At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  His forehead wrinkled. “Tomorrow? So soon?” He blew out a long breath. His hand went to his mouth, as if trying to hold back words. After a bit he spoke, his voice gruff. “Can I write you?”

  She nodded her consent.

  “And if I should ever find myself in Boston . . . ?” Miranda froze. Wyatt in Boston? She tried to evaluate the bearded mountaineer as if seeing him for the first time and was terrified by the thought of him appearing in front of their customers. She managed a weak smile.

  “Please do. That would be . . . pleasant.”

  Something in the brush must have caught his attention, for he looked away.

  Miranda waited, but clearly he had nothing left to say. What could he say beyond good-bye? That was all they had left.

  And this would be the end. The end of her quest to help her family. The end of her freedom. And the end of sharing the company of this complex man. How had she thought that going home would solve all her problems?

  Chapter 18

  The stiff frame tilted gently in Wyatt’s hands and the morning sun glinted off the knowing smile of his forebearer.

  You know she wants me. That’s what she’s here for. Why don’t you come clean and tell her instead of keeping me hidden under your bed? The dust tickles my nose.

  “You are my kin,” Wyatt said. “I can’t give you up. Not yet. I have to think this through.” How he’d hated not telling Miranda. It ate away at his gut like a cancer, especially since she had made a special trip to see him. But what if Miranda suspected the picture was coming to him all along? What if she’d been sweet-talking him just to get close?

  You call that sweet talk? Boy, you need to get out more. Doesn’t seem to me that she likes you much at all.

  “She does,” Wyatt answered. “She might not know it yet, but she does. And what if you can help me win her?”

  Now you’re talking. Sell me and buy that smelly auction house from her grandfather. It would be quite amusing to have one’s image traded for an animal sale barn.

  “I don’t think the sale barn will win her. I’ve already written to Aunt Corinne. I need to see what else is at stake.”

  One eyebrow seemed to lift until it bumped the pony-tailed white wig. That Corinne—always a troublemaker. Don’t you wonder what all the secrecy is for? Why would she send you a family heirloom if you were illegitimate?

  “Heirloom? You think pretty highly of yourself.”

  And why would someone come all this way to take the painting from you? I mean, I’ve always been a catch as far as the ladies were concerned, but no one ever traveled to a wilderness for me.

  The powder blue of Monsieur LeBlanc’s fancy coat wouldn’t match Ma’s pretty wallpaper, but somehow Wyatt already knew that he wouldn’t be hanging this picture in the parlor. He had turned a corner. Slowly God was prying what he’d once cherished out of his hands. The future he’d fought Isaac over didn’t have the same allure it once had. Wyatt eased the painting beneath the wooden frame of his bed and pulled the quilt down low over the side.

  What to do about Miranda? He couldn’t imagine that she was a thief, but with her grandfather’s confusion, who knew what he might have told her? The only thing Wyatt could be certain of was that it was no coincidence they’d come from Boston on the very same train as his painting.

  Time to get them. With growing conviction, Wyatt knew he’d be in Boston soon, but not yet. Not until he heard more from Aunt Corinne and not until he could guarantee that his surprise gift was safe.

  He dreaded saying good-bye to Miranda as much as he looked forward to seeing her on Widow Sanders’ porch. And when he reached the Garden of the Year, there she was . . . with Isaac. Wyatt tugged his hat down low. He’d failed to ask his brother where he was headed to that morning. Should’ve known he’d spend every moment he could with Miranda, which is exactly what Wyatt would’ve done if he wasn’t afraid of slipping up and saying too much. The mules stopped in front of the house, already accustomed to his frequent visits.

  Evidently Elmer had started the day in rare form. “In all my days I’ve never known your father to need me so desperately,” he railed to Miranda. He held his crystal-topped cane beneath his arm while he tugged on his gloves. “Don’t you worry, Wyatt. A quick trip home to straighten out this mess he’s made, and I’ll be back to resume business here. In less than a month we’ll be rolling again.”

  “Until then you want me to keep the sale going?” Wyatt asked.

  “Not completely. I don’t trust your eye.” Elmer’s face crinkled in disapproval. “You can keep selling the animals, but leave the fine art to me.” He cast a longing glance at Lady Godiva in the garden.

  Wyatt released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. In other words, he could run the sale barn just as he always had. Giving up Elmer’s mad fascination with worthless doodads was no sacrifice. He darted a glance toward Lady Godiva and nearly choked. Her honey-colored torso had been draped in a modest kitchen apron. He grinned.

  Miranda stepped next to him. “Widow Sanders insisted she be covered.” Her low words were meant only for him. “Betsy helped me find something suitable.”

  “Lady Godiva isn’t going with you?”

  “Alas, no.” Her mouth tipped up. “Grandfather didn’t want her thrown into the luggage compartment, and I refuse to ride with her in the seat next to me. He said she can stay and greet him when he comes back.”

  “He’s coming back?”

  Her eyes lowered. “It’s unlikely. Unless he recovers once we’re home, I don’t think he should leave again.”

  “What about you?” He blurted the question before he thought better of it. “Are you coming back?” Wyatt waited for a response, but she lifted her eyes, and the sorrow he saw there was her answer.

  She didn’t want to leave him. She cared about him, with or without a painting. He couldn’t ask her to stay, and he had no part in her world, but he couldn’t help but wonder what it’d take to earn his way.

  He took Elmer’s traveling case and scanned the empty porch. “Where’s your trunk?”

  “Josiah hauled it to the depot this morning, along with a crate of Laurel Hopkins’ apple dolls and Arabella’s rag rugs.”

  “And yet you leave Lady Godiva here.”

  “I’ll take her,” Isaac said. “She’d look good in Ma’s vegetable garden.”

  “Ma would rise from the dead before she let you put that in her garden,” Wyatt said. He lifted the traveling case into the back of the wagon. Maybe Widow Sanders could convince Mr. Rinehart’s wife that the statue came from the Montgomery Ward catalog. That was their only hope.

  He watched as Widow Sanders hugged both Miranda and Elmer. Betsy had been by the night before and said her good-byes, but a sick nephew was keeping her busy today.

  “I can’t go with you to the depot, so I’d best say good-bye here.” Isaac pressed a gallant kiss on her hand.

  Wyatt glared innumerable silent threats until Miranda reclaimed her hand. At least Isaac wasn’t tagging along. He probably had another lady friend up the mountain fixing dinner for him.

  Elmer climbed up onto the seat, obviously not pleased he was being forced to leave. Wyatt had to hand it to Miranda, she’d at least accomplished that much. Wyatt walked to his side of the wagon and turned to find Miranda following him. He held out his hand, unable to forget how she avoided him on their first ride together.

  When she’d arrived she was the enemy, but now she was a friend—a friend who might want to steal his most treasured possession—but life was complicated.

  She slid her hand into his and gripped firmly. Positioned before the wheel, she paused. Didn’t look his direction, didn’t give any sign beyond the tight grip that she knew he was there. Finally, she lifted the hem of her dark brown dress and climbed up into the wagon.

  It was time to go.

  Her eyes were as blurry as her posture was sharp. Wyatt told her to speak up for herself, to know what she wanted and to pursue it, and then he bundled her u
p into the wagon and sent her on her way. Either he wasn’t following his own advice, or he didn’t think as much of her as she wanted him to. The mules plodded slowly down the mountain to the depot in the valley.

  Maybe Wyatt was more practical than he preached. Maybe he knew she had no choice but to accompany Grandfather home. If only he realized how badly she’d wanted to succeed here. How she hated returning home empty-handed. She who’d do anything to ease the suffering of a hungry shoeshine boy had failed in the biggest crusade of her life. Just when she was learning to assert herself, she had to give up and return defeated. Father’s telegram had given her what she wanted—a way home—but already she wondered if she’d given up too easily.

  A few wagons stood at the depot. Farming on the Sabbath wasn’t acceptable, so many made their trips to town under the pretense of meeting the circuit-riding preacher, although he’d only been through once a month. Horse tails swished in rhythm as lazy flies looked for an unprotected spot of hide. After the recent rain, the light had a crispness about it that would be difficult to capture on canvas, but not impossible for a master.

  Wyatt threw the brake. His shoulder bounced against hers as he took a deep breath. Staring straight ahead, he sighed and then climbed down. Again, she took his hand. Again, she didn’t want to release it. But he pulled out of her grasp, and instead of handing her down, he took her by the waist.

  “My brother kissed your hand,” he said. His fingers tightened around her waist as the train whistle echoed in the valley.

  Miranda’s heart did a flip-flop. “He’s just a friend.”

  “What am I?”

  A sudden attack of shyness overtook her. She had no answer. Taking her hand, he lifted it to him. Her gloves covered all but the pressure of his lips, but the gesture went to her heart.

  “I’ll miss you, Miranda Wimplegate.”

  How she wanted to stay with him. To have nothing else that demanded her allegiance, no duty that lay a prior claim to her conscience. Her throat constricted. “I’ll miss you, too, Wyatt Ballentine.”

  With a roaring shudder and squealing brakes, the train rolled into the depot. Smoke chugged out from the stack atop the black engine.

  One last squeeze, then he released her and rearranged his hat. “Looks like they’re loading your trunk.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “And the apple dolls.”

  Grandfather had found his bag. He waved at the train standing ready. “If you insist on our departure, then we’d better go. They won’t wait.”

  She knew what she was leaving, but what would she find at home? “Good-bye, then,” Miranda said. “And thank you for everything.”

  He waved away her thanks. “Don’t be surprised if I show up in Boston looking for that rhubarb pie you owe me.” He escorted her to the train. Why hadn’t he been this charming from the onset? Given more time, she could’ve grown even fonder of him. But what difference would it have made? Only caused more sorrow at their parting?

  The porter reached down for her hand. With one last lingering caress, she relinquished Wyatt’s arm and boarded the train. Grandfather stepped up behind her.

  “Your father is making a mistake,” Grandfather said. “What are we going to tell the LeBlanc family? How will we face them?”

  “We did what we could, Grandfather. There was no trace of that painting. It disappeared into thin air.”

  He grunted and motioned to the nearest seats. “I don’t like to lose, that’s all. We’ve surrendered and now we’re in full retreat. Shameful.”

  Miranda slid inside the row. She didn’t like it, either. What would be the cost once they arrived home? Once the consequences of their failure began to manifest, would she wish that she’d tried harder? If the long hours on the road home gave her inspiration on how she could’ve handled Grandfather, it’d be too late. Her only chance would be lost. Would she regret giving up so easily?

  She turned to the window. Wyatt leaned against the wagon, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t leaving until they rolled out of sight. Slowly he straightened and lowered his arms as a rotund man approached, freshly off the passenger car behind her. His black derby hat marked him for a stranger just as surely as her layers of silk had. Wyatt frowned. He seemed to ripple with indignation. He shook his head and pointed at a buggy farther on. Was the man looking for a ride into town?

  Grandfather propped his cane between his knees as the train whistle blew. “Two more weeks. That’s all we needed. And I don’t know what the rush to get back home is. Even if we didn’t find the portrait, this is an untapped source of craftsmanship. Our investments here . . .”

  The man marched toward the wagon Wyatt had suggested. As he passed, he turned toward the train. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a notepad and flipped through, looking for some information his triangular head hadn’t been able to retain.

  Miranda grabbed Grandfather’s arm. “I made a mistake. Get off the train.”

  His face crumpled in confusion. His cane wobbled.

  “Now.” She rose and tugged at his sleeve. It wasn’t too late. Not yet. “Get up and get off the train.”

  He grabbed his bag. “You don’t have to convince me, but I’d like to know what changed your mind.”

  Miranda hopped from foot to foot, expecting the floor to begin swaying beneath her at any moment. Hurry, she prayed. Let him hurry. At quick glance through the glass, she saw the man climbing into the wagon. Well, he couldn’t disappear. Wyatt would know whose wagon he rode in, and he’d be easy to find after that. She and Grandfather could do this. They could find the picture before this man could. She already knew the town. She had already earned their trust. What could a few more days hurt?

  Grandfather fairly danced down the aisle. “Good for you, Miranda. We’ll stand together against your father. Who does he think he is telling me that I need to come home?”

  If only she could send Grandfather back home without her. But she’d have to deal with him. She couldn’t ignore the evidence right before her eyes. That man had accompanied Monty King to their warehouse after the painting had sold. He could be in Pine Gap for only one reason—Monty King had new information.

  Grandfather teetered at the doorway as the train began to move. Wyatt was already running toward them.

  “Ma’am, you must take your seat,” the porter shouted from the other end of the car.

  “Take him!” she yelled to Wyatt. “Get us down.”

  Clasping Grandfather’s wrist, Wyatt helped the older gent spring forward. Then, jogging a few steps, he was able to offer Miranda the same assistance before the train picked up speed.

  Barely pausing for her to gain her balance, he propelled her away from the platform and the mighty steel wheels clicking behind them. His grip pinched her arm through her sleeve. “What are you doing? You could’ve been killed.”

  She’d like to answer him and tell him she was fine, but she was having trouble catching her breath. Instead, she watched the wagon drawing away and up the hill toward town.

  “I changed my mind,” she gasped. “You said I shouldn’t give up. You said I could win if I tried hard enough.”

  He looked dangerously close to walking away and leaving her standing at the depot just like the first time. “What about your grandpa?” His eyes darted to where Grandfather stood, meticulously dusting off his shoulders. He lowered his voice. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I gave up too soon. We still have time to accomplish our task. In fact, I’d say we just got reinforcements.”

  His brows lowered. “You know that fellow?”

  Grandfather cleared his throat and called out in his loudest auction voice, “Wyatt, tomorrow is Monday! Sale day again! You thought you’d have to do it alone, but I’m back!”

  Thankful for the interruption, Miranda eased out of Wyatt’s grasp. Should she tell him that this was the man who threatened them back in Boston? Did that man know where the painting was? What story had he concocted to explain his appearance? And
if he found it, would his success clear the reputation of the Wimplegate Auction House?

  Standing at the depot baking in the sun wasn’t accomplishing anything beyond blotching her complexion and irritating Wyatt’s mules. As soon as they could get her trunk loaded . . .

  Miranda spun. A hot summer breeze ruffled the puddles on the empty train platform, but no luggage awaited.

  Her gaze followed the twin iron tracks stretching out until they disappeared into the narrow pass that split the mountains. “My trunk.”

  Wyatt held up his hand. Grandfather quieted his litany of tasks. “Excuse me, Mr. Wimplegate. Your granddaughter just said her trunk is on the train.”

  Grandfather’s head snapped to where the train had been standing. “Most unfortunate, Miranda. Most unfortunate indeed. But look at the bright side. Our apple dolls will arrive in Boston before we do. By the time we get there, every respectable home will have one displayed with their other treasures.”

  Of course, Grandfather. Between the silver candelabra and Wedgwood’s Jasperware, the fine ladies of Beacon Hill will proudly display their withered apple dolls. And if she didn’t have a gown to change into, her wardrobe would look worse than the dolls’ simple dresses.

  “I can buy something, I suppose.”

  “Laurel Hopkins sews the dresses for the dolls,” Grandfather said. “She could whip you up something in no time.”

  Just as she feared. Miranda caught the edge of a pleat in her skirt. It might be a boring coffee color, but it was heavily layered and silk. She didn’t want to imagine what might be offered to replace it.

  They made their way to the wagon. Miranda itched for a private word with Grandfather. Had he seen the man? She didn’t think so, and his lack of curiosity over why she changed their course troubled her. What should she tell Wyatt? He wouldn’t approve of her working with this ruffian, but this McSwain character might bring the help they needed.

  Questions tumbled over one another as roughly as the old wagon rolled over the stony road. The thought of getting to be with Wyatt more delighted her. A tiny purr escaped her throat. Wyatt’s arm tensed and his foot slid forward, bouncing against hers. The sudden contact startled her. She nearly topped forward, saved only by catching herself with a hand firmly grasping his knee.