At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  The powdered wig hid the man’s age. A saber swung from his hip, and he stood with the ease of a man who knew how to use the weapon well.

  Wyatt’s fingers hovered over the oil painting, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it any more than he’d poke the president in the ribs. One didn’t act familiar with a man like the one in this picture. He clearly enjoyed intimidating people. Or he had. Judging from his short britches and funny wig, he was from an earlier era.

  Reverently, Wyatt lowered the frame to his bed. He squatted and ruffled through the brown paper until he found the envelope. For a moment he stared at it dumbly. Did he want to read it? Once before they’d contacted his family and the results had been devastating. Was he about to make the same mistake?

  He picked at the corner. He already knew what he was, but that didn’t affect who he was. Let the mysterious writer do his best; it didn’t change Wyatt’s heart or his character.

  The delicate paper was as thin as a dried leaf. The letter crinkled as he spread it open and read the elegant, looping script.

  Dear Yves,

  I apologize for the unexpectedness of this missive and that there was no way to prepare you for its arrival. I don’t know what you know of your birth family, or if you even care to know anything, but when I saw this portrait of your great-great grandfather, I wanted you to have it. I am your Aunt Corinne, your father’s youngest sister, and I hope it doesn’t discourage you to hear that I did not know of your existence until recently. Whether or not you’ll take any comfort in this portrait, I cannot guess. I hope it does not bring you pain or regret, for that is not my purpose.

  It may be that you have no desire to keep this painting—whether because your financial situation leaves you in want or because you have no desire to own anything pertaining to the family that has treated you like a stranger until now. If that is the case, your feelings will be honored, and I’d like to assist you.

  Wyatt lowered the letter and looked again at the painting. The man sneering at him was his own grandfather? The real family that shared his blood?

  Why now? Why after he’d already grown and suffered alone would they contact him? And wasn’t there anyone who wanted to keep this portrait for himself? Even if it wasn’t for sentimental reasons, it looked to be costly. Even the frame was a work of art.

  He continued reading:

  Should you decide to sell the portrait, and it is quite valuable as art, I insist that you contact me and me alone. Although I’ve never met you, I think this would be best in your care, and I pray I’ve not brought danger to you, but it is possible. There is some dispute over this piece, and there could be unscrupulous men searching for it even now. Please guard this painting until you decide whether to keep it or not. And should you sell it, which is your right, I’d be glad to broker the deal to see that you get what it’s worth.

  How I wish I could discuss this with you in person. Perhaps that day will come. In the meantime, God be with you, and may this unexpected gift only bring you blessings. Once you decide what you’d like to do with the painting, I’d appreciate the opportunity to learn of your plans.

  Thank you and God bless.

  Sincerely,

  Your Aunt Corinne LeBlanc

  LeBlanc. The bed creaked beneath him as he sank next to the golden frame. So LeBlanc was really his father’s name, or was this a mistake? His ma, his adoptive ma, Mrs. Ballentine, had told him about his father and mother who’d set out in the wagon train with them. Mr. and Mrs. LeBlanc had joined the wagon train in Independence and when they’d died, the Ballentines had taken him to raise, or at least to keep until they could get him home to Boston.

  But Boston didn’t want him. His hand itched to crumble this letter into a wad. Instead he let it float to rest on the delicate brushstrokes of the painting. What did this Aunt Corinne know? Where was she when Ma had written and received the bitter reply?

  And what about the unscrupulous men? There had been that redheaded man who’d surprised Miranda in the barn that day . . .

  Miranda.

  Had he not already been sitting, Wyatt would’ve crashed onto the bed. Miranda and Elmer. She’d told him they were after a missing painting, but this wasn’t a missing painting. This had come directly to him from his aunt. Wyatt believed in coincidence like he believed in haints. This is what they sought, and they’d tried to keep it a secret from him.

  The strings began to stick together like a spiderweb. A fancy auction house. Art collectors. So this painting was worth a pretty penny? Enough for them to travel all this way from Boston and buy a sale barn? They were systematically going through every house that could possibly own anything this fine. But they had never thought of his.

  Wyatt rested the frame on his lap and met the old gent’s arrogant gaze. They didn’t give him any credit, did they? Thought it impossible that he’d have any connection with mighty Boston? Well, at one time he’d thought so, too, but Aunt Corinne must think differently. He didn’t know what the appearance of the picture meant or what he’d do about it, but he knew one thing: He had to listen to Aunt Corinne’s warning. Her prediction had already proven true.

  “Wyatt?” Isaac’s boots thudded on the first step. Wyatt jumped to his feet. The painting skittered against the floor as he slid it beneath the bed. His bed wasn’t wide enough. He tugged the quilt until it hung cattywampus and covered the edge that refused to hide.

  And there was nothing he could do with the splintered crate. Best intercept his brother.

  “What do you want?” He squeezed through the opening and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing? Are you hiding something?”

  Wyatt crossed his arms. “Why? Are you?”

  “I don’t have to answer to you.” Isaac smirked. “Besides, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “No one has ever mistaken you for a gentleman.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. There is a certain lady . . .”

  Wyatt’s stomach twisted. The only race Isaac had ever beaten Wyatt in was chasing skirts, and the more Wyatt cared for Miranda, the more determined Isaac would be to win her. But was it possible that she was as big a fraud as Isaac?

  “Good for you,” Wyatt said. “At your age, it’s about time you settled down.”

  “But when I marry you’ll have to find another place to live. I can’t ask my bride to put up with my little brother.”

  Wyatt didn’t dare leave his room unguarded. Isaac was too suspicious. “I’ll leave whenever you ask me to, but the wife will expect you to provide for her, so your lack of employment will no longer be my problem.”

  Isaac lifted an eyebrow, looking ridiculously scholarly for one who hadn’t cracked open a book since primer school.

  “You’re just jealous.”

  And dying to think through the implications of the letter. What did it mean to his future? What did it mean to Miranda and her grandfather? And could he trust them?

  Chapter 17

  Miranda gripped the picnic basket in one hand and tidied her hair with the other. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. She, Miranda Wimplegate, was paying a visit to a man uninvited. But she couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass without expressing her thanks. Her errand had nothing to do with his slow smile and green eyes; it was purely a matter of etiquette. She lightly rapped her knuckles on the frame of the door and tugged her bonnet into place.

  The house was a neat clapboard two-story painted robin’s-egg blue with white trim. A wide, low window displayed a collection of colored glass bottles. A far cry from the stained-glass windows she admired, but still an appreciation for light through glass. She knocked at the door again, but loud enough to be heard this time. The boards beneath her feet vibrated and the door eased open. Wyatt’s eyes widened.

  “Miranda. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  He didn’t open the door any farther but looked over his shoulder as if a
ssuring himself that his parlor was ready for company. “I . . . I . . . was just fixing to do something. Work, you know.” He pulled the door closed behind him as he joined her on the porch. “Is your grandpa coming?”

  “No. It’s just me.” She clutched the basket to her waist. “Is Isaac home?”

  His face fell. “Just left. Did you want to see him? If so, we could take out—”

  “Oh no. I came to talk to you. Not Isaac.”

  “I’m busy.” He bit his lip, as if embarrassed by the speed of his reply.

  “You’re busy? Doing what?”

  Wyatt looked straight ahead. His eyes followed the tree trunks heavenward. “Pruning. I really need to work on these fruit trees, but if you want to stay for a bit . . . just a minute.” He motioned to a fallen log where she might sit near the grove.

  Of course she wanted to stay. Why else would she have come? She made her way across the rocky yard as he darted inside the barn and emerged with a pruning hook. Already, Miranda regretted her decision, but she was determined to make the best of it. She wouldn’t get another chance if she lost her courage now.

  Wyatt stood before her and fished with a pruning hook above his head until he caught the decaying limb. The branches rustled and swayed as he jerked downward until the dead limb broke free.

  “That’s a fruit tree?” Miranda didn’t know a lot about animals, but she had cultivated an appreciation for foliage. “It looks more like an oak.”

  His neck turned red. “It is an oak. Did I say fruit trees? I meant it was the oak that warranted pruning.” Picking up the limb, he threw it to the side and winced at the crash.

  Why couldn’t he slow down and talk to her? Miranda’s news weighed heavily on her, but she didn’t want to blurt it out to his back. She’d like for him to at least pretend to be attentive. Time to pull out the pièce de résistance.

  With her foot she nudged her basket. “I brought you some pie.”

  The pruning hook lowered. He eyed the basket suspiciously. “I really don’t want to go inside. Can we keep it out here?”

  Miranda squirmed on the log. So she wasn’t welcome in his house? “Maybe I should have warned you before coming over.”

  Wyatt dropped the pruning hook with a sigh. He squatted, meeting her at her eye level. “I’m glad you’re here.” The lines around his mouth eased. “Really.” Then, with an exaggerated groan, he shifted himself to sit on the log next to her.

  Finally assured of his attention, Miranda lifted the lid of the basket, prompting a tiny squawk from the hinges. Reaching down, she lifted out the pie, the pan still warm against her fingers. The violet syrup bubbled.

  He stopped his squirming to stare at the pie pan. “Rhubarb. Of course it’d be rhubarb.”

  Miranda pulled out a thick table knife and lifted out a hefty slice, but then had nowhere to set it. With a shrug, she returned it to the pan and handed the whole tin to him, but instead of relishing the offering, he studied it from a bemused distance.

  “Years ago Widow Sanders made a rhubarb pie for the auction,” he said. “No one wanted it. Didn’t bring a single bid. I felt sorry for her, so I bought it. The next week there was another pie. No one would bid on the second one, either, so I gave it my best shot. I talked it up, bragging on how delicious it was, but not a single nibble. I ended up buying the pie the second time, too. Now Widow Sanders is convinced I love her rhubarb pie. Every week I have to buy one.” He pulled back the crust to expose the purple chunks.

  Miranda jolted so thoroughly that she rocked the log. “You’re tired of rhubarb pie?”

  “I never liked it in the first place. Even my pigs are tired of it. But please don’t tell her.” He looked up with a conspiratorial smile that Miranda couldn’t share.

  “Widow Sanders didn’t make this pie,” she said. “I did.”

  His eyebrows raised. His Adam’s apple bobbed. After a slight hesitation, he lifted a slice to his mouth and shoveled it in. “Mm . . . delicious.”

  Miranda slid forward, ready to dart to her feet. “But you don’t like rhubarb pie.” This had been a mistake. Why had she thought he’d be happy to see her?

  “It’s been years since I’ve tried it,” he said. “And this doesn’t taste at all like I remember.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “No, I’m not. If I only had a warm glass of milk—”

  Try to do something nice for the man and he pitied her. She stood, snatched the piece of pie from his hand, staining her fingers in the bargain. Grabbing the pie tin, she stalked to the burn pile and, with a plop, dumped the pie tin’s contents on top of the recently added oak branch.

  Wyatt studied his empty hands. Deliberately he licked the last of the remnants off his fingers. “I really did want that pie.”

  Miranda paced from the burn pile to the high grassy area at the edge of the clearing. “It was a thank-you for all you’ve done. How you’ve helped with Grandfather. I learned how to make it just for you.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” He patted the log. “I can get some cold cobbler for us and bring it back out here.”

  Still not welcome inside the house? “I’m leaving.” She turned to face him.

  “But you just got here.”

  “Pine Gap. I’m leaving Pine Gap. I got a telegram from home. My father told me to give up. Bring Grandfather back.” If this was the answer to her prayers, then why did her eyes sting? “I can’t accept that we failed, but he’s becoming too difficult to handle, so I came to say good-bye.”

  “You’ll leave even without finding your . . . you know . . . ?”

  “The painting?” How freeing to say those words aloud. “We have no choice. We can’t jeopardize Grandfather’s health. We’ll just have to hope for a favorable ruling.”

  The log rolled forward as he rested one arm across his knee. “What’s this about a ruling? Are you’uns in trouble?”

  Miranda hesitated. She hadn’t meant to discuss all the ins and outs of the case, but she’d held it in for so long. “We were selling part of an estate, and a certain picture made it to the block that was not supposed to sell. Now the family is blaming us.”

  His mouth twisted to the side. “Let’s say you get home and the painting shows up. Someone up and gives it back. Would you be out of trouble then?”

  “If the painting gets back to the family? That wouldn’t happen.”

  “But say it did.”

  She dropped to her seat on the log. “If Monty King, their lawyer, could prove we were negligent, they might still press charges, but recovering the painting would help.”

  She lowered her eyes, uncomfortable with the urging she saw in his. He was begging her to say more, but what she’d shared was embarrassing enough.

  “How about you? Are you going back to Cousin Cornelius?”

  At his name, Miranda pulled her knees against her body. In his telegram Father hadn’t mentioned any reprieve brought on by Cornelius. It sounded like the situation hadn’t changed. She’d still be able to save them by marrying him.

  “What else would I do? It’s all planned out. Everyone would be horribly inconvenienced if I changed my mind.”

  “Hang them all.” He rapped white knuckles against their log bench. “Are you that kind of person, Miranda? Someone who’d bind herself in marriage just to keep the peace?”

  She dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t know what kind of person I am. Until this trip, I agreed with all the decisions made for me. I didn’t mind being kept safe, being protected from decisions and controversy. Now, I’m having to speak up and contradict Grandfather, and I hate it. It’s not natural for me.”

  “But you’re doing it, Miranda. You’re strong. Don’t give up. Your family needs you. The world needs you to be who God created you to be. And don’t let some fool tell you who that is.”

  “But if we leave, we’ve failed. After that there’s no point.” Once she passed on deciding who to marry, there’d never be another decision as important.

/>   He searched her face. “Don’t worry about the painting. It’ll take care of itself. But you can’t let this determine your future. You’ll find other quests. You’ll face other challenges. All I’m asking is that you face them like a woman with a backbone, not the self-conscious woman who hid behind her grandfather the day she arrived. Making your own path will take courage, and you have that courage.”

  Could she stay strong, or would she sit passively by while Cornelius arranged her future? Having tasted freedom now, would she be content to let everyone else make her decisions? And would she ever see this man again?

  “I could make you any number of promises,” she said, “but I’m different here because I have to be. Once I go home I’ll find it easy enough to do what they ask. With Grandfather cared for, there’ll be no reason for me to fight like this.” Except for that day with Franklin. Yes, she could speak up when forced, but that had been an accident. Embarrassing. She would never do that again.

  “Then I’m going to pray that God sends a conundrum your way that you must solve and that you can only solve with His help.”

  Miranda straightened. “That’s not very chivalrous.”

  His eyes were kind but firm. “I admire the woman I’ve come to know here, and while I can’t promise I’ll ever see her again, I refuse to let her disappear off the face of the earth. You have to keep her alive.”

  His eyelashes, so much darker than his hair, framed his green eyes. The woods were so silent that the cattle from the sale barn across town could be heard lowing. He stood. “Thanks for the pie. It looked delicious.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t like it.”

  “But I did. How about letting me finish a slice next time? Else how am I going to compare it to Widow Sanders’s?”

  “There won’t be a next time. We’re leaving tomorrow.”