At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  “The town is just around the hill, or so they say. Follow the wagon path, and you can’t miss it.”

  Grandfather’s white eyebrows lowered. Miranda snatched her shawl, her parasol, and her handbag from the seat beside her and waited for Grandfather to clear the way, but he remained immovable. The porter cleared his throat. Embarrassed, he turned to Miranda. “Does he need further assistance, or . . .”

  Or do I need to physically remove your grandfather from my path? Unfortunately she was becoming more and more used to his strange episodes. Miranda tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Grandfather. This is our stop.”

  His whiskers twitched, and with a last look at the forest, he propelled himself forward and out of the passenger car. Their bags emerged from the baggage car at the end of the train. The porter hopped back on board and saluted them as he rolled away, chipper now that the onerous responsibility of Elmer Wimplegate was no longer his to bear.

  The countryside was beautiful. Hills folded and tucked into each other, covered by trees and the fresh colors of spring. The area didn’t look to be inhabited at all, but perhaps it was a resort area where the rich and mighty brought their families to escape the pollution of the city. No limit to the number of mansions that could be hidden away in the valley. Or that’s what Miranda was going to believe until she had proof otherwise.

  High overhead an eagle circled. Or was it a vulture? Miranda took a step closer to Grandfather. Either way, they needed to find accommodations. Although Grandfather burned bright all day, by evening Miranda could spot the signs of fatigue. The travel was taking its toll on the elderly man.

  From the log depot stepped a man with his dusty coat swinging open, and the laces of his high boots untied. He grunted a greeting and then turned to lock the door behind him.

  “Excuse me, young man.” Grandfather strode with his cane flashing. “We’ve just arrived from Boston and were wondering if you’ve received any luggage or packages from there recently?”

  His face bristled in annoyance as he took quick measure of them. “Are you missing something?”

  “Yes, we are. I’m afraid we had a package sent ahead of us, but it was misaddressed. If anything arrives from Boston, could you please notify us? I’m not sure where we’ll be staying or how we’ll get to town—”

  “You won’t be hard to track down, but I ain’t seen nothing from Boston.” He whistled, and a dog with lanky legs and a scarred coat jogged out of the woods.

  Grandfather cleared his throat, although his voice already trumpeted strong. “But we need assistance. We must have accommodations for the night.”

  “I reckon everyone does, but be careful who you share a roof with. There’s them in these hills that don’t cotton to strangers. The town is just over the hill yonder. Head up that road there . . .”

  At the pointing end of his gesture, they spotted a wagon rolling toward them. Miranda sighed. Not a carriage, just a bundle of boards nailed together over some wheels. The driver of the wagon had his sleeves rolled up and his striped shirttails tucked in . . . a stylistic choice not all Missouri men favored, Miranda had noticed. When the stationmaster waved, the driver swung his team of mules to the platform.

  “Isaac, lad,” the stationmaster called. “You think you could give these folks a ride to town?”

  Ride with a stranger? They hadn’t been introduced. Miranda wished Grandfather was as wide as the columns on the portico in the back of the auction house, but since she couldn’t hide behind him, she was forced to face Isaac-Lad. He was older than she’d first thought, with sad, dark eyes that seemed filled with uncertainty like her own. He pulled the brake and climbed down the wheel spokes with an unexpected grace. “If I can be of assistance.”

  “Awfully kind of you.” Grandfather aimed his cane at the bags, as if this man’s sole purpose in life was to do his bidding. “Those are our only cases.”

  The stationmaster had already melted into the forest, leaving the three of them alone. So adept at hiding was Miranda, that only then did the man from the wagon really see her. At first he merely smiled politely, but then his head snapped to do that horrible second glance she so hated. She could never decide what was more insulting—that she’d initially been dismissed so easily or that the looker found something that required further inspection.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Isaac Ballentine, at your service.” He swung his hat off and bowed deeply.

  Miranda’s cheeks warmed at the attention. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbled and lifted her bag.

  “Allow me.” Mr. Ballentine took the handle of her satchel. Quickly she released her grip and hid her hand behind her. He wasn’t a railroad employee, so she wasn’t sure where he fit into the social hierarchy that was so clearly defined in Boston. He hopped off the platform and then turned to help Grandfather descend. When it was Miranda’s turn, she gingerly took his hand. Even through her gloves she noticed that Mr. Ballentine didn’t have the work-roughened hands she’d expected. His hands were as pale and delicate as a poet’s. With ease, he swung the bags behind the seat. Miranda looked away as he lifted her trunk, not sure how to treat the man. They were in his debt—an unusual circumstance.

  “Do you think you’ll be comfortable on the bench, Miranda?” Grandfather pointed at the front of the wagon. “It will seat three, or I’ll ride in the back if it’ll muss your dress.”

  The thought of Grandfather riding into town in the back of a wagon nearly choked her. She started to answer, cleared her throat, and started again. “We’ll fit.”

  “It’s big enough,” Isaac-Lad, er, Mr. Ballentine said. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you’uns on your first day here.”

  “We appreciate you interrupting your plans on our behalf,” Grandfather answered.

  “No bother. I’m tickled I can help.” The mules rattled their harnesses restlessly. Mr. Ballentine turned just as pounding hooves were heard through the trees. The wagon shifted with the animals’ nervous movement. Miranda shaded her eyes to see into the shadows.

  A lone rider broke into the clearing, leaning over his horse’s neck as he raced forward. Clouds of dirt burst into the air with every stride. His bearded face was hard, while his body bristled with energy. His well-worn cotton shirt stretched across his shoulders and arms, defining muscles that even Titian had never put on a canvas. The man’s eyes narrowed as he spotted them standing below the platform. This time Miranda really did hide behind Grandfather, but Isaac Ballentine didn’t flinch. Instead, he climbed into the wagon and sat stubbornly waiting for the newcomer.

  Sweat-dampened hair clung to the young man’s neck. “Are you going to get out of that wagon, or do I have to pull you down myself?”

  Aghast, Miranda silently pleaded with Isaac to give the man what he wanted, but from the obstinate set of his shoulders he seemed determined to refuse. Isaac turned so she could appreciate the full force of his defiance. “I’m not afraid of you, Wyatt.”

  Maybe Gentleman Isaac was brave, but he certainly wasn’t very intelligent.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” this Wyatt growled. He swung off his horse and made a rush for the wagon.

  “Can’t you do anything?” Miranda clawed at her grandfather’s elbow.

  Although he didn’t cower, Grandfather shook his head. “Maybe years ago, my dear, but not now. Our friend is on his own.”

  With one boot in the spokes of the wheel, the attacker hoisted himself up, grabbed Isaac by the collar, and pulled him to the ground. Landing on his feet, Isaac attempted to shove out of his grasp, but he was no match for the brute. Miranda covered her mouth. This was no boy to be frightened away by a woman, even if she did have a silver tray. She couldn’t get involved, but how could she just watch?

  Grandfather clamped her arm in a death grip. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “You’re too much like your grandmother.”

  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 bre
ath. 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.

  Chapter 4

  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 accum
ulate? 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 . . .”