At Love's Bidding (4 page)

Wyatt's fist smashed into Isaac's cheek and dropped him with a thud in the dirt. Standing over Isaac, his chest heaved as he fought for a breath. Wiping his knuckles on his pant leg, he poked Isaac with his boot until he rolled over.

“Do you feel better now?” Isaac touched his cheekbone and checked his fingers for blood. “Does hurting me make you feel better?”

“Now that you mention it, I reckon it does.” With a purposeful swagger he grabbed his horse's reins and tied them to the back of the wagon, then swung himself into the wagon's seat. A low grunt startled the mules, and the wagon labored up the hill, carrying Miranda's bags along with it.

Miranda clutched her chest, certain her heart was about to escape from her rib cage. Pulling out of Grandfather's grasp, she ran on shaking legs to Isaac's side and knelt in the dust. “Are you all right? What can we do?”

With a groan, Isaac slid his jaw from side to side. “I'll be fine.”

“But he stole your wagon. Shouldn't we find a police officer?”

“The sheriff finds it safer not to get involved.” He smiled
drowsily. “Don't fret over me. I'm more worried about your trunks.”

Miranda balled her hands into fists. That Mr. Wyatt deserved a stern rebuke. That's what he needed. And poor Isaac. If only she could make him forget his injury with a tray of pastries.

“We must notify the authorities,” Grandfather said.

“You'll get your bags back, and when you do, just know I kept my word,” Isaac said.

Miranda's heart swelled. Who was this generous soul who went to such lengths to protect them?

Isaac rocked to his knees, then found his feet. The wistfulness reflected in his eyes found its mark in her compassionate nature. Here was a man she could look up to. Actually, she
was
looking up to him because she was still kneeling. Isaac held out his hand and this time she took it purposefully as she stood.

“I'm sorry to expose you to such downright meanness,” he said, “but seeing how you have no bags to carry, I think you might be better traveling to town on your own. My company seems to have brought you trouble.” But before she could protest, he'd turned to Grandfather. “And, sir, I don't reckon I ever did catch your name.”

“Elmer Wimplegate, and this is my granddaughter, Miss Wimplegate. We intend to be in town for a few days. If I can be of service, please let me know.”

“I will, sir. Again, I'm sorry I couldn't help you get to town, but now that I'm afoot, it's going to take me twice as long to reach my destination. If you'll excuse me.”

He found his hat and beat it against his leg, stirring up a cloud of dust in the still afternoon. With another near-bow he said, “Mr. Wimplegate. Miss Wimplegate,” his shoulders every inch as proud as when he'd found Miranda and Grandfather
pacing the platform. He started out with a limp, but before he'd crossed the railroad tracks, it'd disappeared.

“What a charming young man,” Grandfather said.

But he wasn't watching Mr. Ballentine, he was watching Miranda watch Mr. Ballentine.

She straightened the ribbon beneath her chin. “I hope they catch that brute before we leave.” And before he had time to go through her trunk. The thought of him emptying out her more delicate wardrobe items . . . She used her bag to fan herself.

“With this sort of welcome, I hardly know what to expect from our auction house,” Grandfather said.

“If the portrait is there, we won't worry about anything else.” But maybe she could spare a smidgen of concern for the friendly man who'd lost his wagon in their service. Once they'd secured their fortune, she'd see what she could do to restore his.

She was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen.

Wyatt guided the mules up the dirt road toward town. When he'd first caught sight of his wagon, he hadn't stopped to see who was watching. His feud was with Isaac, but what in tarnation had a lady like her been doing at the depot? The old gentleman he'd noticed right off and kept an eye on him, not wanting to involve him in their scuffle, but the lady . . .

Her dress was decked in more ribbons and lace than Walters' Dry Goods sold in a decade. Even though they'd all been dyed the drab color of pinto beans, they couldn't disguise her womanly curves or her striking beauty. Her dark eyes were probably gorgeous when they weren't angry. And over her round little chin the daintiest lips pouted, or maybe that was only because she was furious. Wyatt's shoulders slumped. How long had Isaac been there? Long enough to make an impression, no doubt. Just the thought of her falling for Isaac's charms made him want to punch his brother again.

The mules trotted toward the feed mill. They were already running late, but try as he might he couldn't ignore Widow
Sanders kneeling in her flower bed. Mostly because she popped up and bounded through her irises when she heard him coming.

“Are you on your way to the sale?” With her dirty gardening gloves, Widow Sanders pushed back her slat bonnet. Wisps of hair—a few of them gray—waved around her unlined face.

“Yes, ma'am, but we aren't selling anything today.”

“Well, fiddlesticks.” Her smile was quick and confident. “Then lucky you will get my rhubarb pie without having to bid on it.”

Lucky him. “I've barely finished the last one. Why don't you keep it this time?”

“No, no.” She smacked her gloves together, sending clumps of fertile soil flying. “You might as well have it. I'll bring it by this afternoon.”

“I'll be watching for it.” And so would his pigs. They gobbled up her pies in nothing flat. At least they'd have a good supper. Between the trouble at the auction house, beating the snot out of his brother, and the pretty miss at the train station, this day couldn't get any worse. His only consolation was that no matter how poorly he'd behaved, he'd never have to see the fine lady again.

“Have you given my idea any more thought?” Widow Sanders asked.

Idea? All Wyatt could think of was how tiny the city lady's waist looked compared to that big mess of a skirt. “What idea would that be?”

“The garden club, silly. I need just one more person before I can make the garden club official.”

“How many do you have signed up already?”

Widow Sanders scratched beneath her bonnet strap. “Just me. You'd make two, but that would be perfect. We could take turns winning the Garden of the Month award.”

“Why not make it Garden of the Year and we won't have to award it as often?”

“I thought of that, but to win for a whole year sounds downright pretentious. I'd rather win it twelve times a year . . . six, I mean, because you'd win it half the time.”

Wyatt sighed. “I've got to get to the barn. Those animals will be chewing on each other if I don't hurry.”

“Think it over. No sense in making a final decision right now.”

Wyatt hawed, the mules pulled in their traces, and they were off. Widow Sanders lived at the edge of town, the last house before the feed mill and sale barn. Sensing they were almost to their destination, his horse whinnied behind him. He turned to check on the tethered animal when his eye caught a most loathsome sight. With a groan, Wyatt swung himself around, afraid to look behind him again. He would see the lady, most definitely, because he'd stolen her luggage.

The two traveling bags and the trunk could only belong to her and the old man. That's what he got for bursting in with both barrels blazing. When would he learn to slow down and think things through? Even if his brother had deserved his comeuppance, there might have been a more handy time to deliver it.

He pulled the wagon up to the feed mill where his order was already waiting on him. Late. He hated being late. He tossed the feed sacks into the wagon bed as easily as if they were parlor pillows and then headed out for the sale barn.

The smell of large animals in tight quarters reached him before he rode into the clearing. One farmer's barn smelled strong enough. Multiply that odor by fifty, and it was enough to make your eyes water. Especially when they weren't selling anything. Why had Ol' Pritchard allowed the livestock to accumulate? Wyatt didn't like it. Didn't make sense to take stock
in and hold them. The animals had to be fed, and that dug into profit. Besides, Pritchard knew that Wyatt had been saving up to buy the barn from him, so why was he shutting down operations? Something stunk about the deal, and not just the crowded livestock.

The pens wrapping around the west side of the red building teemed with bottled-up energy. Surrounded by unfamiliar smells and challenged by the males from rival herds, no one was happy. And the feed? Wyatt spent half of each day making sure every animal had feed and water available. Another reason Isaac deserved the whooping. It was one thing for him to idle around town, but when he stole Wyatt's wagon to go sparking, he jeopardized Wyatt's job.

Pulling the wagon up against the nearest fence, Wyatt set the brake and hopped in the back. He flipped open his jackknife and stabbed the bag, ripping a gash in the top. Heaving the bag to his shoulder, he leaned across the high fence and shook out the kernels on the teeming swine below. The hogs fought over the spilling corn as it bounced off their backs and was trampled beneath them. Once that pen was fed, he stepped over the bench seat, pulled the wagon up ten feet, and repeated the chore for the next pen.

“Wyatt!” Pritchard himself stepped out of the wide front doors of the sale barn. “Still feeding? You're running late today.”

“Yeah. Well, my wagon took off without me. Had to hunt it down.”

Pritchard tucked a dirty strand of his long hair behind his ear. “Isaac again?”

Wyatt nodded. He tossed the empty feed sack into the back of the wagon. “It's not good to have these animals crowded like this. Are we having a sale tomorrow or not?” Pritchard might
be his boss, but Wyatt felt no obligation to hide his frustration. “You haven't sold a single hoof in the last two weeks. Farmers want their money. Butchers need the meat. What's going on?”

Pritchard shuffled his feet. Whatever he was getting ready to say, he fully regretted having to say it. “I didn't mean to wait this long to tell you, but I sold out . . .”

He kept talking, but the rest of his words ricocheted off Wyatt's ears like bird shot against a horse trough. He'd sold out? Wyatt dropped out of the wagon. He'd worked here since he was big enough to carry a bucket of feed and help his pa. Owning it had always been their dream. When Pa died Wyatt hadn't changed a thing, even used the old wooden gavel on the auction block just like Pa, but now some stranger would set up shop here? Pritchard hadn't even given him a chance.

“ . . . demanded that I stop sales until they came to take over.”

Wyatt paced the length of the pen, then spun and returned. “It's gone? Just like that? You know I wanted to buy it.” Because that was what he was supposed to do. Pa had already planned it out.

“Calm down, Wyatt. You'll get your chance. This fellow don't know the first thing about running the place, but he threw a wad of cash at me. Wait two months, three at the longest, and then get it for a pittance. He'll be glad to be rid of it by then.”

To be honest, Wyatt didn't have the money. Not yet, and he wasn't keen on getting a bank loan. He tugged on his beard. “How much longer do we hold the livestock? Those cattle will bust the pens—”

“He's coming in today from Boston. Mr. Elmer Wimplegate was supposed to arrive on the noon train.”

“I was there before I went to the mill, and I didn't see—” Wyatt's teeth snapped together so hard that bright stars shot
across his vision. His belly clabbered. A new boss, from Boston of all places? “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Well, you're too late to give him a ride now. Someone will point him in the right direction. You'd better get inside and get your books in order. Your new boss won't be in a good mood after walking all the way from the station.”

And he'd be that much more incensed when he learned that the man who filched his luggage was the manager of his sale barn. So much for first impressions.