At Love's Bidding (26 page)

So why was his front door standing open?

Miranda stood on the last step of the railroad car, peering out of the train to the platform. The road that curled up the hill to Pine Gap yawned open in the trees like the mouth of an empty cave. The train whistle blew. For the third time, the porter told her to have a seat, but not yet. Wyatt might still come.

It wasn't too late. Surely he didn't want her to leave both empty-handed and brokenhearted. Given some time, he'd realize how hurt she was, how he'd wronged her, and knowing Wyatt, he'd feel awful about it. Beneath her feet the floor swayed. Wheels clanked. Again the whistle screeched. Her hand formed an iron claw around the brass rail. The thick forest swallowed them, blotting out the chance for any last-minute apology from him.

Miranda weaved her way to the seat beside Grandfather. His eyelids sagged, his chin dipped. Still exhausted from his ordeal in the jail, Grandfather had been taciturn all morning. Miranda understood. She too had much to consider.

They shouldn't have parted like that. She'd come to the barn to tell him that although they were on opposing sides, it didn't affect her opinion of him.

At first he'd played along—given her his gavel, reflected her wistfulness back at her—but as soon as the painting disappeared,
how quickly he'd turned the tables and tried to blame her. But she had nothing to do with McSwain's theft. Miranda had been completely honest. . . . Well, maybe she'd hid some things in the beginning, but now Wyatt was the one refusing to cooperate.

Grandfather slept on, leaving Miranda alone with her regrets. What would become of them? Would Monty King keep his word and use all the means at his disposal to ruin them? Would Cornelius speak for them, even if she wouldn't marry him? And she wouldn't. She knew now that it wouldn't be fair—not to Cornelius and not to herself.

And what about Wyatt? What did he hope to accomplish in Boston? Whatever misinformation the LeBlanc lady had would be corrected soon enough. Wyatt would be exposed as a fraud, but this would be much worse than just his brothers mocking him. He shouldn't have accused her, the one friend he had on the coast. Had he refrained from that last threat, she and Grandfather would've helped him. They might even be able to get him a job at the docks.

The car door opened and McSwain stepped inside. Could this day get any worse? Miranda had hoped that the snub she gave him at the station would've kept him at bay, but it'd only lasted five miles. His salt-and-pepper walrus whiskers curtained each side of his mouth, which was puckered into a whistle. Grandfather stretched. Miranda frowned. The tune stopped.

“No hard feelings, I hope.” He dropped into the seat across from her and pulled at his too-tight collar.

“I have nothing to say to you.” She laid a hand over her wrist, covering her bracelet.

“Sure you do. You have lots to say, but you're too scared to tell me how mad you are. You've been here a month, and I marched in and took the prize.”

Miranda's ears prickled with heat. “I found it first.”

The fat on McSwain's pointed forehead formed rolls. “But you weren't clever enough to get it. All that time flirting with that chawbacon, and it got you nowhere. I was quite afraid he'd give in to your charms, but at the end that yokel turned out to be smarter than you thought.”

Suddenly the swaying of the train soured her stomach. Is that what Wyatt thought? That she'd been trying to manipulate him ever since she arrived in Pine Gap? Did he wonder if she'd been feigning her regard for him just to get the painting?

Of course he did. Miranda's heart felt covered with grime. When he'd refused to give her the painting, how her manner toward him had changed! The only decision she'd made that might clear her name had been when she refused to marry him. If she was truly playing with his affections, she would've promised him anything, but she could hardly boast of a rejection to prove her loyalty.

No wonder he didn't trust her. It hurt to be misunderstood by someone she loved. Yes, she could say she loved him. She loved him enough to know that marrying her would only cause him heartache in the long run, but could it be worse than the agony she felt at their hateful parting?

Miranda missed her mother. She missed the comfort of her house and family. In her world she was a saint reaching down to help the unfortunate, not a thief who expected friends to hand over their treasures. She didn't like this depiction of herself. It was unfair. Mostly unfair.

Time to put this awful experience behind her and immerse herself back into the orderly, staid existence she'd always known. Time to go home.

Wyatt approached the house with caution. Maybe those dirty skunks hadn't left town just yet. Wishing he had a gun, he eased onto the porch. He passed quickly by the windows and listened beside the door before rounding the corner.

Piano music.

Something fancy. Dainty. Miranda?

Even though he didn't know what to expect, seeing the Arky was still a shock.

Hearing his entrance, the blond shaggy man turned on the piano stool, his hands staying in plain sight on the keyboard. His wardrobe hadn't improved since sale day, but his beard was gone, revealing a closely barbered jaw.

“Mr. LeBlanc, I apologize for trespassing, but as you might not want our meeting to be public, I didn't want to wait on the front porch.”

Mr. LeBlanc? Wyatt tensed. “We don't cotton to people sniffing around uninvited.”

“I know.” Slowly he completed his turn and deliberately rested his hands on his knees. “Rarely are people eager to see me in my line of work, but I hope you may be the exception.”

This man didn't know the danger he was in. Miranda had left Wyatt with a barrel of anger ready to be dumped on the first person to cross him.

“What are you? A doctor?”

The man's plain face remained smooth. “I'm a private investigator hired by Miss Corinne LeBlanc.”

Wyatt closed the door behind him. “You're working with McSwain?”

“Not hardly. He was hired by Monty King. He's the one desperate to recover the painting . . . and to silence you.”

Why should Wyatt trust a man who made his hair a different
color than God intended? He wasn't a large man, but he was compact. Looked like he could move quickly in a tussle. Wyatt sat on the side of the sofa nearest the door. “I guess I'll shut up and let you do the talking.”

“First, let me introduce myself. I'm William Sears. I've been retained by Miss Corinne LeBlanc to look after the family's interest.”

“Does Miss LeBlanc often need the use of spies?”

William's face grew deathly still. “If it weren't for Miss LeBlanc, you would be left out in the cold.” A second passed before he could continue. “She hired me when she became convinced that Monty King was taking advantage of her older brother. Frederic LeBlanc has few talents, and managing a large estate isn't one of them. As the third son, he never expected to have resources at hand, so he allowed the solicitors to continue as they had for his oldest brother, Armand. Only Armand kept his eye on the accounts. I'm afraid Frederic has allowed Monty to dispose of their property unchecked.”

Wyatt leaned forward. “So Armand died, leaving his little brother in charge? What does their sister want with me?”

“This is where it gets interesting. When going through the family's books, looking for evidence of Monty King's misdeeds, I found a letter from Hart County, Missouri. A family by the name of Ballentine had written asking once again for any information on a child that had been orphaned on the Santa Fe Trail out of Independence. According to the letter, they'd written the family before, but they didn't accept the answer they'd received.”

Wyatt felt as if he'd just swallowed a cupful of baking soda. He knew the answer, but William had guessed, as well.

“Judging from the letter, it sounded like the attorney had
claimed that the child was unknown and possibly illegitimate. I thought it odd that the family wouldn't make further inquiries about a child, so I presented the discovery to Miss LeBlanc. The information she had was startling.”

“My parents were married?”

“Your father was Stephan LeBlanc, the second son. He had the heart of an adventurer and struck out on his own, determined to seek his fortune. Of course, his older brother Armand granted him a hefty amount to invest once he got settled and started in whatever industry he discovered, but then word came back that his wagon train was attacked by Comanches with no survivors. On hearing the news, all of Boston mourned.”

“I know about the attack. But my real ma and pa died of scarlet fever before that. They left me with Ma and Pa Ballentine, who abandoned the wagon train and headed back to Missouri before the Comanches attacked.”

“Fortunate decision, but the LeBlancs had no knowledge of a child, and with the whole wagon train massacred, you see why they would've been suspicious.”

“Didn't they care to search it out? Why just ignore my claim?”

“In regards to your legitimacy, the letter from the Ballentines spoke of a marriage certificate that they had naïvely mailed to Boston. Of course, Monty King denied receiving it, but I did my own investigation and found them on the registry in St. Louis. They were married months before they set out on the trail. Perhaps Stephan wrote home and told the family, but Monty hid the letter? All we know for sure is that it was kept quiet, even from his younger sister, Miss Corinne.”

It had been true, what Ma had told him. His parents had been a respectable, loving couple looking for a new life together.
Slowly the knot in his chest began to soften. “But why does she believe now?”

William stood up. “She doesn't. That's where I come in. She sent me to see what kind of man you were, and I'm pleased to report that you are well-respected here. Sending you the portrait was another test. You might be family, you might not, but if you were a scheming money-grubber, then you would have sold that painting to the first bidder.”

“But I failed the test, didn't I?” Wyatt gripped his knees. “The portrait is gone.”

“I sat in your barn and watched McSwain carry it out of the house.”

He grimaced. “While the Wimplegates egged him on.”

William shook his head. “McSwain isn't working with the Wimplegates. They're just the unlucky victims to the whole affair. Had Miss Corinne any idea they were going to be blamed, she would've considered another method. Hopefully once the LeBlancs get the portrait back they'll release the Wimplegates from their obligation.”

Wyatt looked to the clock. Had the train left already? It had. Miranda had left town with his accusations ringing in her ears. She hadn't deserved his anger.

“The painting is on its way back to Boston,” William said. “But as for you, it would be helpful if you had something . . . anything from your parents. A baby blanket? A pocket watch?”

Wyatt held out empty hands. “Nothing. When my parents died, the rest of the wagon train burned their possessions to keep the illness from spreading. Nothing was left behind. Ma never told me about anything special.” He scanned the room, hoping something would jog a memory, but no.