At Love's Bidding (22 page)

The sun filtered through the high windows to illuminate the arena. The beast snorted at her, its spray sending the dust motes spinning in the sunbeam. She cleared her throat and those in the room grew deathly quiet, with only the cheers of the cowboys outside to distract them.

“What we have here is a cow. A multi-colored cow with a blazing gaze.”

Josiah grinned crookedly. Two men in front looked amused. Widow Sanders set her pie on the seat next to her and hid her hands between her knees. Jeremiah Calhoun was making his way to the corner where Wyatt had disappeared.

“We can't hear you,” Mr. Rinehart called out.

“Very well,” Miranda said. Her voice bounced thin and fragile in the room. “I'll start again.”

By now the cow had stalked forward, its tail slashing through the air with every prod of Josiah's cane.

“We have a cow here. . . .” Was she yelling? She felt like she was. “But not just any cow. This cow exhibits a remarkably unique pattern. You'll notice that besides an aura of ivory around its muzzle and eyebrows, it has an ebony face. This dark motif is carried on across the fur on its shoulders where it slowly begins to fade into a coffee tone, and as it reaches the median of the beast, it turns caramel.”

She dared a look around the room. Just like Mr.Wakefield when she was detailing the Chippendale bureau, they hung on her words. Father had always said she had the ability to enhance any item with her descriptions. Warming up to the powerful animal before her, she continued.

“And while you might be tempted to purchase this cow for its aesthetics alone, please don't overlook the powerful build of the beast. Crafted by the finest . . .” She covered her gaffe with a cough. Was she getting as bad as Grandfather? “Beneath this sturdy, velvet covering lie supports solid enough for the most discriminating . . . cow person. This cow has stood the test of time and will be reliable for many years to come.”

A bearded woodsman stood on the third tier, cupped his hand to his mouth, and belted out, “What we want to know is how good a milker is she?”

Afraid she'd made a mistake, Miranda raised out of her seat for a better look. Then with a shake of her head she corrected her antagonist.

“There's no milk coming from that animal, as you well know. It's a male cow, not a female.”

Wyatt jerked the door open but didn't have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before plunging ahead. He'd
played behind the seats since he was shorter than a billy goat, swinging around the two-by-four braces, stepping between the supports that stretched up to cradle the seats above. Evidently the newcomer wasn't as confident.

“What are you doing in here?” But instead of finding the Calhouns' suspicious guest, Wyatt ran into Widow Sanders' new boarder, McSwain.

“I think that was a rat,” the fat man gasped, but even for his scare he stayed out of Wyatt's reach.

“You aren't who I expected to find,” Wyatt said.

“You have something that belongs to my boss.”

“And what would that be?” Wyatt's gut tightened. He knew this day would come. Hadn't Aunt Corinne warned him? But if he decided to hand the painting over, it'd be going into Miranda's hands—not to this smarmy man.

The man held his hands up between them. “There'll be no charges filed. In fact, if everything works out all right we might be able to give you a little something for your trouble.”

“I don't want anything of yours.”

“Then give it back. It's that simple, Yves.”

Wyatt's head spun a bit at the use of the name.

The man laughed. “I've done my research, and I'm not as slow as everyone says. Of course I'd check at the auction house, but I know something Wimplegate didn't. I know that a sniveling family called Ballentine tried to con the LeBlancs out of the fortune years ago. Luckily, Mr. LeBlanc's solicitor kept the letter. Working on a whim, he sent me directly to you.”

No longer did his head feel light. Now it felt near to bursting. “My parents are gone,” Wyatt said. “And you won't say aught against them.” Heavy boot steps thudded just outside
the door. Wyatt flattened himself against the wall just in time to see Jeremiah Calhoun enter.

“Everything okay?” His eyes darted from Wyatt to the stranger.

“Just fixing to tell this fellow that he ain't welcome on the barn property,” Wyatt said.

“This isn't your place,” McSwain replied.

“I said leave.” Wyatt motioned behind him as Jeremiah backed out to make room.

“I know you have it, and I will get it. Might as well cooperate. It'd be worth your time.”

“I'll keep an eye on him.” Jeremiah didn't look mad, but Wyatt wouldn't want to tangle with him, and neither did the ruffian from the city. With a last unconvincing glare, he obeyed when Jeremiah pointed ahead and then followed him out.

Wyatt ducked his head passing beneath the last support beam to exit and nearly ran into Isaac as he stepped into the storage space. Sweating like he'd been locked in the smokehouse, Isaac blocked his way. “Wyatt, I need to talk to you.”

Isaac at the sale barn? Not a good sign. “If it can wait, the auction is going on without me.”

“It's important.” Isaac's hair stuck to his neck. It was possibly the first time he'd ever seen Isaac sweat. If this was just another stunt to disrupt him and keep him from his work . . .

“She's pregnant.” Isaac gripped the seams of his trousers just like he used to when Ma was chewing him out.

Wyatt's jaw dropped. “Who is?”

“Alice Moore.” With an effort, he raised his eyes to Wyatt's. “I'm going to be a pa.”

Wyatt had to hug the support beam to keep the room from weaving. Confusion, outrage, and yes, even a touch of jealousy flooded over him.

“What have you done, Isaac? Moore will kill you.”

“It's not like that.”

Of all the emotions, anger was outpacing the others. “Then how exactly is it?”

“We're married.”

“You're what?!” Wyatt stomped to the door, but one look at Miranda, head tilted as she tried to examine a ram, stopped him cold. Had Isaac told Miranda, or had he continued to toy with her? Seething, he turned around and marched right upon Isaac's toes. “You have some explaining to do, big brother.”

“We wanted to get married—she's a good girl, Wyatt, you'd like her—but her pa wouldn't let us on account of me not having a job or house or anything. So when the circuit rider came through he hitched us, but we decided to keep it secret.”

“Why get married if you're going to keep it a secret?” But at Isaac's raised eyebrow, Wyatt sighed. “Fine. Go on.”

“We were going to tell everyone. I just needed to get some things straight first, but it's too late now. We have to tell her folks and after that . . . well, I'm bringing her home. Her pa doesn't go none too lightly on her anyway, and the longer we wait, the more people are going to talk when the baby comes.”

Through the screeching banshee going off in his head, Wyatt could hear Miranda's patient but firm voice. “With ears shaped like tulip petals . . .”

And here he'd thought Isaac was after Miranda. He closed his eyes. Isaac would need some way to support a family, and wasn't this Isaac's sale barn as much as it was his?

In his prideful quest to show his parents that he belonged, Wyatt made sure to outdo Isaac in every endeavor. If Isaac worked hard, Wyatt would work twice as hard. If Isaac helped Pa all day, Wyatt would stay up at night. Anything to earn his
place in the family. After a while, Isaac stopped trying. Maybe if Wyatt left, then Isaac could live up to their pa's expectations. Suddenly, all he'd fought for in Hart County seemed puny compared to the importance of giving Isaac his chance at being a man.

And without the sale barn, that painting became even more valuable to him.

“We'll make room for her, Isaac. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Thanks, Wyatt. And I intend to do my part from here out. I'm going to prove her pa wrong. You'll see. And I have to say, I'm surprised it isn't you first. I thought for sure you would settle down before me.”

And it was high time that he did. When he boiled it all down, Wyatt would rather have Miranda than the family in Boston and the painting. If she loved him as he loved her, they'd figure out what to do to make it right. He'd write Aunt Corinne and explain his change of plans. He couldn't let fear keep him from acting. He couldn't dwell on what could go wrong.

He'd made his choice. Now if she would only make hers.

“Going . . . going . . . gone.” Wyatt dropped the gavel on the last bid of the day. Miranda jotted down the winning amount and gathered the slips of paper that identified the owners.

“You'd better watch her, Wyatt, or you'll be out of a job.” Jeremiah didn't crack a smile, but his wife's grin told Miranda that he was jesting.

“Maybe I could learn a few pointers from her,” Wyatt jabbed back, but his gaze lingered gently on her.

Abigail cleared her throat. “We need to get back to the farm, husband.” Then turning to Miranda, she said, “We left the children with Dr. Hopkins and Laurel, so they've had a houseful all day. Please tell Betsy good-bye for us. I hate that she left already.”

Had she? Miranda had been so focused on her task that she'd missed the disappearance of Betsy and her nephews. “I most certainly will.”

“And if you leave for home before we're back in town, safe travels and God be with you,” Abigail added as they strolled off.

“Did you ask about their visitor?” Wyatt said.

Miranda shuddered. She'd be watching around every corner for him. “I thought you talked to him beneath the stairs.”

“I only found McSwain under there, looking for a painting.” Wyatt offered her his arm. “We still have a long day ahead of us. Let's see if Fred needs any help.”

She threaded her arm inside his. She didn't need an escort to walk down the hall to the office, but she felt something special had transpired, as if she should celebrate the day's accomplishments. And this feeling of satisfaction wouldn't have been possible without Wyatt. “Never did I think I'd run a sale myself,” Miranda said, “And definitely never imagined it'd be animals.”

“Today has been full of surprises, and that's a fact.”

Miranda leaned against his side and whispered, “But no fear of us going hungry. We'll be well-fortified by Widow Sanders' rhubarb pie.”

She giggled at his grimace. Here he was, dressed so sharp, looking so dapper, she could almost forget they were walking through a sale barn. Actually, she couldn't forget, but she didn't mind it so much. Contentment had never been so real.

“Miss Miranda! Mr. Wyatt!” The voice behind a stack of feed sacks whispered urgently.

Wyatt stopped. Leaning forward, he peered into the dark space. “Betsy? What are you doing there?”

“Is he gone? That man with Captain Jeremiah? Have they left?”

Releasing Miranda's arm, Wyatt caught Betsy by the shoulder and pulled her out of her hiding place.

“Did that man bother you?”

“No. He didn't say a word to me, but he didn't have to. He's an impostor. He's lying, and he's up to no good.”

“What'd he do?” Miranda asked. If that man as much as
spoke a word to Betsy, Miranda would find Fowler and help hunt him down. No one better interfere with her little friend.

Betsy looked both ways and, seeing no one too near in the breezeway, motioned them closer. “His beard and hair—he changed the color. Real close to his face you could see it growing dark. Once I noticed that, I started watching closely—little things, like he had them scuffed-up old boots, but the soles and the shoestrings were brand-spanking-new. Looked closer, and they looked like he'd deliberately roughed up the tops and stomped through some puddles, but they were new, no mistake.”

Wyatt turned to Miranda. “Could he be sent from your friends in Boston?”

Miranda shook her head. “This man was here before McSwain, remember? But he's hiding something.” The skin on her arm puckered. “Where's Grandfather? Has he been around at all today?” Her feeling of accomplishment was fading fast.

“I haven't seen him,” Betsy said.

Wyatt shot a glance into the office where two dozen impatient men stomped and spat. “Isaac is on the way up the mountain right now. He's as likely to see him as anyone.”

And that had to suffice. As much as Grandfather's antics concerned her, she couldn't allow them to disrupt this good man's life any further. When had her loyalty changed?

Having made a decision and, to her surprise, feeling confident that it was the right one, Miranda clapped her hands together. “Then I'm staying to help close up shop. On auction days it's all hands on deck. Betsy, if you see Grandfather, you'll come tell us, won't you?”

Betsy grinned. “You bet. And I think I know just the place to look for him. Mrs. Rankin made a satchel out of a dead
armadillo. The outside of it looks just like the armor the knights wore. Anyway, I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Wimplegate wants a trunkful of them.”

Miranda shuddered. Suddenly the wrinkled apple dolls felt sophisticated. “Thank you, Betsy. You are a young woman of many talents.”

Betsy winked and skipped away.

“She's not the only one,” Wyatt murmured.

An hour of shuffling through her sale tickets and matching them to the farmers' bills, Miranda finally felt that she'd earned his praise. This time she hadn't sat idle looking over Mr. Murphy's shoulder. She'd contributed, and nothing felt better.

“That's it.” Fred Murphy swept his notebook and pen into his hand. “Until the next sale . . . or the next chicken attack, whichever comes first.”

As the man departed, Miranda smiled in spite of herself. Despite his threats, the chicken coop had never made it into his newspaper—a mercy that hadn't escaped Miranda's notice. Wyatt's chair creaked. He stood and pulled down the faded curtain over the lone window.

“You never know what's going to happen on a sale day.” She wanted to stretch this period of camaraderie out as long as possible. Remind him of who'd been at his side today, but Wyatt's eyes kept flickering to the door.

“Did you happen to see Isaac come in during the sale?” he asked.

Miranda plucked on her sleeve that hadn't quite survived the rainstorm from the night before. “Now that you mention it, yes. I'm surprised he'd come near the sale on auction day.”

Wyatt took a gunnysack off a nail in the wall and, with one hand, scooped up the cash box and tucked it inside. Slinging
the sack over his shoulder, he cocked his head toward the door. “Let's go home.”

A lot of questions, but no answers. Miranda opened the desk drawer, took out her reticule, and walked past as he held the door open. Down the hall they traveled, stopping only to lock the double doors of the building behind them. A gorgeous sunset bathed the hills in rose while skipping over the dark valleys. The locusts screeched their rhythmic song.

“I hadn't realized the sun had gone down already. I do hope Betsy and Grandfather are home waiting for us.” Grandfather. Miranda sighed. Proof that life was more than sunsets and insects chirping. She rubbed her arms.

“Are you cold?”

“The breeze feels delicious after a day inside the dusty barn,” she said. “Tonight I'll have to bathe or your poor bed will pay the consequences.” Warmth flooded her face at the inappropriateness of her comment. “I didn't mean anything by that,” she said, but Wyatt seemed absorbed in his own ruminations.

The short distance to Widow Sanders' wasn't far enough for her to get over her embarrassment. As they passed the house, a wavering light from the porch caught their attention. A glowing cheroot stub, smoked by no other than McSwain.

He called out from the dark, “Hey, Yves. Have you found our picture yet?”

Miranda shrank toward Wyatt. Yves? Did he think Wyatt was the man he was looking for?

But Wyatt didn't even bother to correct him. “You're on your own. No help coming from us.”

“Oh, you've been more help than you know.” The man chuckled in the darkness, and the ember burned brighter as he took another draw.

Wyatt kept an eye on the man until they were safely down the hill.

“What did that man mean by calling you Yves?” Miranda asked.

“It's been a busy day.” They'd reached the path to his house. He held a branch aloft to clear the narrow trail upward.

Miranda twisted her silver bracelet on her wrist. Had she said something wrong? Wyatt's conversation skills had certainly vanished. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

The gunnysack still swinging against his back, Wyatt walked with even strides. His black suit blended into the shadows thrown by the dark trees.

“Just thinking.” His hand clenched and then stretched wide at his side. He hoisted the sack higher.

“About?”

The gravel flew as he skidded to a stop. The suddenness of his movement startled her. She clutched at her heart as he spun to face her, his eyes intense.

“I'm thinking about how Isaac is married, has a baby on the way,” he said, “and here I am pretending that I wouldn't give anything to make you my wife.”

Miranda's eyes widened. Wyatt couldn't mean what he'd just said, could he? Marry her? Was this a legitimate proposal? He wasn't on one knee, but from the determined set of his jaw she knew he was in earnest. She stuttered even as warmth radiated through her body.

Avoiding an immediate answer, she finally squeaked, “Isaac's married? You aren't making any sense. I don't think you know what you're saying.”

But Wyatt wasn't deterred. Miranda jumped as the gunnysack and money box crashed to the ground. “I know exactly what
I'm saying, and it isn't easy. I've let things come between us, one thing in particular. There might be a million reasons why we couldn't be together, but we can make it work. I'll make it work.”

And maybe they could. “If I could stay here,” she said, “then perhaps we'd find a way, but my family—”

“I'm not asking you to leave your family. I'd come to you.”

“You'd come to Boston? To live?”

He stepped forward. “To live. With you.”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. He obviously didn't understand Boston.

“I love you, Miranda, and I'm willing to prove it to you. Our life might be more humble than you're used to, but no queen could be treated better.”

A step backwards and limbs brushed her head. Why was she running? She'd determined to know her own mind, but her feet weren't in agreement. The memory of their time in the kitchen, of his hands buried in her hair, had her taking another step backwards. It had been too good—
he
was too good—to be true, and he wasn't keeping a safe distance from her. Not tonight. She ducked her head beneath the limb and soon the sycamore's trunk pressed against her back.

“One question,” he said. “One question and from there the rest will be easy.” His chest swelled as he stepped closer and planted his feet wide. “Do you love me?”

Her gaze dropped to his new tie, now loosened. With shaking hands she undid the knot, then slowly retied it. The way he made her feel, the way she missed him when they were apart, the alarming power of her affection for him—what else could that be but love?

“Miranda,” he said. “I'm willing to give up everything. More than you know. I understand how scary it is. . . .”

No, really he didn't. Wyatt was never as uncertain as she was.

“But I believe I can make you happy. I'll spend the rest of my life trying.”

He stepped even closer until his boots were inches from her toes. She released his tie. Her fingers rested lightly on his chest. Wyatt slid his hand along her jaw and tilted her head up. His thumb caught the corner of her lip. “Trust me, please. This is painful for me. Painful, but I've made my decision.”

What was painful? Giving up his dream of owning the sale barn? Finally finding her voice she said, “I don't want to make you do anything—”

“That I don't want to do?” His eyes softened, as if he pitied her for her lack of understanding. “Miranda, I've never wanted anything more.”

Slowly and deliberately, he bent toward her. Of its own accord, her head tilted back, giving him full access to her lips. He smiled. “Maybe this won't be as painful as I thought.” She wished she had a smart retort, but even if she did, there was no time for it. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her so thoroughly, so confidently, there was nothing to do except hold on to his new suit and enjoy the moment she'd been longing for. His beard tickled her face, but it was his hot, smooth lips that made her head spin. Reckless, passionate, without reserve—never before had his wild upbringing been so evident.