At Love's Bidding (7 page)

“But these fine people haven't done you any harm. Why act so hostile to the lady?”

Wyatt's eye twitched as he glared at her. Miranda wanted to duck behind Grandfather, but she didn't need to bother. Wyatt had no interest in looking at her any longer.

“Mr. Wimplegate,” Wyatt said. “Are you planning to have a sale tomorrow?”

Grandfather wrung his damp handkerchief. “We haven't made a sale catalog yet, and I don't have the first clue how to describe our merchandise. Usually Miranda writes the descriptive copy—”

“Sale catalog?” Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest. “Are people in Boston so thick-skulled they have to read about what they are seeing before them?”

Miranda couldn't catch the gasp that escaped. This buffoon had no idea how a well-written description could raise the price of an item. “Obviously you don't know the first thing about running an auction,” she said.

“Excuse me?” His brow lowered.

Grandfather's voice boomed beneath the spreading oak branches. “Tomorrow we'll determine our course and whether or not your services will be required. Until then, I'd advise you not to touch a single carat.”

Isaac choked on a laugh. Maybe carat wasn't the appropriate word, but Wyatt seemed to understand. The house behind him wavered in the light, but whether the heat waves were from the sun reflecting off the shingles or from steam coming out of his ears, Miranda couldn't tell.

“If you need something,” Wyatt said, “my house is up the mountain. Just turn in on the path next to the old dash churn.”

“Wyatt keeps promising to haul it off,” Isaac muttered for Miranda's ears alone, “but he never will. Too sentimental.”

“Bring the wagon home,” Wyatt growled as he punched Isaac in the arm, but Miranda had seen him strike before, and this hit lacked conviction. Then he and his stinking boots scuffed up the road to the barn.

Miranda had slept well despite the screeching locusts and bellowing bullfrogs. The windows had no glass, thus explaining the volume. It also explained why Widow Sanders could slap down a flying insect with such precision. She'd had ample opportunity for practice.

Finally finished with her hair, Miranda jerked on her boots and shoved the buttons into their loops. Through the door she heard Grandfather's hard soles slap the stairs as he headed down to breakfast. The night before, Isaac had stayed long enough to see them settled. Would he make an appearance today, or would they be stuck with his moody brother? With her boots fastened securely, Miranda shook out her skirts and descended the staircase.

She paused before entering the kitchen, allowing the setting to form a complete impression. The yellow curtains over the sink lifted on a breeze that danced over the table, teasing the peonies that twisted in the canning jar full of water. Outside, the birds competed with one another, their songs gaily clashing as they floated in the cheery morning sunshine.

Widow Sanders hummed as she clattered her pots and pans
over a simple stove, while Grandfather anchored the scene in his severe black suit with his Bible spread atop the white tablecloth.

He spotted her and raised an eyebrow. Miranda came forward. “Just appreciating the striking figure you cut this beautiful morning.” She dropped a kiss on his forehead before taking a seat herself.

“But it can only be improved by the addition of a stunning young lady.”

“I disagree. Another figure would dilute the impact and upset the balance.”

They both grinned. Arguing art was one of their favorite pastimes, and Miranda was relieved to find her grandfather lucid enough to play along. Since they had no galleries to visit today, no procurements at the auction house worth appreciating, they'd have to evaluate the setting they found themselves in.

“I'm tickled to have you here.” Widow Sanders turned and slid two steaming bowls on the table before them. “I've always wanted to have room to board guests.”

“And maybe someday you will.” Grandfather closed his Bible and set it aside.

Miranda bit her lip as she tried to remember if she'd ever seen this bubbling white goop before. She picked up her spoon and stirred. Not oatmeal.

“It's grits.” Widow Sanders took her seat. “Ten times better than any you'd eat in Boston, I'd wager.”

Grandfather didn't wait to be asked but blessed the food before Miranda could question Widow Sanders' claim. She allowed his words to blend with the birdsong and lovely breeze. She thanked God that He was here, even if the circumstances weren't ideal and the accommodations were primitive. And where would they be without Widow Sanders? Although Jesus
had slept in a manger, Miranda was grateful He hadn't required that sacrifice of her . . . yet.

The grits were warm on her throat and the milk cool. Simple flavors but sustaining and comforting. Grandfather asked Widow Sanders about the area, the population, the presence of the local gentry . . . to which the woman chuckled and replied, “You're looking at them.” But even that couldn't dim the eagerness from his eyes.

“You know, Miranda, I've had some time to think about that auction house, and I don't consider it a total loss. As long as we're here, we might as well try our hand at turning a profit. I've worked in an auction house most of my life. What's the difference between livestock and fine furnishings? They will sell just the same.”

“What's the difference? Besides the fact that our new employees are covered in filth instead of broadcloth? And that they are surly, rude creatures instead of genteel and—”

“Now, Granddaughter, we must give Mr. Ballentine another chance. I'll see how he does today, and we'll go from there. He does seem knowledgeable about our investment, so I'd rather not terminate him.”

“Terminate him?” With a hand to her thin chest, Widow Sanders whooshed out a laugh. “I'm not sure what you're talking about, but in this part of the country, that means something entirely different.”

While Widow Sanders chuckled over her misunderstanding, Miranda felt the helplessness of her situation closing in around her. Grandfather wanted to stay and work at the auction house? With the animals and that . . . that man? Was it possible to drown at the breakfast table? Her lungs felt full of water.

But she had to be careful what she said. No discreet servants
here, pretending not to listen. For all they knew, their every conversation would be announced on the town square at noon—if there was a town square.

Thud!
The kitchen door shook. Miranda's spoon splashed into the goopy grits. Widow Sanders clamped her mouth shut, then grimaced. The doorknob rattled violently, making the seedlings in the tin cans by the window tremble.

“That girl.” Widow Sanders rose, pulled the door open, and allowed a blond streak of braids and skirts to tumble inside. Landing hard on one knee, the girl scrambled up, pulling against the sink.

“Eb Shipman came to town a'gunning for Moore. Something to do with a missing coon hound. Said he'd string him up iffen he catches him. Sheriff Taney won't do nothing on account of his wife being blood kin to Eb. Uncle Fred won't say naught in the paper 'cause they'll come gunning for him, sure as the world, and that's not all. There's also an old man and his granddaughter come to town yesterday. Be watchful . . .”

Grandfather cleared his throat. The young girl threw a braid over her shoulder and turned slowly to look at them. “I declare, Widow Sanders”—she blinked large—“you got company.” She treated them to a sly smile that Da Vinci would've killed to paint.

The feisty whirlwind delighted Grandfather. He beamed at her and enunciated each word. “We are the new owners of the auction house. We've come all the way from Boston.”

The child crossed her arms over her chest, and her smile hardened into a challenge. “Is that so? How come Mr. Pritchard would sell it to you when he knew Wyatt's been hankering to buy it for years? Seems downright unfair, if you ask me.”

Grandfather whipped back as though he'd been slapped. Miranda pulled her lips in tight to keep from laughing. Her
experience with the street boys had prepared her well, although this urchin might be more lively than the lot of them. “How old are you?”

“Twelve. Well . . . nearly.”

“You take it easy on these folks, Betsy,” Widow Sanders said. “They're my guests.”

“Well, surely they don't mind answering some questions. Did you bribe Pritchard? Throw buckets of money at him? Who is the criminal here? You or Pritchard?”

“No one's a criminal.” Widow Sanders pushed the kitchen door closed with her sturdy shoe.

Betsy took a piece of toast and tore off a corner. Still chewing, she continued, “And how did you even hear about Pine Gap and the sale barn? Pritchard didn't run an ad, and you don't even subscribe to the paper. My uncle is the editor, and I checked.”

Her too-large pinafore sagged off one shoulder, and her faded dress hung on her, waiting for the day when the bony girl would grow to fill it. Her large, expressive eyes animated every one of the dozen or so moods she'd displayed since she'd burst into the kitchen.

Grandfather sputtered. “We came because we're searching for . . . for—”

“Investment opportunities,” Miranda supplied, hoping that he'd forgive her for interrupting, but they couldn't share the purpose of their journey with this volatile child, whose uncle owned the newspaper, no less.

“In Pine Gap?” Her eyes darted from Miranda to Grandfather, as if searching for signs of intelligence. Finding none, she ripped another bite of toast. “Things must be pitiful in Boston for you to come here, and that's a fact. Now, how about we
get started out to the sale barn? You say you're here to make a buck. Best get to working. Wyatt is waiting on us.”

An empty feed sack blew in front of Wyatt. He stabbed it with his bootheel, then bent to pick it up, cursing his luck at being caught between angry customers and an unreasonable owner . . . an unreasonable owner with a snooty, prissy granddaughter, who also happened to be beautiful. But of course she was. Wyatt had never had any luck.

Three alleys meant thirty pens of thirsty animals. They were so dry he could drain the Gasconade River down to the rocks before they'd be satisfied, so he'd better get started. With the animals being held for so long, tempers were bound to be short. Let a farmer find his cattle with a dry trough, and there'd be trouble. The last thing these mountains needed was another outbreak of feuds. So far, the Ballentines had managed to straddle the fence when it came to local hostilities. The sale barn was a safe place for trade, and it seemed everyone wanted to keep it that way. Good thing. Neutral ground in Hart County was rarer than flat land.

Wyatt had the pump singing, water splashing into the barrels in the back of the wagon. His mules brayed, alerting Wyatt to the company coming over the hill. The whole crew? What had he done to deserve this? From the beguiling smile on Betsy's face and the way Miss Wimplegate was watching her, his girl had already been at work. If he needed to know anything, Betsy would get it out of them.

If he could only get the barrels full before they interrupted him. Water splashed against his mostly clean shirt. He forced the tension from his chest at the welcome sensation. He had
to keep his temper. Simmer down. Nothing good could come from upsetting these folks. He continued pumping and tried to see the barn through fresh eyes.

Before the barn, Wyatt had gone around with his pa to conduct sales wherever people were apt to gather. Once he was good enough with his writing and arithmetic, or at least better than Isaac, he stood by his father at the auctioneer's stand and kept notes of the buyers and the prices. Then came the barn. Wyatt had helped the men raise it, but too soon his pa's strength began to fade. That's when Wyatt began to chant the lulling rhythms of the auctioneer's song himself. There'd been a time when he dreamed of greater things, but he'd grown up, seen how the world really worked. He was destined to run the sale barn—if he could keep out of trouble with his new boss. With the barrels full, he hopped down and went to meet the spry gentleman next to the pens.

“Wyatt Ballentine.” Elmer Wimplegate planted his cane into the ground and nearly posed. “I've made a decision. You're going to continue working for me, and my first order of business is to get you in a suit. We can't run an auction with you looking like a common laborer.”

Where had this man concocted his ideas about auctions? Wyatt pulled his wet shirt away from his chest. “I don't have a suit, and if I did, I'd be saving it for my own burying, not ruining it by hopping gates, herding cattle, and driving pigs.”

“And regarding that beard . . .” Wimplegate's eyes turned steely.

Well, horsefeathers. Wyatt would have to try another angle. “I can't get a suit by . . . when do you want to start the auction?”