At Love's Bidding (8 page)

“That'll depend on how quickly your printer can print a catalog.”

“We don't need a catalog,” Wyatt said.

“How do you know if you've never used one? Miranda is quite talented with her descriptions. She really adds value to the items.”

Wyatt studied that spun-sugar granddaughter of his, dressed in another drab shade somewhere between brown and dirt brown. Talented with descriptions? So she could tell a whopper. That's what that meant. And she probably didn't cotton to bearded men, either.

Betsy piped up, “Are we going to have a sale on Monday or not?”

“We couldn't be ready by Monday, could we?” Elmer tilted his head until his flat hat brim was parallel with the slanting roof of the barn. He waved a pesky fly away from his mouth.

“These animals have been ready for weeks.” Wyatt propped a leg up on the fence, hoping Mr. Wimplegate would forget about his duds. “The longer we keep them, the more we lose in feed and the less healthy they are. Today is Thursday. By Monday you'll be ready to be rid of them.”

Elmer squinted through the plank fence at a pen of lambs. “Won't they bring more if you wash them up a bit? You know, give them a spit and polish to bring a few more dollars?”

Betsy giggled. If Wyatt thought for one second that Mr. Wimplegate would wash all these critters himself, he'd be tempted to play along, but he knew only too well who'd be standing in ankle-deep manure with a bucket and sponge and bathing goats.

“Clean animals don't sell any better than dirty ones, Mr. Wimplegate. People want them healthy, though, and the longer they sit here, the weaker they're getting.”

Wimplegate nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. A goose
won't sit on a bureau and appreciate in value like a Gainsborough painting. It does appear that Miranda was right. I don't have the foggiest notion of what I've gotten myself into.”

Wyatt dared a look at her. Jaw set, eyes mistrustful. She didn't want to be there. He didn't want her there. Maybe they could work together?

For a moment Wyatt tried to imagine a Boston auction of art and fancy furniture. He wouldn't know where to start there, either. “Don't you worry. Let me get this place to rolling, and you won't have any regrets. Everything will be just fine.”

“But I'm not going to shirk my duties. I play a vital role in the auction back home, and this venture will be no different. Let no one say I played the fop while others did my work. I intend to set an example.”

Of how to drive a teetotaler to whiskey? But he did agree to having a sale Monday, didn't he? Wyatt could shout hallelujah for that.

“Let's go inside and you can walk me through the process.” Wimplegate dusted a cottonwood puff off his shoulder. “Show me the bidder's numbers, the catalogs, the sales receipts, and how we can best get through Monday. Then once we're done, we'll go to town and see if there's not an idle tailor looking for something to keep his Saturday evening busy—and a barber.”

How far was he willing to go to keep this dream alive? Wyatt motioned them ahead of him. Without the auction house, where would the people of Hart County meet to conduct their business? What else would force them to be civil to one another? But he knew working for Mr. Wimplegate wasn't going to be easy. How the fellas would jeer at him sitting up at the auctioneer's table while stuffed into a sausage casing of a suit. And what would the fancy Miss Wimplegate think?
He'd look like a buffoon compared to the rich, barbered gents she was used to.

Boston. He'd never been there, but the name of the city chilled his innards. Shame. That's what he felt when he heard it, although he'd done nothing wrong. He knew it was a town so big that you could live there your whole life and never get to know all your neighbors. But he had to wonder if Miss Wimplegate and her grandpa had ever bumped elbows with anyone who might know of him. Probably not. He couldn't imagine the refined Wimplegates having anything to do with the likes of that kind of people. With the likes of his kind of people.

“I'll unlock the office,” he said, “but I'm bound to get these animals watered before it gets any hotter.”

Mr. Wimplegate didn't quarrel with him, but once inside he took to the account books like they were pulled taffy.

Looking at the fancy gent got Wyatt pondering what his life would've been like had the stories been true. But they weren't, and there wasn't no sense in stewing over it. He'd do the best he could with what he had, but without his job at the sale barn, he had nothing.

“If you're serious about having a sale here,” Miranda said, “then while you look at the books, I'll see if I can tidy the salon.”

Betsy's freckles bunched up in confusion. “The salon?”

“She means the grand room where you sell everything.” Grandfather remained bent over the ledger.

“It's already clean.” Betsy shoved her hand into the pocket of what she probably considered a clean pinafore.

Poor thing. What would the scamp be doing if she lived in Boston? Living in a disease-ridden tenement? Working in a textile factory all hours of the day? As much as Miranda needed to look for the painting, she didn't have the heart to send Betsy away.

Betsy followed her out of the office. “I reckon I'm supposed to come. Wyatt told me to keep an eye on you.”

“What's he afraid of?”

“For starters, he thinks Isaac might be sweet on you and told me to tell him if Isaac came within a mile of you.”

Miranda lowered her eyes. Isaac found her interesting? Her lips curled of their own accord. It shouldn't matter. She couldn't imagine having a beau from these parts. Then again, besides
Cornelius, she'd never had a beau anywhere. She stayed too busy working with Father and Grandfather. Mother would occasionally wrangle an invitation for Miranda to some musical evening or social event among their peers, but more often than not she found herself hiding—preferring to observe than be observed.

But what if Isaac was one of the gentlemen merchants in her set? The thought of him with his melancholy eyes gazing at her over a candlelit table at the Tremont Hotel did have merit. He'd place his open palm on the linen tablecloth, and Miranda would slip her hand into his . . .

And then his brother would burst through the dining room, lunge at his throat, and upend the table. China would explode, crystal would shatter, and once again innocent Isaac would bear the brunt of Wyatt's uncontrolled fury. Miranda's lips tightened.

She stood at the edge of the cavernous arena. What could be done? Dirt and other natural substances she'd rather not identify were all that kept the room from austerity. Flies swarmed everywhere. The worn wooden seats doubled as stairs. Put cushions on them and they'd only be stepped on. That left the table in the front. A cloth maybe to cover the primitive board? A lamp? Some candlesticks to dress up the work area? After all, their customers would spend hours staring at the auctioneer. They might as well give them something to look at besides Wyatt Ballentine.

Her ears warmed. The thought of looking at him all day was decidedly disconcerting.

“You're going to spruce this place up, huh?” Betsy's bone-china complexion gave her an angelic appearance, an impression that was criminally misleading. “I'm not sure you're the right person for the job. If you were going through all the trouble of
getting a fancy dress with ribbons and bows, why would you pick colors that only an earthworm could love?”

“The color is called cinnamon, and you are not exhibiting proper manners.”

“But you ruined what would otherwise be a humdinger of a dress.”

“The dress is understated and classy. It shows reserve and it's . . . it's—”

“Boring.” Betsy flopped on the first step and rested her chin in her hand. “The color is boring.”

“It's respectable. I'll not array myself like a strumpet—” The door leading from the pens in back swung open. Miranda stopped herself just in time.

But Betsy wouldn't let it go. “Wyatt,” she asked. “What's a strumpet?”

Miranda's eyes burned, they stretched so wide. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You know good and well—”

“Betsy,” he warned, “where did you hear that word?”

Helpless
. Miranda was helpless and at the mercy of a wickedly clever eleven-year-old. Her eyes went from piercing to pleading. Betsy lifted her chin in victory. “I heard it here at the sale barn. I just wanted to see what it meant.”

At least Wyatt didn't look fooled. “Watch your mouth, Betsy Huckabee. You don't talk that way in front of a lady.”

She dimpled, clearly unafraid of his bluster. Evidently, she'd never seen him rough up his brother.

Feeling minutely justified by Wyatt's defense, Miranda waited until he made it inside the office before she asked, “What'd I ever do to you?”

“You took Wyatt's sale barn. That's what.” Betsy drummed her heels against the hard seat beneath her.

Enough arguing with a child. Miranda Wimplegate couldn't set herself against this unruly brat, even if sorely provoked. Instead, she'd do what she could to improve the girl's prospects. It might be the only thing she accomplished on this journey.

Carefully picking her way around the dirty arena to the auctioneer's table she called over her shoulder, “Your uncle owns the newspaper? Is there that much news here?”

“Not often. Mostly he sells the papers from the city, but we print our own when there's a call for it.”

“Is he raising you?”

“Yep. When my aunt died, I came to town to help with my little cousins. Three boys in all. My ma and pa live away from town.”

Miranda didn't have the first clue where to procure knickknacks for the table, but surely with the tireless Widow Sanders' help she could at least have a vase of fresh flowers by sale day. If she could only move the ugly equipment out of the way.

A large metal frame extended from beneath the floor and spanned the front of the table. She leaned on it and it gave a bit, sinking a few inches into the ground. When Betsy climbed the rungs of the pen, the beam shuddered beneath Miranda's fingers. What a hazard. It was neither steady nor attractive. Short hooks descended from it on which were hung heavy metal disks—possibly an attempt to stabilize the structure and keep it from swaying so. Whatever could they have been thinking to leave this eyesore sprouting right before the focal point of the room?

Betsy took a seat at the table and tossed the gavel from hand to hand, imitating a carnival performer.

“Do you miss your family?” Miranda asked. To her surprise, the metal disks were easily removed from the hooks. She would
hide them beneath the table. Once she found a drape to put over it, no one could see them there.

“I do miss them, but they come to town right often. Especially my brother Josiah. He works here on sale day.”

And they hadn't had a sale day for quite some time.

“Besides,” Betsy continued, “Ma says I can learn more city ways here than at home. Someday I'll be a sophisticated lady like Abigail Calhoun.”

City ways? Here in Pine Gap? Miranda couldn't imagine how backward those in the hills must be.

She'd successfully dismantled the discs and hooks from the beam. The steel beam itself was too heavy for her to lift. She considered pushing it out of the braces where it balanced, but a quick look below the table assured her that she didn't want to have to pick it up off the dirty floor. Turning her attention to the table, she measured it with an eye used to determining the length of sideboards, bureaus, and the like. With a crisp nod she smiled at Betsy. “You'll help me find some fabric, won't you? By Monday I can have this table adorned more appropriately. Widow Sanders might even have a vase I could use for some fresh-cut flowers.”

“You think Wyatt is going to sit in a mess of flowers?”

“Just wait until you see him dressed up. We'll get that nasty beard shaved off and get him out of his old stinky clothes, and he'll look as handsome . . . as . . . as . . .”

Only one thing could make Betsy look so happy, and that would be if Wyatt had returned and was standing behind Miranda at that moment.

“What did you do to my scale?”

Thankful that he'd chosen to ignore her plans for him, she answered, “I don't have it.” Besides the steel frame, the table was empty.

He rushed around the arena pen with remarkable speed. “This.” He grabbed the metal frame with both hands. “You disassembled my scales.”

Her eyes flickered over the beam, once balancing on the supports but now resting heavily on the struts. “I've never seen a scale that big.” Not really an excuse, but in such circumstances one should say something.

“You've never weighed five tons of cattle before, either.”

Her face burned. The last thing she wanted was a lecture from this ruffian, but he was right . . . and she hated that she must admit it.

“I'm sorry.” She fiddled with the silver charms on her bracelet. “I was trying to help.”

He didn't move. His fists were still on his hips and his legs were planted wide, but somehow she could sense the anger had gone. Instead, he was studying her, just like she might study a painting. But she was no masterpiece, and she didn't appreciate the attention.

“I'll help you put it back together.” She squatted and began gathering the various disks and hooks.

“I'd do better on my own.” His chest sunk as he surveyed the mess. “It has to be perfectly balanced. No room for inaccuracy.”

She'd messed it up, and she couldn't fix it. Just like losing the LeBlancs' painting. The metal pieces clanged out of Miranda's grasp as she deposited them on the table. Stepping away, Miranda clasped her hands behind her back. “I'm going to get a tablecloth for this table and a vase of fresh flowers. It'll add a touch of class to the place.”

Did his eyelids weigh five tons, too? Because he seemed to have trouble keeping them from drooping. “It's your place. Do what you want. Your grandpa will be looking for me, so I'd best
go.” Another look at the pile of the disassembled hardware, and he turned to march to the office.

Betsy whistled. “You sure ain't much help around here.”

True, but unfair. She wasn't supposed to be adorning a livestock barn. She was supposed to find a painting and get home before the LeBlancs took them to court. Time was running out.

Widow Sanders' peony bush buzzed with evening guests. Wasps dallied from bloom to bloom, tracing their scalloped paths in the air. The sun hovered on the crest of the western mountain, just waiting to dip beneath. A calming setting if one could forget what had brought them to it.

“How did you get rid of that girl?” Grandfather reclined in a wicker chair, his jar of sweet tea drawing an occasional wasp to be swatted away.

Miranda readjusted her tree-stump seat in an attempt to find level ground. “She went home to fix dinner for her uncle and nephews. Maybe I can get away tomorrow to search for the painting without her.”

“Painting?”

Miranda smiled at his joke, then realized he wasn't jesting. A chill raised bumps on her arms.
Dear Lord
, she prayed,
has he
forgotten already?
“The LeBlancs' painting. Remember?”

“Oh, that. You know, I don't see it as critical as I did once. This place is a bonanza of opportunity. Even if we don't find it, we might make our fortune here.”

Was this more than a memory lapse? The farther from home they traveled, the more his personality changed, and right now Miranda felt very, very far from home.