At Love's Bidding (18 page)

She turned to the window. Wyatt leaned against the wagon, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't leaving until they rolled out of sight. Slowly he straightened and lowered his arms as a
rotund man approached, freshly off the passenger car behind her. His black derby hat marked him for a stranger just as surely as her layers of silk had. Wyatt frowned. He seemed to ripple with indignation. He shook his head and pointed at a buggy farther on. Was the man looking for a ride into town?

Grandfather propped his cane between his knees as the train whistle blew. “Two more weeks. That's all we needed. And I don't know what the rush to get back home is. Even if we didn't find the portrait, this is an untapped source of craftsmanship. Our investments here . . .”

The man marched toward the wagon Wyatt had suggested. As he passed, he turned toward the train. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a notepad and flipped through, looking for some information his triangular head hadn't been able to retain.

Miranda grabbed Grandfather's arm. “I made a mistake. Get off the train.”

His face crumpled in confusion. His cane wobbled.

“Now.” She rose and tugged at his sleeve. It wasn't too late. Not yet. “Get up and get off the train.”

He grabbed his bag. “You don't have to convince me, but I'd like to know what changed your mind.”

Miranda hopped from foot to foot, expecting the floor to begin swaying beneath her at any moment.
Hurry
, she prayed.
Let him hurry.
At quick glance through the glass, she saw the man climbing into the wagon. Well, he couldn't disappear. Wyatt would know whose wagon he rode in, and he'd be easy to find after that. She and Grandfather could do this. They could find the picture before this man could. She already knew the town. She had already earned their trust. What could a few more days hurt?

Grandfather fairly danced down the aisle. “Good for you,
Miranda. We'll stand together against your father. Who does he think he is telling me that I need to come home?”

If only she could send Grandfather back home without her. But she'd have to deal with him. She couldn't ignore the evidence right before her eyes. That man had accompanied Monty King to their warehouse after the painting had sold. He could be in Pine Gap for only one reason—Monty King had new information.

Grandfather teetered at the doorway as the train began to move. Wyatt was already running toward them.

“Ma'am, you must take your seat,” the porter shouted from the other end of the car.

“Take him!” she yelled to Wyatt. “Get us down.”

Clasping Grandfather's wrist, Wyatt helped the older gent spring forward. Then, jogging a few steps, he was able to offer Miranda the same assistance before the train picked up speed.

Barely pausing for her to gain her balance, he propelled her away from the platform and the mighty steel wheels clicking behind them. His grip pinched her arm through her sleeve. “What are you doing? You could've been killed.”

She'd like to answer him and tell him she was fine, but she was having trouble catching her breath. Instead, she watched the wagon drawing away and up the hill toward town.

“I changed my mind,” she gasped. “You said I shouldn't give up. You said I could win if I tried hard enough.”

He looked dangerously close to walking away and leaving her standing at the depot just like the first time. “What about your grandpa?” His eyes darted to where Grandfather stood, meticulously dusting off his shoulders. He lowered his voice. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I gave up too soon. We still have time to accomplish our task. In fact, I'd say we just got reinforcements.”

His brows lowered. “You know that fellow?”

Grandfather cleared his throat and called out in his loudest auction voice, “Wyatt, tomorrow is Monday! Sale day again! You thought you'd have to do it alone, but I'm back!”

Thankful for the interruption, Miranda eased out of Wyatt's grasp. Should she tell him that this was the man who threatened them back in Boston? Did that man know where the painting was? What story had he concocted to explain his appearance? And if he found it, would his success clear the reputation of the Wimplegate Auction House?

Standing at the depot baking in the sun wasn't accomplishing anything beyond blotching her complexion and irritating Wyatt's mules. As soon as they could get her trunk loaded . . .

Miranda spun. A hot summer breeze ruffled the puddles on the empty train platform, but no luggage awaited.

Her gaze followed the twin iron tracks stretching out until they disappeared into the narrow pass that split the mountains. “My trunk.”

Wyatt held up his hand. Grandfather quieted his litany of tasks. “Excuse me, Mr. Wimplegate. Your granddaughter just said her trunk is on the train.”

Grandfather's head snapped to where the train had been standing. “Most unfortunate, Miranda. Most unfortunate indeed. But look at the bright side. Our apple dolls will arrive in Boston before we do. By the time we get there, every respectable home will have one displayed with their other treasures.”

Of course, Grandfather. Between the silver
candelabra and Wedgwood's Jasperware, the fine ladies of Beacon
Hill will proudly display their withered apple dolls.
And if she didn't have a gown to change into, her wardrobe would look worse than the dolls' simple dresses.

“I can buy something, I suppose.”

“Laurel Hopkins sews the dresses for the dolls,” Grandfather said. “She could whip you up something in no time.”

Just as she feared. Miranda caught the edge of a pleat in her skirt. It might be a boring coffee color, but it was heavily layered and silk. She didn't want to imagine what might be offered to replace it.

They made their way to the wagon. Miranda itched for a private word with Grandfather. Had he seen the man? She didn't think so, and his lack of curiosity over why she changed their course troubled her. What should she tell Wyatt? He wouldn't approve of her working with this ruffian, but this McSwain character might bring the help they needed.

Questions tumbled over one another as roughly as the old wagon rolled over the stony road. The thought of getting to be with Wyatt more delighted her. A tiny purr escaped her throat. Wyatt's arm tensed and his foot slid forward, bouncing against hers. The sudden contact startled her. She nearly topped forward, saved only by catching herself with a hand firmly grasping his knee.

Why did a hand on his knee make the mules take out crooked? With a grunted command, Wyatt reined the old jack and jenny into the center of the path and Miranda straightened. Somehow her decision to stay hadn't had the affect she'd hoped for on her stalwart companion. He'd spoken of coming to see her in Boston. Why wasn't he happy that she decided not to leave after all?

It seemed to Wyatt that on occasion a man might ought to be allowed to speak his mind, compliment a lady, tell her how special she was, and then wait a bit before he decides exactly what to do with her. Had he been sweet-talking her out of a kiss or filling her head full of flattery to replace a rival, then he should be held accountable, but Wyatt had only said what he thought was decent, encouraging, and true . . . and it'd swung around and bit him on the backside.

Miranda was back, and she wasn't leaving until she got what she'd come for. Thanks to his encouragement, her determination had been propped up, and now she wouldn't quit until she took his great-grandpa LeBlanc away from him. Wyatt turned north toward Widow Sanders' house, nearly choking on the rising humidity. Sure he was happy to have Miranda around, but he didn't admire the circumstances.

Who was that man who had the power to spin Miranda's plans around? If anyone fit the description of the “unscrupulous man” that Aunt Corinne warned about, it was this fellow. And obviously he and Miranda were in cahoots. She could barely keep her hands to herself, she was so excited.

Maybe it wasn't all bad.

But what if the picture was stolen? He'd thought about that, but he knew he wasn't the thief. And perhaps he had a right to it. Perhaps more had been stolen from him than anyone knew.

Another hole in the road and Miranda bounced against him again. His mouth tightened. If only he'd known she wasn't leaving, he might've kept some of his sweet-talking to himself. How did Isaac manage women the way he did?

Speaking of Isaac . . .

Hands in his pockets, Isaac strolled down the hill from Widow Sanders'. Judging by his smile, he already knew the Wimplegates weren't leaving and already had thought of how to make Wyatt as miserable as possible. He stepped under the shade of a mimosa tree and fanned himself with his straw hat while he waited for them to reach him.

“Where are you going?”

“We're here to stay,” Elmer announced. “Miranda hopped off the train at just the right moment.”

“Is that so?” The obnoxious white teeth Isaac was so proud of fairly gleamed. “Well, we'll just have to make room for you.”

Wyatt growled at the unexpected answer. “I'm taking them to Widow Sanders'.”

“Then you might as well just turn this team around. Widow Sanders has a new guest. She doesn't have room for Mr. and Miss Wimplegate now. And that's why I insist on them boarding with us.”

It was a good thing he wasn't a cursing man, because if he were, he'd be in the process of losing his job at that moment. “We ain't giving up that easily. That man can find a room somewhere else.”

Isaac smirked. “You'd rather him bunk with us, I suppose?”

He narrowed his eyes. With the painting under his bed, he didn't need anyone poking around the house.

“Isaac, Wyatt doesn't want us to stay with you.” Miranda's voice quavered. “We'll find someone who'll have us.”

For crying aloud. He slapped the reins against the mules' backs. “You're staying with us. Let's go.” Not only did he feel responsible for her, but he could hardly leave his boss in the elements, could he? He needed to just simmer down. The widow hadn't had any trouble with the old man. Maybe he was a more considerate guest than employer.

“Wait!” Elmer lurched over Miranda and grabbed the reins. “We have to go back to Widow Sanders'. I forgot something.”

Wyatt shifted the reins to his left hand, out of Elmer's reach, and put his arm behind Miranda, giving her a little more room beneath his arm.

“What did you forget, Grandfather?” Miranda asked.

Maybe he was a little pleased that she leaned into him.

“Lady Godiva. We can't leave her behind. If that man sees her, he won't be able to help himself. He'll scour the countryside to find the artist and we'll lose our monopoly.”

“We'll go visit tonight,” Miranda said.

Wyatt shook his head. “For the last time, Lady Godiva is not coming to my house—wait a minute. How do you know that man?”

Miranda bumped against him, almost as if she'd shoved an elbow into Grandfather on her other side. He coughed and mumbled something in her ear. They both straightened and played mute. Miranda twisted her silver bracelet around in a motion that was becoming all too familiar.

He reckoned they all had their secrets, but it was a pity that their secrets were about the same thing.

He pulled up to his house and he'd never looked at it so critically before. Tidy, neat, except for Ma's old churn that he'd moved outside when they got a new one. How did it compare to her fancy place with maids and servants? Her barn was probably nicer than his house—if they even had a barn.

He helped Miranda down from the wagon, wishing he had an excuse to hug her. Wishing he could keep her in his arms and out of his house. Isaac's cheerful approach was signaled by a tune whistled with an overabundance of cheek. Wyatt went to the wagon bed to fetch her trunk, only then remembering that she didn't have one. A last look at her drab gown, he wondered what else she'd find to make her cheeks bloom.

“Where should we keep our guests?” Isaac said. “Ma and Pa's room?”

Miranda stood, head bowed, looking for somewhere to hide, no doubt. Wyatt tilted his head back and studied the green underside of the oak leaves above him. This was a trial, sure as shooting. How could he endure her living in his parents' house and not completely lose his mind, his painting . . . and his heart?

He had to hide the picture. Already carrying a stack of clean sheets, Wyatt took the stairs two at a time, trying to buy a few minutes before his unexpected guests came looking for him. If he didn't have the picture tucked away, he would've found it easy to welcome Miranda and Elmer. Already his step fell lighter just thinking about seeing Miranda morning, noon, and night, but his painting had to be a secret until he figured how to handle it—how to handle her.

On entering his room, he kicked the door closed and dumped
the sheets on his bed with a whoosh. Wyatt dropped to his knees and pulled the picture out from beneath his twin bed.

I hear we're entertaining company.
Great-Grandpa LeBlanc seemed to stand a little straighter. His light blue coat stretched across his shoulders.
Go on and introduce us. It'
ll definitely change their opinion of you.

“Yes, but not for the better.” Not if they tried to force the painting from him and leave with it. Then he'd be robbed of both the family heirloom and Miranda's company. Wyatt cocked his head at the painting. “Where'd you get that accent? You aren't British, are you?”

He could almost hear the sniff.
We're French, imbecile
.

“Right. I'll have to remember when I hear your voice in my head, but I can't keep jawing. Got to find somewhere to put you.”

Wyatt spun, searching every piece of furniture. Grandpa wouldn't fit behind the nightstand. The chest of drawers stood on four spindly legs. He'd show behind there.

“Wyatt?” It was Miranda. Footsteps on the stairs. “Wyatt, I'm coming up. Where are you?”

Heart pounding, he rushed to the space behind the door and leaned the picture against the wall, out of sight. Then, taking the doorknob, he opened it and draped himself across the entry.

“The room isn't ready yet.”

“I came to help.”

“Go back downstairs. We'll keep the upstairs for the men only.”

Her head snapped back and her smile faded. “Grandfather and I decided to switch rooms. After a long day out doing . . . well, whatever it is he does, I don't want him to climb the stairs. Plus, this room is smaller, and with no trunks . . .” She shrugged.

She would be staying here? In his room? He glanced nervously
at Great-Grandpa LeBlanc, who only wagged his eyebrows. Dirty Frenchman.

“What's a matter?” Miranda turned as if she could see through the door. “Don't worry if it's a mess. It can't be worse than the sale barn. Let me help you.”

“No, no. Couldn't ask you to do that.”

“Nonsense. I feel really bad about being here. You've been so kind, and now we're invading your residence.”

Momentarily forgetting his forebearer, Wyatt felt his toes grow nice and toasty. “There's room. No worries.”

“And to think I judged you so harshly in the beginning.” Her lips parted in a sweet smile.

Wyatt stepped from behind the door to face her straight on. How had this Boston beauty come to be standing in his doorway? It was something so profound he couldn't get his mind around it. Hearing her words, knowing that she recognized something good in him despite Isaac's best efforts, filled him with some kind of unspeakable glory.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then with a skillful duck, wormed her way into the room. “This isn't dirty at all.”

With the speed of a lead bullet, Wyatt shoved the door against the wall and angled his body in front of the doorknob. “You're not supposed to be in here.”

“We're already imposing. If you don't allow me to see after Grandfather and myself, my conscience will trouble me.”

Not nearly as much as his was at the moment. If only he could trust her. If only he was one hundred percent sure that she would understand about the painting.

“May I change the sheets?” She lifted his pillow off the bed.

“Absolutely not.” But he was stuck to the door, too fearful to leave his post and stop her. When had she become so stubborn?

“They won't change themselves,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the floor and she suppressed a shy smile. “But if you'd rather handle your dirty laundry, I understand. I'll stay behind and make up the clean bed once you're gone.”

But he couldn't do that. He couldn't leave when the door might swing closed and there his painting would be, as exposed as Mayor Walters when Josiah tipped his outhouse over.

One more try. “Miranda, I need you to leave. I would much rather fix this room up by myself.”

She bunched a fist to her hip and gave him a saucy look. “Give me one good reason you won't accept my help, Wyatt Ballentine.”

How tiny her waist looked over the full skirts of her traveling costume. How nicely rounded she was everywhere else. His Adam's apple bounced. Lady Godiva had nothing on her. But was there a truth that would send her a running?

“You have to leave because I'm afraid . . .” His mind spun like a weather vane. What could he say? “ . . . I'm afraid I might kiss you.”

That did the trick. Her eyes widened. She stumbled away from the bed and didn't stop backing up until she bumped into his bureau. “And that . . . and that would be awful?”

Oh, heavens. She wasn't considering letting him kiss her, was she? Who would've thought? Wyatt could've sworn he heard Monsieur LeBlanc snicker behind him.

Maybe later, he promised himself, but not now. “Didn't want to embarrass you, but here you are in my room. You look mighty beautiful, and all I can think about . . .”
Shut up, Wyatt. What
are you doing?
“We shouldn't be in here together. You best leave.”