At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  The chain on the gate beside Wyatt rattled as a calf rubbed against it. The three of them stood as still as cornstalks. Mr. Wimplegate stared at something in the distance, and the young lady remained firmly at his arm, keeping as far away from Wyatt as possible.

  Wyatt slipped his hand through the slats of the fence and scratched the bristly back of the calf. “How about—”

  “Where can—”

  Wyatt stopped. So did she. She turned pale beneath the brim of her hat as if the sound of her own voice scared her. “Go on,” he offered.

  She pressed her lips closely together, and her head did a tight little shake that wobbled her hat ribbons. “You, please.”

  “I was going to suggest that we go inside. We have a lot of work to do, and your . . . ah . . .”

  “Grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather doesn’t need to get blistered by this heat. Not after the walk from the depot. Once we get in the office—”

  But she wasn’t listening to him. Her attention was focused on her grandpa.

  Sweat trickled down Mr. Wimplegate’s cheek, leaving a shiny line like a slug trail. “Animals,” he muttered. “They sell animals, Miranda.”

  Miranda. Wyatt tucked her name away to be appreciated later. Right now his first concern was to get them out of the sun before they wilted. He knew better than to take Miranda’s arm. She’d probably claw him up good if he came anywhere near her. On the other hand, her grandfather had already lost a hinge on his gate and was swinging cattywampus.

  “Excuse me.” Her lips barely moved, as if afeared he might take offense. “Certainly we need your help, but first I’d like assurance that we aren’t in danger of being accosted.”

  Now she had his attention. “Not by me, sister.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered as she dared a glance up at him, then settled low again. “My grandfather and I have not procured lodgings. Considering all we’ve been through, I think it best to get him someplace where he can recuperate and gather his wits. Could you convey us to the nearest inn . . . if the wagon hasn’t been returned to its rightful owner, that is.”

  Maybe he’d best look for another job immediately.

  “My wagon and your bags are at the hitching post. If you’d be so kind as to follow me.”

  This had all the makings for a disaster, but he couldn’t walk away. He and his father had given too much building this. Back when times were contentious, it’d stood as neutral ground where his neighbors could set aside their feuds to conduct business. It meant a lot to the area. He couldn’t let it fall apart, even if he had to help these meddlers.

  And hopefully he’d help them right back on the train to wherever it was that they belonged.

  A man’s good judgment was a thing easily overcome by the most frivolous aptitude—sit a horse well, possess hunting land in the country, or know where the best lobster is served. Any of those talents could cause a male to endure—nay, cherish—a coldhearted blackguard. Miranda gripped the iron side rail of the wagon’s bench and wondered again what skill the thieving brawler possessed that convinced Mr. Pritchard to let him handle his money box and financial records. She tugged on the strings of her reticule, checking that it couldn’t be spirited away without her knowledge. If this man committed some mischief against her and Grandfather, what recourse did they have?

  Isaac-Lad. He was her only hope. The only person who might care enough to challenge his brother.

  The curved rail of the bench crushed her skirt, but she’d refused to sit in the middle, smashed against Mr. Ballentine. Grandfather was unwell, and they couldn’t have him pitching headfirst out of the wagon at the next steep curve. No, he must be protected at all costs. Grandfather’s vague answers and repeated questions worried her. Had the shock been too much for him? Would he be better tomorrow? If not, they’d get right back on the train and head home—portrait or none. Right back to Cornelius.

  She shuddered. Any dreams she’d had of finding the painting in a velvet-draped showroom had vanished—along with her hopes for a nice hotel. They’d have to settle for a boardinghouse, or anywhere away from the awful smells of the sale barn.

  Although the avid gardener no longer knelt beneath the peony bushes, Miranda recognized the gardening shack. Were they stopping for directions?

  “Get down. We’re here,” Mr. Ballentine said.

  This wasn’t a tool shed? Miranda tasted the acid that crawled up her throat. The narrow cabin looked like it had been squeezed through a railroad car. Barely room for the front door to swing open without hitting one of the two windows on the side. “This is a boardinghouse?”

  “Sometimes.” Mr. Ballentine held Grandfather’s arm as he helped him down from the wagon. “We don’t get visitors often, but when we do, Widow Sanders puts them up.”

  Rather than exit on Mr. Ballentine’s side, Miranda decided to take her chances on her own. There were no steps, only the wide wagon wheels whose slanting spokes took the place of ladder rungs. She turned, gripped the side of the bench, and slowly lowered one foot. Hooking her heel on the only horizontal spoke, she knew the next step down had to hit soil. With pointed toe she fished, jabbed, waved. Where was the ground? She couldn’t lean much farther backward and maintain her balance. The ground should be there. Really, it was ridiculous. The men had already walked around the wagon, and she was still fighting gravity. The weight of her skirts and bustle finally tilted the scales against her. With one foot still on the spoke, she released her hands expecting to find terra firma immediately. Instead, she found air.

  And Mr. Ballentine.

  She crashed backward into his chest. Her arms flung out. He caught her beneath her arms, his hands coming shockingly close to her . . .

  “Bust your ankle and you’ll be sorry,” he said.

  She swirled around, but finding herself facing him was even worse. His nearness discombobulated her. Thankfully she didn’t have to respond before he stepped to the side.

  “We’re on a mountain,” he said. “You have to account for the slant, or you’ll go rolling down the hill, curls a’tangling and petticoats flashing.”

  “My petticoats are none of your business,” she managed.

  He grinned. “Then I’ll let you handle the trunk in the back of the wagon while I try to convince Widow Sanders to keep you.”

  “She doesn’t have room for us,” Grandfather said. “She barely has room for a front door.”

  “Wyatt!” A man’s voice rang out. Miranda spun to see Isaac Ballentine coming up the hill, swinging his arms easily and smiling through a fat eye. “Keep your hands off that lady. If you want to rough someone up, have another go at me, but you leave her be.”

  Miranda could’ve cried in relief.

  Wyatt’s face hardened to marble. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “There was no need for you to confiscate the wagon, after all.” Isaac swung his arm up to rest on the side of the wagon bed.

  “No need at all, besides two hundred head of hungry animals.”

  “But these fine people haven’t done you any harm. Why act so hostile to the lady?”

  Wyatt’s eye twitched as he glared at her. Miranda wanted to duck behind Grandfather, but she didn’t need to bother. Wyatt had no interest in looking at her any longer.

  “Mr. Wimplegate,” Wyatt said. “Are you planning to have a sale tomorrow?”

  Grandfather wrung his damp handkerchief. “We haven’t made a sale catalog yet, and I don’t have the first clue how to describe our merchandise. Usually Miranda writes the descriptive copy—”

  “Sale catalog?” Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest. “Are people in Boston so thick-skulled they have to read about what they are seeing before them?”

  Miranda couldn’t catch the gasp that escaped. This buffoon had no idea how a well-written description could raise the price of an item. “Obviously you don’t know the first thing about running an auction,” she said.

  “Excuse me?” His brow lowered.

  G
randfather’s voice boomed beneath the spreading oak branches. “Tomorrow we’ll determine our course and whether or not your services will be required. Until then, I’d advise you not to touch a single carat.”

  Isaac choked on a laugh. Maybe carat wasn’t the appropriate word, but Wyatt seemed to understand. The house behind him wavered in the light, but whether the heat waves were from the sun reflecting off the shingles or from steam coming out of his ears, Miranda couldn’t tell.

  “If you need something,” Wyatt said, “my house is up the mountain. Just turn in on the path next to the old dash churn.”

  “Wyatt keeps promising to haul it off,” Isaac muttered for Miranda’s ears alone, “but he never will. Too sentimental.”

  “Bring the wagon home,” Wyatt growled as he punched Isaac in the arm, but Miranda had seen him strike before, and this hit lacked conviction. Then he and his stinking boots scuffed up the road to the barn.

  Chapter 7

  Miranda had slept well despite the screeching locusts and bellowing bullfrogs. The windows had no glass, thus explaining the volume. It also explained why Widow Sanders could slap down a flying insect with such precision. She’d had ample opportunity for practice.

  Finally finished with her hair, Miranda jerked on her boots and shoved the buttons into their loops. Through the door she heard Grandfather’s hard soles slap the stairs as he headed down to breakfast. The night before, Isaac had stayed long enough to see them settled. Would he make an appearance today, or would they be stuck with his moody brother? With her boots fastened securely, Miranda shook out her skirts and descended the staircase.

  She paused before entering the kitchen, allowing the setting to form a complete impression. The yellow curtains over the sink lifted on a breeze that danced over the table, teasing the peonies that twisted in the canning jar full of water. Outside, the birds competed with one another, their songs gaily clashing as they floated in the cheery morning sunshine.

  Widow Sanders hummed as she clattered her pots and pans over a simple stove, while Grandfather anchored the scene in his severe black suit with his Bible spread atop the white tablecloth.

  He spotted her and raised an eyebrow. Miranda came forward. “Just appreciating the striking figure you cut this beautiful morning.” She dropped a kiss on his forehead before taking a seat herself.

  “But it can only be improved by the addition of a stunning young lady.”

  “I disagree. Another figure would dilute the impact and upset the balance.”

  They both grinned. Arguing art was one of their favorite pastimes, and Miranda was relieved to find her grandfather lucid enough to play along. Since they had no galleries to visit today, no procurements at the auction house worth appreciating, they’d have to evaluate the setting they found themselves in.

  “I’m tickled to have you here.” Widow Sanders turned and slid two steaming bowls on the table before them. “I’ve always wanted to have room to board guests.”

  “And maybe someday you will.” Grandfather closed his Bible and set it aside.

  Miranda bit her lip as she tried to remember if she’d ever seen this bubbling white goop before. She picked up her spoon and stirred. Not oatmeal.

  “It’s grits.” Widow Sanders took her seat. “Ten times better than any you’d eat in Boston, I’d wager.”

  Grandfather didn’t wait to be asked but blessed the food before Miranda could question Widow Sanders’ claim. She allowed his words to blend with the birdsong and lovely breeze. She thanked God that He was here, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal and the accommodations were primitive. And where would they be without Widow Sanders? Although Jesus had slept in a manger, Miranda was grateful He hadn’t required that sacrifice of her . . . yet.

  The grits were warm on her throat and the milk cool. Simple flavors but sustaining and comforting. Grandfather asked Widow Sanders about the area, the population, the presence of the local gentry . . . to which the woman chuckled and replied, “You’re looking at them.” But even that couldn’t dim the eagerness from his eyes.

  “You know, Miranda, I’ve had some time to think about that auction house, and I don’t consider it a total loss. As long as we’re here, we might as well try our hand at turning a profit. I’ve worked in an auction house most of my life. What’s the difference between livestock and fine furnishings? They will sell just the same.”

  “What’s the difference? Besides the fact that our new employees are covered in filth instead of broadcloth? And that they are surly, rude creatures instead of genteel and—”

  “Now, Granddaughter, we must give Mr. Ballentine another chance. I’ll see how he does today, and we’ll go from there. He does seem knowledgeable about our investment, so I’d rather not terminate him.”

  “Terminate him?” With a hand to her thin chest, Widow Sanders whooshed out a laugh. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but in this part of the country, that means something entirely different.”

  While Widow Sanders chuckled over her misunderstanding, Miranda felt the helplessness of her situation closing in around her. Grandfather wanted to stay and work at the auction house? With the animals and that . . . that man? Was it possible to drown at the breakfast table? Her lungs felt full of water.

  But she had to be careful what she said. No discreet servants here, pretending not to listen. For all they knew, their every conversation would be announced on the town square at noon—if there was a town square.

  Thud! The kitchen door shook. Miranda’s spoon splashed into the goopy grits. Widow Sanders clamped her mouth shut, then grimaced. The doorknob rattled violently, making the seedlings in the tin cans by the window tremble.

  “That girl.” Widow Sanders rose, pulled the door open, and allowed a blond streak of braids and skirts to tumble inside. Landing hard on one knee, the girl scrambled up, pulling against the sink.

  “Eb Shipman came to town a’gunning for Moore. Something to do with a missing coon hound. Said he’d string him up iffen he catches him. Sheriff Taney won’t do nothing on account of his wife being blood kin to Eb. Uncle Fred won’t say naught in the paper ’cause they’ll come gunning for him, sure as the world, and that’s not all. There’s also an old man and his granddaughter come to town yesterday. Be watchful . . .”

  Grandfather cleared his throat. The young girl threw a braid over her shoulder and turned slowly to look at them. “I declare, Widow Sanders”—she blinked large—“you got company.” She treated them to a sly smile that Da Vinci would’ve killed to paint.

  The feisty whirlwind delighted Grandfather. He beamed at her and enunciated each word. “We are the new owners of the auction house. We’ve come all the way from Boston.”

  The child crossed her arms over her chest, and her smile hardened into a challenge. “Is that so? How come Mr. Pritchard would sell it to you when he knew Wyatt’s been hankering to buy it for years? Seems downright unfair, if you ask me.”

  Grandfather whipped back as though he’d been slapped. Miranda pulled her lips in tight to keep from laughing. Her experience with the street boys had prepared her well, although this urchin might be more lively than the lot of them. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve. Well . . . nearly.”

  “You take it easy on these folks, Betsy,” Widow Sanders said. “They’re my guests.”

  “Well, surely they don’t mind answering some questions. Did you bribe Pritchard? Throw buckets of money at him? Who is the criminal here? You or Pritchard?”

  “No one’s a criminal.” Widow Sanders pushed the kitchen door closed with her sturdy shoe.

  Betsy took a piece of toast and tore off a corner. Still chewing, she continued, “And how did you even hear about Pine Gap and the sale barn? Pritchard didn’t run an ad, and you don’t even subscribe to the paper. My uncle is the editor, and I checked.”

  Her too-large pinafore sagged off one shoulder, and her faded dress hung on her, waiting for the day when the bony girl would grow to fill it. Her large, expr
essive eyes animated every one of the dozen or so moods she’d displayed since she’d burst into the kitchen.

  Grandfather sputtered. “We came because we’re searching for . . . for—”

  “Investment opportunities,” Miranda supplied, hoping that he’d forgive her for interrupting, but they couldn’t share the purpose of their journey with this volatile child, whose uncle owned the newspaper, no less.

  “In Pine Gap?” Her eyes darted from Miranda to Grandfather, as if searching for signs of intelligence. Finding none, she ripped another bite of toast. “Things must be pitiful in Boston for you to come here, and that’s a fact. Now, how about we get started out to the sale barn? You say you’re here to make a buck. Best get to working. Wyatt is waiting on us.”

  An empty feed sack blew in front of Wyatt. He stabbed it with his bootheel, then bent to pick it up, cursing his luck at being caught between angry customers and an unreasonable owner . . . an unreasonable owner with a snooty, prissy granddaughter, who also happened to be beautiful. But of course she was. Wyatt had never had any luck.

  Three alleys meant thirty pens of thirsty animals. They were so dry he could drain the Gasconade River down to the rocks before they’d be satisfied, so he’d better get started. With the animals being held for so long, tempers were bound to be short. Let a farmer find his cattle with a dry trough, and there’d be trouble. The last thing these mountains needed was another outbreak of feuds. So far, the Ballentines had managed to straddle the fence when it came to local hostilities. The sale barn was a safe place for trade, and it seemed everyone wanted to keep it that way. Good thing. Neutral ground in Hart County was rarer than flat land.

  Wyatt had the pump singing, water splashing into the barrels in the back of the wagon. His mules brayed, alerting Wyatt to the company coming over the hill. The whole crew? What had he done to deserve this? From the beguiling smile on Betsy’s face and the way Miss Wimplegate was watching her, his girl had already been at work. If he needed to know anything, Betsy would get it out of them.