His rhubarb pie. The only part of the sale day he didn’t mind missing.
“What time will we be back?” Miranda asked, her eyes falling somewhere lower than his chin. Yes, he still had the beard. Elmer might buy him a new suit, but no one was going to tell him when to shave.
“That depends. We keep selling until the last item has been auctioned or until it’s too dark to see the arena. And then we have to write up all the bills and settle up with the bidders. It’s not unusual for it to go into the night.”
She bit her lip and his heart did a funny dropping thing. “I don’t want Grandfather to become overspent.”
“Nonsense, girl!” Elmer dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You know Cornelius says I have permanent stamina. It’s dictated by the bone structure of my skull.”
“Cornelius?” Wyatt tilted his head. “Who’s Cornelius?”
The question must have tickled Elmer, for he strolled away to the wagon chuckling.
“He . . . well, it’s not official,” she said, “but he’s . . . he’s my cousin.”
“You have an unofficial cousin?”
“If you must know, Cornelius and I are to marry.” She tucked her chin, her mouth tightened. “At least that’s what he wants.”
Wyatt found he couldn’t swallow. He’d never considered that she might have a beau back home, but the thought made him boil. “What do you want?”
“I want my family to be taken care of, but I might not be able to do that on my own.”
“But why Cornelius? What makes him so special?” Wyatt had already taken a dislike to the man and only wanted more reasons to hate him.
“He’s nice. Respectable. He’s a doctor. A phrenologist.”
“I’ve never heard of any such thing.”
“He’s a specialist. He measures the size and shape of his patients’ heads to discern their character, personality, and mental state.”
Wyatt’s eyes rolled heavenward. “What kind of monkeyshine has he been selling you?”
“His readings are very helpful. It does one good to know his or her natural mental strengths and limitations.”
“Has your cousin Cornelius taken a gander at your grandpa’s head?”
Miranda’s eyes wandered to the wagon where Elmer was waiting. “Of course he has. Why?”
Elmer’s cane beat against the wagon’s floorboards. “The sale,” he called.
The sale. The sale! “Yes, sir. We’d best get going.”
They loaded up and no further words were spoken until they reached the sale barn. People were already congregating in the yard. Shouts of greetings filled the air, as well as cold looks of hostility. Friends who’d missed their weekly meeting had finally perambulated over the hills, giving the sale as an excuse to leave their farms and talk to someone besides their wives and their mules. Enemies availed themselves of the chance to find new offenses. Either way, there were buyers and sellers aplenty. His overstocked pens would be empty by day’s end, and Wyatt’s troubles would be nigh to solved.
He would’ve been in high cotton had he not been wearing a fancy suit.
Eyes widened as he passed. Women tittered. Men chewed their cigars slowly and grinned like possums at his foolishness. And all Wyatt could do was tip his new stovepipe hat and pretend he didn’t look like a St. Louis politician.
No one wanted to sit before the sale started, but once the bell sounded they would rush to the arena. Elmer had continued to fret over the lack of a catalog, and Wyatt had run out of explanations. Elmer would understand once he saw the sale in action. Wyatt didn’t need a book to tell him the attributes of the animals before him.
He’d introduced Miranda to Fred Murphy—Betsy’s uncle and the newspaper man who helped in the office on sale day—and left her there, presumably to help with the accounts. Then he took Elmer into the arena and positioned him at the auctioneer’s table before the animals entered. One less chance for the old coot to get injured. He handed him the receipt book, having already gone over where to fill in the seller’s name, the buyer’s name, the head count, weight, and price of each lot. True to his word, Elmer seemed to understand the importance of keeping all the particulars straight. And knowing that Wyatt had reliable help in the office and out back in the pens, he was set to sell, and sell fast. They’d never had so many animals waiting, and who knew what household goods and miscellany would arrive before the day was over? Efficiency was the key.
He walked around the arena, greeting people as usual, even though he looked like a grinder’s monkey. When he finally reached the auctioneer’s platform, the catcalls and whistles had to be acknowledged. Pushing back his suit coat, Wyatt hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat and walked the length of the platform and back before taking his seat. The audience howled in appreciation before quieting down for him to begin.
At his signal, the south door to the arena opened and five milk cows jogged inside. Betsy’s brother Josiah followed them. With his cattle prod he chased them around, allowing everyone to view the offering before he stepped out of the ring, allowing Wyatt to swing the rider of the scale down the arm until it swayed into balance. He announced the weight, casting a glance to make sure Elmer had all the pertinent information recorded, and Wyatt reached for his gavel to open the bidding, but it wasn’t there. He bent to peer under the table, but the wooden gavel had vanished.
Knock! Knock! Knock! He sat up quickly, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the table. There it was. His father’s gavel in Mr. Wimplegate’s hands. Elmer stood.
“Welcome to the Wimplegate Auction House.” His pompous voice rang out over the shocked gathering. A woman pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. A man spat into the empty coffee can on the stairs. “Today’s sale includes priceless offerings from estates throughout the area. Anyone who has procured a bidding number at the office will be allowed to participate. If you’d like to use credit we will finance any buyer who has applied—”
Every eye was on him. Feeling like a child, Wyatt tapped his arm. “Excuse me, sir.”
Elmer stopped cold. He glanced down at Wyatt, still seated. “This better be important.”
“The people don’t have buyers’ numbers. I just write down who bought what.”
“But how do you know who they are?”
“I just know. And we don’t offer credit. They have to have cash on the day of the sale.”
Elmer’s mouth tightened. As much as Wyatt hated to correct him in front of the crowd, they had to do this right. Once the auction began you couldn’t undo all the sales. You’d never have the same group, the same opportunity to get the same price. One shot, that’s all you ever had.
Elmer cleared his throat. “My assistant tells me that for this week the bidding cards are unnecessary, but in the future be prepared to register at the office.”
Wyatt tried not to notice the snickers. He tried not to feel as stupid as he undoubtedly looked.
“So let’s begin now with these fine bulls.”
“Cows,” Wyatt whispered.
“There are five bulls in the arena. Who would like to open the bidding?”
Wyatt rubbed his forehead. At least everyone else knew the difference between a milk cow and a bull. Surely he wouldn’t have to void the sale based on Elmer’s mistaken description, but was he not going to get to auctioneer at all? Did Elmer plan to do the actual selling, too?
“Seven cents,” Caesar Parrow called out.
Elmer dropped the gavel against the table. “Seven cents, my man? You must think me ignorant. Even I know that bulls don’t sell for a penny each.”
Wyatt spun to face him. “They are sold by the pound, Mr. Wimplegate. By the pound.”
Slowly Elmer lowered to his seat. Finally Wyatt had his full attention. “But how can they figure what they’re worth? They have to multiply the weight by the price to see what they’ll bring.”
“They have a good idea what they’re worth by the pound, and we have charts in the office that give us the exact amo
unt. It’s not complicated.” But he couldn’t take his eyes off the white veined hand holding his gavel.
Elmer straightened the cuff of his shirt. “I think I understand.” He stood again. By now, the farmers had kicked back, leaned against the step behind them, and prepared to enjoy the show. And Wyatt was about to throw his tie away and join them.
“So seven cents. The bidding starts at seven cents.” Elmer paused. Only the animals disturbed the silence. Outside, pigs squealed and the yard boys hollered as they loaded up the alleys with the next animals. Josiah peeked through the window, wondering why he hadn’t been given the call to open the north gate and remove the animals yet.
Wyatt’s hopes for a quick sale were dead.
Elmer turned to him. “Why aren’t they bidding?”
“You aren’t doing it the way they’re used to.”
Mr. Watson stood and waved his coonskin hat. “Turn Wyatt loose. He’ll show you how it’s done.”
Elmer sputtered a protest, but as the shouts increased, he sank into his chair, defeated. The loose skin on his neck waggled. He pushed the gavel in Wyatt’s direction. “You win. Go on.”
Here he was again, humiliating someone publicly, but what else could Wyatt do? The sale had to continue. Getting these animals sold was more important than saving Mr. Wimplegate’s pride. Wyatt wrapped his fingers around the familiar handle. The flat indention on the gold band fit against the pad of his thumb. Like a fish dropped into the stream, like a pigeon released from the cage, he stood, even forgetting that he was dressed like a Parisian peddler, and bellowed in a deep baritone.
“We’re right glad you came out today and we apologize for the late start. But since we’re all accounted for and have some cows awaiting us, let’s get right into it. Seven cents will start the sale for these cows straight from Turnbull’s dairy.” And from there the musical cadence began to roll. “Who’ll give me seven . . . seven . . . who’llgivemeseven . . . There. . . . misterparrowonthefrontbench . . . now. . . . sevenandahalf . . . sevenandahalf . . . doIhearahalffromanyone . . . Yes . . . misterwatsonbidssevenandahalf . . . we’reuptoeightnow . . . onlyeightforthesegoodcows . . . lotsofmilk . . . enoughforyourneighbors.”
If he forgot that Elmer was the boss and that Elmer was sitting at his side, it was for the best. Wyatt had been waiting for weeks to get rid of these animals. The customers were ready to buy, the owners had been ready to sell for days, and Wyatt was ready to prove himself once again.
Chapter 12
Did animals know how bad they smelled? Even inside the office, the odor was as thick as clam chowder. Miranda rolled her pencil between her fingers, wishing she knew how to help. The line of impatient people stretched out the door into the midday heat, but all she could do was lean over the desk and watch Mr. Murphy. He traced a horizontal line across the page, squinted through his spectacles, then transferred the number to an account book.
“You owe twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents.” He craned his neck upward to the farmer standing before him.
The farmer already held a wad of bills and counted out the amount. From experience Miranda knew that most of that money would go to the one who brought the animal in, but a portion would stay with the auction house—their fee for brokering the deal. She wondered if this place got the same six percent that they did in Boston. Difficult to eke out a living on the slim margin. The more profitable opportunity was in snatching up the artwork that was underselling. Of course the auctioneer couldn’t take his own bid, but a representative for the house could. Her father played this role. If their job was to get the best price for their customer, then their bids were appreciated and those undervalued works might bring a pretty penny in the warehouse.
An open window admitted a hot breeze into the room, fluttering the pages of an out-of-date calendar hanging on the wall. Unlike their auction house, the Pine Gap barn didn’t bother much with embellishments. How differently she’d imagined this place when Father first mentioned it. Ridiculous to think that someone had sent an heirloom portrait here. Maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe the painting hadn’t been shipped to Missouri at all. She only had a few more houses left to visit, and they didn’t sound like the type to harbor the missing plutocrat.
“What are you doing in here?” The woman’s round shoulders melted into breasts that were supported by the apron tied around her waist.
Miranda had never seen her before and didn’t know what her offense was, but began apologizing anyway. “I’m sorry. My grandfather owns this auction house. I really don’t mean to be any trouble.”
The woman tugged her apron higher and sneered. “Because you’ve been no trouble at all. Not even when I had to wait two weeks to sell my chickens.”
“And your grandfather harassed my wife,” a young man wearing overalls piped up. “He trespassed on our property claiming to be looking for some artist. A likely story, if you ask me.”
So that’s where he went after leaving the churchyard? He’d refused to tell her.
“What do you mean our tickets aren’t ready?” a cowboy growled to the cattleman behind him. “It’s that old man. That’s who’s holding up the show.”
Miranda wanted to melt into the desk when a mountaineer gnawing on a cob of corn spoke up. “What’s that? They don’t have the tickets yet? Should’ve known that uppity fellar didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Maybe Mr. Ballentine needs some help in the salon . . . I mean the arena,” Miranda suggested.
The woman sneered. “You go on and ask what the holdup is. Wyatt will appreciate it.”
Of course he wouldn’t, but it was either go, or stay and listen as Grandfather took the blame for the delay. But how could Grandfather be to blame when he was standing in the doorway of the auction house doing business of his own?
“Have you stopped selling?” But even as she asked, she realized that she could hear Wyatt calling the bids from the arena.
“Miranda, may I introduce you to Mr. Leland Moore? He’s been telling me about the opportunities he sees abounding here. Evidently, there are some very lucrative deals.”
Red rimmed the man’s watery blue eyes. Tufts of blond whiskers spotted his jaw, making an uneven fringe. Miranda stepped closer to the wall. “What kinds of deals are those?” she asked.
“I’ll let you know when it’s time. Can’t have you fretting over nothing.” Then Grandfather motioned Moore outside in an obvious attempt to leave Miranda behind, but after a moment of internal debate, she followed him. She passed through the spacious hallway, stomach rumbling at the savory aromas seeping out of every basket hanging from a woman’s arm. Stopping in the yard, Miranda was hailed by Betsy. The woman Betsy was bringing to her walked with grace and a sense of balance that Miranda only then realized she’d missed seeing. Here everyone walked bending forward or leaning back as if perpetually accounting for the hills they traversed. This lady stood upright—sea legs, as Miranda’s captain uncle would’ve deemed them.
“Miranda, this here is Miss Abigail.” Betsy reached backward to catch her hand and hurry her forward.
“Abigail Calhoun.” She wore a blue riding dress that perfectly suited her fair complexion. Curvy Miranda envied her elegant lines. “Betsy tells me that you’re visiting from Boston.”
“Yes, ma’am. My grandfather and I.”
“And her grandfather is batty as all get out,” Betsy added cheerfully. “Miranda has her hands plumb full keeping him out of trouble.”
“Betsy!” Abigail grimaced by way of apology. “Please excuse the girl. As much as we’ve tried, we can’t beat any manners into her.”
Betsy only grinned.
“I’m afraid there’s some truth to it,” Miranda admitted. “He’s gone off with Mr. Moore to discuss a business venture. I’m not sure whether I should intervene or not.”
Abigail Calhoun shaded her eyes and scanned the amassing of wagons, mules, horses, and buggies. “There’s poor company, and then there’s Leland Moore.”
“He
’d rob a squirrel of its last nut,” Betsy added wide-eyed. Then she pointed. “Over there.”
Truly Miranda had planned to do this on her own, but having two companions gave her weak skull some extra protrusions. Seeing their approach, the weasely man crammed some bills into his pocket. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth and Grandfather spun to face them.
“Is there a problem?” Once, back in Boston when Grandfather was selling a painting, a bidder called out from the audience that it was a fake. That was the only other time Miranda had seen him puff up like he was now. Not a good sign.
“Wyatt needs your help inside,” Miranda said.
“I’ve got more important things to do.”
Abigail stepped forward with a gentle smile. “How are you feeling, Leland? I do hope this isn’t moonshine money you’re collecting.”
“I’ve got business dealings with Mr. Wimplegate, and they ain’t none of your concern,” Moore said.
“The only business you know is the business side of a jug,” Betsy said.
“You know Doctor Hopkins said you’d feel much better once you’ve kicked that nasty habit.” Abigail said it as compassionately as a saint.
“Come on, Grandfather. Let’s discuss things before you make any big decisions.” Miranda took him by the arm, but he shook her off.
“I’ve been trading and selling since before you or your father were born. I refuse to acquire your permission before I invest my own money. Forgive my granddaughter, Moore. She’s forgetting her place.”
He took the man by his threadbare sleeve and turned to march away from them.
“Moore,” Abigail called, “Jeremiah has been looking forward to having a discussion with you over the corn seed you borrowed last spring. Expect him to call on you soon.” But Moore already had his ear bent to Grandfather’s grandiose plans.
What new mischief was this? But she appreciated the kindness of the woman who’d tried to intervene. “Well, thank you, anyway,” Miranda said. “I’m grateful.”
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