, Mr. Wimplegate. By the pound.”

Slowly Elmer lowered to his seat. Finally Wyatt had his full attention. “But how can they figure what they're worth? They have to multiply the weight by the price to see what they'll bring.”

“They have a good idea what they're worth by the pound, and we have charts in the office that give us the exact amount. It's not complicated.” But he couldn't take his eyes off the white veined hand holding his gavel.

Elmer straightened the cuff of his shirt. “I think I understand.” He stood again. By now, the farmers had kicked back, leaned against the step behind them, and prepared to enjoy the show. And Wyatt was about to throw his tie away and join them.

“So seven cents. The bidding starts at seven cents.” Elmer paused. Only the animals disturbed the silence. Outside, pigs squealed and the yard boys hollered as they loaded up the alleys with the next animals. Josiah peeked through the window, wondering why he hadn't been given the call to open the north gate and remove the animals yet.

Wyatt's hopes for a quick sale were dead.

Elmer turned to him. “Why aren't they bidding?”

“You aren't doing it the way they're used to.”

Mr. Watson stood and waved his coonskin hat. “Turn Wyatt loose. He'll show you how it's done.”

Elmer sputtered a protest, but as the shouts increased, he sank into his chair, defeated. The loose skin on his neck waggled. He pushed the gavel in Wyatt's direction. “You win. Go on.”

Here he was again, humiliating someone publicly, but what else could Wyatt do? The sale had to continue. Getting these animals sold was more important than saving Mr. Wimplegate's pride. Wyatt wrapped his fingers around the familiar handle. The flat indention on the gold band fit against the pad of his thumb. Like a fish dropped into the stream, like a pigeon released from the cage, he stood, even forgetting that he was dressed like a Parisian peddler, and bellowed in a deep baritone.

“We're right glad you came out today and we apologize for the late start. But since we're all accounted for and have some cows awaiting us, let's get right into it. Seven cents will start the sale for these cows straight from Turnbull's dairy.” And from there the musical cadence began to roll. “Who'll give me seven . . . seven . . . who'llgivemeseven . . . There. . . . misterparrowonthefrontbench . . . now. . . . sevenandahalf . . . sevenandahalf . . . doIhearahalffromanyone . . . Yes . . . misterwatsonbidssevenandahalf . . . we'reuptoeightnow . . . onlyeightforthesegoodcows . . . lotsofmilk . . . enoughforyourneighbors.”