At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  “Let’s go in,” Betsy said, now fully awake.

  The thin wire dug into her hand as she lifted it over the post and swung open the light gate. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” The soggy ground sponged beneath her boots as she stepped forward.

  “Shut the gate,” the doctor called. From his hand dangled a bouquet of feathers. Squirming feathers. Was that a chicken?

  Miranda stretched the wire over the post to secure the coop. The thud of a hatchet on wood drummed against her ears. She spun. A flash of metal and then the ball of feathers came alive.

  It couldn’t be a chicken because it had no head. Only a bloody stump of a neck remained. And then Dr. Hopkins released it. With hurricane force, it bounced, flopped, and whirled directly at Miranda. She fell back into the chicken wire, but her feet were as heavy as granite. She couldn’t move. The maniacal beast was doing all the moving for both of them. It knew neither up nor down. With flapping wings it hurled itself into the air and into her face.

  Shrieking, Miranda covered her head with her arms. “Get it away!” she yelled and got a mouthful of feathers. She fell backward. The thin chicken wire gave way, and she crashed through the frame of the gate. Lying on her back and swatting at the spinning bundle of bloody feathers, she repelled it again and again, terrified of the unworldly beast. Then as suddenly as it’d begun its attack, the monster succumbed to exhaustion and dropped next to her. Miranda rolled away from the horrid twitching lump. On hands and knees, she scrambled over the fallen chicken wire to get some distance between her and the monster before collapsing on her backside.

  Miranda swiped the hair off her face, only then noticing how dirty her gloves were. Her hat covered one eye. A strand of hair had lashed across her mouth and tasted nothing like her shampoo. She shoved her hat into its rightful territory as the world beyond the flurry of feathers came again into focus.

  Betsy stood frozen in place. Her blue eyes bulged. Her hand covered her mouth. The doctor’s face was pulled into a tight grimace that would admit no grins, nevermind that his eyes were streaming with tears and his shoulders shook with barely suppressed mirth.

  Miranda dusted off her hands and tried to rip her skirt free from the chicken wire. “I think it’s dead now.”

  Suddenly Betsy took off at a run toward the front of the house. “Wyatt! Wyatt! We need your help.”

  Miranda tottered to her feet. “Shh, Betsy. I don’t need help.” The chicken wire stubbornly refused to release her skirt. She yanked at it again. Wyatt jogged into sight just as she dropped the fencing and got her first look at the clumps of wet straw clinging to her gown.

  Finally the doctor remembered his vocation. “Are you injured?” He took her arm and disentangled her from the frame and wire bunched about her knees.

  How she wished she could faint and remain insensible until she arrived back in Boston!

  Wyatt and the doctor continued to untangle the wire as Grandfather and Uncle Fred came around the back of the house. Uncle Fred pulled out a small tablet and began to scribble furiously. Betsy stood next to him on her tiptoes. She craned her nose over the tablet. “I witnessed the whole thing, if you need a source.”

  Miranda halted her repairs. “Did I break a law?”

  Uncle Fred licked his pencil. “You performed wonderfully. This will sell more papers than Caesar Parrow’s two-headed calf.”

  Now Dr. Hopkins smiled. “You mean my chicken coop will be in the journal? Why, the whole county will read of it. Isn’t that something?”

  “Why would you write about a chicken coop? Nothing important happened.” Miranda’s heart sank as he continued to jot his pencil across the paper. How many days would it take before the paper ran and could she be on the train by then?

  Wyatt pulled the mangled gate aside. “Hopkins, you might want to get your birds in the henhouse until you have a chance to repair this fence.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll have time to fix it. Tomorrow I’m checking on patients. . . .”

  “Property owner worried that damage will not be repaired. . . .” Fred mumbled as his pencil moved.

  “Grandfather will have it fixed,” Miranda said.

  “I’m not responsible,” Grandfather said.

  “This just gets better and better,” Fred cheered and his pencil moved again. “Interloping business tycoon wreaks havoc on local residents. . . .”

  Betsy clapped her hands. “Be sure and mention that she was attacked by a headless chicken. That’ll sell like hotcakes.”

  His head raised as he noticed the dead bird for the first time. He winked at Betsy and continued writing.

  “I want to go home.” Miranda pushed her bonnet back. Since the crash, it’d formed its own opinion of where it belonged and kept creeping over one eye. Now out of the way, she had a full view of the handsome man who was rising from the destruction she’d caused—the man who had the nerve to stare pointedly at her hat. His eyes traveled down to her shoulders, over her every curve—curves now adorned by clumps of chicken-coop confetti.

  Wyatt stretched his arms before him and pretended to flick a spot of dust off his spotless elbow. “I understand now why your grandfather insists on keeping up appearances. Really, I’m shocked at your. . . . slovenliness?”

  She humphed. “Bet you’ve never used that word before.”

  “Because it never fit the situation half so well.” A shy smile teased at his lips. Miranda hoped that she’d remember how charming it looked at a time when she could appreciate it more.

  “Let’s go inside,” Dr. Hopkins said. “Laurel will want to get this chicken ready for supper, and it’s getting hot out here.”

  Still bending the newsman’s ear, Grandfather followed the doctor and Betsy inside, leaving Miranda alone in Wyatt’s company.

  “Fred Murphy? Is he really the newspaper man? And will people really hear about this?” she asked.

  “You’re already big news around here. This story will guarantee people will talk about you for weeks.”

  “I don’t seek attention. Of that you may be sure.”

  “No. You prefer to keep much hidden, don’t you?”

  She was still trying to remove the sundry articles clinging to her skirt, and now this? Not a safe topic, especially with the journalist just inside. “This mess is driving me to distraction,” she said. “I’d love to discuss my personal attributes, but the dismal state of my wardrobe has me occupied at the moment.”

  Wyatt stepped in front of her. Her stomach tightened. Whatever she was trying to accomplish, this wasn’t it. Slowly he took her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. Standing there as he was, brown flecking in his green eyes, broad shoulders and perfect posture, he could’ve modeled for one of those risqué art classes the rich ladies so loved—if he’d only lose the beard. He tilted her head this way and that. At some point she’d stopped breathing, probably the moment the rough texture of his hands registered on her skin. Then with deliberation he wet his thumb on his tongue and applied it to her neck. With firm strokes he rubbed a path to her collarbone. The lack of oxygen was becoming a problem, especially as fast as her heart was beating.

  “You had some blood splattered,” he said.

  She opened her eyes. When had they closed? She took a half-step to the side to reacquaint herself with the earth’s tilt. He grasped her arm.

  “Taking care of Grandfather,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. Not to stand around . . . with you.”

  Something ornery flashed in his green eyes. “Why else are you here, Miranda Wimplegate? Maybe I can help, if you’ll come clean.”

  Coming clean was a big concern. Should she be feeling this way while her skirt was still adorned with dubious substances from the bottom of a chicken coop? But she couldn’t tell him about the painting. Not without Grandfather’s permission—even if it meant that she had to continue these fruitless searches. Even if she had to go out alone on dark nights to places much worse than the underside of the arena seating. Even then, she couldn’
t tell anyone what they were looking for. She’d take the secret to her grave.

  Wyatt took her chin again. This time his eyes traveled down to her lips. “The answer is right there.” His gaze softened. “Right there on your lips just begging you to share this burden—”

  “A painting,” Miranda blurted. “We’re looking for a lost painting.” So much for taking her secret to the grave. But she couldn’t pull herself away, not until he’d stopped searching her soul with those green eyes. “It’s very important to us. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Are you kidding? Isaac’s always telling me I’m too sentimental about things. I can’t seem to throw away anything that belonged to my parents—even Ma’s broken churn. I think I understand perfectly.”

  It wasn’t exactly the same, but this painting did mean a lot to her family.

  Finally his hand fell to his side and he scanned the horizon. “I haven’t seen a painting. That I can promise you.”

  A breeze cooled her skin as though she’d shrugged off a heavy coat. Miranda’s shoulders drooped. “Please don’t tell Grandfather. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  He brought his gaze back to hers. “Are you sure you’re looking in the right place? What makes you think it’s here?”

  “I don’t have time . . .” The door to the cabin opened.

  Laurel waved. “Don’t worry about your clothes,” she called. “I put a towel on the sofa and I can sweep up after you leave.”

  Miranda swiped again at her ruined gown.

  “You aren’t going to find any fancy painting in there,” Wyatt said. “But I’ll be thinking on it. Anything I can do to help.”

  Guilt. After all the trouble they’d caused him, and he was still offering his best. “But why? We messed up your plans, so why are you helping us?”

  Wyatt’s throat jogged as he studied her. “I see how you care about your family. You must be a good person to love Elmer so much, and he must have been quite a man to earn it. Seeing you two just makes me want to help.”

  Miranda balanced on shaky knees. She’d held a grudge against him ever since she’d arrived, and she’d been horribly mistaken.

  She smoothed her skirt, the fabric crinkling beneath her hands. “I haven’t given you credit for all the help you’ve been to him . . . to me. Thank you.”

  Now he held her gaze—his face frank and unguarded. Her skin warmed. He really shouldn’t stare like that. She might get the wrong impression.

  “Just for this moment, for those words—it’s all been worth it.”

  Chapter 16

  Isaac had stolen the wagon again. As much as Wyatt hated to have him dawdling around town, he did wish he’d find a lady friend within walking distance instead of traveling up the mountain every time he wanted to go calling. Who was she, anyway? Couldn’t be too particular if she was impressed by the mule-drawn feed wagon.

  Wyatt slammed the barn door and stomped to the street, thinking on how he had nothing better to offer, either. Miranda’s doctor-cousin probably had a shiny buggy pulled by ten white horses. Every day he probably wore suits like the one Elmer bought him. He probably had cooks who made oysters and lobster and all that strange coastal food that Wyatt would never get to eat. No, he couldn’t impress Miranda. All he could offer her was protection while she was here, which wouldn’t be for long. If it was up to her, she’d be on the next train and never look back.

  Wyatt turned onto the town square and cut across the green. Too bad he was all grown up now and had to wear boots. He used to be partial to the feel of the grass on his bare feet, but those times were past. Most of the joys of his childhood were just memories now, memories that had faded with nothing new to replace them. What was it that kept him in Pine Gap, anyway? Since his parents died he had no reason to stay. The town needed the sale barn, but it didn’t necessarily need him. Someone else could manage it, but could he leave behind the legacy his father had entrusted to him?

  “Wyatt, I failed to get you your due,” Pa had said one hot afternoon as he lay atop his sheets, ringed with sweat. “You should’ve had much more, but this is all I can leave you.”

  The wooden gavel wavered in his weakened grasp. Wyatt took it, still questioning his father’s pride in the gift. Still not sure that he even wanted the responsibility. He didn’t see a grand future working for Mr. Pritchard. Pa had always dreamed of buying the sale barn for himself and employing all his sons there, but as the years went by, Pete and Clifford grew tired of waiting, willing to leave for the promise of ready money. He’d expected Isaac to follow in their footsteps. Instead he seemed content to hang around and live off whatever meager wages Wyatt brought home. The both of them stuck, tied to their father’s plans.

  Not that Wyatt despised his life, but with the sale of the barn it seemed even more unlikely that he’d live up to his father’s wishes. Why couldn’t he pack up and go somewhere else? Maybe even Boston. He was a hard worker. He could make a name for himself wherever he went, and maybe once he found success Miranda would even consider . . .

  Wyatt rubbed his neck as he passed beneath the hanging oak. He might leave someday, but he could never go to Boston. Not with the chance that someone would hear of his return. Someone would put two and two together and proclaim him for what he was—an interloper, an outcast, unwanted. And he couldn’t let Miranda know. He’d better stay here where no one knew him as anything but the Ballentines’ son.

  He turned the corner to see Postmaster Finley driving up the road, all decked out in his striped fancy traveling clothes. As Wyatt approached, Mrs. Finley scolded the three tussling boys in the back of wagon, reminding him again of his childhood. The boys settled down, the little one sitting away from the others on a large flat crate.

  “So where are you’uns headed?” Wyatt asked the postmaster.

  The man stopped and swatted at a wasp. “We’re going over Jasper way where Maude’s family is. Going to see a new niece or nephew, whichever the stork brought.”

  “But Pine Gap is the long way around, isn’t it?”

  “I have a delivery, although I’m not sure it’s going to do any good.” He jabbed his thumb at the crate in the back of the wagon. “This was supposed to get off the train at Pine Gap, but the porter missed it, so they unloaded it at the Manes Depot weeks ago. I told them I’d never heard of anyone by the name of Yves, but I’d bring it here and let the stationmaster deal with it. He can ship it back if he don’t have any more luck than I did.”

  Wyatt’s skin puckered like he’d been hit with a bucket of ice. “How’s that spelled?”

  “Y-V-E-S. Yves Andres Thibault. Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous name?”

  If he only knew. Wyatt hadn’t heard that name pronounced since his mother died, but she’d taught him how to say it correctly. He studied the flat crate beneath the boy. What could it be? Flat and as large as a small tabletop. Who knew him by that name and what could they want?

  “I’ll take care of it.” Wyatt dragged his eyes from the crate. Rule number one of the auction—don’t show your interest. Nonchalant. Was that a foreign word, too?

  But this wasn’t an auction. Why not just tell Finley? Wyatt’s chest tightened. Illegitimate. Not belonging. Under the best circumstances he didn’t like the reminder, didn’t like the conversations that followed about how he was left, why he needed a family. Now, with Miranda and her grandfather reminding him minute by minute how lowly he was, he really didn’t want any attention brought to his past. He felt like a fool for hoping, but neither could he let that delivery return on the train without knowing who was seeking him. Did he have some family after all?

  The mother caught the shoulder of the boy’s jacket and pulled him off the crate. Middle son scooted out of the way, and the boys helped push it to the tailgate. The crate spanned his arms from elbow to elbow. Not heavy, but awkward to maneuver.

  “Do you need the boys to help?” Finley asked.

  “No, sir. I’ve got it. Thank you.”

  Finley’
s brow lowered. “You sure about this? You don’t mind seeing it to its rightful owner?”

  “No trouble at all.” Wyatt’s damp collar stuck to his neck, but the rough wood of the crate barely registered in his calloused hands. As the postmaster rolled away, Wyatt looked up and down the road. He’d worried enough about Isaac taking the wagon, but he couldn’t be sorry his brother wasn’t there to mock him and whatever was held inside. And he didn’t much want to run into anyone else, either.

  Head down, he hurried up the hill to his house. Dr. Hopkins crossed his path, but he must’ve been in a hurry, for he didn’t slow to say howdy. When Wyatt stepped off the road and onto the narrow overgrown path, he breathed a sigh of relief. What could it be? Half excited, half dreading, he didn’t know what to expect. He propped the crate up with his knee and cranked on the doorknob. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and didn’t slow down until he was in his room.

  Easing the crate to the floor, he unsheathed his knife, knelt, and inserted the wide blade between the planks. Wyatt pried, but the nails were too tight. He jerked the knife free, then with sweaty palms, rubbed his hands against his pant leg. He needed a pinch bar. His father’s was in the shed, but before he left he flipped the crate and smoothed his hand over the label pasted there.

  Yves Andres Thibault—Hart County, Missouri.

  Shipped from Boston, Massachusetts.

  Boston. Location of his family—the ones who didn’t want him anymore. This could be something significant. In a flash he ran down the stairs, busted through the back door, threw tools everywhere, and then returned to his room. Once Isaac came home he couldn’t lock him out. He had to do what he could with the time he had.

  Now with the added leverage, the fresh pine protested before splitting to reveal a framed . . . something . . . tightly wrapped in butcher paper. Heart pounding, Wyatt ripped the paper away. Long ribbons of the noisy tissue floated about the room as a gold corner emerged, an envelope fluttered to the floor, and vibrant colors burned through the haze to reveal a sneering aristocrat challenging him with a face that looked curiously familiar.