At Love's Bidding (6 page)

He shrugged. “You could use the livestock door in the arena. I don't know that you want to walk through the pens, but—”

She'd walk through anything rather than spend another moment in his company. With all the dignity she could muster, she heaved open the wide, wooden door.

Wyatt latched the gate closed behind him and let her get a head start. He wouldn't allow these people to just walk in and avail themselves of his sale barn. That dandy wouldn't know nothing about the animals, for starters. He wouldn't know a heifer from a cow, a steer from a bull, a piggy sow from a water-belly. He wouldn't recognize spavins or mastitis. And he wouldn't know the people. He wouldn't know that the Parrows liked to buy all the long-haired goats, and that Leland Moore's checks were no good. He wouldn't know that Mr. Finley always lied about his horses' ages and that Mrs. Rankin needed help driving her livestock home. He wouldn't know that the 1870 calendar hanging in the office covered a bullet hole from when Fowler and Walters had a falling out, and any mention of the date when the two of them were in the office would spark the feud back to life quicker than a flea could jump off a hot skillet.

The rough wooden fence rasped against his hand. Running this place didn't come easy for him, but he wouldn't let it go. Not without a tussle. Pritchard was right. If he could clamp ahold for a few months, they'd see that they'd gotten themselves
in over their heads. He just needed to humor them until they gave up. And try not to steal any more of their belongings.

He pulled the lever to open the wooden gate and scanned the yards. The stiff breeze stirred up the smells of the overcrowded pens. Wyatt squinted as a gust spat a cloud of dirt into his eyes. Where had she gone? There, by the horses. Wyatt crammed his hat down until the band dug into his forehead, and set his feet moving in her direction. She clutched the old fellow's sleeve, eyes wide just like at the train station, but this time she was talking up a storm.

“And then I caught him at the desk. I didn't see him with any money, but . . .” She closed her mouth as he came near. Her gloves stretched over her knuckles like a second skin, but she didn't look away. Was that a touch of defiance in her stare?

He hoped so.

“Howdy, ma'am.” Wyatt removed his hat and actually did a bow, like he was fixing to start off a reel. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“That's him,” she whispered. How her eyes sparked.

Poor old Pritchard frowned. “Wyatt? Wyatt wouldn't rob me.”

Now the old gent spouted off. “He . . . he stole our belongings at the train station. He accosted our escort in broad daylight and rode off with the train . . . with the wagon, as shameless as Jezebel.”

Jezebel? Wyatt's chest expanded—a very manly chest below his thick beard, thank you. “I didn't steal your bags. You left them in the back of my wagon.”

“Your wagon?” The old gentleman didn't seem to have his eyes under control. They roved wild, and while his anger came across loud and clear, his words slurred. “I don't know whether to pity your lack of virtue or your lack of intelligence, young
man. Cross me again and when I'm done, no captain will allow you on board even if you were John Paul Jones himself.”

What was the old fool talking about? Wyatt could feel his hackles rising, but then he took another look at the girl. Her forehead wrinkled, and the sorrow in her deep brown eyes washed the starch clean out of him. She loved this old goat, no matter how batty he was. Wyatt had best stop and think before tearing into him again. Sometimes beneath the dirt and grime, there was a man worthy of respect, so possibly beneath that gold watch fob and silk waistcoat there could be someone tolerable, too. He shouldn't vilify him just yet, but diplomacy and cash money—Wyatt had always run short on both.

“We're getting off to a sorry start, sir.” He pulled his mouth back in what he hoped would pass as a smile. “My name is Wyatt Ballentine. The man you met at the train station was my brother, Isaac. We had ourselves a little family dispute. That's all.”

“Boys will be boys,” Pritchard interjected, dusting off his hands. “I've got to be going, but you have Wyatt. You'uns should get along just fine. Just fine.” Then with a slap to Wyatt's back, he lit out toward home.

The chain on the gate beside Wyatt rattled as a calf rubbed against it. The three of them stood as still as cornstalks. Mr. Wimplegate stared at something in the distance, and the young lady remained firmly at his arm, keeping as far away from Wyatt as possible.

Wyatt slipped his hand through the slats of the fence and scratched the bristly back of the calf. “How about—”

“Where can—”

Wyatt stopped. So did she. She turned pale beneath the brim of her hat as if the sound of her own voice scared her. “Go on,” he offered.

She pressed her lips closely together, and her head did a tight little shake that wobbled her hat ribbons. “You, please.”

“I was going to suggest that we go inside. We have a lot of work to do, and your . . . ah . . .”

“Grandfather.”

“Your grandfather doesn't need to get blistered by this heat. Not after the walk from the depot. Once we get in the office—”

But she wasn't listening to him. Her attention was focused on her grandpa.

Sweat trickled down Mr. Wimplegate's cheek, leaving a shiny line like a slug trail. “Animals,” he muttered. “They sell animals, Miranda.”

Miranda. Wyatt tucked her name away to be appreciated later. Right now his first concern was to get them out of the sun before they wilted. He knew better than to take Miranda's arm. She'd probably claw him up good if he came anywhere near her. On the other hand, her grandfather had already lost a hinge on his gate and was swinging cattywampus.

“Excuse me.” Her lips barely moved, as if afeared he might take offense. “Certainly we need your help, but first I'd like assurance that we aren't in danger of being accosted.”

Now she had his attention. “Not by me, sister.”

Her eyelashes fluttered as she dared a glance up at him, then settled low again. “My grandfather and I have not procured lodgings. Considering all we've been through, I think it best to get him someplace where he can recuperate and gather his wits. Could you convey us to the nearest inn . . . if the wagon hasn't been returned to its rightful owner, that is.”

Maybe he'd best look for another job immediately.

“
My
wagon and your bags are at the hitching post. If you'd be so kind as to follow me.”

This had all the makings for a disaster, but he couldn't walk away. He and his father had given too much building this. Back when times were contentious, it'd stood as neutral ground where his neighbors could set aside their feuds to conduct business. It meant a lot to the area. He couldn't let it fall apart, even if he had to help these meddlers.

And hopefully he'd help them right back on the train to wherever it was that they belonged.

A man's good judgment was a thing easily overcome by the most frivolous aptitude—sit a horse well, possess hunting land in the country, or know where the best lobster is served. Any of those talents could cause a male to endure—nay, cherish—a coldhearted blackguard. Miranda gripped the iron side rail of the wagon's bench and wondered again what skill the thieving brawler possessed that convinced Mr. Pritchard to let him handle his money box and financial records. She tugged on the strings of her reticule, checking that it couldn't be spirited away without her knowledge. If this man committed some mischief against her and Grandfather, what recourse did they have?

Isaac-Lad. He was her only hope. The only person who might care enough to challenge his brother.

The curved rail of the bench crushed her skirt, but she'd refused to sit in the middle, smashed against Mr. Ballentine. Grandfather was unwell, and they couldn't have him pitching headfirst out of the wagon at the next steep curve. No, he must be protected at all costs. Grandfather's vague answers and repeated questions worried her. Had the shock been too much for him? Would he be better tomorrow? If not, they'd get right back on the train and head home—portrait or none. Right back to Cornelius.

She shuddered. Any dreams she'd had of finding the painting in a velvet-draped showroom had vanished—along with her hopes for a nice hotel. They'd have to settle for a boardinghouse, or anywhere away from the awful smells of the sale barn.

Although the avid gardener no longer knelt beneath the peony bushes, Miranda recognized the gardening shack. Were they stopping for directions?

“Get down. We're here,” Mr. Ballentine said.

This wasn't a tool shed? Miranda tasted the acid that crawled up her throat. The narrow cabin looked like it had been squeezed through a railroad car. Barely room for the front door to swing open without hitting one of the two windows on the side. “This is a boardinghouse?”

“Sometimes.” Mr. Ballentine held Grandfather's arm as he helped him down from the wagon. “We don't get visitors often, but when we do, Widow Sanders puts them up.”

Rather than exit on Mr. Ballentine's side, Miranda decided to take her chances on her own. There were no steps, only the wide wagon wheels whose slanting spokes took the place of ladder rungs. She turned, gripped the side of the bench, and slowly lowered one foot. Hooking her heel on the only horizontal spoke, she knew the next step down had to hit soil. With pointed toe she fished, jabbed, waved. Where was the ground? She couldn't lean much farther backward and maintain her balance. The ground should be there. Really, it was ridiculous. The men had already walked around the wagon, and she was still fighting gravity. The weight of her skirts and bustle finally tilted the scales against her. With one foot still on the spoke, she released her hands expecting to find terra firma immediately. Instead, she found air.

And Mr. Ballentine.

She crashed backward into his chest. Her arms flung out.
He caught her beneath her arms, his hands coming shockingly close to her . . .

“Bust your ankle and you'll be sorry,” he said.

She swirled around, but finding herself facing him was even worse. His nearness discombobulated her. Thankfully she didn't have to respond before he stepped to the side.

“We're on a mountain,” he said. “You have to account for the slant, or you'll go rolling down the hill, curls a'tangling and petticoats flashing.”

“My petticoats are none of your business,” she managed.

He grinned. “Then I'll let you handle the trunk in the back of the wagon while I try to convince Widow Sanders to keep you.”

“She doesn't have room for us,” Grandfather said. “She barely has room for a front door.”

“Wyatt!” A man's voice rang out. Miranda spun to see Isaac Ballentine coming up the hill, swinging his arms easily and smiling through a fat eye. “Keep your hands off that lady. If you want to rough someone up, have another go at me, but you leave her be.”

Miranda could've cried in relief.

Wyatt's face hardened to marble. “Didn't expect you back so soon.”

“There was no need for you to confiscate the wagon, after all.” Isaac swung his arm up to rest on the side of the wagon bed.

“No need at all, besides two hundred head of hungry animals.”