At Love's Bidding (13 page)

His acting skills depleted, Wyatt ended the bidding and wrote
himself up for five bits. He faked a smile—the same smile he produced every week when Mrs. Sanders made her pie especially for him—and slid the pan to the edge of the table.

The last of the food had been spoken for. They still had some cows, plus sheep, goats, and poultry to sell before they got to housewares, but from here they would make good time. Water jugs passed from man to man. The ladies grouped in a corner, fanning the sleepy children on their lap. Nothing brought the town together like sale day. They might feud and bicker on the streets and in the hills, but come sale day everyone swallowed their bile and came together for their mutual benefit. At the auction, everyone was treated equally. No one could charge you more just because you fought on the wrong side of the war or because you were uglier than the warts on a hackberry tree. The prize went to whoever wanted it the baddest, no discrimination. Even young Josiah had managed to buy a sow now and then, which, considering how many outhouses he'd tipped over, was remarkable.

What if Wyatt gave up on this? Would someone take his place? This gathering was too important to the community to close down.

Yesterday, Wyatt had given the whole situation to God. Again. Repeatedly he confessed his desire—that he get to buy the sale barn himself. And he admitted that if God wanted to keep him from that goal, then he'd accept it, but staying put surely felt like the easiest thing to do. Else he'd spend every day thinking about how he'd failed his pa.

And again his other Father—the one in heaven, not the one who died before he knew him—his heavenly Father reminded him that He had a plan and that the forming of Wyatt's character meant more to God than whether he succeeded in his ambition.

Frankly, God's plan scared Wyatt something fierce. Thinking back through the Bible, those people God loved, well, He put them through the wringer. They didn't have life easy. And there might be a great reward at the end, but in the meantime you'd best get your slingshot ready, because likely there was a giant or two coming after you.

Or there might be a beautiful woman come to watch you call the sale.

He started up the bidding again but found it difficult to get going with her standing in the entry. Did anyone notice when he skipped from five cents a pound to five and three-quarters? Were they frustrated at the way he couldn't scan the crowd for bids without lingering in Miranda's direction? Wyatt ran his hand down the long horizontal beam of the scales, then turned the dial to the precise weight. It was almost a relief when she rose and made her way toward him. Giving up on steadying the scales when he was so out of balance, he contented himself with admiring her beauty as she crossed the room. Her eyes claimed most of her face, but once you got past them . . . if you could . . . there were also some nice full lips beneath a cute nose and . . .

He cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, I was coming to see if I could help. The customers in the office are getting restless.”

He held out a ticket for her. “Your grandfather didn't record the information we needed. We had to go back and correct them.”

“And I'm afraid Grandfather won't be back to help. He's scheming a new business opportunity with Leland Moore.”

“Of course it'd be Moore.” Wyatt rubbed his eyes. “He'd be the first person I'd expect to take advantage of your grandpa.”

“That's what Abigail Calhoun said.”

“Always has a hard-luck story, always has a pot of gold beneath the next rainbow. He'll rob you blind. You must warn your grandfather.”

Miranda wrinkled her nose. “In case you haven't noticed, my grandfather doesn't take orders very well, but if you need help, maybe I can learn.”

He couldn't deny the hole he was in, but could the uppity young miss who kept his head spinning be the answer he was looking for?

Seemed like every eye was trained on her as she made her way around to the business side of the table. Wyatt scooted his chair forward as she squeezed her skirts past him. Once seated, she arranged her skirts primly, aware that her elevated position put her knees at eye level for some of the bidders.

Wyatt wrapped his arm around the back of her chair and leaned in. “Josiah will tell you the name of the farmer selling the animals. Write that here. I'll give you a description of what's selling and how much it weighs. Write that here.” He pointed to the box on the form, his arm sliding against her as he reached across. She gripped the seat of her chair and held on as he continued. “And be sure to get the weight. That's absolutely necessary.”

She had to look away. She needed something to dilute his effect on her. Lifting her eyes, the first person she saw was Abigail, whose gentle smile offered sympathy for her predicament. Resisting the urge to fan her warm cheeks, she ducked her head, and the form before her came into focus again.

“When the bidding is over, you write the winning amount here and the buyer's name here. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Even though the form was different, the information was the same. She grasped the pen in the inkpot and tapped off the excess. “I'm ready.” She was ready for him to stop leaning against her and put some space between the two of them. She was ready for Josiah to drive the animals around so everyone would study the sheep instead of her.

Wyatt removed his arm from the back of her chair. He grasped the gavel and banged it against the table. Josiah stepped out of the pen and allowed him to weigh the sheep. Miranda watched his hand skim the metal beam, tapping the rider until the beam swung free, perfectly balanced.

“Five hundred and sixty-five pounds.”

His black coat sleeve had a brown swipe of dust on it, but what had she expected working here?

“Five hundred and sixty-five pounds,” he repeated.

Miranda followed the sleeve up to his expressive face. Oh. She was supposed to write it down. She dipped the pen into the inkwell and scratched the number into the box. It was going to be a long afternoon. But just before he started on the next animal, Mr. Moore entered, and standing behind Abigail's tall husband didn't hide him from Wyatt's notice.

“Give me a minute,” Wyatt announced, and left her at the table alone.

At least everyone watched him now as his discussion with Moore grew more and more heated.

“What's that to you?” Moore's voice rose above the crowd. “If you're dead set on getting in everyone's business, why don't you tell that smooth-talking brother of yours to stay away from my daughter?”

Was he talking about Isaac? Wyatt had other brothers, but . . . The roar of laughter notified Miranda that the conversation
had ended and Wyatt was dragging Moore out the door by his shirt collar. Not knowing what to do with her hands, Miranda took the gavel and lowered it to her lap. The wooden mallet had seen much use. The head was scarred, although the handle was worn smooth. And most curious was the gold metal band worked into it. She'd never seen a gavel with a band on the handle before, although Grandfather's back home had gold leaf painted on the rises.

Wyatt had returned from his ruffian errand. Mr. Fowler puffed excitedly on his pipe and slapped him on the back as he passed. Would they have responded the same way if they'd seen him treat Isaac thus? Somehow Miranda thought they just might. Still bristling, Wyatt took his seat.

“Where's Grandfather?” she asked.

“Moore wouldn't tell me. Said I'm going to reap the whirlwind when he tells Elmer how I treated him.”

Miranda was growing a strong dislike for this Moore character. “Nonsense. Grandfather knows good counsel when he hears it.”

They'd just resumed the sale when the crowds parted and Grandfather came barreling toward them like an out-of-control fire wagon. Stumbling through the gates of the arena, he marched up to the table and projected loud enough for the whole town to hear.

“You will not go behind my back to discuss my dealings,” he ordered Wyatt. “If you wish to maintain your employment, you will not interfere with my business. Do you understand?”

Miranda cast a horrified look at Wyatt. His lips turned white and his eyes widened as Grandfather's voice rose to a shout.

“Your only task is to keep this auction house going. My other dealings are confidential and do not require your approval.”
Grandfather's face burned red and his spittle sprayed across the table, hitting Miranda as well as his target. “Do not interfere with my partner. Am I clear?”

Wyatt's back was rigid, but he looked just as shocked as the rest of the crowd, who found their auction interrupted by a raving lunatic. Miranda would give anything to be able to crawl into the dark anonymity beneath the table, but she couldn't do that. She couldn't leave Wyatt defenseless, and she couldn't allow Grandfather to further alienate the townspeople. Trying to ignore her shocked audience, Miranda focused on her grandfather.

“Let's go outside and talk about this,” she whispered.

“In all my years I have never observed such insolence. . . .” Grandfather continued to rail, leaning over as if he were about to drag Wyatt across the table by his new lapels and throw him in with the sheep.

She scanned the room, but no one was moving. No one knew quite what to do with them. “Grandfather,” she pleaded, “you're causing a scene.”

“I want to cause a scene. Mr. Ballentine will never treat me like this again. He needs to remember it for the rest of his life.”

Guaranteed. The whole town would remember.

“Think, Grandfather,” she said. “Would you do this at home? Would you denigrate an employee on the stage in our auction house? Remember our auction house? The blue velvet drapes? The red padded chairs for the bidders?” She allowed her voice to go wistful, hoping she was drawing him into a calmer state of mind. “Remember how dignified you are? Remember your reputation for quality and respectability?”

Grandfather wiped his mouth. With unsteady feet, he took his first step back. He rotated to face her and grabbed her arm with desperate hands.

“I remember, Miranda. I remember it all, and that's what I'm trying to save.” His bottom lip quivered. “He doesn't understand what we have to lose. He doesn't understand why I have to take the gambles I take.”

No longer aware of the people surrounding them, Miranda patted his arm. “I understand. You can trust me, because I remember all of it.” His grip lessened as she continued. “And you can trust Wyatt, too.”

Grandfather's mouth turned down. His chin hardened. Slowly he shook his head, then more fiercely. “He's got you fooled, Miranda. I love you, but you are gullible where he's concerned.” He pulled out of her grasp. “I'm going with Moore. I'm leaving you in charge, but watch him.”

With a last glare at Wyatt, he left. His shiny shoes flashed as he strode through the crowd. Men stepped out of his way and women held their skirts aside as he passed. Miranda twisted her hands. She couldn't stop him, could do nothing to help him, but maybe she could help the man who'd borne the brunt of his outburst.

“Ten minutes,” Wyatt announced. “Give me ten minutes, then we'll get to rolling again.” The gavel rapped before he tossed it on the table and stormed out the back.

He'd borne it valiantly—the man she'd accused of being incapable of controlling his temper. He'd refused to return Grandfather's unfounded accusations or even to defend himself before a town full of people who'd known him his whole life.

Conversation resumed inside the room, and it was no mystery what they were talking about. Miranda couldn't leave him outside alone, not when her grandfather was responsible for his embarrassment. She worked her way around the ring to the door that led to the pens. Bursting outside, the dust of
something stronger than soil filled her nostrils. A dry cough and she spotted Wyatt, elbows resting on the top of the fence. Remembering to watch her step, Miranda lifted her skirt and eased carefully to his side.

“Are you all right?” She dropped her hem and wrapped her hands atop the highest plank.

His shoulders raised and his head dropped. “I should've known better than to get involved, but I can't stand to watch Moore take advantage of him.”

“Grandfather didn't mean what he said—”

“He certainly did. He meant every word of it, and I don't blame him. If a man stepped into my business, I'd be riled up, too.” He straightened, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. “I know why he's mad, but I'll do it again if I have to.”

She shaded her eyes to look up at him. “You didn't volunteer for this. Dealing with him . . . he's different now.”

Wyatt's eyes were sad. “How long has your Grandfather been like this?”

“That depends. Sometimes he's brilliant. Sometimes he explains his actions and they make perfect sense. Other times I think he has a reason for his behavior, but when I talk to him, his reasoning is flawed. That's why I came with him in the first place. We were worried about his making the trip alone.” That and avoiding marriage to Cornelius.

“What are you supposed to do about it?”

“I watch that he's getting enough to eat and rest. That's about all the help I'm worth. He won't listen to me as far as business is concerned.”

“You'll never recover any money he gives to Moore. You can kiss it good-bye.”

Money they could ill afford to lose. Especially if the LeBlancs ran off their other accounts. “I don't know what to do.”

Wyatt counted off his advice on his fingers. “First off, you need to find out how much cash money he's carrying. These roads aren't safe, especially if word gets out that he's got pockets full of double eagles. Second, we can go to the bank and encourage them not to loan him more money—”

“What?” Miranda cast nervous eyes to the sky above her. “I couldn't tell the bank to refuse Grandfather. He'd be livid.”

The fence creaked as Wyatt leaned across. “Listen, honey, unless you have so much money you need to make room in the coffers, you'd better shut him down. I've been with him a week and have seen him make ridiculous offers. He thinks animals are worth twice what they'll bring. He carries on like junk is treasure. It won't take long for the ne'er-do-wells around here to take advantage of him.”

“I'll telegraph Father. He'll tell us to come home.”

He seemed to digest this information. “What will happen to the sale barn? Will he keep it open?”

One would have to be pretty obtuse to miss the importance of his question. He waited, breathless. In his handsome face she saw the young man hearing for the first time that his family was ashamed of him and wanted nothing to do with him. Here he was again, waiting to see if his dreams would be crushed.

“I don't know what will happen. We can't manage it from Boston.”

“Then you'd sell it, of course. And if you give me some more time, I might be able to put together a decent offer. I don't know what your grandpa paid—”

“You know I can't make any plans for him. I don't want to get your hopes up.”

He settled back against the fence, his eagerness fading. “Of course not.” With a last swipe at his hair, he pulled his hat on and bumped her elbow with his. “Come on. If we're going to finish before sundown, we'd better get going.”

“How often do you have these sales?” she asked.

“Once a week. Why?”

Because Miranda would do everything she could to see they were on the train before next Monday rolled around so the poor man could conduct his business in peace.