At Love's Bidding (12 page)

If he forgot that Elmer was the boss and that Elmer was sitting at his side, it was for the best. Wyatt had been waiting for weeks to get rid of these animals. The customers were ready to buy, the owners had been ready to sell for days, and Wyatt was ready to prove himself once again.

Did animals know how bad they smelled? Even inside the office, the odor was as thick as clam chowder. Miranda rolled her pencil between her fingers, wishing she knew how to help. The line of impatient people stretched out the door into the midday heat, but all she could do was lean over the desk and watch Mr. Murphy. He traced a horizontal line across the page, squinted through his spectacles, then transferred the number to an account book.

“You owe twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents.” He craned his neck upward to the farmer standing before him.

The farmer already held a wad of bills and counted out the amount. From experience Miranda knew that most of that money would go to the one who brought the animal in, but a portion would stay with the auction house—their fee for brokering the deal. She wondered if this place got the same six percent that they did in Boston. Difficult to eke out a living on the slim margin. The more profitable opportunity was in snatching up the artwork that was underselling. Of course the auctioneer couldn't take his own bid, but a representative for the house could. Her father played this role. If their job was
to get the best price for their customer, then their bids were appreciated and those undervalued works might bring a pretty penny in the warehouse.

An open window admitted a hot breeze into the room, fluttering the pages of an out-of-date calendar hanging on the wall. Unlike their auction house, the Pine Gap barn didn't bother much with embellishments. How differently she'd imagined this place when Father first mentioned it. Ridiculous to think that someone had sent an heirloom portrait here. Maybe they'd made a mistake. Maybe the painting hadn't been shipped to Missouri at all. She only had a few more houses left to visit, and they didn't sound like the type to harbor the missing plutocrat.

“What are you doing in here?” The woman's round shoulders melted into breasts that were supported by the apron tied around her waist.

Miranda had never seen her before and didn't know what her offense was, but began apologizing anyway. “I'm sorry. My grandfather owns this auction house. I really don't mean to be any trouble.”

The woman tugged her apron higher and sneered. “Because you've been no trouble at all. Not even when I had to wait two weeks to sell my chickens.”

“And your grandfather harassed my wife,” a young man wearing overalls piped up. “He trespassed on our property claiming to be looking for some artist. A likely story, if you ask me.”

So that's where he went after leaving the churchyard? He'd refused to tell her.

“What do you mean our tickets aren't ready?” a cowboy growled to the cattleman behind him. “It's that old man. That's who's holding up the show.”

Miranda wanted to melt into the desk when a mountaineer
gnawing on a cob of corn spoke up. “What's that? They don't have the tickets yet? Should've known that uppity fellar didn't know what he was doing.”

“Maybe Mr. Ballentine needs some help in the salon . . . I mean the arena,” Miranda suggested.

The woman sneered. “You go on and ask what the holdup is. Wyatt will appreciate it.”

Of course he wouldn't, but it was either go, or stay and listen as Grandfather took the blame for the delay. But how could Grandfather be to blame when he was standing in the doorway of the auction house doing business of his own?

“Have you stopped selling?” But even as she asked, she realized that she could hear Wyatt calling the bids from the arena.

“Miranda, may I introduce you to Mr. Leland Moore? He's been telling me about the opportunities he sees abounding here. Evidently, there are some very lucrative deals.”

Red rimmed the man's watery blue eyes. Tufts of blond whiskers spotted his jaw, making an uneven fringe. Miranda stepped closer to the wall. “What kinds of deals are those?” she asked.

“I'll let you know when it's time. Can't have you fretting over nothing.” Then Grandfather motioned Moore outside in an obvious attempt to leave Miranda behind, but after a moment of internal debate, she followed him. She passed through the spacious hallway, stomach rumbling at the savory aromas seeping out of every basket hanging from a woman's arm. Stopping in the yard, Miranda was hailed by Betsy. The woman Betsy was bringing to her walked with grace and a sense of balance that Miranda only then realized she'd missed seeing. Here everyone walked bending forward or leaning back as if perpetually accounting for the hills they traversed. This lady
stood upright—sea legs, as Miranda's captain uncle would've deemed them.

“Miranda, this here is Miss Abigail.” Betsy reached backward to catch her hand and hurry her forward.

“Abigail Calhoun.” She wore a blue riding dress that perfectly suited her fair complexion. Curvy Miranda envied her elegant lines. “Betsy tells me that you're visiting from Boston.”

“Yes, ma'am. My grandfather and I.”

“And her grandfather is batty as all get out,” Betsy added cheerfully. “Miranda has her hands plumb full keeping him out of trouble.”

“Betsy!” Abigail grimaced by way of apology. “Please excuse the girl. As much as we've tried, we can't beat any manners into her.”

Betsy only grinned.

“I'm afraid there's some truth to it,” Miranda admitted. “He's gone off with Mr. Moore to discuss a business venture. I'm not sure whether I should intervene or not.”

Abigail Calhoun shaded her eyes and scanned the amassing of wagons, mules, horses, and buggies. “There's poor company, and then there's Leland Moore.”

“He'd rob a squirrel of its last nut,” Betsy added wide-eyed. Then she pointed. “Over there.”

Truly Miranda had planned to do this on her own, but having two companions gave her weak skull some extra protrusions. Seeing their approach, the weasely man crammed some bills into his pocket. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth and Grandfather spun to face them.

“Is there a problem?” Once, back in Boston when Grandfather was selling a painting, a bidder called out from the audience that it was a fake. That was the only other time Miranda had seen him puff up like he was now. Not a good sign.

“Wyatt needs your help inside,” Miranda said.

“I've got more important things to do.”

Abigail stepped forward with a gentle smile. “How are you feeling, Leland? I do hope this isn't moonshine money you're collecting.”

“I've got business dealings with Mr. Wimplegate, and they ain't none of your concern,” Moore said.

“The only business you know is the business side of a jug,” Betsy said.

“You know Doctor Hopkins said you'd feel much better once you've kicked that nasty habit.” Abigail said it as compassionately as a saint.

“Come on, Grandfather. Let's discuss things before you make any big decisions.” Miranda took him by the arm, but he shook her off.

“I've been trading and selling since before you or your father were born. I refuse to acquire your permission before I invest my own money. Forgive my granddaughter, Moore. She's forgetting her place.”

He took the man by his threadbare sleeve and turned to march away from them.

“Moore,” Abigail called, “Jeremiah has been looking forward to having a discussion with you over the corn seed you borrowed last spring. Expect him to call on you soon.” But Moore already had his ear bent to Grandfather's grandiose plans.

What new mischief was this? But she appreciated the kindness of the woman who'd tried to intervene. “Well, thank you, anyway,” Miranda said. “I'm grateful.”

“I'm afraid your grandfather is putting his faith in the wrong man,” Abigail said. “Wyatt would be able to help, but after seeing how he treated Wyatt this morning, I doubt your grand
father would appreciate his interference.” Abigail's sincere face furrowed with concern. “Why doesn't he trust Wyatt? Wyatt wouldn't do him any wrong.”

Betsy smiled at the woman she clearly adored. “Mr. Wimplegate and Miranda don't think much of Wyatt.”

Miranda gasped. “That's not true,” even if it had been until recently. “I'm just getting acquainted with him.”

Abigail shifted her lunch basket to her other hand, sliding her arm through the hoops. “Most of the people here won't think much of you, being an outsider, but they'll get used to you . . . unless you get on the wrong side of a feud, that is. But give Wyatt some time. These mountain men begin to grow on you.”

Had it not been for the collective dislike of Mr. Wimplegate, Wyatt might have had a lynch mob on his hands. As it were, everyone seemed to pity him, and rather than add to his woes, the crowd swallowed their ire until he finished correcting the mistakes made by his boss that morning. Now it was noon and time to sell the baked goods, nevermind that they still had livestock to work up before anyone would leave.

Abigail Calhoun had just entered from the outside. Wyatt motioned to her, and she smoothed her tidy traveling dress and came forward. As if on cue, other women got to their feet and wove through the men as they made their way down to ground floor. While Josiah was driving the last of the livestock out of the arena, Abigail came across and ran her fingers over the prissy tablecloth on his auction stand.

“This is new,” she said.

Wyatt stretched his arms forward and felt the pull of the tailored coat across his back. “A lot's new around here.”

The ladies crossed the arena and deposited their goods on the auction table. Peeking into the dinner pail, Wyatt inhaled the toasty scent of fried chicken. He poked around the cloth covering until he was certain he hadn't missed any vittles and then moved aside to let the ladies sell their wares without his interference.

Some of the crowd moseyed outside, where they had their dinner pails already waiting, but others stayed to barter for the best meal. Should he go find Elmer? He didn't want the man—or his granddaughter—to go hungry. Only a few platters or pails remained when Mrs. Turnbull hurried inside bearing a disturbingly familiar pie tin.

“Wait, Wyatt. Widow Sanders didn't have time to come today, but she sent her rhubarb pie.”

Elmer had already turned down Widow Sanders' pie, or Wyatt would've claimed it for him. As it were, he was forced to put on the same performance he did every week.

“All right then, we'll auction off Widow Sanders' delicious rhubarb pie. It's still warm, boys, so get your bids ready.” He gripped his gavel and started at two bits, praying that time passed would have clouded someone's memory of the weekly Sanders pie, but no one bid. Beneath his melodic calling, Wyatt groaned. Two bits and that was all. Here he went again, faking bids just to save Widow Sanders' pride. With a yelp, he pointed somewhere toward the east of the room, never making eye contact with a supposed bidder and raised the price to three bits. After a few more pleas he pointed near the bottom of the seats and raised the price to four. When no one stirred to bid on the pie, he interrupted his cadence. “I can't let this go for fifty cents, fellas. You know I'm going to have to bid it up to five bits. Come on. Who's hungry for the best pie in the Ozarks?”