At Love's Bidding (19 page)

She crossed her arms over her chest, her chin tucked down. “Then I'll go. I'm . . . I'm terribly . . . I'll go.”

Stepping forward, she hesitated at the door. Not daring to
leave his station, Wyatt turned away from her and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her skirts swishing down the stairs.

Nice
work, old boy. You insulted the lady. She'll never
want to be alone with you again.

“And to think I did it to save you. What a mistake.”

He didn't mean to slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows, but a man could only take so much. Ripping his blankets off the bed, he carried the whole mess to where Monsieur LeBlanc waited, and before the old gent could complain, Wyatt bundled him into them.

It wasn't enough. The sheets weren't thick enough. After reflection, he added his quilt to the bundle, but there was no disguising the large square of canvas. Well, what was he to do? He'd have to come up with another story if they caught him, but he hoped after his confession Miranda wouldn't be watching him too closely. Shoot, she'd probably never look at him again.

He made it halfway down the stairs, then bent to see what he was walking into. Elmer sat on Ma's red sofa. His cane rested against the inside of his knee, his eyes were unfocused. Wyatt eased down while bunching up the quilt even more. No sign of Miranda.

Elmer's eyes drifted toward him. “I thought I'd be on my way out of town,” he said. “So glad I get to stay here longer.”

His words were slurring. Sure sign of exhaustion.

“Miranda says you're staying downstairs?” Wyatt asked.

Elmer nodded. “She's in there now fixing it up. Practically flew past me.”

Fleeing him, no doubt, but what to do with the painting? He eyed Elmer. “If you need something to drink, you'll find some milk in the kitchen. You should be able to find a mug easy enough.”

“I know where they are,” Grandfather said. “I've been here dozens of times before and I wouldn't forget a thing like that. You must think I'm losing my mind.”

Exactly, because Elmer had never been to his house before, but now wasn't the time to contradict him. Wyatt shifted his bundle so the gilt frame didn't dig into his chest so. He could take the painting outside, but it looked like rain coming. Didn't want to leave it in the barn where the mice would gnaw on it. It had to be somewhere inside and somewhere that Isaac wouldn't look. If Isaac found it, he'd tell them in a heartbeat. Anything to make life more difficult for his younger brother. That left the parlor and the kitchen.

“I reckon Miranda should be done about now. Why don't you go check?”

The bags beneath Elmer's eyes looked as full as an unmilked udder. “She told me to wait out here.”

“Yes, but now I'm here, so go on and see if she needs anything.”

Elmer expelled a long chastising breath to share his opinion of Wyatt's idea, but as Wyatt didn't give him another option, he strained against his cane and majestically rose on creaky knees. “I'll be right back,” he said.

As soon as he turned around, Wyatt headed to the piano. Laying his bundle on the ground, he shoved the piano away from the wall. Then, unwrapping his treasure while watching over his shoulder, he slid the painting into the back of the piano, balanced it in the frame, and shoved the heavy instrument so that the wall held it pinned inside and off the floor. Elmer returned as he was gathering his linens.

“She's coming.”

With hands folded sedately before her, Miranda stepped into
the room. Moving slightly left, she pressed her back against the wall and came no closer.

“What do you want?” she nearly whispered.

What did he want? He'd only sent for her to get Elmer out of the room. One last glance at the piano to make sure it was flush against the wall, and he had to come up with an answer.

“I . . . I thought I'd see how Ma and Pa's room looked. I haven't been in there for years, and it could be dusty.”

“It's fine.”

“But it could be dusty.”

“But it's not.” She crossed her arms, letting him know that was the final word.

“I'll get dinner going directly. It's nearly noon,” he said.

“Then I'll be sure and stay out of the kitchen.”

That's right. Because he might attack her. Good grief, but she was moody. Thunder rumbled outside. The curtains whipped with extra vigor. “Do you have anything you want me to carry to the washhouse?” he asked.

“We did all our laundry before the trip.” And she had no clothes here, either. Again he appreciated her fitted gown, and even the subtle color was growing on him, but how long could she wear the same getup?

“I'll be back.” He crossed the parlor, strode through the kitchen, and delivered his sheets to the washhouse. By the time he reached the kitchen again, fat drops of rain had begun to fall. Not an auspicious beginning for his new boarders.

He'd wanted to kiss her. With hands flying, Miranda tucked the corners of the sheet beneath the mattress and looked about for a quilt. She'd come back to Pine Gap determined to be brave, to speak her mind, and to act without fear. Yet within the hour she'd made a mess of everything. The back door creaked open. Miranda spun, expecting Wyatt at any moment, but from the clanging pans it sounded like he was staying in the kitchen. Her heart sped again at his words. He wanted to kiss her so badly that he questioned his ability to resist? She thought of his passionate outbursts, his determination, and she couldn't help but be a tiny bit awed. This was no cheek peck he was thinking of.

But maybe he didn't even like her. That would explain why he wanted her away from him. Or did he think she was being forward? Miranda twisted a dark lock of hair as she surveyed the tidy bed. He'd tried to get her to stay in his parents' room, but she'd insisted on staying in his. What if he mistook her intent? Knowing how he felt about Isaac, she really shouldn't be surprised at his disapproval.

After cleaning Grandfather's room, she tiptoed into the parlor. Grandfather was making use of a rocking chair and had propped
his feet up on the sofa. Miranda nudged him out of his trance but remembered to keep her voice down. “You saw McSwain, didn't you? Monty King's man?” She kept nervous eyes on the kitchen.

“I'm hungry.” He swung his feet to the floor. “Let's see what Widow Sanders has for dinner.”

“We aren't paying guests there anymore. We need to eat here.”

“We aren't paying guests here, either,” he said.

“We are paying—”

“No, you're not.” Wyatt stepped out of the kitchen, dishrag in hand. “Come get a bite to eat.” He returned to the kitchen, opened the oven door, and bent to retrieve a tin.

Honestly, he looked attractive from every angle. And he'd wanted to kiss her.

“Bring me something, please.” Grandfather patted her hand. “If I'm not getting Widow Sanders' rhubarb jelly and toast, it's not worth getting up.”

Go into the kitchen with Wyatt? Alone?

Miranda slouched, ducked her chin, and dragged her feet. She wanted to look as unattractive as possible. Not really, but she definitely didn't want to look like someone trying to look attractive. She wasn't the type that wanted a man to kiss her against his better judgment.

A tin of cornbread clattered onto the table. Steam curled off it as Wyatt tossed the kitchen rag aside. He pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms. With his foot he pushed a chair out before sloshing milk into the mugs. Miranda clutched the back of the seat. “Are you sure you don't mind me being in here?”

“Sit down,” he said.

Evidently he didn't find her quite as irresistible in the kitchen.

“I'll eat standing, thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.” He handed her a bowl of beans with a golden square of cornbread crumbled atop. She carried it in to Grandfather, and by the time she'd returned, Wyatt had prepared her a bowl. The cornbread melted in her mouth. She licked the butter off her finger before seeing the napkin he'd placed beneath her bowl. After a cool drink of milk to loosen her voice, Miranda spoke. “I'm sorry I didn't listen to you earlier. I thought I was being helpful by making the bed.”

“Miranda—”

“I certainly don't want you to think I'm forward or brazen. Perhaps it'd be better for Grandfather to stay upstairs. Widow Sanders' upstairs didn't inconvenience him.”

“No. You stay upstairs. It doesn't bother me none.”

“It's probably not a good idea, especially if I might lead you into temptation too strong—”

“Miranda.” He held her gaze, even as a slow red burn crept up his neck. “I'm sorry for what I said upstairs. You are in no danger around me.”

“I know you wouldn't hurt me. That's not what you threatened.” She lifted her spoon of beans, then lowered it back to the bowl, unsure that she could swallow with him looking at her like that.

A sudden bang on the kitchen door made them both jump. Wyatt leapt to his feet while Miranda steadied her nearly overturned bowl. A small bright face pressed against the glass pane in the door. Wyatt turned the knob and Betsy burst inside.

“Miss Miranda?” She wiped the rain off her face with her damp pinafore. “I thought you'd done left.”

“Change of plans.”

“Well, you ain't the only one. There's a man staying with Mrs. Sanders. City folk like you. Do you know him?”

Feeling the full weight of the question, Miranda smoothed her napkin. “It's possible my father sent him to help us. Help us run the auction house, that is.”

“What do you need that for?” Betsy dropped into a chair and took a piece of cornbread from the tin. “Ain't Wyatt doing you right?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Wyatt said.

“Grandfather might need more help. He's involved in more than the sale barn.”

Betsy nodded her blond head. “Like buying statues of naked women?” She blinked innocently until Wyatt bumped her chair and an ornery smile emerged.

Miranda had no answer and the beans were cooling. She shoveled in a savory mouthful, foregoing any pretension that she wasn't starving.

“Can I?” Betsy asked.

“Grab a bowl,” Wyatt said, but before Miranda could take another bite, Grandfather called.

“Are we going somewhere, or not?”

“If you're ready.” Miranda meant to take a delicate bite of the cornbread, but once it got to her mouth she couldn't help but shove it in.

“I'll take you.” Wyatt stood, but Miranda stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“No, please. We'd rather go alone.”

His gaze dropped to where her hand lay against his blue shirt. She was acting inappropriate again. She moved to snatch it away but he caught it. His warm hand covered hers and guided it back to his arm. “You don't know that man. You'd be safer with me.”

So temptation no longer threatened him? Her eyes dropped to his lips and she couldn't help but feel disappointed.

“I told you so,” Betsy said and raised her eyebrow in Wyatt's direction.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” he asked Betsy. Miranda tried to pull away, but he held her tight.

“I'll leave with Miss Miranda and Grandpa,” Betsy mumbled around a mouthful of beans.

“Might as well wait outside.”

Betsy hummed as she sashayed past, leaving the two of them alone.

“Is this about the painting?” Wyatt asked.

“It has to be. That's the only reason that man would be here.”

“Does he know where it is?”

Bless his heart, he sounded so concerned for her. “That's what we'll find out.” She studied his dark hand on hers. “I wish you could go with me,” Miranda said, “but Grandfather still wants to keep it a secret.”

Slowly he slid his hand away. “I reckon I understand. We all have our secrets.”

Her parasol caught the drops of rain, but once the fabric became saturated, she'd be as wet as the scraggly cat that darted across their path. Splashing through the puddles, Miranda pulled on Grandfather's arm.

“Let's walk faster. If that man was sent by the LeBlanc family, we want to be presentable.”

“I'm not going,” he said as he continued walking.

Betsy, who was hunched over to get her head beneath Miranda's ineffective parasol, twisted her mouth into a frown. “Looks like you're going to me.”

“I know why that man is here. He wants to steal a share of
my apple doll business. They've seen how well Mrs. Hopkins' art has been received in Boston, and they've come to get a slice of the market.”

“Grandfather,” Miranda said, “the train left just this morning. Those dolls haven't made it to Boston yet. Besides, the LeBlancs are in the shipping industry. They don't deal in art and antiques.”

His brow furrowed. “They have a spy, then. Someone told them what we were up to, Miranda. Someone has been watching us.”

His fervor sent warning chills to the edge of her teeth. His misguided optimism was worrisome enough, but paranoia? This was something new. His eyes tightened as he turned to stare at Betsy. “Who have you been talking to, girl?”

Betsy straightened, meeting his accusation with the contempt it deserved. “That ain't none of your business.”

“I knew it.” Rain dripped off his hat brim. “She's a spy, Miranda.”

Fear gripped Miranda. He'd never shown this hostility before. “No, she's not, Grandfather. A soft answer turns away wrath, Betsy. Tell him you haven't been reporting on him.”

Betsy flung her braids behind her shoulder. “But Miss Miranda, sometimes Wyatt told me to see what you'uns were—”

“Achoo!” Even if the sneeze was obviously faked, it interrupted Betsy. Miranda shot her a warning glance. Both she and Wyatt had made use of the girl's ability to meander around town without any noticeable purpose. Grandfather wasn't mistaken that Betsy was watching him. He'd just failed to realize who she was reporting to. “The point is that you haven't been hired by any art dealers to report on Grandfather's stunning acquisitions.”

Please don't mention Lady Godiva,
Miranda prayed.

“Like Lady Godiva?” Betsy shuddered as a gust flung rain beneath the parasol. “I might have mentioned it to Uncle Fred
because I thought he'd like to do another story, but he said he didn't want to raise community outrage.”

“This child is a nuisance,” Grandfather said. “She's led him to our treasure like the traitor she is. You can take her with you, if you'd like, but I'm leaving.”

“You must come with me,” Miranda said. “McSwain won't want to speak to me.”

“Then don't talk to him. It doesn't matter to me because I'm looking for Leland Moore. It'll be nice to be with someone who has my best interest at heart.”

They stood at the intersection before Widow Sanders' house. One road led to town—the other to the sale barn. “Watch yourself, Miranda,” Grandfather said. “Don't trust anyone.” And with a last glare at Betsy, he walked into the rain in his stern black suit and his tall stovepipe hat.

Betsy watched him a few paces, then turned, shielding her eyes from the rain. “You want me to follow after him?”

Miranda drew a strong breath in through her nostrils. “No. Keep your distance, Betsy. Grandfather would never have accused you like that if he still had his wits. I just don't know what he's capable of in this condition.”

Betsy splashed through a puddle. Water gushed out of the toe in her boot. “Seeing how it's only raining heavier and heavier and how you don't seem likely to let me listen in on your conversation with these strangers—”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Then I might as well be getting back home to see if Eddie's fever has dropped. He was sleeping when I left.”

“I'm sorry, Betsy.”