At Love's Bidding (9 page)

“Grandfather, one aisle of our auction house is worth more
than this sale barn, the cattle, and all the land it's on. Buying the barn was a mistake.”

“You're awfully free with your opinion,” he snapped. Miranda dropped her gaze to her dirty fingernails and cringed at his tone. “Buying that barn has opened doors for us. While I was at the bank, I met a Mr. Rinehart who receives regular shipments of art from the outside world. We're going calling on him tomorrow. He wouldn't have been so friendly if he didn't appreciate the investment we are making to the local tradesmen.”

“Then the LeBlancs' painting wasn't sent to the barn after all?”

“How would I know?” He shook his head. “Instead of questioning my every decision, Miranda, why don't you go search the barn now that we're free from our escorts?” He straightened in his chair and dug in his waistcoat pocket. “Here's the key to the padlock. I wish you luck.”

Miranda's eyes stung. A timid child, she hadn't occasioned many reprimands—and never one from Grandfather. She missed the key he tossed and had to retrieve it from the soil. “It'll be dark by the time I get back . . .”

“The mill has already closed, and there's nothing else between here and the barn. You won't see a soul.”

She should refuse. It wasn't safe. All Betsy's warnings about the hostility of the hills played in excruciating detail. Should Miranda assert her opinion that going alone was foolhardy, or was her reluctance further proof of her cowardice? Yet it might be the best chance to investigate without the grumpy Mr. Ballentine looking over her shoulder. Bravery. Her cranium ached at being stretched in the unfamiliar area.

“If I'm not back in a half hour . . .”

Ignoring her concern, Grandfather rocked his chair and hummed. Maybe having Betsy around wasn't so bad, after all.

The sun-dappled road passed beneath tangled branches. It was impossible to tell which tree spawned the limbs. Soon all would be dark and the canopied walk would go from shaded to menacing. She hurried across the wagon yard toward the hulking barn, afraid to pause, afraid to check over her shoulder. The rusty padlock creaked at her twisting of the key, then with a click sprang open.

After removing the padlock and loosening the chain, Miranda tried to pull the giant door open. She'd forgotten her gloves, but her fingernails already carried a thimbleful of dirt beneath them. No room for more. She dug her heels into the gravel walkway and tugged, her skirt brushing in the dirt behind her. When the door finally decided to give way, she had to hurry to keep ahead and not have a foot caught beneath it. Catching her breath, she dusted off her hands and gingerly set forth into the shadowy building. Yellowed sunlight filtered through fly-speckled windows, but at least she could see in the office well enough. The calendar on the wall swayed as she rifled through a collection of empty crates. She remembered the size of the frame. Where could it hide?

She checked behind a desk—cobwebs, some scraps of paper, and cigarettes burned to the nub. Every other desk faced the door. One cabinet might provide results, but upon opening it, she found the space sliced up by shelving. Besides the door she entered, there was one other that beckoned. It was full-sized, but nothing suggested that it'd been opened regularly. Pushing her fear behind her, she turned the knob. A wall of pitch black greeted her. Her nose twitched, prompting a fit of sneezes. Grandfather wouldn't expect her to go in there, but if she didn't,
who would? A quick search through the desk drawer uncovered some matches. She took the wire handle of the lantern, struck a blaze, and with a jut of her chin, entered the dark corridor.

And she wasn't surprised when the door closed behind her.

This was just like her warehouse back home—a big room that echoed. The lantern wavered with her trembling. Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. She was all alone and things couldn't hurt her. Holding the lantern aloft, she recognized the tiered ceiling. This storage space ran beneath the seating above her. The evening breeze nudged against the barn's wood siding, and she could hear the shuffling of the small rodents that were sharing her space.

The room stretched toward the center of the arena, with the ceiling stepping lower and lower, the inverse of the seating above it. Beneath the bottom step was only space for a breadbox. The lantern light didn't quite reach the farthest corners, but she suspected they were as empty as the rest, if you didn't count the cobwebs and rat droppings. The narrow cavern curved as it wrapped around the arena, following the contours of the seating. Ahead, Miranda spotted bulky items. A broken gate leaned against the wall. Empty feed bags had drifted beneath the seats, and a rusted-out water trough lay gasping on its side. Nothing of value. Nothing that had been moved in years. Her task was halfway finished, but she was still not successful.

At the end of the passage, Miranda exited to find herself where she'd expected—in the arena. She only had the other side to go. Symmetrical. It shouldn't take long.

Already familiar with the inverted stair-step shape of the room, Miranda forged ahead. Must get back before dark. Already the crickets were chirping outside. The moldy scent told her there must be a leak on this side of the building. Hopefully
it wasn't a dead animal. She swung the lantern low, allowing its beams to shine into the farthest reaches of the center of the room. All the time she had to watch her step, carefully making her way over the wooden braces and a pair of dirty work boots.

Miranda froze. Her heart stopped. Someone was wearing those boots. Slowly she lifted the lantern up, praying the vision would disappear, but no. A man stood in her way, blocking the exit. His red beard jutted from his face like a chisel. He was compact, stronger than she was, and he was hiding in the sale barn.

Not one of those things was good.

Lord, let my death be
swift and painless
was her only thought. Did that make her brave or a coward? If she were brave, she'd turn around and run, but her feet were glued to the floor.

“Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am.” His voice had the uneven, musical draw that she'd heard more frequently the farther into the mountains they traveled. “Thought you might need some help.”

“Who . . . who are you?”

He held her gaze, weighing her just as surely as if she was sitting on the scales. “Just passing through and saw the door open.”

Passing through? Even Miranda knew the sale barn was at the end of the road. Behind it was nothing but a cliff. But it'd be rude to mention his mistake, not to mention probably fatal.

“I don't need any help.” Each word felt like sandpaper passing through her throat. Thinking of her fearless grandmother, she took a giant breath and uttered the two words that might be her last. “You're trespassing.”

His eyebrow rose. His mouth twitched. “I'll be heading out, then.” One last look around the room, and he left, disappearing into the dark shadows that curved with the bend of the arena.

Miranda fell against a support beam. She had to get home. Now. Deciding not to follow him, Miranda retraced her steps to the open arena. No time to recover her composure. She would run all the way back to Widow Sanders'. Just try to stop her.

She burst through the door and was immediately grabbed. Dropping the lantern, she swung at the man's face with an untrained fist, amazed how much it hurt when she hit his cheek. Another scuffle, and her arms were pinned to her sides. She kicked, only then realizing that the shins she was thrashing were covered with a different pair of boots.

“Miranda!” It was Wyatt. The light of the unleashed flame distorted his features into something more sinister than usual. “What are you doing?”

Good thing he was holding her arms down, or she might just hug him. “There's a man in there, under the stairs.”

His brow lowered. With a long reach, he grabbed the gavel off the table and tested its weight before opening the door beneath the bleachers. “Don't go anywhere,” he said.

How about back to Boston? But seeing there wasn't a train at that second, she complied. He disappeared, leaving her to right the lantern and sweep the broken glass from the hurricane globe into her hand. Broken glass. Not the most effective weapon, but she'd use it if she must.

Lord, please protect me from the wicked
, she prayed, leaving it up to God to judge which man best fit that description. Wyatt was gone an awfully long time considering the space beneath the seating was limited. Still peering into the darkness, Miranda heard footsteps coming into the room through the main hallway. With a shaky puff she blew out the lantern and brandished her shard of glass. Not much light came in, but enough to make
out the outline of a man. Too tall to be the redhead. Did she want it to be Wyatt?

“Miranda? Where'd you go?”

She lowered her weapon. “I heard you coming, so I blew out the light.”

“I already knew you were in here.”

“But I didn't know if it was you, or . . . oh, nevermind.” She didn't care what he thought. Only that she wasn't alone. She worked her way to the entrance, carefully avoiding the rows of seating. “How did that man get beneath the stairs?”

Instead of answering, Wyatt caught her wrist as she passed. He held her arm up in the waning light and scowled at the key dangling there. The shadows hid most of his face, but they couldn't hide the warmth of his grip.

“He got in the same way you did. You left the front door open. There's a broom closet just opposite the office. It's the only other access to that side of the arena.”

Miranda jerked out of his grasp. What did he mean laying hands on her like that? No workman had ever touched her before.

“You don't know who he was? No suspicions?” she asked.

“I don't abide folks nosing around here after dark, including you. Why are you here, anyway?”

“That's none of your business.” For some reason she could never reproduce the haughty Boston tone when she needed to. This time she only succeeded in sounding breathless.

“I reckon my business is chasing down strange men who scare you?”

She really wished she could see him, because despite his mountain drawl, the authority in his voice made her forget his ragged beard and homemade clothes. Hard to remember her superiority when it was only the two of them.

“Look,” he said. “I don't think you want to be here in Pine Gap, and it's no secret my life would be a sight easier if you weren't. Why can't we help each other out?”

Miranda sniffed, unsure that this wasn't a trick. “I have to stay here for Grandfather.”

“What will it take to get Grandfather back home?”

Father had told her to keep their quest a secret. Otherwise they'd have to pay . . . and pay dearly. “We won't stay a day longer than necessary,” she said. “On that you have my word.”

She couldn't see his face, but he seemed to be weighing her proclamation. Finally he made his own offer. “If there's anything I can do to hurry you on home . . . you have my word.” Promising to do anything it took to get rid of her? How charming. “But if you're going to be out carousing at night,” he said, “you'd better be prepared to defend yourself. These hills are crawling with outlaws and ne'er-do-wells.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Maybe she couldn't do haughty, but she had sarcastic in her repertoire. “I'll return to my abode now, before the light fails.”

“I can't let you go alone.” He took the broken lamp from her, left it in the office, then waved her outside. Swinging the heavy door closed, he wrapped the chain in the handles and held out his hand to her. “Give me your key.”

Miranda slid it off her wrist, but not until he'd palmed it did she realize her mistake. “You don't need a key to lock a padlock.”

He dropped the key into his pocket. “But I need this key to keep you out of trouble.” He snapped the padlock closed. “Now, let's both be pondering on how to get you back where you belong.”

Why, when he had pens plumb overflowing, did Elmer Wimplegate decide to go calling on the neighbors? Wyatt stepped outside the modest clapboard house and looked out over the valley that ran just below his property. The morning sun reflected in the river that ribboned its way through the bottom of his land and on into town. Stretched out vertically, they owned acres of wooded ground, but standing at the top of the hill, he could throw a good-sized rock and come pert near to hitting the boundary river. Maybe he could now. He hadn't tried since he was a boy.

How he missed his parents. Ma leaving wet kisses on his cheek, even when he was so tall she had to pull him down to do it. Pa letting him fight his own battles but standing nearby, ready to rush in with a broom handle if his older brothers ganged up on him. They were all gone now. All but Isaac. When the railroad had come through looking for strong backs to conquer the Ozarks, Pete and Clifford had moved on. Once they'd got a taste for the larger world, none of Ma or Pa's pleas could bring them back home. Had Isaac stayed for any sentimental reason, Wyatt would've been grateful. He hated being alone. But he'd been gifted with Isaac's
company on two accounts—first being that Isaac couldn't take the chance that Wyatt might succeed at something, and second, Isaac didn't have the ambition to do anything else. Lacking his own dreams, Isaac was content to sit back and shoot down Wyatt's.

Wyatt felt sorry for Isaac at times, because it did seem that Isaac's one purpose in life was to oppose anything Wyatt attempted. If Wyatt resolved to save money, Isaac came home with a new pocket watch. The day Wyatt would beat out a rug was the day Isaac would shell peanuts on it. Sometimes Wyatt wondered if he shouldn't just leave and start somewhere new. What would it be like to not operate under the begrudging oversight of a big brother?

But something new was coming. God was at work here. His soul told him to prepare. Good or bad, change was ahead. He turned from the peaceful vista before him and headed to the barn to harness the mules.

By the time he arrived at Widow Sanders', they were waiting. Elmer paced a circle around her oak tree while Miranda sat on a tree stump in a sad gray dress that probably cost more than a whole pen of cattle. If he had a woman as fine looking as Miranda, he wouldn't let her dress so somber. Then he hopped down from the wagon and got a look at his own canvas britches. Maybe he could do better, too.

“We're coming,” Mr. Wimplegate called.

Miranda pulled on some smooth gloves that were as bland as the rest of her getup. But when he handed her up, he couldn't believe the softness of the fabric. As soft as a downy chick. He shook his head. No wonder Isaac got all the ladies. No woman wanted to hear thoughts like that.

Releasing her hand, he hauled himself up next to her. At least he didn't have to ride crammed against Elmer this time. A flap
of reins and the mules strained forward. They'd ride through town on their way to Rinehart's place—a decent stretch, nearly halfway to Saint George.

In the alley between the newspaper office and the dry goods store, they caught a glimpse of Betsy pushing a wheelbarrow of vegetables to town. Her ever-ready smile flashed, and then she was gone.

“It seems she floats about without much supervision,” Miranda said. “Who's watching out for her?”

“Be on guard, Wyatt,” Elmer said. “Miranda's yet to meet a street urchin she could turn away from.”

He hadn't expected the high-and-mighty Miss Wimplegate to think twice about little Betsy, but that she did was to her credit. “Betsy's not neglected. Maybe she doesn't have a nursemaid following after her with a clean handkerchief, but her uncle's a decent fellow, and the whole town keeps an eye out for her. And she still has her folks. They come to see her when they're on this side of the river.” How could anyone pity Betsy? She had what he wanted most.

They rolled out of town following the narrow pass through the green mountains. He felt Miranda relax against him, no longer fighting the contact of his body against hers as they swayed up and down the gullies. Something about her smelled like Widow Sanders' roses. On the next rough washout he let himself rock toward her to see if he could figure out whether it was her hair or her perfume, but no matter how he sniffed, he couldn't quite decide.

Sneaking a glance, he found her face alight with pleasure as she took in the valley spread before them. Wyatt wanted to ask if she thought the hills as beautiful as he did, but with her grandfather—his boss—along for the ride, he decided against
it. So the wheels creaked along, leaving him to imagine that conversation and many others he'd like to have with her.

The sounds of the wilderness changed. Wyatt pulled the mules to a halt. No birdsong, only a constant rustling. More than one man. More than a couple of men. Miranda was watching him, waiting for him to explain. He saw fear in her eyes and for once she wasn't afraid of him. He brushed his hand over her soft glove by way of comfort. They couldn't avoid whatever was ahead. No place to turn off in a wagon, so he'd just pray that this group wasn't up to any mischief.

Around the bend came men mounted on horses and mules. Wyatt knew them but didn't like what he saw. Clive Fowler raised his giant fist and halted the group.

“Don't pay us any mind, Wyatt. We don't aim to bother you'uns none.”

Wyatt scanned the group. Customers of his, decent fellows who didn't look like they were enjoying themselves, but there was one man he didn't recognize. This man was on foot with his hands tied in front of him. His face was lowered, and the knees to his britches were caked in mud.

Wyatt really shouldn't get involved, but these were his woods, too. “You catch yourselves a bandit?”

Fowler readjusted the rifle that rode on his lap. “Looks like it. Mr. Rinehart caught him poking around his place. Thought we'd give him a few lashes to teach him some manners, then send him on his way.”

Now Miranda's hand sought him. She tugged on his sleeve. “The barn,” she whispered. “That's him.”

His neck tightened as he considered his options. One wrong word and this fellow's future could be changed forever. Hopefully, Miranda would understand if he didn't add fuel to the fire.

“What's Sheriff Taney say?”

Wyatt's question was met with grunts of disgust. “Sheriff who?” Fowler mocked. “You know good and well there's no sheriff around here. Not when you need him. Don't you fret, Wyatt. We aim to be fair. These boys answer to me.”

And to tell the truth, they seemed controlled. Wyatt pitied the man for what lay ahead, but then again, what business did he have nosing around the sale barn and the Rineharts'? Better drive him out of the county now before he did any real damage.

They filed past the wagon. Even though the prisoner never raised his head, Miranda shuddered as he stumbled by. Wyatt was struck by the uncontrollable urge to wrap an arm around the frightened lady. Almost uncontrollable, because he did manage, but it troubled him fiercely. Soon they were gone. Wyatt leaned around Miranda to check on Elmer, who was dozing in his seat, chin dropped to his chest.

“Why didn't you tell them?” she asked.

Good question. When he considered what might have happened to Miranda had he not shown up at the barn when he did, it was Wyatt's turn to shudder. “He didn't break no laws that we can prove. He'll get what's coming to him and maybe something extry.”

“Will he be back?”

“Do you do much praying, Miss Miranda?”

Her mouth turned a frown and she picked at her gloves. “Of course I do.”

“Then maybe that's why I showed up when I did at the barn. God is watching out for you.”

Silently she lifted her eyes to gaze at her sleeping grandfather. Once again, Wyatt was struck by her care for the gent. It couldn't be easy on her, coming out here, being at the mercy
of the old coot's broken logic. She needed help. She needed to get back home.

The road broke out into a clearing. Atop a gentle rise sat the Rineharts' fine house. The morning sun illuminated the white building, throwing it into sharp contrast with the emerald lawn where a dozen or so sheep grazed placidly. The house looked promising the way it perched on the hill like the top tier of a bride's cake.

How Mother would enjoy seeing this place. From Father's anguished telegram that morning, Miranda knew they were worried about her—both her safety and her success. That they hadn't immediately located the painting within the auction house had the whole family concerned. Not a day went by that Monty King didn't inquire about their progress, and Father was running out of excuses.

As they neared, Grandfather began polishing his cuff links. Every time he was preparing to meet a wealthy client he had to make sure his cuff links were spotless. Miranda wormed her hand through the crook of his arm. As if anyone ever caught him looking less than pristine. Grandfather always presented himself as if he were preparing to sit for one of the many portraits they dealt with.

A cat bolted from beneath the porch as they pulled up in front of the house. Giant baskets full of the variegated leaves of wandering Jew hung from the veranda ceiling. This could be the place they were looking for. According to Betsy, Mr. Rinehart had come from old money in Tennessee, and his wife received shipments from back East every week. Miranda rattled her silver bracelet, then wondered if she, like
Grandfather, did that every time she prepared to meet an influential client.

The heavy oak door swung open and Mr. Rinehart escorted a rounded-nosed lady outside. Once past the threshold, she arranged her overskirt to show off the flounces and didn't forget to point her toe so that a satin shoe peeked from beneath her pleated underskirt. Definitely not sewn by a Parisian designer, but then Miranda's were only basted together by an Irish woman who had a good eye for imitation. The tilt of her head, the way she looked Miranda down from head to toe, as if measuring her for a better dress, made Miranda feel uncomfortably at home. Surely they would find the LeBlancs' painting here. Mrs. Rinehart had the same ability to discredit a woman that many of their esteemed customers possessed.

Putting on her brave face, Miranda allowed Grandfather to escort her to the door, where she followed Mrs. Rinehart's lead by merely ducking her chin instead of a more formal curtsy. Finally meeting her eyes, Miranda studied the mass of tight curls Mrs. Rinehart had gathered behind her left ear. Miranda didn't trust any woman who styled her hair asymmetrically. It seemed off-kilter, as if her judgment was unbalanced. Still, she would hope for the best.

They passed inside while the men discussed the lone intruder that Rinehart had found. Mr. Rinehart expressed remorse at turning the man over to the vigilantes, but one couldn't be too careful. Once through the threshold, they entered a long, narrow foyer with empty crates stacked on the wool runner. Grandfather cleared his throat. Miranda hid a smile. Betsy hadn't been mistaken about the shipments. But they were quickly encouraged to pass through the crowded entryway into an even more cluttered parlor.