At Love's Bidding (14 page)

Who would've guessed that sitting next to Wyatt would completely erase her unease of being the center of attention? Having every eye on her didn't bother her nearly as much as the man at her elbow. His shoulder brushed hers. The stiff fabric of his coat rubbed against her arm as he pointed out a blank spot on the paper. He lowered his voice from his public calling to share a wry observation. Once she got the gist of the instructions, once she caught Wyatt's rhythm and could make sense of his chant, she enjoyed working with him. Enjoyed the camaraderie and enjoyed the feeling that she was contributing. She didn't know how to help Grandfather, but after the horrible scene Wyatt endured, anything she could do to ease his job gave her pleasure. Was that wrong of her?

And he was still at her elbow, walking her home before he returned to the barn that night to help Betsy's uncle Fred settle up with the last customer. Take away the barnyard smells that clung to both of them, and she could imagine that they were on a promenade through Boston Common, especially the way he walked with the easy gait of a man with the world at his feet. Ever since seeing him in that suit, Miranda couldn't erase the
thought that he held some inborn quality that set him apart. Although Isaac's gentle manners were more pleasing, Wyatt possessed an air that wasn't learned. He might work with his hands, he might sport a scruffy beard, but he had a nobility about him. It was evident in the way he faced adversity, the way he treated everyone, and by the way they adored him. Obviously, he was capable of rising to the very heights of his particular social class.

Had the thin mountain air affected her reasoning, too?

As they rounded the corner to Widow Sanders' house, Betsy rose from the porch step where she'd been sitting. Miranda smiled, happy to see the girl, but she only had eyes for Wyatt.

Betsy picked up a Mason jar of tea off the porch and rushed to hand it to him. “A new pot is steeping, but this is the last that's cool.”

Miranda wetted her lips, suddenly realizing how parched she was. With a start she also realized how closely Wyatt was watching. He took the jar from Betsy and held it out to Miranda.

“Ladies first.”

Miranda took the jar in both hands, her fingers covering his. “Thank you.” She'd almost forgotten how to swallow, and he must've forgotten how to work his fingers, because he stood there, fingers entwined, until Betsy snorted. His eyebrow gave a little hop, and he released the jar. Miranda refused to think how she looked slurping out of a canning jar and instead enjoyed the cool, slightly bitter liquid washing down her throat. She lowered it and had to force herself not to swipe at her face with her sleeve as Betsy was wont to do.

“Is Grandfather inside?” she asked Betsy as she offered the jar to Wyatt.

Betsy tugged on her blond braid. “I saw him and Moore
drive by the house a few hours ago. I hollered for him, but he didn't stop.”

Wyatt gulped the rest of the tea down, then handed the empty jar back to Betsy. “That man needs a keeper.”

Just then Miranda turned to see Grandfather waving merrily from the wagon as it made its way up the hill toward them. Moore wasn't with him. He was alone, unless you counted the piece of sculpture riding in the back.

“You won't believe what I've acquired.” He pulled the wagon alongside the house and gestured to the log standing on end in the back of the wagon.

The tree must've been impressive, because the trunk was a full yard in diameter, but it'd been carved into a figure, the honey-colored wood taking on a golden skin color. Above the shoulders where the head should've been was a narrow neck, headless and smooth, but beneath that—

Miranda stepped up to the edge of the wagon. Grandfather came around back. Beaming with pride, he dropped the tailgate and gestured. “Isn't she a beauty?”

Every ounce of blood in Miranda's body must have made a mad dash for her face. No Baroque artist had ever been more enamored with the voluptuous female form as the backwoodsman who'd carved the rough likeness, heavy of breast and generous of buttocks. In fact, the artist had hardly bothered worrying about a waist at all, but merely gave an impression of space between the two areas upon which he wished to concentrate his efforts. That was her professional opinion. Her opinion as a maiden having to face the obnoxious figure in broad daylight was even more harsh.

Betsy whistled. “Wonder who he used as a model.” She looked down at her undeveloped chest and then assessed Miranda's rather healthy form. “I don't think even Miss Miranda—”

“Betsy!” Wyatt lifted the tailgate and dropped the pin into the staple, all without looking up.

“You cannot ship this to Boston,” Miranda said.

“Of course not,” Grandfather laughed. “I won't be parted with Lady Godiva. That's what I named her. I thought we'd keep her in Widow Sanders' garden to enjoy.”

“I don't know who Lady Godiva is,” Betsy said, “but Mr. Godiva is one lucky man.”

“Go sit on the porch, Betsy.” Wyatt could sure be bossy when the mood struck.

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed herself. “Widow Sanders does not want this in her garden, Grandfather. It's vulgar.”

“Nonsense. It's no different from Venus de Milo.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. “That might be fine and dandy for some foreigners, but no one in this part of the woods would put this outside. That's all I'm saying.”

“Well, it's about time you met with some culture.” Grandfather unhooked the tailgate again. “Are you going to help me unload this, or do you want Lady Godiva to ride in the back of your wagon all week?”

Wyatt took his time weighing his options, but really, did he have any? Elmer had bought this monstrosity—just wait until he got his hands on Moore—and he didn't want to leave his wagon behind. Hopefully the widow would forgive him.

He leaned into the wagon bed and stretched out his hands, but then stopped. Exactly where could he grab? He drew back and scratched his head. Somehow it didn't feel right handling the woman, even if she had no modesty. He quirked his mouth
to the side and went in cautiously. It was just a tree trunk, he reminded himself as he wrapped his arms around the stout waist of the figure and hefted Lady Godiva out of the wagon.

“Where do you want it?” he grunted.

“In a bonfire,” Miranda said, but Elmer led the way to an empty space in Widow Sanders' rose garden. He deposited the statue with a thud and turned to find Widow Sanders, fists against her hips, mouth ajar, and eyes bugging.

“What in tarnation is that?”

Wyatt ambled past her. “C'mon, Betsy. I'll take you home.”

Betsy hopped off the porch and ran to the wagon, where Miranda stood, still too shocked to move.

“What am I going to do?” she asked.

Wyatt stood at her side and watched the widow bickering with Elmer. She jabbed her finger at him, but Elmer only had eyes for the controversial lady. “You're going to take care of your grandfather as best as you can. God hasn't forgotten you.”

She nodded, her chin quivering. For crying aloud, did she know how badly he wished he had an answer? Did she have any idea how he wanted to take care of this for her?

With a tightness in his chest, he reached for her. One hand on her shoulder, a squeeze. Her chin dropped. “I'm not doing very well.”

“Don't give up. Help will come when you need it.” His big old hand was probably crushing her. If only he knew what to do, but his position wasn't the best. As unstable as the old man was, he couldn't cross him. One wrong move and Elmer could ruin everything Wyatt and his father had worked for.

“I've got to go back and make sure everyone leaves with the animals they bought, but if you need me I'll be here in a jiffy.
And tomorrow I'll keep him with me. If nothing else, we'll keep him so busy he won't have time to buy any more . . . art.”

She flashed him a watery smile. “I underestimated the strength of the muse in these hills.”

He wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but the way her warm shoulder compared with the cool wood statue . . . he shouldn't make any more comparisons. He cleared his throat, then hightailed it to the wagon where Betsy waited.

Betsy smiled innocently, which meant she was thinking thoughts that were anything but.

“I know that look. You're up to no good, so you might as well tell me.”

Betsy held on to the seat as the wagon rocked to life. “I don't know how you're going to take this, Mr. Wyatt, but I expect you won't be appreciating my observation.”

“I expect you're going to tell me anyway.”

“Sure enough.” Betsy nearly sang her next words. “You love her.”

Wyatt's neck tightened. “Hogwash. A fancy city lady like her? I might as well poke myself in the eye as fall in love with her. She ain't looking for an auctioneer for a husband.”

“I didn't say she was in love with you, you big oaf. I said you loved her. All the signs are there. The way you get real quiet when she's around. How you'd just as soon put a whooping on Isaac as let him breathe the same air as her. And how just then, it took you a full two minutes to decide whether or not to touch her shoulder. I nearly split a gut laughing at you.”

Wyatt tried to stare her down, but Betsy's pert, lightly freckled face registered no remorse. “Don't look so scared,” she said. “She's a nice lady and I won't tell her.”

“There's nothing to tell. You're out of your ever-lovin' mind.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and watched the mules' backs as they plodded toward the sale barn. The nervousness, the hesitation that Betsy saw wasn't love. It was uncertainty. Wyatt didn't trust Miranda, and he had to be on guard because he was too vulnerable where she was concerned. No one had ever made him question his plans like she had. All these years he thought he knew who he was, what he wanted, and then, from the moment she hopped off the train, he began to wonder if there was something more. Maybe this life he'd so carefully planned for wasn't what he desired. Maybe he'd only settled for it because the pain of his family's rejection kept him from trying anything grander. But knowing that Miranda existed led him to want things that had never seemed possible before.

Was that love? He didn't think so. He pulled up to the barn as Betsy sprang from the wagon and skipped into the building. If not love, then infatuation maybe, but Wyatt wasn't a fool. He wouldn't wager his heart on someone who wanted to leave, who had nothing in common with him.

Nothing in common besides a love of family. Besides a sense of duty to those she cared for. Besides faith. And besides an abhorrence for naked tree-stump women.

The next few days found them traveling through the mountains to make visits on people who had no interest in seeing them. Wyatt expected Elmer to pull these shenanigans, but even Miranda seemed to be hankering after something specific. Although she did her part at the auction, she seemed to have something else on her mind.

“Who exactly are you trying to meet this time?” Betsy asked.

Try as he might, Wyatt couldn't keep his attention from straying when Miranda was in the back of his wagon, but between the crooked mountain road and Elmer's ramblings, he needed to focus if he didn't want to dump the lot of them into a gully.

Betsy continued, “If you're looking for ladies your age to visit, most of them are married. We do have a few bachelors about, though. We could start with old Widower Robbins and work down to Cross-Eyed Carl.”

Funny that she didn't mention him in her list of bachelors. Wyatt's back straightened. Did Betsy think him less interesting than Carl?

“Is that your uncle?” Miranda asked.

“You've met my uncle,” Betsy said. “He ain't cross-eyed, but he is a widower. Of course, that would make you my aunt. . . .”

“No—riding toward us. Is that your uncle?”

Wyatt turned to look behind them, and sure enough, there was Fred Murphy. He pulled the mules to a stop as Betsy hopped up in the wagon bed and waved him over. “I thought you were staying home with the boys today.”

“I'm going to see your pa. It's been eight years since those bushwhackers jumped him. Just wanted to report on how things were on his side of the mountain. Do you want to go with me?”

Betsy twisted her mouth around. “I did want to visit Miss Laurel and Doctor Hopkins. That's where we're headed.”

“It's on the way.” He tipped his hat to Wyatt and Miranda, while pretending to miss Elmer. Was there bad blood between them already? “Lead on. I'll follow.”

They didn't have far to go. Before they knew it, they were being entertained just outside of the charmingly shabby cabin of Laurel Hopkins.

With one bare foot propped against the pile of firewood, Laurel carefully skimmed her knife across the surface of a green apple. The peel softly thudded in the dirt. Two more days of making visits with the Wimplegates, and Wyatt wasn't sure who was the looniest—Elmer for buying their junk, or himself for toting them hither and yon. The only treasure they'd found today was a good place to sit in the shade and sip sassafras tea while waiting for the afternoon sun to weaken. Betsy drowsed against the tree, her golden head nodding slightly, while he played peekaboo with the Hopkinses' oldest girl peering around the corner of the house at him.

“There you go.” Laurel held up the peeled product for in
spection. “That's how I make the face. Now I'll let it soak in some watered-down lemon juice to keep it from wrinkling too soon.”

She tossed the apple and it landed in the bucket with a splash. Laurel wiped her hands on her apron. “Phoebe is playing with the final product. Come here, sweetie. Let them see.”

Wyatt couldn't help but marvel at the rosy-cheeked girl with the pint-sized prairie bonnet. Although the child's dark hair resembled her mother's, he could easily imagine a child of Miranda's with similar coloring. He caught Miranda watching him and suddenly felt like stretching his legs. Excusing himself, he stood and moved beside the woodpile where he could stand a bit while still keeping an eye on the goings-on.

Phoebe brought her doll to Elmer and presented it proudly. The clothes were simple calico, matching what all the women around there wore. Elmer turned it over in his hands, inspecting it as carefully as he would a precious gem. His head twitched in surprise, then he laughed.

“Look at the face, Miranda. Remind you of anyone?”

Miranda shifted on the tree stump stool to get a better look. The doll's darkened, flesh-colored face had wrinkled into an exact replica of geriatric skin. Even the hands curled into gnarled paws that were surprisingly lifelike. The sunken mouth beneath the hooked nose curved in comic disapproval.

Miranda smiled fondly. “It's the Great Dame, Mrs. Winthrop.”

Nothing about the doll looked that great to him, but what did he know?

“Precisely,” Elmer said as he took the doll from Miranda. “She's enchanting, Mrs. Hopkins. How much would you sell her for?”

“Oh, I don't know. It's just a doll, but Phoebe is partial to her.”

“Then keep that doll, but would you be interested in making more? Perhaps hundreds more? I think our customers in Boston would find them charming bits of artisan handiwork. Would you make them for two dollars each?”

Laurel's eyes bugged and Wyatt felt giddy himself. Two dollars? They couldn't sell a wrinkled apple doll for two dollars, could they? This was even worse than Elmer's offer for the homemade soap they'd seen yesterday. He didn't know how much money these city people had, but they surely didn't treat it as something very precious.

But maybe he wasn't the only one to think that. “It's time to go.” Miranda nudged Betsy awake. Betsy yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“Let's say good-bye to Doc Hopkins first,” she said. With a hand on her knee, she pushed up into standing position—he swore that girl got taller every time he saw her—and led Miranda to the backyard.

They were getting nowhere. Those apple dolls might amuse little Ralphie and the younger newsies, but no one was going to buy one. As far as the search for the painting, Widow Sanders had promised that Laurel Hopkins possessed artistic skills of note but hadn't mentioned that her medium was withered apples.

So far their leads had brought them no luck. Maybe they should be checking businesses instead of residences. Although she hadn't seen anything that vaguely resembled the shops of Boston, she knew that somewhere in this town they had proper
clothing for sale. At least good enough for Mr. Wyatt to cut an impressive figure. For whatever his education lacked, the man did know how to fill out a suit. The fitted lines of his coat followed his powerful build and the proud tilt of his head. . . . Well, she supposed he'd been born with that. And even today in his working clothes he had that easy energy that was so attractively male.

Still drowsy, Betsy dragged her feet through the clover as they rounded the house. Clucking ahead alerted Miranda to the presence of the chicken coop before she made out what the wire cage was. She recognized Dr. Hopkins from the sale barn, but he remained bent over a thick tree stump inside the flimsy wire pen.

“Let's go in,” Betsy said, now fully awake.

The thin wire dug into her hand as she lifted it over the post and swung open the light gate. “I hope I'm not interrupting.” The soggy ground sponged beneath her boots as she stepped forward.

“Shut the gate,” the doctor called. From his hand dangled a bouquet of feathers. Squirming feathers. Was that a chicken?

Miranda stretched the wire over the post to secure the coop. The thud of a hatchet on wood drummed against her ears. She spun. A flash of metal and then the ball of feathers came alive.

It couldn't be a chicken because it had no head. Only a bloody stump of a neck remained. And then Dr. Hopkins released it. With hurricane force, it bounced, flopped, and whirled directly at Miranda. She fell back into the chicken wire, but her feet were as heavy as granite. She couldn't move. The maniacal beast was doing all the moving for both of them. It knew neither up nor down. With flapping wings it hurled itself into the air and into her face.

Shrieking, Miranda covered her head with her arms. “Get it away!” she yelled and got a mouthful of feathers. She fell backward. The thin chicken wire gave way, and she crashed through the frame of the gate. Lying on her back and swatting at the spinning bundle of bloody feathers, she repelled it again and again, terrified of the unworldly beast. Then as suddenly as it'd begun its attack, the monster succumbed to exhaustion and dropped next to her. Miranda rolled away from the horrid twitching lump. On hands and knees, she scrambled over the fallen chicken wire to get some distance between her and the monster before collapsing on her backside.

Miranda swiped the hair off her face, only then noticing how dirty her gloves were. Her hat covered one eye. A strand of hair had lashed across her mouth and tasted nothing like her shampoo. She shoved her hat into its rightful territory as the world beyond the flurry of feathers came again into focus.

Betsy stood frozen in place. Her blue eyes bulged. Her hand covered her mouth. The doctor's face was pulled into a tight grimace that would admit no grins, nevermind that his eyes were streaming with tears and his shoulders shook with barely suppressed mirth.

Miranda dusted off her hands and tried to rip her skirt free from the chicken wire. “I think it's dead now.”

Suddenly Betsy took off at a run toward the front of the house. “Wyatt! Wyatt! We need your help.”

Miranda tottered to her feet. “Shh, Betsy. I don't need help.” The chicken wire stubbornly refused to release her skirt. She yanked at it again. Wyatt jogged into sight just as she dropped the fencing and got her first look at the clumps of wet straw clinging to her gown.

Finally the doctor remembered his vocation. “Are you in
jured?” He took her arm and disentangled her from the frame and wire bunched about her knees.

How she wished she could faint and remain insensible until she arrived back in Boston!

Wyatt and the doctor continued to untangle the wire as Grandfather and Uncle Fred came around the back of the house. Uncle Fred pulled out a small tablet and began to scribble furiously. Betsy stood next to him on her tiptoes. She craned her nose over the tablet. “I witnessed the whole thing, if you need a source.”

Miranda halted her repairs. “Did I break a law?”

Uncle Fred licked his pencil. “You performed wonderfully. This will sell more papers than Caesar Parrow's two-headed calf.”

Now Dr. Hopkins smiled. “You mean my chicken coop will be in the journal? Why, the whole county will read of it. Isn't that something?”

“Why would you write about a chicken coop? Nothing important happened.” Miranda's heart sank as he continued to jot his pencil across the paper. How many days would it take before the paper ran and could she be on the train by then?

Wyatt pulled the mangled gate aside. “Hopkins, you might want to get your birds in the henhouse until you have a chance to repair this fence.”

“I don't know when I'll have time to fix it. Tomorrow I'm checking on patients. . . .”

“Property owner worried that damage will not be repaired. . . .” Fred mumbled as his pencil moved.

“Grandfather will have it fixed,” Miranda said.

“I'm not responsible,” Grandfather said.

“This just gets better and better,” Fred cheered and his pencil
moved again.
“Interloping business tycoon wreaks havoc on local residents
. . . .”

Betsy clapped her hands. “Be sure and mention that she was attacked by a headless chicken. That'll sell like hotcakes.”