At Love's Bidding (23 page)

He drew back, leaving a hint of tangy sweetness behind. “Give me your answer, Miranda. My future, my life, is in your hands.”

The thundering she felt against her chest was his heart. She couldn't break it. She reached for a better hold on his shoulder, and although she didn't mean to do it, she pressed herself tighter against his hard body. It felt delightful. She ran her tongue over
her upper lip and breathlessly answered, “You ate the rhubarb pie. I can taste it.”

“Wrong answer,” he groaned as his mouth covered hers again. She couldn't be sorry. It felt so good to give him what he wanted. What she wanted, too. His hands skimmed the length of her brown silk bodice to her waist and held her there. The tree was at her back, holding her firm as she got all the rhubarb she'd ever need.

Wyatt loved her. He was putting everything at her feet, and with her giving nature, no gesture could mean more, but was it enough? Could she ever be at peace knowing that she'd gone against society? Knowing that he would live with the disapproval of her class for the rest of his life?

His kisses slowed. With a long sigh, he stepped back. “You didn't say
yes
.” Wyatt hadn't yet learned how to hide his raw emotions. Deep lines furrowed between his eyebrows. Fighting for control, he brushed her bangs down so that they again lay in a neat fringe across her forehead.

Miranda gripped the tree to steady herself as she cried for divine guidance. She'd spent her whole life living somewhere else, being a different person. What if this adventure had affected her as much as it had Grandfather? Could she be certain?

Her heart tightened as she realized what her answer must be. Not yet. It was too soon. Too soon to know forever. The heady feelings he evoked were not enough to carry them through the storms they would encounter. He would be an outcast, ridiculed and rejected, and she loved him too much to expose him to that.

She reached for him, catching his hand in both of hers, hoping that he understood. “All my life,” she said, “I've been taught that I'm supposed to follow a certain path.” His grip loosened, but she held on, refusing to let him turn away. “It's too early,
Wyatt. I've only known you for a few weeks. I can't ask you to give up everything to follow me. Not yet. Not until I know.”

His eyes tightened. With his free hand he tugged on her bonnet ribbon and tried to smile. “I understand. I reckon it's not fair that I figured it out before you.” As he helped her away from the tree, she noted a tremor in his hand. “I needed an answer, and that's what you gave me. I've just got to decide where I go from here.”

He'd laid open his heart and now Miranda heard it clang shut. She squeezed his hand. “But it's not a final answer. It's just the best I can do for now.”

“Please,” he said. “I understand. You don't need to say anymore.”

He'd told her to speak her mind, to be courageous, so that's what she was doing. Not letting others choose for her, but she felt like she'd just made the worst decision in the history of the world.

After brushing off her shoulders, he turned her away from him and picked off all the remaining debris from their secret arbor. He picked up the money box and tried to smile. “No hard feelings,” he said. “Nothing's changed betwixt us.”

But they both wished it had.

When they reached the house, the front door stood wide open with light flooding out. The porch looked like a Christmas tree lit up with packages and trunks gathered on it. “Isaac must be back,” Wyatt said, “with my new sister-in-law.”

He'd mentioned Isaac being married, hadn't he? Miranda touched her cheek and wondered if she looked as ravished as she felt.

Isaac met them at the door, but he acted nothing like a happy bridegroom. The pretty brunette from the church raising stood
behind him, looking unsure if she should approach or not. “You got trouble, Miranda,” Isaac said. “Sheriff Taney is looking for you.”

Her stomach turned into a chunk of granite as she stumbled onto the porch. “What have I done? Where's Grandfather?”

“He's at the jailhouse. Evidently he had a run-in with Betsy. Accused her of spying on him and stealing from him. Got real nasty toward her.”

Isaac was lying. He had to be. Miranda clenched her teeth.

“What did Elmer do?” Wyatt asked. “The sheriff doesn't put people in jail for having an argument. He doesn't put people in jail for murder, either, come to think of it.”

“You don't believe Isaac, do you?” Miranda cried. “Grandfather wouldn't hurt Betsy. He's probably just ranting about his rights.”

“I'm telling the truth,” Isaac interrupted. “Betsy's scraped up a bit, but she'll be fine. She's with her uncle now, more frightened than anything.”

Betsy hurt? Miranda's hands went cold and she began to tremble. “No, it can't be. Grandfather would never lift a hand against a woman. He's the most gentle . . . I have to go see him.” She spun on her heel.

“You can't,” Isaac said. “The sheriff's pretty hot about it. Everyone here dotes on Betsy, and to see her mistreated riled him up. Anyway, he said to tell you that Mr. Wimplegate needs to learn a lesson. He's not getting any sympathy from you tonight. He said that a night in the pokey will make him more patient with women.”

Miranda covered her mouth as desperate tears appeared. The shame of it. Why would God remove Grandfather's reasoning and then leave him to the consequences? Was this the reward
for all his years of service advocating for street children? To become their oppressor? How he'd despair if he fully understood what he'd done.

Next thing she knew she was in Wyatt's arms, crying on his black suit. Isaac discreetly closed the front door, leaving them alone on the dark porch.

“He's safe, Miranda. Sheriff won't hurt him. You can see him in the morning.”

“But Wyatt, the humiliation. Why? Why would God let him do this? It's a cruel turn when he's been so good his whole life. Why would God destroy his reputation for wisdom and good sense now?”

“I don't pretend to know God's purpose, but just look at how dealing with him has made you stronger. Look how you've changed. If he hadn't needed help, you would have never come to Missouri. You would've stayed in Boston and lived the life you'd always lived, and I would've never met you.” He cupped the back of her head and held her against him. “God is still at work. He hasn't forgotten you, or your grandpa.”

Rocking slowly, he murmured until her sobs quieted. If she hadn't loved him before, she surely did now. Wiping tears away with the back of her hand, Miranda sniffled. “Will you go see him, please? I won't rest until someone can tell me how he's doing. If I could go—”

But he didn't wait for her to finish. “I'll go, as long as you promise to stay here. No running off to check on Betsy. Not with that man lurking about.”

“He isn't interested in me. He works for LeBlanc.”

The mention of the name made Wyatt cringe. There was still something he wasn't telling her. If she wasn't so worried about
Grandfather, she would've demanded to know why McSwain called him Yves, but that would wait until morning.

“Don't forget the man who came to town with Jeremiah today. And besides, these hills aren't safe. You stay here with Isaac and . . . what's-her-name. You'll be safe as long as they're around.”

“How can I thank you?”

He caught one tardy tear that glistened on her cheek, and then taking her by the chin, Wyatt leaned in until his lips met hers. How warm. How gentle. “It's not your thanks I want,” he said.

Another kiss pressed to her forehead and he hurried away toward the jail.

Miranda stood on the porch until Wyatt disappeared into the trees. In all her life she'd never felt so alone. How she wished Father was here to deal with the sheriff. How she missed Mother's calming voice and reassurance. She sat on the porch and hugged her arms tightly as a whole mountainside of trees rustled in the night breeze.

God had crafted this wild land, formed it, and covered it in unrivaled beauty. His creation demonstrated His power and His perfection. But it wasn't perfect, was it? If so, her grandfather wouldn't be in jail right now. He wouldn't be viewing the world through the distorted fog of paranoia. How much of God's power would it take to heal Grandfather? A mere drop from the ocean of His ability? A brief thought from His infinite mind? If He had such power, such goodness, why didn't he heal her grandfather? Why had Grandfather's wisdom faded out of his healthy body?

But then there was Grandmother. The rough porch beam scratched Miranda's face as she leaned into it. Grandmother had been the opposite. Her body had wasted away and she'd
been alert for every painful breath. Was that better? Would Miranda ask God to do that to Grandfather?

She didn't like her choices, but it really wasn't her choice, was it? The persistent, comforting voice of reason could finally be heard over her hurt. She might not be able to choose her circumstances, but she still had a choice. She could still choose to show patience and love to Grandfather no matter how he misconstrued her actions. And she could still choose to trust God. She had to believe that God could make the destination worthy, even if the journey was painful.

Just like this journey. So many things she wished she could've done differently, but could she be sorry for the opportunity to know a man like Wyatt?

Inside the house, the piano began to play—heavy, halting chords that denoted a beginner. Pushing off her knees, Miranda rose and gathered her reticule and the money box. Wyatt should be to the jail by now—Grandfather wasn't alone—but time would pass more quickly inside than out here staring into deep shadows watching for Wyatt to reappear.

When she entered the house, the tentative notes on the piano stopped. The young woman on the piano stool turned and pushed up sleeves that were already rolled up to her elbows. “Hello, there.”

Composure, even when her heart was broken . . . especially when her heart was broken. Although Miranda couldn't quell the image of Grandfather sitting on a grimy cot behind bars, she didn't want to sit and cry all evening. She removed her hat and gloves. “I'm Miranda Wimplegate. What's your name?”

“Alice Moore . . . Ballentine, I mean. My goodness, this is the first time I've introduced myself with my married name.” She smiled prettily, her freckles lost in the blush that tinted her cheeks.

Moore? Inwardly Miranda groaned, but she couldn't hold a family connection against the girl. Not while her own grandfather sat in a cell.

Still holding her gloves and hat, Miranda looked for an empty place to set them. Every available surface was covered with boxes, piles of quilts, and crates of household goods. She pushed the doily on the back of the upright piano over until the bowl of imitation fruit crowded the candlesticks, and balanced her items on the small clearing there. Recognizing Grandfather's suitcase, Miranda lifted it from the couch. “Why is this here?”

Isaac rushed out from the adjoining bedroom, appearing more ruffled than Miranda had ever seen him. “I don't want to be disrespectful to your grandfather . . . especially tonight of all nights . . . but I'd already started moving our rooms around before his trouble. He and Wyatt can share a room, and Alice and I will stay down here.”

Immediately the piano burst into a lively jig. If Miranda thought Alice had a blush before, she was blooming scarlet now. Her hands danced enthusiastically over the keys, her eyes wide and her mouth a firm line.

“I understand,” Miranda said. It was his house, after all. She looked again at Alice, dressed in a common work dress. Nothing as fine as she'd seen in town, definitely not wedding attire. “Congratulations on your nuptials. When . . . where was the ceremony?”

The music slowed. “We've been married for well-nigh two months now. We just weren't ready to tell Pa yet.”

Of all the monkeyshine. How like Isaac to secretly marry a woman and expect her to deceive her parents. How unlike his brother.

“But now you're ready to tell the world?”

“Well, we'd better be. Our little one will be arriving this winter, and we don't want any questionable talk.” Alice beamed at Isaac, but it was all Miranda could do not to glare. Isaac had not conducted himself as a married man. Now that she better understood the brothers, she could imagine his gallantries were performed more to irritate Wyatt than to please her. And furthermore, how did the man who ridiculed his brother, shamed him throughout his childhood for being illegitimate, come so near to putting the same stigma on his own child? Suddenly tired, Miranda wanted no more of the day. She'd wait in her room until Wyatt returned home. The newlyweds surely wouldn't mourn her absence.

“If you'll excuse me, it's been a difficult day. I'd like to retire.” Miranda gathered her hat and gloves, but as she swept forward, one of the gloves slipped between her fingers and disappeared behind the piano.

Alice hopped up and moved the stool away. “Here, let me help you.” Bending to take the thick leg of the piano, she tugged with a grunt. Seeing that it wasn't going to budge without help, Miranda braced herself against the wall, dug her fingers into the top, and pushed while Alice pulled. With the combined effort, the piano rolled across the wood floor, giving Miranda about six inches of room to fish out her glove.

Something was in the way. A large frame was wedged between the back of the piano and the wall. She turned for the lamp, but anticipating her move, Isaac brought it to her.

“I've never seen that before,” he said. With a grunt he rolled the piano another foot and grabbed the gilt corner. Slowly, so as to not scrape it, he lifted the portrait out.

By the lamplight, the colors gleamed. Vibrant, decadent, and oh so familiar. The room spun and darkened. Miranda
couldn't breathe. Vaguely she felt gentle hands leading her to the sofa. The spinning slowed and the light returned enough to see Alice fanning her with sheet music.

“What's a-matter with her?” she asked. “I'm the one expecting.”

Miranda pushed away the flapping music to see Isaac still holding the portrait out at arm's length. Curious, but wary.

“Where did you get that?” Miranda gasped.

He gave her a sardonic grin. “Like I said, I've never seen it before. You need to talk to my brother.”

“Wyatt didn't hide it. He would've told me if he knew about it.”

Bracing his thigh against the piano, Isaac shoved it against the wall. Then he propped the portrait on the back of the piano, right behind the bowl of imitation fruit. Stepping back to admire his work, he crossed his arms and whistled. “That's an arrogant boss if I ever saw one. Where in the world would Wyatt find a painting like that?”

In Boston. In her family's auction house.

“It'd been sent to the sale barn after all,” she said. But that meant Wyatt did know. Her anger battled with her fear. What right did Wyatt have to take it and hide it? She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to quiet the growing fear that suddenly threw all his proclamations into question. Just minutes ago, when he'd offered to give up everything for her, what was that? What kind of game was he playing?

Miranda gripped the arm of the sofa and pulled herself to her feet. Isaac and Alice jumped out of her way as she forged ahead to the painting. How well the artist had captured the character of this man—the practiced slouch that denoted disinterest, the slight smirk that betrayed his awareness of his audience, as well as his disregard for them. Miranda noted the soft white hands adorned by a thick signet ring. She leaned
closer to inspect it. The ring had never been cataloged—Miranda would've remembered. Either way, the almost feminine hands and the sloped shoulders were probably portrayed more in keeping with fashion than an actual representation. As far as she'd noticed, the LeBlancs yoked up as straight as the horizon, but the sneer, the condescension had surged forth undiluted through the generations.

And Wyatt's dishonesty had nearly ruined both the LeBlancs and her family.

One last look at the soft folds of his periwinkle coat and the lace at his wrist—lace that she'd never be able to afford—and she could stand it no longer.

“I'm going upstairs,” she said.

“Do you feel well enough?” Alice followed her with quick steps.

“Tell me when Wyatt arrives.” Miranda stopped at the stairs and turned to Isaac, who couldn't take his eyes off the canvas. “Don't let anything happen to this painting, Isaac. Please. It's valuable.”

But she'd didn't need to tell him that. Already he seemed strangely affected by the portrait. He couldn't take his eyes off it, even to notice his new bride . . . or not-so-new, as the case might be.

“How fine!” Alice fluttered. “Where in the world did he get it?”

The decisive footsteps coming up the porch steps could only be one man's. The door swung open. Wyatt's careworn expression almost roused her pity, but then he saw the painting, and worry was erased by something much more definitive.

Guilt.

His eyes lowered. There was no room for doubt. He knew he was caught. Miranda wanted to run away. She wanted to hide
from whatever insincere excuse he offered, but she couldn't. She had to face this. To retreat would be to lose ground, and she and Grandfather had already lost too much.

Tears had already broken through once that night. With no dam to hold them, they coursed freely now. “You knew.” She sobbed the words that couldn't be blocked. “You didn't tell me.”

“I was going to tell you. . . .” He took a step forward, then thought again. He rubbed his chest. “Your grandpa is fine for the night. He's angry, but as far as jail cells go—”

“Stop!” Miranda cried. “Leave my grandfather out of this. If it weren't for you he wouldn't be in jail—we'd be home. In fact, we could've turned around and gotten back on the train the next day. I wouldn't be stuck here missing home, missing my mother . . .” Miranda choked. She had to regain her composure, but he should answer for his betrayal. He'd known what his secret would cost her. He knew her family could lose their business, but even worse, he knew that she might have to marry Cornelius.

And he didn't care.

Her breath jerked into her lungs in painful gulps. He didn't care. He didn't care about her, or Grandfather, evidently. No use making a spectacle of herself. Hadn't she spent her whole life hiding her opinions? Swallowing her emotions? She could do this one last time. Survive it, that's all she had to do. Survive . . . and get the painting. It wasn't too late.

“It doesn't matter how you got it.” She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “We'll return it to its rightful owners. They'll have to honor the effort we put into reclaiming their property.”

Wyatt walked past her to stand before the painting. Seconds ticked by as he stood with his hands on his hips, his foot tapping. Then he turned. “You aren't taking it.”

Miranda's stomach heaved. She couldn't be hearing him right. Wyatt, her Wyatt, couldn't mean that.

But he didn't look like a man about to change his mind. “It's mine,” he said, “and I'm not giving it up.”