At Love's Bidding (17 page)

The stiff frame tilted gently in Wyatt's hands and the morning sun glinted off the knowing smile of his forebearer.

You know she wants
me. That's what she's here for. Why don
't you come clean and tell her instead of keeping
me hidden under your bed? The dust tickles my nose
.

“You are my kin,” Wyatt said. “I can't give you up. Not yet. I have to think this through.” How he'd hated not telling Miranda. It ate away at his gut like a cancer, especially since she had made a special trip to see him. But what if Miranda suspected the picture was coming to him all along? What if she'd been sweet-talking him just to get close?

You call that sweet talk? Boy, you
need to get out more. Doesn't seem to me
that she likes you much at all.

“She does,” Wyatt answered. “She might not know it yet, but she does. And what if you can help me win her?”

Now
you're talking. Sell me and buy that smelly auction
house from her grandfather. It would be quite amusing to
have one's image traded for an animal sale barn
.

“I don't think the sale barn will win her. I've already written to Aunt Corinne. I need to see what else is at stake.”

One eyebrow seemed to lift until it bumped the pony-tailed white wig.
That Corinne—always a troublemaker. Don't you wonder what
all the secrecy is for? Why would she send you
a family heirloom if you were illegitimate?

“Heirloom? You think pretty highly of yourself.”

And why would someone come all
this way to take the painting from you? I mean
, I've always been a catch as far as the
ladies were concerned, but no one ever traveled to a
wilderness for me.

The powder blue of Monsieur LeBlanc's fancy coat wouldn't match Ma's pretty wallpaper, but somehow Wyatt already knew that he wouldn't be hanging this picture in the parlor. He had turned a corner. Slowly God was prying what he'd once cherished out of his hands. The future he'd fought Isaac over didn't have the same allure it once had. Wyatt eased the painting beneath the wooden frame of his bed and pulled the quilt down low over the side.

What to do about Miranda? He couldn't imagine that she was a thief, but with her grandfather's confusion, who knew what he might have told her? The only thing Wyatt could be certain of was that it was no coincidence they'd come from Boston on the very same train as his painting.

Time to get them. With growing conviction, Wyatt knew he'd be in Boston soon, but not yet. Not until he heard more from Aunt Corinne and not until he could guarantee that his surprise gift was safe.

He dreaded saying good-bye to Miranda as much as he looked forward to seeing her on Widow Sanders' porch. And when he reached the Garden of the Year, there she was . . . with Isaac. Wyatt tugged his hat down low. He'd failed to ask his brother where he was headed to that morning. Should've known he'd spend every moment he could with Miranda, which is exactly
what Wyatt would've done if he wasn't afraid of slipping up and saying too much. The mules stopped in front of the house, already accustomed to his frequent visits.

Evidently Elmer had started the day in rare form. “In all my days I've never known your father to need me so desperately,” he railed to Miranda. He held his crystal-topped cane beneath his arm while he tugged on his gloves. “Don't you worry, Wyatt. A quick trip home to straighten out this mess he's made, and I'll be back to resume business here. In less than a month we'll be rolling again.”

“Until then you want me to keep the sale going?” Wyatt asked.

“Not completely. I don't trust your eye.” Elmer's face crinkled in disapproval. “You can keep selling the animals, but leave the fine art to me.” He cast a longing glance at Lady Godiva in the garden.

Wyatt released a breath he didn't know he was holding. In other words, he could run the sale barn just as he always had. Giving up Elmer's mad fascination with worthless doodads was no sacrifice. He darted a glance toward Lady Godiva and nearly choked. Her honey-colored torso had been draped in a modest kitchen apron. He grinned.

Miranda stepped next to him. “Widow Sanders insisted she be covered.” Her low words were meant only for him. “Betsy helped me find something suitable.”

“Lady Godiva isn't going with you?”

“Alas, no.” Her mouth tipped up. “Grandfather didn't want her thrown into the luggage compartment, and I refuse to ride with her in the seat next to me. He said she can stay and greet him when he comes back.”

“He's coming back?”

Her eyes lowered. “It's unlikely. Unless he recovers once we're home, I don't think he should leave again.”

“What about you?” He blurted the question before he thought better of it. “Are you coming back?” Wyatt waited for a response, but she lifted her eyes, and the sorrow he saw there was her answer.

She didn't want to leave him. She cared about him, with or without a painting. He couldn't ask her to stay, and he had no part in her world, but he couldn't help but wonder what it'd take to earn his way.

He took Elmer's traveling case and scanned the empty porch. “Where's your trunk?”

“Josiah hauled it to the depot this morning, along with a crate of Laurel Hopkins' apple dolls and Arabella's rag rugs.”

“And yet you leave Lady Godiva here.”

“I'll take her,” Isaac said. “She'd look good in Ma's vegetable garden.”

“Ma would rise from the dead before she let you put that in her garden,” Wyatt said. He lifted the traveling case into the back of the wagon. Maybe Widow Sanders could convince Mr. Rinehart's wife that the statue came from the Montgomery Ward catalog. That was their only hope.

He watched as Widow Sanders hugged both Miranda and Elmer. Betsy had been by the night before and said her good-byes, but a sick nephew was keeping her busy today.

“I can't go with you to the depot, so I'd best say good-bye here.” Isaac pressed a gallant kiss on her hand.

Wyatt glared innumerable silent threats until Miranda reclaimed her hand. At least Isaac wasn't tagging along. He probably had another lady friend up the mountain fixing dinner for him.

Elmer climbed up onto the seat, obviously not pleased he was being forced to leave. Wyatt had to hand it to Miranda,
she'd at least accomplished that much. Wyatt walked to his side of the wagon and turned to find Miranda following him. He held out his hand, unable to forget how she avoided him on their first ride together.

When she'd arrived she was the enemy, but now she was a friend—a friend who might want to steal his most treasured possession—but life was complicated.

She slid her hand into his and gripped firmly. Positioned before the wheel, she paused. Didn't look his direction, didn't give any sign beyond the tight grip that she knew he was there. Finally, she lifted the hem of her dark brown dress and climbed up into the wagon.

It was time to go.

Her eyes were as blurry as her posture was sharp. Wyatt told her to speak up for herself, to know what she wanted and to pursue it, and then he bundled her up into the wagon and sent her on her way. Either he wasn't following his own advice, or he didn't think as much of her as she wanted him to. The mules plodded slowly down the mountain to the depot in the valley.

Maybe Wyatt was more practical than he preached. Maybe he knew she had no choice but to accompany Grandfather home. If only he realized how badly she'd wanted to succeed here. How she hated returning home empty-handed. She who'd do anything to ease the suffering of a hungry shoeshine boy had failed in the biggest crusade of her life. Just when she was learning to assert herself, she had to give up and return defeated. Father's telegram had given her what she wanted—a way home—but already she wondered if she'd given up too easily.

A few wagons stood at the depot. Farming on the Sabbath
wasn't acceptable, so many made their trips to town under the pretense of meeting the circuit-riding preacher, although he'd only been through once a month. Horse tails swished in rhythm as lazy flies looked for an unprotected spot of hide. After the recent rain, the light had a crispness about it that would be difficult to capture on canvas, but not impossible for a master.

Wyatt threw the brake. His shoulder bounced against hers as he took a deep breath. Staring straight ahead, he sighed and then climbed down. Again, she took his hand. Again, she didn't want to release it. But he pulled out of her grasp, and instead of handing her down, he took her by the waist.

“My brother kissed your hand,” he said. His fingers tightened around her waist as the train whistle echoed in the valley.

Miranda's heart did a flip-flop. “He's just a friend.”

“What am I?”

A sudden attack of shyness overtook her. She had no answer. Taking her hand, he lifted it to him. Her gloves covered all but the pressure of his lips, but the gesture went to her heart.

“I'll miss you, Miranda Wimplegate.”

How she wanted to stay with him. To have nothing else that demanded her allegiance, no duty that lay a prior claim to her conscience. Her throat constricted. “I'll miss you, too, Wyatt Ballentine.”

With a roaring shudder and squealing brakes, the train rolled into the depot. Smoke chugged out from the stack atop the black engine.

One last squeeze, then he released her and rearranged his hat. “Looks like they're loading your trunk.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “And the apple dolls.”

Grandfather had found his bag. He waved at the train
standing ready. “If you insist on our departure, then we'd better go. They won't wait.”

She knew what she was leaving, but what would she find at home? “Good-bye, then,” Miranda said. “And thank you for everything.”

He waved away her thanks. “Don't be surprised if I show up in Boston looking for that rhubarb pie you owe me.” He escorted her to the train. Why hadn't he been this charming from the onset? Given more time, she could've grown even fonder of him. But what difference would it have made? Only caused more sorrow at their parting?

The porter reached down for her hand. With one last lingering caress, she relinquished Wyatt's arm and boarded the train. Grandfather stepped up behind her.

“Your father is making a mistake,” Grandfather said. “What are we going to tell the LeBlanc family? How will we face them?”

“We did what we could, Grandfather. There was no trace of that painting. It disappeared into thin air.”

He grunted and motioned to the nearest seats. “I don't like to lose, that's all. We've surrendered and now we're in full retreat. Shameful.”

Miranda slid inside the row. She didn't like it, either. What would be the cost once they arrived home? Once the consequences of their failure began to manifest, would she wish that she'd tried harder? If the long hours on the road home gave her inspiration on how she could've handled Grandfather, it'd be too late. Her only chance would be lost. Would she regret giving up so easily?