At Love's Bidding (15 page)

His head raised as he noticed the dead bird for the first time. He winked at Betsy and continued writing.

“I want to go home.” Miranda pushed her bonnet back. Since the crash, it'd formed its own opinion of where it belonged and kept creeping over one eye. Now out of the way, she had a full view of the handsome man who was rising from the destruction she'd caused—the man who had the nerve to stare pointedly at her hat. His eyes traveled down to her shoulders, over her every curve—curves now adorned by clumps of chicken-coop confetti.

Wyatt stretched his arms before him and pretended to flick a spot of dust off his spotless elbow. “I understand now why your grandfather insists on keeping up appearances. Really, I'm shocked at your. . . . slovenliness?”

She humphed. “Bet you've never used that word before.”

“Because it never fit the situation half so well.” A shy smile teased at his lips. Miranda hoped that she'd remember how charming it looked at a time when she could appreciate it more.

“Let's go inside,” Dr. Hopkins said. “Laurel will want to get this chicken ready for supper, and it's getting hot out here.”

Still bending the newsman's ear, Grandfather followed the doctor and Betsy inside, leaving Miranda alone in Wyatt's company.

“Fred Murphy? Is he really the newspaper man? And will people really hear about this?” she asked.

“You're already big news around here. This story will guarantee people will talk about you for weeks.”

“I don't seek attention. Of that you may be sure.”

“No. You prefer to keep much hidden, don't you?”

She was still trying to remove the sundry articles clinging to her skirt, and now this? Not a safe topic, especially with the journalist just inside. “This mess is driving me to distraction,” she said. “I'd love to discuss my personal attributes, but the dismal state of my wardrobe has me occupied at the moment.”

Wyatt stepped in front of her. Her stomach tightened. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, this wasn't it. Slowly he took her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. Standing there as he was, brown flecking in his green eyes, broad shoulders and perfect posture, he could've modeled for one of those risqué art classes the rich ladies so loved—if he'd only lose the beard. He tilted her head this way and that. At some point she'd stopped breathing, probably the moment the rough texture of his hands registered on her skin. Then with deliberation he wet his thumb on his tongue and applied it to her neck. With firm strokes he rubbed a path to her collarbone. The lack of oxygen was becoming a problem, especially as fast as her heart was beating.

“You had some blood splattered,” he said.

She opened her eyes. When had they closed? She took a half-step to the side to reacquaint herself with the earth's tilt. He grasped her arm.

“Taking care of Grandfather,” she said. “That's why I'm here. Not to stand around . . . with you.”

Something ornery flashed in his green eyes. “Why else are you here, Miranda Wimplegate? Maybe I can help, if you'll come clean.”

Coming clean was a big concern. Should she be feeling this way while her skirt was still adorned with dubious substances from the bottom of a chicken coop? But she couldn't tell him
about the painting. Not without Grandfather's permission—even if it meant that she had to continue these fruitless searches. Even if she had to go out alone on dark nights to places much worse than the underside of the arena seating. Even then, she couldn't tell anyone what they were looking for. She'd take the secret to her grave.

Wyatt took her chin again. This time his eyes traveled down to her lips. “The answer is right there.” His gaze softened. “Right there on your lips just begging you to share this burden—”

“A painting,” Miranda blurted. “We're looking for a lost painting.” So much for taking her secret to the grave. But she couldn't pull herself away, not until he'd stopped searching her soul with those green eyes. “It's very important to us. You wouldn't understand.”

“Are you kidding? Isaac's always telling me I'm too sentimental about things. I can't seem to throw away anything that belonged to my parents—even Ma's broken churn. I think I understand perfectly.”

It wasn't exactly the same, but this painting did mean a lot to her family.

Finally his hand fell to his side and he scanned the horizon. “I haven't seen a painting. That I can promise you.”

A breeze cooled her skin as though she'd shrugged off a heavy coat. Miranda's shoulders drooped. “Please don't tell Grandfather. I wasn't supposed to say anything.”

He brought his gaze back to hers. “Are you sure you're looking in the right place? What makes you think it's here?”

“I don't have time . . .” The door to the cabin opened.

Laurel waved. “Don't worry about your clothes,” she called. “I put a towel on the sofa and I can sweep up after you leave.”

Miranda swiped again at her ruined gown.

“You aren't going to find any fancy painting in there,” Wyatt said. “But I'll be thinking on it. Anything I can do to help.”

Guilt. After all the trouble they'd caused him, and he was still offering his best. “But why? We messed up your plans, so why are you helping us?”

Wyatt's throat jogged as he studied her. “I see how you care about your family. You must be a good person to love Elmer so much, and he must have been quite a man to earn it. Seeing you two just makes me want to help.”

Miranda balanced on shaky knees. She'd held a grudge against him ever since she'd arrived, and she'd been horribly mistaken.

She smoothed her skirt, the fabric crinkling beneath her hands. “I haven't given you credit for all the help you've been to him . . . to me. Thank you.”

Now he held her gaze—his face frank and unguarded. Her skin warmed. He really shouldn't stare like that. She might get the wrong impression.

“Just for this moment, for those words—it's all been worth it.”

Isaac had stolen the wagon again. As much as Wyatt hated to have him dawdling around town, he did wish he'd find a lady friend within walking distance instead of traveling up the mountain every time he wanted to go calling. Who was she, anyway? Couldn't be too particular if she was impressed by the mule-drawn feed wagon.

Wyatt slammed the barn door and stomped to the street, thinking on how he had nothing better to offer, either. Miranda's doctor-cousin probably had a shiny buggy pulled by ten white horses. Every day he probably wore suits like the one Elmer bought him. He probably had cooks who made oysters and lobster and all that strange coastal food that Wyatt would never get to eat. No, he couldn't impress Miranda. All he could offer her was protection while she was here, which wouldn't be for long. If it was up to her, she'd be on the next train and never look back.

Wyatt turned onto the town square and cut across the green. Too bad he was all grown up now and had to wear boots. He used to be partial to the feel of the grass on his bare feet, but those times were past. Most of the joys of his childhood were
just memories now, memories that had faded with nothing new to replace them. What was it that kept him in Pine Gap, anyway? Since his parents died he had no reason to stay. The town needed the sale barn, but it didn't necessarily need him. Someone else could manage it, but could he leave behind the legacy his father had entrusted to him?

“Wyatt, I failed to get you your due,” Pa had said one hot afternoon as he lay atop his sheets, ringed with sweat. “You should've had much more, but this is all I can leave you.”

The wooden gavel wavered in his weakened grasp. Wyatt took it, still questioning his father's pride in the gift. Still not sure that he even wanted the responsibility. He didn't see a grand future working for Mr. Pritchard. Pa had always dreamed of buying the sale barn for himself and employing all his sons there, but as the years went by, Pete and Clifford grew tired of waiting, willing to leave for the promise of ready money. He'd expected Isaac to follow in their footsteps. Instead he seemed content to hang around and live off whatever meager wages Wyatt brought home. The both of them stuck, tied to their father's plans.

Not that Wyatt despised his life, but with the sale of the barn it seemed even more unlikely that he'd live up to his father's wishes. Why couldn't he pack up and go somewhere else? Maybe even Boston. He was a hard worker. He could make a name for himself wherever he went, and maybe once he found success Miranda would even consider . . .

Wyatt rubbed his neck as he passed beneath the hanging oak. He might leave someday, but he could never go to Boston. Not with the chance that someone would hear of his return. Someone would put two and two together and proclaim him for what he was—an interloper, an outcast, unwanted. And he
couldn't let Miranda know. He'd better stay here where no one knew him as anything but the Ballentines' son.

He turned the corner to see Postmaster Finley driving up the road, all decked out in his striped fancy traveling clothes. As Wyatt approached, Mrs. Finley scolded the three tussling boys in the back of wagon, reminding him again of his childhood. The boys settled down, the little one sitting away from the others on a large flat crate.

“So where are you'uns headed?” Wyatt asked the postmaster.

The man stopped and swatted at a wasp. “We're going over Jasper way where Maude's family is. Going to see a new niece or nephew, whichever the stork brought.”

“But Pine Gap is the long way around, isn't it?”

“I have a delivery, although I'm not sure it's going to do any good.” He jabbed his thumb at the crate in the back of the wagon. “This was supposed to get off the train at Pine Gap, but the porter missed it, so they unloaded it at the Manes Depot weeks ago. I told them I'd never heard of anyone by the name of Yves, but I'd bring it here and let the stationmaster deal with it. He can ship it back if he don't have any more luck than I did.”

Wyatt's skin puckered like he'd been hit with a bucket of ice. “How's that spelled?”

“Y-V-E-S. Yves Andres Thibault. Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous name?”

If he only knew. Wyatt hadn't heard that name pronounced since his mother died, but she'd taught him how to say it correctly. He studied the flat crate beneath the boy. What could it be? Flat and as large as a small tabletop. Who knew him by that name and what could they want?

“I'll take care of it.” Wyatt dragged his eyes from the crate.
Rule number one of the auction—don't show your interest. Nonchalant. Was that a foreign word, too?

But this wasn't an auction. Why not just tell Finley? Wyatt's chest tightened. Illegitimate. Not belonging. Under the best circumstances he didn't like the reminder, didn't like the conversations that followed about how he was left, why he needed a family. Now, with Miranda and her grandfather reminding him minute by minute how lowly he was, he really didn't want any attention brought to his past. He felt like a fool for hoping, but neither could he let that delivery return on the train without knowing who was seeking him. Did he have some family after all?

The mother caught the shoulder of the boy's jacket and pulled him off the crate. Middle son scooted out of the way, and the boys helped push it to the tailgate. The crate spanned his arms from elbow to elbow. Not heavy, but awkward to maneuver.

“Do you need the boys to help?” Finley asked.

“No, sir. I've got it. Thank you.”

Finley's brow lowered. “You sure about this? You don't mind seeing it to its rightful owner?”

“No trouble at all.” Wyatt's damp collar stuck to his neck, but the rough wood of the crate barely registered in his calloused hands. As the postmaster rolled away, Wyatt looked up and down the road. He'd worried enough about Isaac taking the wagon, but he couldn't be sorry his brother wasn't there to mock him and whatever was held inside. And he didn't much want to run into anyone else, either.

Head down, he hurried up the hill to his house. Dr. Hopkins crossed his path, but he must've been in a hurry, for he didn't slow to say howdy. When Wyatt stepped off the road and onto the narrow overgrown path, he breathed a sigh of relief. What
could it be? Half excited, half dreading, he didn't know what to expect. He propped the crate up with his knee and cranked on the doorknob. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and didn't slow down until he was in his room.

Easing the crate to the floor, he unsheathed his knife, knelt, and inserted the wide blade between the planks. Wyatt pried, but the nails were too tight. He jerked the knife free, then with sweaty palms, rubbed his hands against his pant leg. He needed a pinch bar. His father's was in the shed, but before he left he flipped the crate and smoothed his hand over the label pasted there.

Yves Andres Thibault—Hart County, Missouri.

Shipped from Boston, Massachusetts.

Boston. Location of his family—the ones who didn't want him anymore. This could be something significant. In a flash he ran down the stairs, busted through the back door, threw tools everywhere, and then returned to his room. Once Isaac came home he couldn't lock him out. He had to do what he could with the time he had.

Now with the added leverage, the fresh pine protested before splitting to reveal a framed . . . something . . . tightly wrapped in butcher paper. Heart pounding, Wyatt ripped the paper away. Long ribbons of the noisy tissue floated about the room as a gold corner emerged, an envelope fluttered to the floor, and vibrant colors burned through the haze to reveal a sneering aristocrat challenging him with a face that looked curiously familiar.

The powdered wig hid the man's age. A saber swung from his hip, and he stood with the ease of a man who knew how to use the weapon well.

Wyatt's fingers hovered over the oil painting, but he couldn't
bring himself to touch it any more than he'd poke the president in the ribs. One didn't act familiar with a man like the one in this picture. He clearly enjoyed intimidating people. Or he had. Judging from his short britches and funny wig, he was from an earlier era.

Reverently, Wyatt lowered the frame to his bed. He squatted and ruffled through the brown paper until he found the envelope. For a moment he stared at it dumbly. Did he want to read it? Once before they'd contacted his family and the results had been devastating. Was he about to make the same mistake?

He picked at the corner. He already knew what he was, but that didn't affect who he was. Let the mysterious writer do his best; it didn't change Wyatt's heart or his character.

The delicate paper was as thin as a dried leaf. The letter crinkled as he spread it open and read the elegant, looping script.

Dear Yves,

I apologize for the unexpectedness of this missive and that there was no way to prepare you for its arrival. I don't know what you know of your birth family, or if you even care to know anything, but when I saw this portrait of your great-great grandfather, I wanted you to have it. I am your Aunt Corinne, your father's youngest sister, and I hope it doesn't discourage you to hear that I did not know of your existence until recently. Whether or not you'll take any comfort in this portrait, I cannot guess. I hope it does not bring you pain or regret, for that is not my purpose.

It may be that you have no desire to keep this painting—whether because your financial situation leaves you in want or because you have no desire to own anything
pertaining to the family that has treated you like a stranger until now. If that is the case, your feelings will be honored, and I'd like to assist you.

Wyatt lowered the letter and looked again at the painting. The man sneering at him was his own grandfather? The real family that shared his blood?

Why now? Why after he'd already grown and suffered alone would they contact him? And wasn't there anyone who wanted to keep this portrait for himself? Even if it wasn't for sentimental reasons, it looked to be costly. Even the frame was a work of art.

He continued reading:

Should you decide to sell the portrait, and it is quite valuable as art, I insist that you contact me and me alone. Although I've never met you, I think this would be best in your care, and I pray I've not brought danger to you, but it is possible. There is some dispute over this piece, and there could be unscrupulous men searching for it even now. Please guard this painting until you decide whether to keep it or not. And should you sell it, which is your right, I'd be glad to broker the deal to see that you get what it's worth.

How I wish I could discuss this with you in person. Perhaps that day will come. In the meantime, God be with you, and may this unexpected gift only bring you blessings. Once you decide what you'd like to do with the painting, I'd appreciate the opportunity to learn of your plans.

Thank you and God bless.

Sincerely,
Your Aunt Corinne LeBlanc

LeBlanc. The bed creaked beneath him as he sank next to the golden frame. So LeBlanc was really his father's name, or was this a mistake? His ma, his adoptive ma, Mrs. Ballentine, had told him about his father and mother who'd set out in the wagon train with them. Mr. and Mrs. LeBlanc had joined the wagon train in Independence and when they'd died, the Ballentines had taken him to raise, or at least to keep until they could get him home to Boston.

But Boston didn't want him. His hand itched to crumble this letter into a wad. Instead he let it float to rest on the delicate brushstrokes of the painting. What did this Aunt Corinne know? Where was she when Ma had written and received the bitter reply?

And what about the unscrupulous men? There had been that redheaded man who'd surprised Miranda in the barn that day . . .

Miranda.

Had he not already been sitting, Wyatt would've crashed onto the bed. Miranda and Elmer. She'd told him they were after a missing painting, but this wasn't a missing painting. This had come directly to him from his aunt. Wyatt believed in coincidence like he believed in haints. This is what they sought, and they'd tried to keep it a secret from him.