At Love's Bidding (24 page)

Wyatt had been willing to sacrifice for her, to give up everything for Miranda, but she wasn't interested. She claimed that she needed more time to decide, or maybe she was there for one purpose, to get the portrait, and didn't want the complication. Either way, Wyatt knew he couldn't give Miranda what she wanted, and at this moment she wanted that painting more than she wanted him. As much as her earlier denial had hurt, now he knew where he stood. Maybe he'd been hasty in what he offered her, but he had another chance, and it was possible that something more was at stake. He couldn't close the door on the only family member who'd ever come looking for him.

With a last look at Monsieur LeBlanc, Isaac slapped Wyatt on the back. “Here's a mystery I'd like to see solved, but I think I have more interesting pursuits for the evening.”

“Isaac!” Alice's nervous giggle pitched higher. “Don't say such things. And shouldn't we stay up and chaperone them?”

Funny, her seeing the benefit of a chaperone now.

“Don't think they'll be getting into any trouble tonight,” Isaac said. “But if you get into a brawl, please don't damage the house. I want my bride kept in style.”

The bedroom door closed. Miranda stood at the foot of the staircase with tearstained eyes. His timing couldn't be worse.

“Miranda, more than anything I want to help you and your grandfather. Ever since you arrived I've done all I could—”

“Everything besides turning over our property.”

He tilted his head. “Is it really your property? According to your story, it was bought at the auction fair and square.”

She pushed back her hair. “You're using my words against me? That painting was not supposed to be sold. It made it to the block by mistake.”

“But if the buyer paid real money for it, then it wasn't stolen.”

“You didn't buy it. You have no right to that painting. If I was speaking to its rightful owner, I might have to make an offer for it, but as you have no claim to it, I'm wasting my time.”

“I might have more claim than you imagine.”

He cringed at the way her eyebrow soared to new heights. Her wet lashes fluttered. “The sale barn does not belong to you. If this was sent to the auction—”

“It was sent to me. Addressed to me, from my family.”

She hiccupped a sob. “Isaac told me, but I thought he was being cruel.”

“What did Isaac tell you?” He hated the way his voice strained. Why did he fear Isaac's opinion?

“He told me you were from some disgraceful family, but I never dreamed that you were in league with them. What is their plan? Did they send this to you for blackmail? Are you holding the painting for a ransom?”

And he'd once worried that this woman lacked courage? Well, she certainly had imagination in abundance.

“I couldn't vouch for the character of my family, especially after what you've told me, but this painting is my only tie to them, and I can't give that up. I made a mistake by offering it to you earlier, but you declined my offer, and I'm not making it again. I'm standing my ground and doing what my Aunt LeBlanc requested.”

Miranda didn't breathe. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “Your Aunt
LeBlanc?” Her nose twitched. “The LeBlancs do not know you. They don't acknowledge
us
socially, much less send family heirlooms out to country boys in the mountains.”

He'd been patient with her, but she was getting downright insulting. “You claim to know my story. Did you know that my father, Stephan LeBlanc, and my mother, Tarisa, came out west in a wagon train and both died?”

Chin up, her eyes narrowed. “I had not heard that these claims were made against the LeBlanc family, but it doesn't signify. I understand your ma contacted them and they denied any connection.”

“I don't know why they'd do that, but it seems that someone has had a change of heart.”

She gazed long at Monsieur LeBlanc, but the man didn't speak a word to her. Finally, with a sigh, Miranda turned to him. Her face wasn't quite as red, her demeanor calm. “I'm not as angry as I was. I see what this means to you. You've always held out hope that your family would accept you. You always thought they had made a mistake, and now this . . . of course this looks like a sign of inclusion, but Wyatt, you don't know these people.” She tilted her head up to him, her face softened by pity. “I don't mean to insult you—I'm not a LeBlanc, either—but everyone is born to their station.”

His hands balled into fists. “Just like everyone is born with lumps on their heads that tell them what they can and can't do?” She could be right. Perhaps his parents weren't married after all. Perhaps his father only worked for the LeBlancs and took their name when he started west, hoping to profit from the association. There really was no link besides what his ma had been told before his parents died and this painting. Forget what it might be worth to a collector, the connection to his family
was what he valued. The chance was slim, but he refused to give up. Not yet. “It's my painting and I'm not giving it away.”

Tension gathered in her like a river about to burst a dam. “That's your final word? Knowing what it'll cost me, that's your final word?”

Alice's irritating giggle drifted through his parents' bedroom door. Wyatt refocused. “I didn't say I couldn't help you. I've written Miss LeBlanc and I'll see what she suggests. I don't know what the situation is between her brother and her, but they can't blame you.”

“Her brother wants the painting back.”

“Well, my aunt wants me to have it, and she bought it. I'm not letting Mr. LeBlanc take it until I understand what my aunt wants me to do.”

Miranda held his gaze, the challenge clear, until a throaty chuckle from behind the closed door made them both look away.

Her shoulders slumped. “I'm worried about Grandfather. Worried about Betsy. I can't believe you aren't more sympathetic.”

“Me? I offered to give up everything for you, didn't I? All I needed to know was that you loved me. But you couldn't say it, so don't lecture me on how I should feel.” The words came out of his own mouth, and still they pained him. She hadn't been the only one hurt tonight.

Miranda's eyes blazed. “So all I have to do now is say that I love you, and you'll give it to me? Somehow I find it hard to believe.”

Wyatt's throat tightened. “Because if you said it now, it'd be a lie.” Miranda didn't argue. With a shaking hand, Wyatt smoothed the doily on top of the piano. “It's getting late, and frankly I'd rather not stay down here any longer with Isaac and
his bride. I'll sit outside or at the top of the landing and argue with you all night long, but a better plan might be for both of us to get some shut-eye and see how things lie in the morning.”

“How you can sleep when Grandfather is in jail. . . .” Red splotches returned to her eyes faster than raindrops fall. She wavered on her feet.

“Listen to me, Miranda Wimplegate. You're upset and exhausted, but I can't stand here and watch you cry. Either go to bed, or I'll snatch you up, carry you to the rocking chair upstairs, and hold you like a baby. It's your choice.”

He watched closely for any sign that she'd welcome his comforting. Silently, he begged her to come to him, but she'd have none of it.

With a last tired flicker of rebellion, she spun around and clumped up the stairs.

Wyatt locked the front door, but before he could snuff out the lamp, Monsieur LeBlanc caught his eye.

So that
was the lady in question? Ah,
belle
. Now I understand.

“Then I wish you'd explain it to her,” Wyatt answered.

The light from the window assaulted her sore eyes. The darkness hadn't lasted long enough for them to recover from the tears she'd shed last night, but that was behind her. Today would be a day of action. She must make amends to Betsy, secure Grandfather's release, and then persuade Wyatt to let them have the painting. Perhaps Grandfather could talk some sense into him, if Grandfather had any sense left. She rolled onto her back and clenched the sheets in anxious fists. Would she involve the persistent McSwain? No. Not even with Wyatt's betrayal could she trust his secret to King's men. Once in Boston they could try to unravel the mystery of Aunt LeBlanc, but it would be the Wimplegates who restored the painting. Monty King would have to acknowledge that they'd found the mistake and that a disgruntled member of the LeBlanc family was the instigator. Nothing they could've done to prevent it.

The door across the way creaked open. Wyatt's boots thumped into the hall, then stopped outside her door.

“Miranda?” he whispered.

She froze. Her fingers knotted as her grip on the sheets
tightened. A moment of silence, then his sleeve rasped against the door before he clomped down the stairs.

It never would've worked. Although the ruggedness of the hills, the haunting savage beauty fascinated her, it could never be her home. She wasn't like Abigail Calhoun, ready to roll up her sleeves and work in a barn. No, Miranda would miss the gentle civility of Boston. And even if Wyatt were to move to Boston, he wouldn't be accepted. He'd be only a few steps above the paperboys, with his rough manners and unpolished speech. He'd be a detriment to their auction house, offensive to their aristocratic customers.

Besides, she couldn't forgive him for the hurt he'd caused her family. How long had he had the picture? How many times had he lied to her, laughed at them, when he could've helped them all along?

The breeze tossed the curtains and teased her unbound hair. From below she heard the barn door groan. Cautiously, Miranda rolled to her side and raised an inch at a time, until only her eyes peered over the windowsill. A flash of a blue shirt, and she knew Wyatt was in the barn harnessing the mules.

The sale was yesterday. No livestock in the empty barn, but he had found something else to do while Grandfather waited. Her jaw clenched. Well, she didn't need his help, and now that he was gone, she was free to go about her business without him spying on her.

Unsure of what the day would bring, Miranda pulled the curtains closed and reached for her only dress. No one wanted them here; it was time to leave for good. She tightened her stays, tied her petticoat around her waist, and wiggled into her skirt. She fumbled with the buttons in her rush. Grandfather would already be awake. She didn't want him to wait any longer.

On sudden impulse she pushed aside the curtain one last time. There was Wyatt, driving the wagon out of the barn. He lifted his face to the window. Miranda stepped away. He continued to watch, probably waiting for more movement, but when he didn't find what he was looking for, he hawed to the mules and continued down the path to the road.

She bustled to the hall, the scent of fresh rye bread floating up from below. Miranda smoothed the lace on her collar. She'd almost forgotten about Alice and Isaac. At the doorway to the kitchen, she paused. Isaac had his arms wrapped around Alice at the stove, pretending to help her stir the pot. Miranda backed into the parlor, embarrassed. No wonder Wyatt headed out. This wouldn't seem like his home anymore.

The morning sun illuminated the contentious painting still propped on the back of the piano. The oil colors fairly glowed in the light, making the blooms on the tree behind the gentleman visible for the first time. It was a simple painting, really. Its uniqueness lay not in the skill of the painter, but in the character of the subject. A playful arrogance, a man at the apex of his strength who knew he was as yet untested, but who welcomed the challenge. Those who knew the man would appreciate the likeness and the telling, but besides that it wasn't collectible. Not worth the value that'd been placed on it. Not worth losing her family's living. Not worth losing Wyatt. But evidently he thought it worth more than her.

For a moment she could almost imagine the man was Wyatt, turning away from her need with arrogant aloofness. For a moment the proud features resembled the man who'd betrayed her. Drawing near, she trailed her finger over the gilt frame. Opulent scroll work twisted and turned the wood into something moving and alive. Dare she take it? What if Wyatt's story
were true? But did it matter? Frederic LeBlanc was the elder child, and the male. He would be the rightful owner and he wanted it back.

First things first. Grandfather. She looked again at the face, already growing familiar, and wondered . . .

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

Miranda startled. She dropped her hand and stepped back guiltily at Isaac's approach. “I know the family, and there is a resemblance. I just can't believe Wyatt had it the whole time.”

“Had you mentioned you were looking for something of the LeBlancs, I could've told you that was the family Wyatt thought he belonged to, and after seeing this painting . . .” Isaac's eyes traveled up the artwork.

“You don't think it's true, do you?” Miranda asked.

Isaac shrugged. “For Wyatt's sake, I hope it is. He's been disappointed by them once already. Why would they send this if they were only going to reject him again?”

“Wyatt LeBlanc?” Miranda bit her lip. “He just doesn't belong in their world. If you knew them—”

“It's not Wyatt. It's Yves Andres Thibault LeBlanc. Quite a mouthful for us simple folks, so Ma and Pa took to calling him by his initials which quickly ran together. Y. A. T., you understand. Anyway, his pa was from somewhere back East. He left his family and got holed up in St. Louis for a spell, where he met Wyatt's ma. They claimed that's where they got married—even left a fancy certificate with my ma when they died—but when she sent it to the LeBlancs, they said it wasn't valid. No marriage had taken place.”

“Why didn't you tell me this at first? Why act like he was delusional?” Miranda asked.

“I didn't know what town they were from, and you never
mentioned the LeBlancs.” Isaac stopped when Alice appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Breakfast is ready, Isaac. Won't you join us, Miranda?”

This morning, everything about Alice spoke of a freshly scrubbed keeper of the home. Clean as a shiny apple. Clean and not wanting to be dirtied by her husband's petty rivalry.

“No, thank you, Alice. I've got to go to Grandfather.”

Alice flapped the kitchen towel over her arm. “Well, as soon as I clean up breakfast, we're going to town for shopping. I could use your help in ordering some new linens. It's so hard to judge by the pictures in the store's catalog.”

“Do you know Mrs. Rinehart?” Miranda asked.

“I know who she is, but she probably wouldn't know me.”

“Have Isaac take you to her house before you order. It'd be worth your time.”

“What do you think, Isaac? Would she receive us? I've heard her house is the finest in the county.”

Isaac still studied Miranda. Her questions hung between them. “I'll take you as soon as we finish breakfast. Be there in a second.”

Still smiling, Alice twirled her towel and waltzed into the kitchen. Isaac waited for her to exit, then he leaned against the piano. “Did you know it's possible to tell yourself a story about how you were wronged, about how your friend is your enemy . . . to tell yourself this story so often that it grows until the weed little resembles the shoot it began as? Then when you meet someone new, you show them the ugly thistle instead of the innocent seeds that began the whole thing.” Isaac and his sad poet eyes. “You were just someone passing through, or I would've been more careful with what I said. I didn't think it'd make much difference one way or another.”

But it did. Had she taken the story of Wyatt's parents seriously, she wouldn't have wasted her time looking all over creation for that painting. No, she would've found it sooner, he would've refused to give it to her, and she could've rushed home and married Cornelius before she realized how much she'd be missing.

She sighed. “Maybe I was too eager to believe you, but it really doesn't matter what I think. The truth will come out. I just hope my family doesn't lose everything when it does.”

If Isaac looked chastised, Miranda had no doubt he'd recover before she reached the jail. Especially with Alice cooking eggs and gravy for him. She set out and immediately wished she'd brought her parasol for the heat. The sun warmed through her dark hat, making her scalp tingle. The day promised to be scorching. She'd better get Grandfather somewhere safe while it was still early. But where? Perhaps it was time to go home.

She'd just reached the corner of the square when to her wonderment she saw Betsy approaching. Forgetting who might be watching, Miranda nearly trotted to join her outside the sheriff's office.

“Oh, Miss Miranda,” Betsy snuffled. “I feel so sorry for what happened.”

Miranda threw her arms around Betsy and hugged her tight. “I'm the one who needs to apologize. You didn't deserve Grandfather's anger.” She stepped back and took Betsy's chin in her hand. “Now, show me where he hurt you.”

“That's just it. I'm not really hurt. He shoved me down, but my skirt padded my fall. If he were Josiah, I would've torn into him and held my own, but it being your grandpa and all, I didn't think it'd be proper. Then he was hollering at me and carrying on, so I didn't know what to do. I just sat there as dumb as a
rain barrel and started crying. Those men who pulled him away thought I was crying cause he'd done me harm, but mostly I was just surprised and feeling sorry. I didn't mean for him to be in trouble with the law.”

Her straightforward account wrung Miranda's heart. Betsy didn't deserve that treatment, and the sheriff was right to punish anyone who treated the dear girl so harshly. If only it weren't her grandfather.

“Is he in here?” Miranda motioned to the brick building.

“Yes, ma'am. Mr. Wyatt came by already to check on him, but the sheriff was gone, so he couldn't get him out.”

Wyatt had been there already? “Well, I'm glad to see you well. I would've visited you last night, but Wyatt wouldn't let me.”

“It was for the best. My uncle might have been unkind. He had to send a letter with Postmaster Finley to my folks to tell them before they read about it in the paper.”

The paper? This was much worse than the chicken attack, but Mr. Murphy couldn't spare them this time. Grandfather's shocking behavior deserved censure. The mangy dog running across the street blurred before her eyes. People already resented him. Now he'd be even further exposed to abuse. With her shoulders feeling like they supported Samson's pillars, Miranda trudged toward the jail.

“You don't need to come any farther, Betsy. I don't know what temper I'll find Grandfather in, and I can't allow you to endure his vitriol again.”

“That's what Wyatt said, too, in plainer words. I'm awfully sorry, Miss Miranda. If I'd known he was going make a fuss—” She bit her lip as her blond eyelashes bounced back tears.

Walking inside the stone building, Miranda felt the air cool, but the dampness from the rock walls could be tasted. Slowly
her eyes adjusted to the shadowy room. Grandfather was lying crumpled on a narrow bunk that stretched the length of his cell. His rough blanket reached no farther than his knees, and his mouth hung slightly agape in the slackness of deep slumber. Miranda clutched her waist and rushed to press herself against the bars. “Grandfather?”

He blinked drowsily, stretched his legs to the ground, and pulled himself up to sit. “It's about time you came. I've been detained since last night, and it's inexcusable that Wyatt didn't tell you. I knew he couldn't be trusted.” He tried to smooth his white hair that popped up like the lid on a tin can.