At Love's Bidding (21 page)

The walls of the main room were covered with a deep red fleur-de-lis paper. A brave choice that spoke of confidence. A
circular rag rug covered the smooth wooden floor, and against the wall a roughly crafted parlor table held an odd assortment of keys, tools, and work gloves. A restful room, if Wyatt wasn't so busy trying to rearrange the clutter.

He finally settled on the piano stool opposite her. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he asked, “What did you find out?”

She'd learned that if Wyatt decided to be a phrenologist, he'd have no shortage of ladies coming to him to perform that particular inspection, but then she remembered the nature of his inquiry.

“I'd hoped the man might be helpful, but he sees himself as our rival.” Miranda picked at the yarn of the blanket. “When I saw him get off the train, I thought we'd finally solved our problem, but we're no closer. In fact, it might be worse if he beats us to the painting.” She pulled the blanket up to her chest.

Seeing her shiver, Wyatt unfurled another blanket from the stack he'd carried in from his parents' room. Miranda leaned forward as he draped it over her shoulders and tucked the length of it behind her back, but he seemed too agitated to sit down again.

“How did you lose this painting?” he asked.

Miranda threaded her finger through the loops in the yarn blanket. “It sold at our auction, but our customer had no intention of selling it. It's a family heirloom. If we don't get it back for them, our reputation will be ruined. You, of all people, understand how bad it'll be if word gets out that we mishandled property.”

“Was it your fault?”

Here Miranda tugged on her ear. Her eyes flickered to the floor. “In part. Grandfather was the auctioneer. Normally he would've noticed that the item didn't match the sale catalog, but recently—”

“Grandfather hasn't been himself.”

“Exactly. I didn't realize how strongly affected he was, though. I couldn't correct him and take a chance that I was mistaken.”

Wyatt's head tilted. “You were there. You saw it on the table?”

Miranda's chin trembled. “I was there. I knew it wasn't the Copley. I knew I should speak up, but there were so many people in the room. To question Grandfather's judgment before an audience—” Wyatt came to her side. The sofa cushion tilted under his weight. He gathered her hand into his. “And I couldn't predict how Grandfather would react. I was a coward. But you see why it's been so important to me to recover the painting. It's the only way I can make retribution for my mistake.”

“Who bought it? You should have a record.” He fairly crackled with excitement. Unable to sit, he bounded to his feet again.

“The information that was left was false. Our only clue was an associate who overheard the name of Hart County, Missouri, at the shipping dock. We didn't know where it was sent, but we assumed that the sale barn dealt in art, as did ours. By offering us such a bargain, Mr. Pritchard made the decision an easy one, but we didn't want to announce our intention when we arrived.”

Wyatt seemed to mull over this explanation as he took a seat at the piano. Leaning back, he stretched his arms out across the piano keyboard behind him, then with a lurch he righted himself and crossed his arms, hiding his hands against his chest. Miranda's eyes narrowed. Why the sudden agitation? He didn't have it, did he? Cautiously, she scanned the simple house once again. Nothing to denote luxury or riches. The LeBlanc painting would be as out of place here as . . . well, as Wyatt would be back in Boston. She sighed. If only he did have it, but it was impossible.

“What will you do when you find it?” he asked.

“Give it back to the rightful owner.”

“Who's that?”

“Why, Mr. Frederic LeBlanc, of course. He's the one who organized the sale—at least his lawyer did.”

With a sudden jolt, Wyatt took to the floor and paced before the piano again. “And what does this Frederic LeBlanc do? Why is he selling his family's paintings?”

“He doesn't do anything. They have a solicitor to manage their estate and provide them with income.”

“Then the solicitor must not be doing a good job. Else they wouldn't need to sell out.”

“You never know. Sometimes the family decides to move to a smaller home, or they want some funds to invest. It doesn't always mean they are liquidating.”

Wyatt's steps padded as he crossed the rug, then echoed hollowly as he hit the wooden floor again. “I just wonder what kind of man he is. Would he resort to violence to get his painting back?”

What a strange question. “They don't need violence. The LeBlanc family is powerful enough to ruin us without lifting a finger. Just a whiff of their displeasure and no one in society will give us their patronage.”

“They sound like bullies to me.”

She nodded her affirmation. Odd how his interest had piqued so suddenly. And odd that his questions were about the family back in the Boston. He hadn't even asked what it was a painting of, for goodness' sake.

The clean cotton shirt she wore carried his scent. Miranda breathed in woodsy aroma as she studied the man before her. Either Wyatt Ballentine was very curious, or his interest ran deeper than he was admitting.

He couldn't keep from pacing before the painting hidden behind the piano as he cogitated on the new information. She knew the LeBlancs? She'd spoken to the family that'd rejected him? Did she know the mysterious Aunt Corinne? Had the woman acted against her own family? Who were they to him?

Sometimes the people in Boston felt like make-believe. The stories Ma told him about his birth and his parents' death—fairy tales. But from his family he'd received something concrete. Something to hold on to that tied him to his past. And Miranda was another link.

Or was she an obstacle?

Outside, the rain had let up, and along with the sun peeking through the dripping leaves, Isaac appeared with Grandfather in tow.

“You wouldn't believe it, Miranda.” Elmer tilted his hat, draining the rainwater from the brim before entering the open door. “Leland Moore has betrayed me.”

Isaac met Wyatt's gaze over Elmer's head. “You owe me,” he mouthed as he struggled out of his wet coat.

Miranda slid her bare feet to the floor. “What happened?” she asked.

Wyatt got a glimpse of slender ankles before she arranged the blanket over her unusual clothing.

“Leland and I were at the bank securing a loan when Isaac happened in, and it's a good thing he did. Not long after he entered, the bank president informed me that he couldn't loan any more money to me or my partner. Isaac happened to be nearby and he suggested that Leland put up a piece of property he owns as collateral.”

Leland invest? Wyatt got a tickle in his throat that had to be booted out with a forceful cough.

“You'll be just as amazed as I was,” Isaac said, “but Mr. Moore wasn't willing to help Mr. Wimplegate out. At the suggestion that he risk his own sorry homestead, he took out of that bank like a miner with a dead canary.”

Wyatt wasn't the least bit surprised by Moore's desertion, but what did amaze him was that Isaac had taken the effort to protect Elmer. “I'm glad you happened by,” he said.

Isaac shrugged. “Leland Moore has much to answer for. You don't know the half of it.” And then his gaze wandered again to Miranda. His eyes widened. “What are you wearing?”

With a blanket across her lap and shoulders, all that was visible was the white shirt billowing around her in cloud of cotton. An unfamiliar crease stretched horizontally where her corset began. Wyatt touched the second button of his own shirt. He'd never realized how impossibly high her bosom was until he could compare it in reference to his own body. There were a lot of comparisons he'd like to make, come to think of it.

“Stand up and let me get a look at you,” Isaac said.

Wyatt's gratitude to Isaac stretched only so far, but before he could intervene, Miranda spoke up.

“My clothes are drying in front of the kitchen stove. Until then, I'd prefer to remain covered by this blanket.”

When not asking him to tighten her belt. Wyatt couldn't keep from stretching his chest at the thought that she trusted him, that she willingly went into his arms. But didn't he trust her the same way? The piano drew his gaze, and the secret behind it gnawed on him. No, he didn't.

“You look tired,” Miranda said to her grandpa. She patted the empty spot on the sofa, and he sank into the cushions. “My visit with McSwain didn't go as I'd hoped. He is indeed here for the picture, but—”

“Miranda!” Elmer coughed and jerked his head in Wyatt's direction.

“Oh, Grandfather, what's it matter? What's to keep McSwain from telling the world? Besides, Wyatt might be able to help us. We've already tried doing it secretly and we accomplished nothing.”

“What's this?” Isaac smiled his winning smile. “There's a picture missing?”

A chill ran through Wyatt. Isaac knew his story. One mention of the LeBlanc name and Wyatt's secret would be furled out for all to see.

“You haven't seen a fancy painting around here, have you?” Wyatt asked. He forced a guffaw. “Imagine, someone accidentally shipping art to Pine Gap.”

“I never knew why you came here,” Isaac said to Miranda, “but it was clear as day you weren't auction people.”

Miranda straightened. “You are mistaken. We are auction people. We run an auction house in Boston, actually.”

Isaac wrinkled his nose. “Really? I thought that was just a story you'd concocted. Well, you fooled me. I never would've thought you'd handled livestock before. But now that everyone's home safe and the rain's let up, I might as well go about my business. You'll excuse me, I hope.” He picked up his coat and stopped at the threshold. “Wyatt, keep the bed warm for me.”

And this time his sass didn't bother Wyatt at all. As long as he had no further interest in the painting, then Wyatt would allow for all the attitude he could dish out.

“I can't waste my time at the auction, Miranda.” Grandfather straightened his cuffs and pulled his walking stick from behind the door. “My efforts would be better utilized pursuing other opportunities.”

Her heart sank, but she kept up a good front. “What efforts would those be?”

“I hate to speak of it, because you never know who might overhear.” His eyes shifted to Wyatt. “But I suppose since he's not in position to take financial advantage, it doesn't signify. I'm considering purchasing a gold mine.”

Wyatt spewed his coffee back into his mug. “A gold mine? For crying aloud, there isn't any gold here.”

“That's exactly what my partner wants everyone to think.” Grandfather winked at her.

“Is Moore involved in this mess?” Miranda peered out the window expecting to see the ne'er-do-well on the road but instead saw the pristine world beyond the glass. The leaves hung heavy, still dripping with the overflow. But at least her one dress was dry and ready for the day.

“Moore is worthless,” Grandfather said. “Miles Bullard is my contact now.”

“Who is that?” Miranda asked.

Wyatt's coffee cup clunked as he placed it on the back of the piano. “Miles Bullard makes Leland Moore look like one of the disciples.”

“Which one?” Miranda asked. “Judas?”

Grandfather pointed his cane at Wyatt. “Miles is going to get that banker set straight. They shouldn't need any more collateral than the sale barn.”

Miranda and Wyatt had already obtained the bank's cooperation. There'd be no further loans made to Grandfather, but still the threat of losing the sale barn was enough to worry Wyatt. Miranda shot him a sympathetic smile.

He brightened. “If Mr. Wimplegate is busy, then I'll need help at the sale. Can you come?”

She never felt more useful than on auction day, or more exposed. “I'm willing as long as I won't be in the way,” she said. True, Grandfather would be roaming the hills unrestrained, but even when she'd tried, she'd been unable to keep the prodigal out of the swine pit.

“I'm looking forward to it.”

He pulled on his dress coat over his satin waistcoat. Miranda had to bite her tongue before she found herself offering to button the jacket for him. His tie rested crooked. Maybe he wouldn't mind a little help. Miranda stepped close. Wyatt's hands stilled on his buttons as she reached up and tugged it horizontal. His lashes lowered. “Thank you.”

Grandfather opened the front door, stopped on the threshold, and then announced. “I declare, every time I turn around, that girl is there.” And then he bellowed out across the yard, “Don't
think I don't see you. You may think you've got me fooled, but I know when I'm being followed.”

Floating among a tattered mob of young boys, Betsy maneuvered them toward the house.

“I ain't following you, Mr. Wimplegate. I'm just coming by to see if Wyatt has left for the sale already. Thought me and the boys might walk over with you'uns.”

But instead of greeting his former friend, Grandfather huffed past her. “You stay away, young lady. I don't know what you're up to, but I will find out.”

For the twentieth time that morning Miranda readjusted the crumpled collar of her gown that hadn't dried just right. “She isn't doing any harm, Grandfather. She's a little girl.”

But Betsy's cocky tilt of the head showed her willingness to argue that assessment.

“So are all the boys coming with us?” Wyatt scooped up a little fellow with hair just as blond as Betsy's.

“Yes, sir. Their pa said they could come along if'n they behave themselves and don't bother him while he works in the office.”

With that they gathered their hats and made their way toward the angular structure. The boys ran forward and behind, darting between their legs, bumping against the adults, tossing rocks off into the thick growth on both sides of the road. “They will have traveled three times the distance by the time we get there,” Miranda observed.

Wyatt tugged at his collar. “And if I'd known your Grandfather wasn't coming to the sale, I could've worn my usual clothes.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again and, with burning face, choked out, “I think you look nice.”

His chin went up. His lips twitched. Suddenly he broke out
in the biggest grin she'd ever seen. “Then maybe I'll wear this more often.”

It felt nice to make him smile like that, but all Miranda could do in reply was nod.

Betsy whistled. “Listen to you, Wyatt. As vain as a banty rooster in the henhouse at the county fair.”

“I just want to be clear exactly what she's admiring. If it's the waistcoat, I could throw it on over my work shirt and keep her happy at the same time.”

Finally finding her voice, Miranda spoke up. “It's the impression you give in general. The coat civilizes you. You look refined.”

His eyes sparked with interest and he leaned closer as they walked. “Tell me honestly, Miranda. Do you think I could pass as a member of one of those rich families you're so fond of? Do I have the look?”

Miranda bit her lip. He could never pass for the elite class. Not with that honest, earnest expression. People like the LeBlancs never cared half as much as Wyatt appeared to care at this moment. Besides, they didn't have the robust good health, the skin tanned by labor instead of sun-kissed in leisure. The fluid movements and joints made smooth by nonstop motion. The direct mouth that only said what was required instead of dancing around the niceties of vapid conversation.

“You're dangling me over a barrel,” he said.

Miranda was already fanning herself before she realized how warm it'd become. “You'd never be mistaken for one of them,” she said. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings, but her answer didn't please him. If only she had the courage to tell him that she preferred him the way he was.

Now within the confines of the barn, Betsy's charges scattered
to the four winds. “Stay out of the pens!” she yelled as they raced toward the gates, and then she clapped her hands together and squealed. “Mr. Jeremiah . . . Miss Abigail! Over here!”

At the sound of their names, Wyatt lifted his head and waved. With a frank, determined air, Abigail strode toward them.

“How's our little Betsy faring in the big city?” Her eyes danced, obviously adoring the girl as much as Wyatt did.

“I'm staying out of trouble mostly,” Betsy said. “Having those cousins of mine to tend is surely a trial.”

“And how about you, Miranda? Are these, er . . . mountains . . . winning your heart?”

Why did her eyes dart to Wyatt? “We won't be in Pine Gap much longer,” Miranda said.

“Not unless Wyatt can give her a reason to stay,” Betsy quipped.

Mr. Calhoun whistled. “You might have your work cut out for you, Wyatt.”

He gifted Miranda with a slow, warm smile. “Miss Miranda can't abide all these animals. I'm just lucky she tolerates me.” Then, seeing a man smiling at Jeremiah's shoulder, Wyatt extended his hand. “Wyatt Ballentine, sir. Don't reckon I've ever seen you around here.”

The man's scraggly blond hair fuzzed past his ears. He smiled pleasantly. “I'm up from Arkansas, aiming to buy a horse off the Calhouns.” And despite his friendly tone, Miranda's blood ran cold. She'd seen this man somewhere before. But where?

“The Calhouns have the best horses around,” Wyatt said.

Still standing with an arm wrapped around Abigail's waist, Betsy scratched beneath her slat bonnet. She opened her mouth, then with a quick look at Miranda and a shake of the head, popped it closed.

Whatever memory niggled at Miranda seemed to fluster
Betsy, too. The girl's eyes narrowed and she watched him as closely as a mouse watches a sleeping cat.

In answer to Wyatt's observation, the man said, “When Mr. Calhoun described the breadth of animals being offered today, I thought I'd better come have a look-see. I might pick up some cattle or sheep while I'm at it. I do love an auction.”

And that's when she knew. She'd seen him here, in the dark, beneath the stairs. She shrank closer to Wyatt, wondering what excuse the man would make if she exposed him. He hadn't just arrived, and why was his hair blond now instead of red?

“We'd best get the sale started.” With a touch to the small of her back, Wyatt leaned close. “Are you ready?”

Ready to do what? Several options presented themselves. She waited for the chills to fade before she spoke.

“That's the same man, isn't he?”

Wyatt turned to face her. “The same man that what?”

“The same man I saw beneath the seats. The same man that Mr. Fowler caught at the Rineharts'. His hair is different, but it's the same face.”

Wyatt watched closely as the man took his seat with the Calhouns. “Any chance you're mistaken?”

Unlikely. Once Miranda made an identification, she was never in doubt, and yet she'd choke before she insisted. “I could be wrong,” she said finally.

Judging from the way his chin hardened, Wyatt didn't like that answer. “Stay close today.”

And judging from the way her pulse quickened, Miranda didn't mind his response.

As the two of them took the stage, she couldn't help but wonder how it happened that Wyatt was dressed finer than she. To look at the two of them, one would think that he had all
the breeding and culture, if it weren't for his untrimmed beard. Her throat constricted. Better not to think of anyone looking at her on the stage. She'd just keep her chin down and focus on being accurate. Wyatt pushed her chair in as she took her seat on the raised platform. Widow Sanders nodded and held up her rhubarb pie, but even that notice twisted Miranda's stomach. She tidied the stack of buyer's tickets before her and grasped the pen with stiff fingers while Wyatt greeted the crowd and called for Josiah to send in the first animals.

“What you see here are five steers. Five Angus steers from Holbrook's farm. They weigh . . .” He slid the metal sleeve over the arm of the scale, tapping it until it swung balanced. “They weigh 9,275 pounds. That'd be 1,855 each. Ready for butcher or to ship out on the next train north. What do I hear for them?” And then started that song peculiar to the mountain auctioneer until it came to the conclusion, “Going . . . going . . . gone.”

It took Miranda a moment to locate the space for head count and weight. She'd already written the farmer's name, and all that was left to add would be the buyer's name and the price they sold for. Then off to Fred Murphy in the office where he'd figure the payout amount and the money would exchange hands. Not so different from her auction house after all.

The first hour flew by. Laughter, then a contentious argument over who had won the fifteen-cent bid with neither side willing to bid fifteen and two bits. Wyatt handled it firmly, and they were off again. Miranda craned her neck up, scrunched her shoulders to stretch, and saw the blond man leave. Wyatt's knee bounced into hers. His cadence faltered.

“Keep going,” he said as he stood.

A fat drop of ink dripped off her pen and soaked through the ticket. “What do you mean?”

With the back of his hand, Wyatt pushed the gavel toward her. “Sell the animals. I've got to see about something.”

“I can't do this. I don't know the first thing about these animals.”

“You'll do just fine.” And he stepped down off the platform and around the arena, leaving her to face one hundred or so skeptical farmers. She didn't blame them. This was a disaster waiting to happen.

Josiah led in a cow and had to take second look at Miranda sitting alone at the table. She took a deep breath. The metal band on the gavel's handle cooled her fingers. Her job at the Wimplegate Auction House was to write the descriptions for the catalog. Making each piece of furniture sound unique and irreplaceable was her specialty. Surely her powers of description could be used here, as well.