At Love's Bidding (33 page)

He slid the door fastener over, swung the door open, and came face-to-face with Miranda. His slice of bread tumbled out of his fingers. He tried to catch it, but only succeeded in getting butter all over his hand before it landed face down in the dirt. He wiped his hand on his pants and lifted his eyes to see if he'd made a mistake. But no, she was still there, just as fetching as ever. His eyes traveled up her poofy emerald skirt, hungry for the rich color that reminded him of his mountains in the spring. With her closed parasol she tapped the door.

“May I come in?” Her face sported the dearest blush, but even if she was made uncomfortable by the request, he was proud that she'd dared.

He looked over his shoulder, already knowing how pitiful the room was. He should've gone to her. Anything would've been better than her seeing him like this. But he wouldn't send her away.

He pulled the door open wide, then bent to smooth out the blanket covering his bed. “Sorry. I don't have a decent place to visit. If you want I can ask if Fillmore will cover for me and we could take a walk to the river.”

But she didn't seem to notice the room. She sat on the cot and took to studying her folded hands. “This is fine. I don't mind.”

He nodded. Then, having nowhere else to rest his sorry hide, he sat on the cot, but as far away from her as possible.

Her scented rose powder tickled his nose. He hadn't realized how he'd missed it. How her calm attitude soothed him. Then again, she didn't act very calm. Her hands trembled, her chest rose in quick, short breaths. He wanted to encourage her, to assure her that he wasn't down, that he could make this work, but he didn't want to rush her. He'd rather wait until he had proven himself.

“I'm so sorry, Wyatt.” She wrapped her reticule with both hands. “I know how much coming here meant to you.” Her lashes dusted her cheeks.

“I'm still here, aren't I? Maybe it's not what I was hoping, but I'm no stranger to hard work. Don't worry about me.”

“But—” she bit her lip. Her gloved hands tensed. “When I didn't hear from you, I thought you'd gone back to Missouri.”

“I told you Isaac is running the sale barn now. There's nothing for me in Missouri.”

She picked at the ties to her reticule. “If you'd been on the train, I'd understand why I went so long without a letter, but you were here, not five miles away. It wouldn't have been difficult to post a note.”

Wyatt raised his eyebrow. If he didn't know better, it sounded like she'd hunted him down, traveled into the slums, and interrupted him at dinner to scold him for not writing. Her behavior was downright shocking. And Wyatt couldn't be happier.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Surely you didn't come all this way just to school me about my manners.”

Her hat bobbed. “I do have a purpose.” With her finger, she outlined a strangely shaped bulk in her reticule. “As you know from your visit to our auction house, Grandfather hasn't improved. He won't be able to help Father any longer.” As she spoke, her words came faster. “Father needs assistance running the sale. I know you aren't very educated about art, furniture, and jewels, but you do know how to call an auction.”

Only after Wyatt had reached the pinnacle of Boston society had he understood Miranda's fears for him. He'd leapt and crashed as spectacularly as any mountain climber, just as she'd warned. And yet . . .

“We'd provide you with the wardrobe and housing in the be
ginning, but Father is convinced you'll soon be earning enough to live quite comfortably.”

“He said that?” Her skirt had spread across the blanket, and Wyatt couldn't help but run his finger lightly over the satin edge that almost reached his leg.

“I told him about your sale barn—how you knew your customers, how you cared that they got the best price for their items, and that everyone was treated fairly. I told him how you were well-respected, treated Grandfather with patience, and took care of me. He believes that those are the most important qualities for a partner—”

“Wait.” Wyatt leaned forward. “Your pa is offering to make me his business partner?”

Miranda stood. She turned so only her profile was visible. “Not specifically a business partner, just a partner in general. You know, someone you can trust for a . . . permanent relationship.”

Wyatt stood. Ever so slowly he took her hand, pulling it away from the handbag she'd been twisting since she'd arrived.

“About this partnership . . .” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “Does this primarily involve your father, or might you be the main party?”

Slowly she pulled out of his grasp. Fumbling with her reticule, she loosened the tie, fished in its depths, and presented him with his gavel, the one he'd given her the day they'd parted.

“I know you thought you'd given up on auctioneering, and if you don't want to go back to it, we'll try to carry on without you, but I thought you might want this. I even cleaned it up a bit, oiled the wood, and polished up that gold band.”

Instead of taking it from her, he wrapped his fingers around hers, growing more and more confident that her visit meant exactly what he hoped it did.

“Miranda, do you believe that I can make it on my own?”

Finally, finally, her brown eyes met his, and how they shined. “Absolutely. Even if you keep working here at the livery stable, I have no doubt you'll be managing the place before Christmas.” Then the warmth faded into doubt. “But does that mean you won't accept our offer?”

“And give up the chance to see you every day? Are you crazy?” Then he sobered. “But you are crazy. Before we go any further, Miranda, I have to remind you that I have less than when you rejected me the first time. If there's no hope for us, tell me now. I can't accept a position that would mean watching you and Cousin Cornelius . . .”

“I would say there's hope.” She touched her collar, and her next words were more than a little breathless. “About as much hope as Widow Sanders has rhubarb.”

Wyatt's heart filled. He felt like falling to his knees and kissing her hand, but there really wasn't room. Instead, he grinned like a lovesick fool until they both giggled. Miranda released the gavel into his care. Wyatt couldn't help but notice that it looked completely different all scrubbed up. The wood was richer, the metal band shone with a swirly design etched into it that he'd never seen before.

Miranda had turned and was studying Grandpère LeBlanc.

“It's good for him to be in these humble surroundings,” she said. “Maybe he'll appreciate your new rooms after this.”

The gavel had represented so much to Wyatt. His future, his father's expectations, his one bit of legacy that'd been handed down to him, but it was something more. Something that danced just past the lantern light and couldn't be grasped. Much like the painting, it was all he had of his family, and it seemed fitting now that they should be in the room together.

“Such a snooty Frenchman,” she said. “He needs to sleep in a livery stable, him with his powdered wig, satin breeches, and signet ring.”

Wyatt's heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to inspect the painting.

There it was. A gold band on Grandpère's finger. The same gold band that was warming in his grasp that moment.

He stumbled backwards. On his deathbed, Pa had placed this gavel in his hand and told him never to lose it. It was his legacy.

Miranda took his arm in both hands. “Careful there,” she said. “If you knock yourself out, I won't be able to get the door open for help.”

It was here—the missing proof that Aunt Corinne had been searching for all along. Unbelievable. All Wyatt could do was take Miranda by the shoulder and hold her firmly before him.

“Are you sure about this? Even knowing how everyone has ridiculed me? How people have called me a fraud? Even knowing that everything I own wouldn't fill a slop bucket?”

She grinned. “I've been sure for longer than you know.”

He gestured to the room around him. “My life might not always be this fine. What if things get worse?”

She surveyed the tiny space with a twinkle in her eyes. “As long as you don't change, I won't complain.”

“Oh, I've changed,” he said. “I always had to prove myself. I had to prove I was above my shameful birth, but now I know the truth. Instead of dreaming about my birth family, I met them and found that they have their own struggles. And while I'd still be proud to join them, I've changed. I'm free now. Free to make new commitments.”

Of course he'd changed, but what was important hadn't. He'd always been responsible and fair, determined and trustworthy, but he no longer had the fear of undisclosed shame hanging over him. Wyatt had been through the worst—she dearly hoped he didn't read the papers—and he'd come out the stronger for it. And so had she.

“I shouldn't stay,” she said. “Father is waiting on me outside. What should I tell him? You never gave me an answer.”

Wyatt turned the gavel over in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. “I'm afraid I can't guarantee that I'll auctioneer for you. There's a situation that isn't quite settled yet that could tie me up for some time.” Wyatt stuffed the gavel through his belt. She couldn't help but notice that his trim waist had perhaps gotten a little leaner. With a touch to her chin, he raised her face to his. With eyes that kind, that sweet, how had she ever thought him fearsome? “I don't know about the job offer,” he said, “but I'm certain on that other issue. As soon as I'm finished with work today, I'm coming to find you, and I'll keep pestering you every evening until I can snatch you away from there and make you my own.”

“Even if Grandfather makes a nuisance of himself?”

He smiled. “Even Lady Godiva couldn't change my mind.”

“How about a headless chicken?”

“Not even a rhubarb pie, or a hundred.”

“How about—”

“Enough.” His jaw hardened with a warning. “I got the final bid on this property, and I intend to claim it. If I have your permission, nothing else will get in my way.”

Stepping into his embrace, she smiled as he drew her close, and didn't even mind that he wasn't wearing a cravat and waistcoat. What did the future hold for Wyatt and her? For Grandfather, Isaac and Alice, Betsy, and for even the LeBlancs? Mi
randa didn't know, but God did, and she'd leave all the details in His hands.

As Wyatt bent to claim their first Boston kiss, Miranda realized this was one bid she didn't mind losing. And if she wasn't mistaken, from somewhere above them she heard a voice with a French accent exclaim . . .

“Going . . . going . . . gone!”

The woodsmoke burned her nostrils the moment Betsy stepped foot on Widow Sanders' property. As agile as a fawn, she bounded through the yard, dodging the rosebushes that were wont to drop branches. Even with feet as tough as hers, a thorny twig hidden beneath a pile of autumn leaves wasn't no benefit.

Miss Abigail stood by the smoldering pile with her handkerchief pressed to her nose. Widow Sanders herself was too busy playing tug-o-war with her rake to mark Betsy's arrival through the thick smoke.

Betsy squinted into the heap. “What you burning, Widow Sanders?” She took the newspaper from under her arm and fanned her face. “That ain't just leaves.”

“It's that lewd statue straight from the pit of Hades that's been dishonoring my perfect lawn. Must be spawned by the devil, cause it won't burn for nothing.”

The wind shifted and sure enough, Betsy could clearly see the blackened form of Lady Godiva in the midst of the conflagration. The flames swirled around her but didn't seem to do anything but tan her hide.

“I think she likes it,” Betsy said. “Looks like she's dancing.”

Did Abigail wink at Betsy? It was hard to tell with her eyes watering and her mouth covered. Widow Sanders' rake broke free from the log it'd been caught in and she stumbled back a step. She righted herself, then stood with one hand on her hip. “I'll give it some time, but if it doesn't burn through soon, I'm for burying it.”

What a pity. Someone spent so much time working on that statute that it seemed a waste to destroy it. Well, if Widow Sanders did bury it, Betsy would find where, dig it up, and put it somewhere so that everyone could appreciate it. Like on the new church grounds. Wouldn't that be a fine surprise for a Sunday morning?

From the road Josiah called to them as he and Isaac came down from the sale barn.

“Are you done already?” Widow Sanders asked as they made their way around to the front porch and out of the sun.

Isaac wiped his eyes. He sure acted different now that he had a wife, a baby on the way, a job, and whatnot. “Yes, ma'am. Headed home now.”

“Well, don't be counting on my pies come sale day,” she said. “Wyatt sure knew how to sell them. Now that he's gone, they haven't brought squat.” She tucked a graying strand behind her ear.

Isaac rubbed his chest. “That's my fault. It took me a while to learn how to take bids, especially on pies. You bring your pie, and I guarantee it'll sell.”

Oh no! Did he have any idea how Wyatt had gotten sucked into the same trap? “Isaac . . .” Betsy began, but Miss Abigail stepped on her foot. And she had boots on.

Her brother didn't miss the dirty look she shot their older, much more mature friend, but Miss Abigail kept that maddeningly
calm smile. “It looks like Betsy brought us a paper. What's the news, Betsy-girl?”

The news was that Miss Abigail was up to some mischief, but Betsy didn't know what. She hated not being in on the joke. She'd have to pester Josiah until he explained it to her. “I have here a newspaper all the way from Boston.” Betsy unfolded the paper, which was already opened to the fourth page and took a seat on the porch. “You won't believe who got married.”

Josiah rolled his eyes. “Since there's only one person we know in Boston—”

“Three, counting Mr. Wimplegate and Miranda,” Isaac corrected.

Widow Sanders clapped her hands together. “Wyatt and Miranda got married? Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit.”

Still enthralled over the beautiful descriptions in the big-city paper, Betsy cleared her throat and began reading over their exclamations.

“The bride was given in marriage by her father, Mr. Charles Wimplegate. She wore a gown of ivory satin draped with Brussels lace and trimmed with orange blossoms. Her train was gathered twice to form two bouffant puffs, also topped with orange blossoms. The gown, while breathtaking, was modest, considering her new position in society, and well-reflected the spirit of her groom, who, although possessing ample funds at his disposal, opted for a humble venue, much to the disappointment of those who wished for a spectacle.”

“Bah.” Widow Sanders smoothed her apron. “My wedding gown was every bit as nice. I don't care what that Yankee paper says.”

“Keep reading,” Abigail urged.

So Betsy did, until the article concluded with,

“ . . . despite floundering upon his arrival, Mr. Wyatt LeBlanc has put to shame the naysayers who shunned him after the initial unfavorable ruling in the courts. Now who could object to the generous man who has come to take his place among us? It is wished that Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt LeBlanc will enjoy the greatest happiness and a brilliant future in our fair city.”

“I'm not sure what all that's about.” Josiah balanced on one foot, sixteen years old and still as fidgety as a grasshopper.

“It means that poor Wyatt has faced his share of disappointments and should've stayed here, after all.” Isaac stretched his belly forward like a cat lying in the sunshine. “I'm surprised that fancy gal stuck with him.”

“That's not what it says.” Betsy lowered her newspaper.

“Sure it does,” Isaac said. “Didn't it say how everyone was disappointed? That means he doesn't have the funds to afford a proper church wedding.”

“It means that he has the funds, but he chose—” For the second time that day Miss Abigail stepped on Betsy's bare foot. “Oww . . .”

Widow Sanders picked at her fingernail. “If we would've had a church nearby, I would've had the grandest wedding around. Slicker than any ol' Boston wedding, guaranteed.”

“I wonder who'll be the first to get married in the new church building,” Miss Abigail said.

Isaac smirked. “My money is on Josiah. Ever since I caught him smooching Katie Ellen—”

“Josiah!” Betsy gasped. Since when had her brother started
caring about girls? “You kissed a girl? And Katie Ellen, of all people! Pa is gonna wear you out.”

Josiah's brows lowered. “He already did.” He shifted like he could still feel the willow switch stinging his backside. “I ain't coming near her again. Not for a long spell. But I declare, if you say a word about it, Betsy, I'll whoop you so bad—”

“Now, children.” Miss Abigail stepped between them. Even though the lady had to look up at Josiah, Betsy knew there'd be no back-talking. Between Pa and Mr. Jeremiah, Miss Abigail had plenty of defenders.

“I'd best get home.” Josiah glared at Betsy one last time before turning to Miss Abigail with a more respectful expression. “Do you want me to walk with you?”

“That would be splendid. Jeremiah and Bobby are both at Walters' Dry Goods. Tell Jeremiah that I recommended he buy you both a stick of candy to keep you out of trouble until I get there.”

“It's time I be going, too,” Isaac said. They made their farewells and sauntered away, Josiah scuffing his worn boots against the gravel road.

“Pork drippings.” Widow Sanders rushed up the porch steps. Betsy had to scoot to keep from being trampled.

“What are you talking about?” Miss Abigail asked.

“Pork drippings.” Widow Sanders pulled her front door open. “I'm going to throw my pork drippings on that woman. Maybe then she'll ignite.”

Betsy guffawed at the shocked look on Miss Abigail's face. “You thought she was talking about someone else, didn't you?”

Miss Abigail pressed her hand to her forehead. “I couldn't imagine who she was going to douse with bacon grease.” She took a seat next to Betsy and picked up the clipping that had fallen out of the folded papers.

“That's a page from last week about a king who went to jail and about some museum that's got a display of apple dolls. You don't reckon those would be Miss Laurel's dolls, do you?”

Miss Abigail scanned the article quickly, her eyes flickering even faster than Betsy could read—but Betsy was getting better every day. “Looks like the man's name is King, and those dolls may very well be Laurel's. Wouldn't she be pleased?”

“I thought you might could take this to her on your way home.” Betsy tossed a blond braid over her shoulder.

“Be glad to. You know, Betsy, your nephews aren't going to need you much longer. Are you planning to come back to the farm? I know your parents miss you.”

That question had been gnawing at her for a while. Betsy ran her finger down a narrow column of text. “I don't rightly know. Uncle Fred has been helping me write better. Says I'm about ready to do some articles for him, as long as he can read them over and fix them up.” She gazed at the paper in her lap and tried to put words to the longing she felt. “Wouldn't it be something, though, to write up a story and it be shared all over the country?” She scooted forward and leaned closer, hoping Miss Abigail would share her enthusiasm. “Just imagine, someone went to Wyatt and Miranda's wedding. They watched it with their own eyes, and now because of the words they wrote, I can see it. Isn't that something?”

Miss Abigail tugged on her braid. “You would be an incredible journalist, Betsy. You are verbose, curious, and have a knack for being in the thick of things.”

“But there's nothing famous going on here. Nothing that people outside the mountains would care about.”

“I'm afraid you're wrong.” Abigail's eyes tightened. “There's trouble brewing, and if our lawmen don't get ahead of it, we're all going to pay the price.”

“I'd rather write about weddings,” Betsy said. “Isn't it something how Miranda and Wyatt are married now? When Miss Miranda first got here, it seemed that Wyatt would've been the last person she'd want to marry.” She smiled up at Abigail. “It's just like you and Mr. Jeremiah. You'uns couldn't stand the sight of each other, and look at you now. I've got to wonder who God wants me to marry . . . and if I'll hate his guts when I first meet him.”

Abigail chuckled. “You have a few years before you need to worry about that, Betsy Huckabee. Keep whooping up on those boys for as long as you can.” She stood and fanned the smoke that had returned with vigor. “Speaking of menfolk, I'd better go meet mine and head home. We don't want to be caught in the woods after dark.”

Standing, Betsy got a strong hug from Abigail, along with promises to carry Betsy's love home to her family. One last wave and Abigail strode purposely down the road.

Betsy gathered her paper and folded it carefully, not wanting to mess up the spectacular report that she would read over and over until the print smudged. Instead of heading to the road, though, she cut through the woods, preferring the winding shortcut to the wider path. The leafy green branches curtained every view with color as rich as Mrs. Rinehart's curtains. Betsy split them without thought, following the footpaths that were as familiar to her as the lines of her own signature.

She missed Wyatt and Miss Miranda, but she was tickled pink that they'd found their happily ever after. And while she wasn't sure she wanted to get married—she had enough of caring for snotty-nosed kids and doing laundry and cooking—she was downright curious to see what kind of man God would send her way, if that was in His plans.

With a sigh, she hopped a little spring and turned up the bank to the newspaper office. She'd try her hand again at a short news piece with the hopes that soon Uncle Fred would find it fitting to be printed in his paper.

And if she was lucky, maybe another paper from a big city would be delivered—one with stories of regal weddings, horrific crimes, and political intrigues. And maybe she'd find a story or two to feed her imagination until she was grown up and it was her turn to be the heroine.