At Love's Bidding (20 page)

“That's all right, Miss Miranda. You know, everyone about these parts talks about how mean and nasty Yankees are; even
the people who fought for the Union don't cotton to them any. But you and Miss Abigail have both been right nice to me.”

Miranda gave her a tired grin. “I'm glad you think so.” But being nice wouldn't get her through the upcoming interview. She waved good-bye as Betsy trotted away. Miranda stepped onto the familiar walkway through the widow's competitive garden, still unsure of what she'd say or do. Just the thought of speaking to this stranger twisted her stomach into knots. How much simpler would it have been for her to have spoken up at the auction house that day when Grandfather sold the wrong painting. Her cowardice had led to this dilemma. She wouldn't let it get in the way again.

She'd turned the knob on the door before she remembered that she no longer resided at this house. With a shake of her head, she knocked and listened as the occupant of the cabin had to move from his seat to allow Mrs. Sanders through the room.

The woman's calico shirt hadn't changed, and neither had her efficient grin. “Miranda, I didn't think to see you again so soon. Did you miss the train?”

McSwain inspected her as if trying to place her. She didn't blame him if he didn't recognize her. The month since Boston hadn't been kind to her.

“Grandfather and I decided to extend our stay.”

“Oh no.” Mrs. Sanders covered her mouth. “I only have one room empty. If only I'd known—”

“We're fine,” Miranda assured her. “In fact, it's most beneficial that we decided to stay. I believe I might have some acquaintances in common with this gentleman.”

Widow Sanders' eyebrows hopped and she turned to glance over her shoulder at McSwain. “All right, then. Since you already know Miss Wimplegate . . .”

“Wimplegate?” He pulled a notepad from his pocket.
“W-I-M-P-L-E-G-A-T-E?” Then with a nod he said, “We thought you'd given up already.”

He scratched at his large jaw and stared at her through dull eyes. Miranda would've backed away from the inspection, but to do so would deposit her on the front porch. Forced to stand her ground, she hardened her face into an expression that would have impressed her father and horrified her mother. “We have not given up in our quest to help your client, but before I answer any other questions, I'd like to know what you are doing here.”

The man carefully closed the notepad and returned it to his shirt pocket. “Monty King sent me. According to your father, you had failed and were returning home. Tough break for you, but it's not too late for us to find the painting, which we would've by now if you would've told us where it went instead of trying to go it alone.”

The rebuke stung because it was true. She had wasted their time. She and Grandfather were no closer to finding the painting than they'd been in Boston. It probably wasn't even in the state anymore. Miranda rubbed her forehead, the exact spot that denoted her abundance of apologies. She might be sorry, but if he knew something, she needed to find out.

“If you have more information, we'd be glad to help. The people here don't much like outsiders, and they might not trust you, but I could speak for you if you already know where to look—”

“Not likely, boss . . . er . . . ma'am. You'd be the last one we'd tell. Your mishandling of the family's heirlooms is why I'm here in the first place. I don't need a list of your friends. I know who I'm looking for.” McSwain motioned to the door. “I've got to review my notes before I start investigating tomorrow. I'm going to be like a real detective and all.” His eyebrows wagged on his
crowded forehead. “So enough chatting. Go on home to your lunatic Gramps and don't expect me to keep you informed.”

So that was it? After all that she had done—all the fear of the journey, the trials with Grandfather, the awkwardness of the sale barn, the headless chicken—after all of that, this stranger was going to march into Pine Gap, pluck up the painting, and return the victor? How did he find out where it was sent when there was no record?

Shaking in frustration, Miranda glared, but he didn't care—no more concerned about her anger than a bear frets over the bees. Where had that saying come from? Not only had she lost all her nice clothes, now she was even thinking like a mountaineer.

Miranda spun around and marched out of the house. No sooner had she reached the peony bush than she heard a whistle behind her. Holding an opened raincoat over her head, Widow Sanders motioned her over to where she crouched by Lady Godiva.

“I heard what he said to you, Miranda. I don't know what you are looking for, but you can beat that man. I really don't think he's that clever.” The widow's eyes narrowed with tight focus. “Before you got here, he asked me right particular if I knew anyone named Eves.”

“Eves? Is that a last name?”

“Not one I've heard of. Sorry I can't help you, but I thought you ought to know.”

Miranda nodded. “I appreciate the hint. If that name is all he has, he might not be as close to solving the mystery as he thinks.” Widow Sanders blinked as a gust threw water beneath her shelter. “You'd better go inside,” Miranda said. “And be careful with that man. I don't trust him.”

“I can handle him,” Widow Sanders said. “I'll sleep with a
knife under my pillow, and heaven help him if he crosses me.” Then she hustled back to the house.

Miranda bunched her shoulders up around her neck and then pushed them low. The dreaded interview was over. Sometimes you might not accomplish anything from an encounter beyond surviving it. She'd faced McSwain and she was still standing.

But she didn't know an Eves, or an Eve for that matter. First or last name. It sounded like Monty King's research had been more thorough. He probably even knew that the Pine Gap sale barn sold animals, not antiques. Inadequate—her efforts, her intelligence, her persuasion. She'd given everything she could, and still she came up short.

The rain dumped out by the cupful, and her saturated parasol finally admitted defeat. Sludging through the slick mud, Miranda made her way back to Wyatt's house, heavy with disappointment. If the LeBlancs had new information, why hadn't they wired it to her? Why send someone else to get the job done? Obviously Father hadn't been able to convince them that she was capable. And why should he? He must've had his doubts, too. As hard as she tried, she'd failed and no one believed in her.

Only Wyatt. Wyatt, who worked so patiently with Grandfather, despite Grandfather's eccentricities. Wyatt, who escorted them through the hills in search of their treasure. Wyatt, who occasionally wanted to kiss her against his better judgment—okay, maybe only once. Sure, he believed in her, but as much as he tried, he couldn't help her. He had no more influence than her young friends hawking papers on the corners of Boston. In the end, if you weren't a rich man with an office full of lawyers and detectives at your disposal, you were going to lose. Wyatt was just a simple country boy with a big heart, and in the LeBlancs' world that didn't count for much.

With a grunt, Wyatt hefted the collars for the mules. Already in place in the steamy stable, they waited for the weight on their necks, but it never fell. Instead, through the wall of rain coursing off the side of the barn, he watched Miranda trudging toward the house. She was alone, so maybe they didn't know about the painting after all. The bottom of Miranda's dress carried an extra five pounds of mud, dragging it down until it met the original source. Shoulders hunched, she trampled across the sodden grass. He hung the collars on the wall and checked once to see the mules were tethered, then ducked into the fray and trotted to her side.

“I was on my way to fetch you.” He flipped up the collar of his coat to keep the rain from running down his neck. She didn't even spare him a glance.

“Has Grandfather made it back?”

“No. Betsy told me he took out, so I sent Isaac to Leland Moore's to look for him.” Moore wouldn't be happy to see Isaac, but he had to know that if he was messing with Elmer that the Ballentines would come looking for him. And Isaac didn't seem to mind the chore one bit.

He reached in front of her to push the door open, but she stopped at the threshold. Lifting her messy skirt, she twisted her foot this way and that, examining the boot slick with mud. With a sigh she tossed her frilly umbrella on the porch and knelt to tug at her boot fasteners. Wyatt let the door close and leaned against the wall to keep her company. “Don't seem right going inside without you.”

“I need to get out of these wet clothes and—” Miranda lifted her head. Her mouth quirked to the side in adorable frustration. “I have no clothes, do I?”

He scratched his wrist. “I can find something. I mean, we have to have something . . .” His mother's clothes were the only things he'd given away. Never had any sisters.

“I don't want to dirty your clean rug. I could change in the kitchen.” Giving up on her balance, Miranda flopped onto her backside and yanked off a boot.

A glimpse of a smooth, thin stocking—wet enough to see every delicate curve of her ankle—and Wyatt swallowed air. “The kitchen. Go around to the back door and I'll bring you something to wear.” He rushed into the closed door, outpacing his ability to turn the knob, and slammed full force into solid oak. Bouncing back, he nearly toppled over Miranda. She steadied him with a hand to the back of his calf.

“Don't forget me down here.”

No fear of that. Finding that his wrist still worked, Wyatt opened the door and took the stairs two at a time. As the youngest of four brothers, his childhood clothes had been handed down until there was nothing left to pass. The only clothing in the house was his and Isaac's, and although Isaac was smaller, you could bet your last cotton-picking dollar he wouldn't let Miranda wear Isaac's clothes.

He busted into his room, his eyes naturally drawn to the space beneath his bed before he remembered that Monsieur LeBlanc no longer hid there. The drawer to his bureau rasped open and he pulled out two pairs of trousers. Holding them at arm's length, he weighed his choice. The smaller ones were nearly worn through. The fabric had softened till it was liable to rip with one snag. The newer britches were stiffer, offered more protection, but they were also bigger. Throwing the old trousers over his shoulder, he swiped a worn white shirt. Somehow he thought softness suited her right well, and he wanted her to be comfortable. She wasn't going to be impressed with his clothing, anyway. He heard the door creak open below. A grab for his best leather belt and Wyatt lost no time sprinting to the kitchen.

She'd already removed her silk jacket, leaving her white blouse clinging to her generous figure. Beneath his pile of clothes his hands flexed, knowing instinctively that nothing would feel so good as gathering her up and pressing that softness against himself. He'd been behind horses that couldn't pull as strong as the desire that was working him over.

She lowered the jacket to the sink, moving the dinner dishes to make room. “This skirt is impossible,” she said. “I can't drag it up the stairs without scraping mud everywhere.”

“I brought you clothes.” How had his arm grown so heavy? He lifted the wadded clothing. “This is all I have. When it stops raining we can buy something at the mercantile.”

Her hair sparkled with droplets that had managed to make it beneath the brim of her hat. She took the clothes from him. “There isn't a door, you know.”

Yeah, he'd been thinking about that. Quite a lot. “I'll wait by the front door to make sure no one comes in.”

Already reaching behind her to her waistband, she nodded. “I'll be quick. After the chicken incident I don't want you to accuse me of slovenliness again.”

He no longer noticed the mud. Her impossible curves were bewildering compared to the flat plains of his own body.

Enough. Wyatt spun on his heel and marched to the front door. Keeping his back to the kitchen, he hummed “She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain” to cover the soft grunt of accomplishment that proceeded the sigh of silk slipping to the floor.

“Oh my. These clothes . . .” She stopped. “I don't know whether to laugh or cry.”

“They're dry and clean. I can't promise you anything more.” Had he already made too many promises? He'd promised to help her get back home, but she'd returned. Now what? What if she flat out asked him about the painting? He had to make a decision. He wouldn't lie to her, but he couldn't predict how she would respond if he told her the truth. It had all the makings of a disaster.

From behind the piano he could hear Monsieur LeBlanc.
I can't believe any grandson of mine would
let a painting come between him and the woman he
loves. Forget about me. She's what you want.

But what if that painting was the key to winning her? And what if he gave Miranda the painting, only to find out she never did care about him? He didn't have much experience with women. Quite possibly one could hornswoggle him and he'd be none the wiser.

Wyatt closed his eyes. He couldn't give it away until he knew more. It all boiled down to trust. Did Miranda trust him enough to let him keep Monsieur LeBlanc, or would she insist on possessing it herself? He was afraid he knew the answer to that question and it didn't favor him.

“I think I'm ready,” she said.

Wyatt spun to see her rolling up the sleeve of the roomy white shirt while her other hand held her trousers up. The belt he'd given her hung around her waist as loose as a barrel hoop.

“It's too big,” she said. “It won't buckle small enough to hold these pants.”

Wyatt stepped toward her. He'd better figure out something quick or he was in danger of blurting everything to her.

When Wyatt darkened the kitchen doorway, “darkened” described his expression, as well. Not angry, though. More pained. Determined. He stood frozen while his gaze traveled from the shirt sliding off her shoulder to the unfamiliar trousers bunching around her waist, then back to her face. He was breathing like he'd just scaled Bunker Hill. The way his chest moved, the way he'd now become fixated on her, if she didn't know better she'd think . . .

His warning from the bedroom came to mind. Miranda backed away from him. She raised her hand, keeping it between them. “My visit did not go well. You said you wanted to talk about it.”

His face lightened. “Absolutely.”

“You won't think ill of me dressed like this?”

“Not if you can keep your trousers up.”

Miranda scrunched her nose. That was a problem.

Wyatt reached for her waist. Miranda's heart leapt when he caught her by the belt and tugged her toward him, but instead of touching her person, he cinched up the belt, then looped it back through itself twice. His hands dropped away and hung by his side. Miranda kept her chin ducked and studied the wet
toes of his boots. She swayed. He lifted his hand and, with the slightest nudge at her waist, brought her forward.

Her forehead rested against his chest. Wyatt gathered her closer, enveloping her in his clean, rainy scent. Confronting McSwain alone had felt like walking into battle, and from the way Wyatt was sheltering her, he understood.

“I'm proud of you for going by yourself,” he said. “When Betsy told me that Elmer had lit out without you, I wasn't sure you'd go through with it.”

“Bravery isn't in my character,” Miranda said. “It's going against nature. Given the same challenge again, nine times out of ten I'd fail.”

“Horsefeathers.” Now his arms shifted and fitted her against him in a way that felt both soothing and dangerous. “All this is from that crazy doctor-cousin who feels the lumps on your head and tells you what you can do?”

Normally, she'd never allow this, but standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes made anything seem possible. “Phrenology is a proven science. . . .” Her words failed as his hands slid up her back. “What are you doing?” She tried to look up, but he cupped the back of her head and threaded his fingers through her hair. With a gentle tug, he removed a hair pin, loosening her coiffure.

“Surely Cornelius couldn't tell anything about you as long as you have your hair up.”

“Cornelius is a doctor. You really shouldn't . . .” But at his touch on the back of her neck, Miranda couldn't continue. Her hands rested on his narrow hips as the last of the pins were removed and her damp hair tumbled down her shoulders. His fingers stroked up her neck to her hairline and buried themselves into her thick tresses. Her eyes closed as he followed the contours behind her ears.

The clock in the parlor chimed, each gong marking time that felt impossibly slow compared to her racing heart. A button on his shirt pressed into her forehead, but she didn't mind.

“You tell me that you're a coward, but so far I only find evidence of courage and loyalty.” His husky voice sent goose bumps up her arms.

“Maybe you don't know where to search.”

“Then I'll be very thorough.” He massaged a slow circle near her temple. “I may have found something. . . . No, wait. I know what this is. It's a spot of longing. That's what it is.”

Her eyes felt heavy, her head light. She couldn't deny it, not the way she was holding on to him. Somewhere between her worry and the luxurious feeling of his hands on her, she wanted him to know her, because the lady he claimed to see was so much better than the one who faced her in the mirror.

“I wish everyone believed in me the way you do,” she said.

“Then show everyone the spirit you show me. Although, I don't really want you letting them touch you like this.”

No. No one could touch her like that.

He disentangled his hands and smoothed her hair with slow strokes. Besides the rain pattering against the roof, nothing disturbed the calm grayness inside. And when she finally raised her head, Wyatt flicked her on the nose. Not what she was expecting or hoping for, but she noticed that the lightness of the gesture was at odds with the intensity of his eyes. With an arm around her shoulders, he escorted her to the sofa in the living room. Chilled by her damp underclothes, Miranda accepted a colorful afghan from him, tucked her bare feet beneath her on the sofa, and draped it over her lap.