At Love's Bidding (25 page)

The cold bars dug into her body. If it weren't for her hat, she would've had her face wedged between the iron bars. He moved slowly, resigned, and perhaps that was for the better. The last thing she wanted was for him to be excitable. “When is the sheriff coming back?” she asked.

Grandfather ran his hand over the cot beneath him. “Oddly enough, the man didn't feel compelled to report his whereabouts to me.”

Sensing his acceptance, she stepped back and scanned the rest of the room. Bookshelves of law books, a desk, a gun rack, and coat hangers. Next to the back door, a sweating bucket sat with a ladle handle hung on its side. “Are you thirsty?” Not waiting for him to answer, she sloshed a cupful of water to him, grateful that at last she could do something to help.

And that was about all she could do for the next hour. Although Grandfather had calmed, he remained convinced that Betsy had opposed him in some vile manner and that she was conspiring against him to cause his business dealings to fail. The longer they spoke, the more Miranda's unease grew. Clearly, Grandfather could not be convinced of Betsy's innocence, and
because of that the girl wasn't safe. And neither was Grandfather. One more incident and some of Betsy's rough defenders might take justice into their own hands. She'd seen what they'd intended to do with the man who lurked about. What kind of punishment would be handed out for laying a hand on one of their children? Miranda shivered at the sight of the empty gun rack.

The clip-clop of hooves sounded. Dust floated through the barred window as the sheriff tethered his horse and waddled inside. Seeing Miranda, he sighed and tossed his gun on his desk. His weathered face had seen more years than she could guess, and although his movements were slow, they were deliberate and steady. “This here's your grandpappy, I'd guess.”

Miranda stood, glad to see Grandfather had, as well. “Yes, sir. I don't know precisely what occurred last night, but I can assure you that he's never—”

The sheriff held up his hand, stopping her. He removed his hat, releasing a flood of pure white hair. “Miss Wimplegate, if you'd accompany me outside, please.” His wide palm extended toward the door.

Grandfather grasped the bars. “Now wait a minute. Whatever you have to say needs to be said right here. I'm the boss here. She's not my guardian.”

“We can stay here,” Miranda said. “I don't want to upset him.”

“Too late. Outside?” Even though he was the sheriff, he looked uncertain as to whether she'd comply.

She stepped into the sun, then followed the sheriff to the green of town square, away, she presumed, from earshot. Sheriff Taney stopped under an oak tree.

“Miss Wimplegate, there's a train coming through today just after noon, and it's my suggestion that you and your grandfather be on it.”

Miranda cast an anxious glance to the jail. “Today? We can't leave today.”

“Then it's quite possible that your grandfather won't be able to leave for quite some time, because if he continues to gallivant around town, throwing accusations against our children, trying to borrow money from our citizens, and harassing our local businesses, he will be facing charges of disorderly conduct. Did you know that I've had to personally escort him from the bank on almost a daily basis?”

She could feel her face reddening. “I . . . we . . . we tried to stop him, but we never knew where he was going.”

“Well, they wouldn't loan him money, and he took offense at their refusal. Every morning he marched in there and disrupted their business while insisting that they fund his latest scheme. Now with Miles Bullard at his side, people are getting tetchy. He's even more of a threat.”

How had she not known? But it wasn't fair to let others deal with her responsibility.

The sheriff slid his hands into his pockets and scuffed a knot of clover with his toe. “Miss Wimplegate, I don't hold you accountable for Elmer's behavior. I've seen the years play out on many a fine man just like this, and there's no shame in what's happening, but we can't allow him to wreak havoc on everyone else. Do you have any family back home?”

“Oh yes,” Miranda stammered. “My family would never allow him to act this way, but he worsened when we left home. My father would know what to do.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “I'm glad to hear it. Then the sooner you get back to your father, the better. Can you have your things together by noon?”

What things? Miranda didn't have anything besides the
clothes on her back and her reticule. Grandfather's bag had been packed by Isaac. But what about the painting? She needed to talk to Wyatt. Perhaps after having time to think it over, he might decide to let them buy it from him.

“I need to go to the sale barn first. It belongs to Grandfather, and I need to speak to the manager before we leave.”

The sheriff wasn't fooled. “I'm sure Wyatt would appreciate that. I'll take Elmer to the house to gather his things. I really don't think he should go about unsupervised.”

“Thank you, sir.” She couldn't say anything else, still numbed by the sudden news of her departure.

“You come back anytime, Miss Wimplegate. You and your family are welcome here. Like I said, we won't hold this incident against you'uns.”

That was one person who'd forgiven them, but how many others had Grandfather offended?

Wyatt tossed an armful of hay over the fence to the goat, who stared with dull eyes, clearly unimpressed. Chores at the barn went much faster now that they sold out every week. If it weren't for this lone billy who'd gotten away from his new owner, the pens would be empty. He could be thankful for that. The clean scent of the hay was one smell Wyatt could appreciate about the place. He didn't admire it quite as much as the smell of rhubarb pie, but it was close. Dusting the straw off his shirt, he smiled ruefully at the memory of Miranda's pie. He'd enjoyed it. Honest. But what he'd enjoyed even more was that she'd baked it for him. Who would've thought she'd go through the trouble?

But that was before she knew about the painting. Now she wouldn't toss him a rope if he was neck deep in quicksand. Wyatt hadn't expected something so frivolous as a fancy painting of a man dressed like a sissy coming between him and the woman he loved, but without the painting he'd never have a chance at her, either. If only she believed in him.

He caught the mules' harness and led them to the shade to wait while he dusted up inside. Over the years, Wyatt had always seen this place as the pinnacle of his ambition. His pa always
wanted to have an honest-to-goodness sale barn. Traveling the mountains, from settlement to settlement, auctioning whatever people brought on market day was no way to support a family. Pa wanted the people to come to him. He wanted to play host to the commerce and the camaraderie that took place during a sale day. And that was his dream for his sons. But his sons left, one by one, until only Wyatt and Isaac remained. Isaac always hanging back, never willing to outright compete against Wyatt. Never brave enough to challenge his little brother, but always there to pop his bubble, to criticize his attempts, to try to remind Pa that he didn't belong. And Pa had done his best to even the score. Wyatt was showered with love to make up for his brothers' lack of acceptance, which only widened the gap.

When the wide door swung shut behind him, the hallway darkened, but the arena, lit by the high windows, drew him forward. Maybe it was time to go. If he didn't see Aunt Corinne and the other LeBlancs with his own eyes, he'd always wonder. He had to know. If his parents were married, it meant that they hadn't lied to the Ballentines, and it meant that for some reason, someone in Boston had wanted to discredit him.

He climbed the steps to the platform and took the gavel in his hands. His pa had been so adamant that he cherish the sale barn—he'd almost made the handing over of the gavel a ceremony—but was that who Wyatt was born to be? Was he a man who'd be content here hidden in the hills, or was he willing to risk everything he knew for an uncertain life in a busy, crowded city?

That night, pruning the trees after Miranda had left got him to thinking. What did you do with a dead branch? You lopped it off. When something stopped growing, it started decaying and would soon affect the health of the whole tree. That's how he
felt about this auction. He'd given it time and it'd borne fruit for its season, but autumn had come. It was time to cut loose and look for growth elsewhere. Like Boston.

One thing—the only thing—he knew for sure about his natural parents was that they were adventurers. Hadn't they started out for a new life? Hadn't they set out for the great unknown? Whether or not he had any LeBlanc blood, whether he was a poor relation or no relation at all, he knew this about his parents—they hadn't been paralyzed by security. They'd longed for a new start, so it should be no surprise that he wished for the same.

And that wasn't all he wished for.

The big door squawked. Wyatt swung the gavel into his palm and waited. The ray of light widened as the door swung open. Wyatt's blood pulsed as the outline of a very familiar female darkened the doorway and proceeded to the arena.

She had hidden from him this morning, but here she was. Had something changed? Wyatt stepped around the table on the platform. “Did you visit your grandpa?”

She shivered, her eyes burning brightly. “Yes. He's with the sheriff at the house now, getting ready for our journey.” She hesitated by the first row of seats.

“You've no call to be upset with me,” Wyatt said. “I've done everything in my power to ease your way. I've given you everything I could—”

“Everything except for the very item I must have.” Her voice trembled. “You had it all along—”

“That's not true,” he said. “I only got it Saturday. You were just coming to tell me that you and Elmer were leaving town.”

“So that's why you wouldn't let me in your house when I brought the pie?” She covered her mouth, before gaining control
and hiding her hand behind her again. “I didn't come to argue. I wanted us to part as friends.”

If only she knew how this was tearing him in two. Wyatt stepped down from the platform and rested his hand on the arena fence.

“Let's be honest, Miranda. What if I'd given you that painting? What then?”

Her head lifted. “Then Grandfather and I could return it to the LeBlancs, and our auction house would be cleared.”

He felt like he was fixing to grab ahold of a wasps' nest, but he had to know. “And what about us? Once I hand over that picture, who am I to you?”

Miranda rubbed her nose as her eyes darted to the ground. “If you ever come to Boston, you are welcome to call on us—Grandfather and me, that is. We've found work for several of the young men who live around our auction house. Maybe we could help you.”

His shoulders melted. Not the answer he was hoping for, but he'd known the risks. And Wyatt was not a quitter. This painting wouldn't always come between them. If she was willing to see him again, then there was hope. But he needed to give her something to show his intent—some piece of him that would remind her of his love when Cousin Cornelius came calling. With a grunt, Wyatt extended the gavel to Miranda. It wasn't fancy, but until she'd arrived, it was his most treasured possession.

“Keep this,” he said. Probably not a fitting gift for a lady, but Miranda covered her surprise and accepted it just the same.

“It's not what I was hoping for. . . .”

The massive barn door swung open again. Hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the tension he was wading into, Isaac moseyed up past the first row of seats and leaned against the
arena bars. “Miranda, Wyatt . . . seeing how you're both here, I'm going to guess you don't know.” He looked from one to the other, drawing out the suspense until Wyatt was ready to wring his neck. “You know that painting? It's gone.”

Wyatt's mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”

“Alice and I went to town, and when we came back it was gone. I thought maybe you'd put it behind the piano or upstairs, but I didn't find it. Even Elmer and the sheriff helped me look.”

And here she was pretending to know nothing about it.

“Came to say good-bye, did you?” Wyatt hated the bitterness in his voice, but he couldn't help himself. Not since his brothers had jeered at the letter from the LeBlancs had he felt so disrespected. Inconsequential. “You're just here covering for McSwain—making sure I didn't go home and catch him in the act.”

“If he has it, it's your fault,” she sputtered. “You left it unguarded.”

His fault? Wyatt had trouble seeing straight. Just like that his gift, his hopes, were gone. Aunt Corinne would never trust him now, and Miranda was blaming him?

“Now, Miranda,” Isaac stepped forward and took her hand. “According to Sheriff Taney, you're leaving today. You don't want to leave like this.”

Her face was tight. Her brows knit together, nearly meeting. As the gentleman, Wyatt knew he should be the one to offer peace, but she hadn't apologized. Instead, she'd blamed him. How could he forgive her when she wasn't repentant? When she'd used their relationship to conspire against him?

Slowly, she allowed her indignation to subside. She looked bored now that her act was over. No use in pretending to be hurt any longer. She'd got what she'd come for. No wonder she was in a hurry to get back home.

“Have a good trip,” he finally managed.

Her thick black lashes fluttered as she lowered her eyes to the gavel. “Thank you for the souvenir. It wasn't what I wanted from you, but maybe someday I'll understand.”

He was spent. Too bruised to decipher her meaning. She'd played him and won.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Isaac asked. “Maybe Alice can make you a dinner basket for the train.”

They walked into the bright light streaming in through the open barn door. Wyatt pounded his fist against the auction table. For once Isaac was right. He didn't want to part under such sorry circumstances.

“Wait!” He marched to catch them at the door. Miranda turned to him, the sunlight lifting a deep red shade from her dark hair. She stood her ground as he approached. “I'm still coming to Boston. I intend to come up there and get this painting back, so be watching for me.”

“You're still not willing to let this go?” To look at her exhausted face you'd think she was the one who'd spent the night in the slammer—which is exactly where she belonged. “You don't know the power of the people you're up against.”

“They don't know about me,” he said.

“C'mon, Miranda,” Isaac said. “You'd best hurry if you're going to catch the train.”

With her proud back just as straight as ever, she stepped outside and let the massive door crash closed behind her. The noise echoed through the empty barn, the sound quaking against his chest, but he'd made up his mind.

The barn was Isaac's. True, it still belonged to the Wimplegates, but Isaac could manage it. As far as Wyatt's future, well, he'd start out in Boston just as he'd planned, although
he couldn't be too excited about what awaited him there. He'd done gone and lost the painting, just as Aunt Corinne had warned him against. Thanks to Miranda and McSwain, he'd failed. But Aunt Corinne knew something, and learning from her was the best he could hope for.

There wasn't much trash left to gather. He changed the sawdust covering inside the pen and raked it out smooth while wondering over Miranda's departure. Did she pause in his room to look it over one last time? Did she linger in the kitchen remembering their time together? Did she duck beneath the sycamore tree?

By now she was standing on the platform at the depot, where he first saw her. Somehow his painting was crated up and waiting to ship, although whether the finagling was done by her or through McSwain, he didn't know. Well, he'd ask her once he got to Boston. If Corinne LeBlanc wanted it back, he'd know where to look for it.

Now finished, Wyatt locked up the barn. He jangled the keys one last time. After this, it'd be Isaac's. Once he'd decided to change his life, he wouldn't look back. Morosely, he walked home, trying not to let the recent events taint all his fond memories of this place. Once in the city, he knew he'd miss it.

Near Widow Sanders' house, Wyatt heard a grunt. He turned in at her gate and followed his ears to her garden. There he saw the infamous Lady Godiva, still wearing the apron, laying on her side in the rocky soil. The widow knelt beside her.

“Are you okay?” Wyatt couldn't tell who had fallen first, but Widow Sanders didn't seem to be pinned.

“I finally toppled her! Now if I can just wrestle her to the burn pile.”

After some consideration, Wyatt grabbed the statue by the
bare shoulder and the base and hefted it as Widow Sanders directed him. Dropping it so he could finally take a breath, Wyatt brushed off his hands.

“I reckon your visitor is gone.”

“Him?” She waved her hand. “He took out after breakfast, didn't say where he was going. And then he ran back here lickety-split, snatched his bags, and lit out.”

Of course he'd left with the Wimplegates. Just as he'd suspected. Wyatt thanked her and continued down the hill, then back up the mountain to his house. If Isaac and Alice had escorted the Wimplegates to the train station, they wouldn't be back yet.