At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  He kept talking, but the rest of his words ricocheted off Wyatt’s ears like bird shot against a horse trough. He’d sold out? Wyatt dropped out of the wagon. He’d worked here since he was big enough to carry a bucket of feed and help his pa. Owning it had always been their dream. When Pa died Wyatt hadn’t changed a thing, even used the old wooden gavel on the auction block just like Pa, but now some stranger would set up shop here? Pritchard hadn’t even given him a chance.

  “ . . . demanded that I stop sales until they came to take over.”

  Wyatt paced the length of the pen, then spun and returned. “It’s gone? Just like that? You know I wanted to buy it.” Because that was what he was supposed to do. Pa had already planned it out.

  “Calm down, Wyatt. You’ll get your chance. This fellow don’t know the first thing about running the place, but he threw a wad of cash at me. Wait two months, three at the longest, and then get it for a pittance. He’ll be glad to be rid of it by then.”

  To be honest, Wyatt didn’t have the money. Not yet, and he wasn’t keen on getting a bank loan. He tugged on his beard. “How much longer do we hold the livestock? Those cattle will bust the pens—”

  “He’s coming in today from Boston. Mr. Elmer Wimplegate was supposed to arrive on the noon train.”

  “I was there before I went to the mill, and I didn’t see—” Wyatt’s teeth snapped together so hard that bright stars shot across his vision. His belly clabbered. A new boss, from Boston of all places? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, you’re too late to give him a ride now. Someone will point him in the right direction. You’d better get inside and get your books in order. Your new boss won’t be in a good mood after walking all the way from the station.”

  And he’d be that much more incensed when he learned that the man who filched his luggage was the manager of his sale barn. So much for first impressions.

  Chapter 5

  They’d walked a half a mile up a rocky road and still no estates were visible. True, the thick forests and mountains on both sides could hide Bunker Hill, but Miranda had thought to see some impressive iron gates or manicured drives. Something besides trees and rocks.

  “No cause for concern.” Grandfather mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “We can’t be far.”

  “It’s not the distance that concerns me. I’m more worried about being accosted by some ruffian in this isolated stretch.” She peered into the thick undergrowth but couldn’t see farther than she could throw a marble bust. Then suddenly, after the next rise, there lay a rough little village before them.

  “Pine Gap.” Grandfather pushed his handkerchief into his breast pocket. “A gap in the pines, and there it is.”

  Or part of it, anyway. A line of white homes and log cabins nestled between the cedars, then disappeared into a dip before showing up again on the rise on the other side of the valley. Brown roofs could be spotted between the leafy cover to the right, giving evidence of another street, but beyond that was uninterrupted wilderness.

  “This isn’t what I was expecting,” Grandfather said at length.

  Miranda tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. Get the painting, and then they could leave. “Someone will have information. Let’s press onward.”

  He smiled at her enthusiasm and continued forward. Miranda’s heavily fringed skirt swung erratically as she picked her way over the uneven ground. Had someone purposefully sown the road with boulders, they couldn’t have made it any bumpier. And she’d always thought the cobblestones of Boston too rough.

  In the nearest yard, a peony bush waved drunkenly at them. Miranda drew back as a sprightly woman emerged, wearing a faded sunbonnet. Behind her stood a small shed—probably made to store her gardening tools in. With a filthy glove she pushed a strand of hair off her wrinkled nose and looked them over.

  “Well, hello. I ain’t never seen you’uns before.”

  Grandfather touched the brim of his hat by way of introduction. “Elmer Wimplegate at your service, ma’am. We just arrived from Boston and are looking for the auction house.”

  At this she pushed up her sleeves and set her hands against her narrow hips. “Boston? You don’t say. I’m Mrs. Sanders—folks around here call me Widow Sanders—and I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone from so far away. That’s a far piece, to be sure. You’re looking for the sale barn?” A fly buzzed around the brim of her bonnet. With lightning precision the woman swatted it down.

  “Perhaps we are talking about the same place,” Grandfather said. “Are you referring to a place that auctions off valuables?”

  “Why, sure. You can buy just about anything at the sale barn. You just follow this road”—here she gestured and Miranda nearly ducked, remembering the fate of the fly—“and see if it don’t take you straight there. Course there hasn’t been any sales this week, and don’t ask me how come. That Pritchard’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “Thank you for your information. I hope our paths cross again.” Grandfather was responding well to this woman’s energy.

  “There ain’t that many paths out here,” she said. “You’re bound to see me sooner or later.”

  Miranda smiled politely as they passed by. The gardener didn’t go back to her work but continued to stare the entire time Miranda and Grandfather were in sight.

  “Well, well, well,” Grandfather said once they were out of earshot. “So the whole town is abuzz with what is going on at the auction? Little do they know we just snatched their treasures for a ridiculously low price.”

  Miranda kept her head ducked. Far be it for her to question her grandfather’s judgment, but she’d be surprised if this town brimmed with fine art and priceless jewelry. Didn’t he see that woman’s clothing? Even if the inhabitants of Pine Gap were the caretakers for the local estates, her simple speech and rough manners would exclude her from service in all but the most humble of establishments. Not since they’d left St. Louis had they seen any community remotely capable of supporting an auction house like theirs. She bit her lip. If they didn’t find the painting, how were they going to afford to pay for their trip, much less the expense of a new auction house?

  The road seemed to dead end at a large red monstrosity constructed with no thought of aesthetics or even decency. The hulking building sported walls blown wide at odd angles as if some interior pressure had warped it out of symmetry.

  “Why would anyone do that to this poor town?” Miranda asked. And then the smell hit her. It was too late. Her opened mouth had captured the taste, so thick she needed to scrape it off her tongue with a butter knife. Grandfather’s handkerchief made another appearance and swiftly covered his nose. Miranda almost crammed her reticule into her mouth but managed to fish out her own handkerchief despite watering eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked. Even the livery stables in town didn’t smell as strong. The giant red barn had stove pipes jutting out at maniacal intervals. Too many stoves for a barn, and of course she’d seen much bigger houses, but none thrown together so haphazardly.

  “Maybe we took a wrong turn.” He lifted his cane toward the open doors, wide enough for a carriage to drive through. “Let’s inquire inside. Or would you like to wait here?”

  What she’d like was to run back home and lock herself in the inventory closet with the oil paintings and Chinese vases. Careful not to breathe any more than necessary, she shook her head. “As long as that outlaw is on the loose, I’m staying with you.”

  They covered the gravel clearing and stepped inside the cavernous passageway. High, fly-specked windows flooded the building with light and illuminated a gated arena set beneath a high platform. “It looks like a sacrificial altar,” Miranda said.

  “I believe the occultists are more sanitary,” Grandfather whispered.

  “Mr. Wimplegate?” A hatless man with unfashionably long hair hurried out of an office.

  “How does he know your name?” Miranda asked, but the man was already pumping her grandfat
her’s hand by way of greeting. Only courtesy forced her handkerchief from her face.

  “Mr. Pritchard here. So sorry we didn’t have someone to pick you up, but here you are. Now, I did just as you asked and haven’t sold a thing ever since you wired the money. We just took everything the folks brought in, but didn’t let none of it go.”

  Grandfather sputtered. “You’re the owner of the auction house?”

  Mr. Pritchard slid his hands into his pockets and rocked from heel to toe. “I was until last week.”

  “But where is it?”

  The rocking stopped. He tilted his head. “Where is what?”

  “The auction house.”

  Mr. Pritchard glanced nervously at Miranda, an occurrence that was happening more frequently as Grandfather lost clarity. “This is the auction house, Mr. Wimplegate. And it’s all yours.”

  Miranda stumbled backwards. Again her eyes traveled the grimy heights of the room to the yellowed windows. They had bought this place? This Gehenna? Oh, Cornelius was right. She should’ve called her mother into their meeting and started planning a wedding instead of packing for this trip.

  “You hold auctions here?” Grandfather asked. “In this filth?”

  “Animals are like to make a mess, sir. And I would’ve never kept them penned up for so long if it weren’t for your instructions. Normally we clean the pens between sale days, but with them full we haven’t had a chance.”

  Pens? What was he talking about? Why would he allow animals inside?

  Grandfather covered his eyes. His fitted gloves couldn’t hide the tremble in his hands. “You’re telling me that I purchased a livestock auction?”

  “Yes, sir, and the only one in the county. Guaranteed to bring a crowd every week.” Mr. Pitchard’s suspenders parted as he thrust his chest forward.

  Miranda could stand silent no longer, not while this man spoke in circles. “But don’t you sell furniture, antiques, and jewelry?” she asked.

  “Sure we do. We sell anything a person wants to be rid of. Widow Sanders even brings her rhubarb pies every week. Now, between you and me, there’s not much market for them, but that doesn’t mean . . . ”

  If Miranda’s greatest fear hadn’t been drawing attention to herself, she’d seriously consider a fit of hysteria about now.

  “I don’t believe this.” Grandfather blinked slowly, as if he’d suddenly been given sight for the first time. “You mean to say this is the business I purchased?”

  He swayed slightly. Miranda must intervene before he lost his focus. Since leaving home, she’d witnessed these bouts more and more frequently. She took him by the arm, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered into his neck, “Grandfather, all is not lost. Remember why we are here.”

  His eyes sharpened and he scanned the hallway. As unlikely as it seemed, someone in the area had the portrait they were looking for. Maybe it wasn’t at the auction as they’d hoped, but they still needed to recover it. Whatever dreams he’d held for this auction house, nothing was more important than finding the painting and saving their business back home.

  “I know nothing about the management of a livestock auction,” Grandfather said. “What am I to do?”

  “Well, that’s a pickle, isn’t it? But you have Mr. Ballentine. He’s our auctioneer and practically runs the place.”

  “Mr. Ballentine?” Miranda asked. Finally a good turn. A man with some manners and decency to aid them. Modulating her voice so she wouldn’t sound too eager, she tightened her grip on Grandfather’s arm. “We met him at the train station. Remember?”

  “You met him?” Pritchard’s batwing eyebrows lowered as he gazed toward an opened door in a hallway. “If you want to wait in the office, he’ll keep you company while I show your grandpa around.”

  Miranda skimmed her hand over the dark fringe of bangs that covered her forehead. How had Isaac-Lad made it here so quickly? Last they’d seen of him, he was headed up the other side of the mountain. And yes, she’d rather ponder the man’s transportation than why she felt suddenly eager to see him again. Maybe it was because he might be the only person on earth who could help them survive this disaster. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t Cousin Cornelius.

  Grandfather’s handkerchief made another appearance as he followed Mr. Pritchard outside. Miranda lifted her chin and composed herself. Although she wasn’t accustomed to dealing directly with men beneath her station, this was business. Nothing she could do to avoid it.

  The door to the office stood open. She eased around the corner and saw him bent over a ledger making tally marks on a pad of paper. She rapped lightly on the door frame, standing half hidden by the entryway. Mr. Ballentine lifted his head. His hair shone lighter than she remembered and he’d grown . . . a . . . beard.

  “You!” she gasped.

  He stood, rippling with the strength of an unspoken threat.

  What was he doing here? Robbing the auction? She squeaked, darted out of the office and ran, shooting a look over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  But she was.

  “Wait.” His shadow stretched across the dirty floor, closing the distance between them. “Where are you going?”

  Good question. Before her was the arena, and she didn’t see a way through the circular pen enclosed by iron bars. She turned a full circle, head tilted up to the highest row of benches, stretching to the roof. She refused to be the next sacrifice. There had to be a way out.

  And that man blocked it.

  She squared her shoulders. “What did you do with Mr. Ballentine? He’s supposed to be in the office.”

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  Was he laughing at her? What kind of sadistic, cruel . . .

  Courage. No matter how her humors were balanced, she had some and needed to use it.

  “I want my grandfather. I . . . I demand that you tell me how to reach him.”

  He shrugged. “You could use the livestock door in the arena. I don’t know that you want to walk through the pens, but—”

  She’d walk through anything rather than spend another moment in his company. With all the dignity she could muster, she heaved open the wide, wooden door.

  Chapter 6

  Wyatt latched the gate closed behind him and let her get a head start. He wouldn’t allow these people to just walk in and avail themselves of his sale barn. That dandy wouldn’t know nothing about the animals, for starters. He wouldn’t know a heifer from a cow, a steer from a bull, a piggy sow from a water-belly. He wouldn’t recognize spavins or mastitis. And he wouldn’t know the people. He wouldn’t know that the Parrows liked to buy all the long-haired goats, and that Leland Moore’s checks were no good. He wouldn’t know that Mr. Finley always lied about his horses’ ages and that Mrs. Rankin needed help driving her livestock home. He wouldn’t know that the 1870 calendar hanging in the office covered a bullet hole from when Fowler and Walters had a falling out, and any mention of the date when the two of them were in the office would spark the feud back to life quicker than a flea could jump off a hot skillet.

  The rough wooden fence rasped against his hand. Running this place didn’t come easy for him, but he wouldn’t let it go. Not without a tussle. Pritchard was right. If he could clamp ahold for a few months, they’d see that they’d gotten themselves in over their heads. He just needed to humor them until they gave up. And try not to steal any more of their belongings.

  He pulled the lever to open the wooden gate and scanned the yards. The stiff breeze stirred up the smells of the overcrowded pens. Wyatt squinted as a gust spat a cloud of dirt into his eyes. Where had she gone? There, by the horses. Wyatt crammed his hat down until the band dug into his forehead, and set his feet moving in her direction. She clutched the old fellow’s sleeve, eyes wide just like at the train station, but this time she was talking up a storm.

  “And then I caught him at the desk. I didn’t see him with any money, but . . .” She closed her mouth as he came near. Her gloves stretched over her knuckles like
a second skin, but she didn’t look away. Was that a touch of defiance in her stare?

  He hoped so.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” Wyatt removed his hat and actually did a bow, like he was fixing to start off a reel. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s him,” she whispered. How her eyes sparked.

  Poor old Pritchard frowned. “Wyatt? Wyatt wouldn’t rob me.”

  Now the old gent spouted off. “He . . . he stole our belongings at the train station. He accosted our escort in broad daylight and rode off with the train . . . with the wagon, as shameless as Jezebel.”

  Jezebel? Wyatt’s chest expanded—a very manly chest below his thick beard, thank you. “I didn’t steal your bags. You left them in the back of my wagon.”

  “Your wagon?” The old gentleman didn’t seem to have his eyes under control. They roved wild, and while his anger came across loud and clear, his words slurred. “I don’t know whether to pity your lack of virtue or your lack of intelligence, young man. Cross me again and when I’m done, no captain will allow you on board even if you were John Paul Jones himself.”

  What was the old fool talking about? Wyatt could feel his hackles rising, but then he took another look at the girl. Her forehead wrinkled, and the sorrow in her deep brown eyes washed the starch clean out of him. She loved this old goat, no matter how batty he was. Wyatt had best stop and think before tearing into him again. Sometimes beneath the dirt and grime, there was a man worthy of respect, so possibly beneath that gold watch fob and silk waistcoat there could be someone tolerable, too. He shouldn’t vilify him just yet, but diplomacy and cash money—Wyatt had always run short on both.

  “We’re getting off to a sorry start, sir.” He pulled his mouth back in what he hoped would pass as a smile. “My name is Wyatt Ballentine. The man you met at the train station was my brother, Isaac. We had ourselves a little family dispute. That’s all.”

  “Boys will be boys,” Pritchard interjected, dusting off his hands. “I’ve got to be going, but you have Wyatt. You’uns should get along just fine. Just fine.” Then with a slap to Wyatt’s back, he lit out toward home.