At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  Why did a hand on his knee make the mules take out crooked? With a grunted command, Wyatt reined the old jack and jenny into the center of the path and Miranda straightened. Somehow her decision to stay hadn’t had the affect she’d hoped for on her stalwart companion. He’d spoken of coming to see her in Boston. Why wasn’t he happy that she decided not to leave after all?

  Chapter 19

  It seemed to Wyatt that on occasion a man might ought to be allowed to speak his mind, compliment a lady, tell her how special she was, and then wait a bit before he decides exactly what to do with her. Had he been sweet-talking her out of a kiss or filling her head full of flattery to replace a rival, then he should be held accountable, but Wyatt had only said what he thought was decent, encouraging, and true . . . and it’d swung around and bit him on the backside.

  Miranda was back, and she wasn’t leaving until she got what she’d come for. Thanks to his encouragement, her determination had been propped up, and now she wouldn’t quit until she took his great-grandpa LeBlanc away from him. Wyatt turned north toward Widow Sanders’ house, nearly choking on the rising humidity. Sure he was happy to have Miranda around, but he didn’t admire the circumstances.

  Who was that man who had the power to spin Miranda’s plans around? If anyone fit the description of the “unscrupulous man” that Aunt Corinne warned about, it was this fellow. And obviously he and Miranda were in cahoots. She could barely keep her hands to herself, she was so excited.

  Maybe it wasn’t all bad.

  But what if the picture was stolen? He’d thought about that, but he knew he wasn’t the thief. And perhaps he had a right to it. Perhaps more had been stolen from him than anyone knew.

  Another hole in the road and Miranda bounced against him again. His mouth tightened. If only he’d known she wasn’t leaving, he might’ve kept some of his sweet-talking to himself. How did Isaac manage women the way he did?

  Speaking of Isaac . . .

  Hands in his pockets, Isaac strolled down the hill from Widow Sanders’. Judging by his smile, he already knew the Wimplegates weren’t leaving and already had thought of how to make Wyatt as miserable as possible. He stepped under the shade of a mimosa tree and fanned himself with his straw hat while he waited for them to reach him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’re here to stay,” Elmer announced. “Miranda hopped off the train at just the right moment.”

  “Is that so?” The obnoxious white teeth Isaac was so proud of fairly gleamed. “Well, we’ll just have to make room for you.”

  Wyatt growled at the unexpected answer. “I’m taking them to Widow Sanders’.”

  “Then you might as well just turn this team around. Widow Sanders has a new guest. She doesn’t have room for Mr. and Miss Wimplegate now. And that’s why I insist on them boarding with us.”

  It was a good thing he wasn’t a cursing man, because if he were, he’d be in the process of losing his job at that moment. “We ain’t giving up that easily. That man can find a room somewhere else.”

  Isaac smirked. “You’d rather him bunk with us, I suppose?”

  He narrowed his eyes. With the painting under his bed, he didn’t need anyone poking around the house.

  “Isaac, Wyatt doesn’t want us to stay with you.” Miranda’s voice quavered. “We’ll find someone who’ll have us.”

  For crying aloud. He slapped the reins against the mules’ backs. “You’re staying with us. Let’s go.” Not only did he feel responsible for her, but he could hardly leave his boss in the elements, could he? He needed to just simmer down. The widow hadn’t had any trouble with the old man. Maybe he was a more considerate guest than employer.

  “Wait!” Elmer lurched over Miranda and grabbed the reins. “We have to go back to Widow Sanders’. I forgot something.”

  Wyatt shifted the reins to his left hand, out of Elmer’s reach, and put his arm behind Miranda, giving her a little more room beneath his arm.

  “What did you forget, Grandfather?” Miranda asked.

  Maybe he was a little pleased that she leaned into him.

  “Lady Godiva. We can’t leave her behind. If that man sees her, he won’t be able to help himself. He’ll scour the countryside to find the artist and we’ll lose our monopoly.”

  “We’ll go visit tonight,” Miranda said.

  Wyatt shook his head. “For the last time, Lady Godiva is not coming to my house—wait a minute. How do you know that man?”

  Miranda bumped against him, almost as if she’d shoved an elbow into Grandfather on her other side. He coughed and mumbled something in her ear. They both straightened and played mute. Miranda twisted her silver bracelet around in a motion that was becoming all too familiar.

  He reckoned they all had their secrets, but it was a pity that their secrets were about the same thing.

  He pulled up to his house and he’d never looked at it so critically before. Tidy, neat, except for Ma’s old churn that he’d moved outside when they got a new one. How did it compare to her fancy place with maids and servants? Her barn was probably nicer than his house—if they even had a barn.

  He helped Miranda down from the wagon, wishing he had an excuse to hug her. Wishing he could keep her in his arms and out of his house. Isaac’s cheerful approach was signaled by a tune whistled with an overabundance of cheek. Wyatt went to the wagon bed to fetch her trunk, only then remembering that she didn’t have one. A last look at her drab gown, he wondered what else she’d find to make her cheeks bloom.

  “Where should we keep our guests?” Isaac said. “Ma and Pa’s room?”

  Miranda stood, head bowed, looking for somewhere to hide, no doubt. Wyatt tilted his head back and studied the green underside of the oak leaves above him. This was a trial, sure as shooting. How could he endure her living in his parents’ house and not completely lose his mind, his painting . . . and his heart?

  He had to hide the picture. Already carrying a stack of clean sheets, Wyatt took the stairs two at a time, trying to buy a few minutes before his unexpected guests came looking for him. If he didn’t have the picture tucked away, he would’ve found it easy to welcome Miranda and Elmer. Already his step fell lighter just thinking about seeing Miranda morning, noon, and night, but his painting had to be a secret until he figured how to handle it—how to handle her.

  On entering his room, he kicked the door closed and dumped the sheets on his bed with a whoosh. Wyatt dropped to his knees and pulled the picture out from beneath his twin bed.

  I hear we’re entertaining company. Great-Grandpa LeBlanc seemed to stand a little straighter. His light blue coat stretched across his shoulders. Go on and introduce us. It’ll definitely change their opinion of you.

  “Yes, but not for the better.” Not if they tried to force the painting from him and leave with it. Then he’d be robbed of both the family heirloom and Miranda’s company. Wyatt cocked his head at the painting. “Where’d you get that accent? You aren’t British, are you?”

  He could almost hear the sniff. We’re French, imbecile.

  “Right. I’ll have to remember when I hear your voice in my head, but I can’t keep jawing. Got to find somewhere to put you.”

  Wyatt spun, searching every piece of furniture. Grandpa wouldn’t fit behind the nightstand. The chest of drawers stood on four spindly legs. He’d show behind there.

  “Wyatt?” It was Miranda. Footsteps on the stairs. “Wyatt, I’m coming up. Where are you?”

  Heart pounding, he rushed to the space behind the door and leaned the picture against the wall, out of sight. Then, taking the doorknob, he opened it and draped himself across the entry.

  “The room isn’t ready yet.”

  “I came to help.”

  “Go back downstairs. We’ll keep the upstairs for the men only.”

  Her head snapped back and her smile faded. “Grandfather and I decided to switch rooms. After a long day out doing . . . well, whatever it is he does, I don’t want him to climb the stairs. P
lus, this room is smaller, and with no trunks . . .” She shrugged.

  She would be staying here? In his room? He glanced nervously at Great-Grandpa LeBlanc, who only wagged his eyebrows. Dirty Frenchman.

  “What’s a matter?” Miranda turned as if she could see through the door. “Don’t worry if it’s a mess. It can’t be worse than the sale barn. Let me help you.”

  “No, no. Couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Nonsense. I feel really bad about being here. You’ve been so kind, and now we’re invading your residence.”

  Momentarily forgetting his forebearer, Wyatt felt his toes grow nice and toasty. “There’s room. No worries.”

  “And to think I judged you so harshly in the beginning.” Her lips parted in a sweet smile.

  Wyatt stepped from behind the door to face her straight on. How had this Boston beauty come to be standing in his doorway? It was something so profound he couldn’t get his mind around it. Hearing her words, knowing that she recognized something good in him despite Isaac’s best efforts, filled him with some kind of unspeakable glory.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and then with a skillful duck, wormed her way into the room. “This isn’t dirty at all.”

  With the speed of a lead bullet, Wyatt shoved the door against the wall and angled his body in front of the doorknob. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “We’re already imposing. If you don’t allow me to see after Grandfather and myself, my conscience will trouble me.”

  Not nearly as much as his was at the moment. If only he could trust her. If only he was one hundred percent sure that she would understand about the painting.

  “May I change the sheets?” She lifted his pillow off the bed.

  “Absolutely not.” But he was stuck to the door, too fearful to leave his post and stop her. When had she become so stubborn?

  “They won’t change themselves,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the floor and she suppressed a shy smile. “But if you’d rather handle your dirty laundry, I understand. I’ll stay behind and make up the clean bed once you’re gone.”

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave when the door might swing closed and there his painting would be, as exposed as Mayor Walters when Josiah tipped his outhouse over.

  One more try. “Miranda, I need you to leave. I would much rather fix this room up by myself.”

  She bunched a fist to her hip and gave him a saucy look. “Give me one good reason you won’t accept my help, Wyatt Ballentine.”

  How tiny her waist looked over the full skirts of her traveling costume. How nicely rounded she was everywhere else. His Adam’s apple bounced. Lady Godiva had nothing on her. But was there a truth that would send her a running?

  “You have to leave because I’m afraid . . .” His mind spun like a weather vane. What could he say? “ . . . I’m afraid I might kiss you.”

  That did the trick. Her eyes widened. She stumbled away from the bed and didn’t stop backing up until she bumped into his bureau. “And that . . . and that would be awful?”

  Oh, heavens. She wasn’t considering letting him kiss her, was she? Who would’ve thought? Wyatt could’ve sworn he heard Monsieur LeBlanc snicker behind him.

  Maybe later, he promised himself, but not now. “Didn’t want to embarrass you, but here you are in my room. You look mighty beautiful, and all I can think about . . .” Shut up, Wyatt. What are you doing? “We shouldn’t be in here together. You best leave.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her chin tucked down. “Then I’ll go. I’m . . . I’m terribly . . . I’ll go.”

  Stepping forward, she hesitated at the door. Not daring to leave his station, Wyatt turned away from her and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her skirts swishing down the stairs.

  Nice work, old boy. You insulted the lady. She’ll never want to be alone with you again.

  “And to think I did it to save you. What a mistake.”

  He didn’t mean to slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows, but a man could only take so much. Ripping his blankets off the bed, he carried the whole mess to where Monsieur LeBlanc waited, and before the old gent could complain, Wyatt bundled him into them.

  It wasn’t enough. The sheets weren’t thick enough. After reflection, he added his quilt to the bundle, but there was no disguising the large square of canvas. Well, what was he to do? He’d have to come up with another story if they caught him, but he hoped after his confession Miranda wouldn’t be watching him too closely. Shoot, she’d probably never look at him again.

  He made it halfway down the stairs, then bent to see what he was walking into. Elmer sat on Ma’s red sofa. His cane rested against the inside of his knee, his eyes were unfocused. Wyatt eased down while bunching up the quilt even more. No sign of Miranda.

  Elmer’s eyes drifted toward him. “I thought I’d be on my way out of town,” he said. “So glad I get to stay here longer.”

  His words were slurring. Sure sign of exhaustion.

  “Miranda says you’re staying downstairs?” Wyatt asked.

  Elmer nodded. “She’s in there now fixing it up. Practically flew past me.”

  Fleeing him, no doubt, but what to do with the painting? He eyed Elmer. “If you need something to drink, you’ll find some milk in the kitchen. You should be able to find a mug easy enough.”

  “I know where they are,” Grandfather said. “I’ve been here dozens of times before and I wouldn’t forget a thing like that. You must think I’m losing my mind.”

  Exactly, because Elmer had never been to his house before, but now wasn’t the time to contradict him. Wyatt shifted his bundle so the gilt frame didn’t dig into his chest so. He could take the painting outside, but it looked like rain coming. Didn’t want to leave it in the barn where the mice would gnaw on it. It had to be somewhere inside and somewhere that Isaac wouldn’t look. If Isaac found it, he’d tell them in a heartbeat. Anything to make life more difficult for his younger brother. That left the parlor and the kitchen.

  “I reckon Miranda should be done about now. Why don’t you go check?”

  The bags beneath Elmer’s eyes looked as full as an unmilked udder. “She told me to wait out here.”

  “Yes, but now I’m here, so go on and see if she needs anything.”

  Elmer expelled a long chastising breath to share his opinion of Wyatt’s idea, but as Wyatt didn’t give him another option, he strained against his cane and majestically rose on creaky knees. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  As soon as he turned around, Wyatt headed to the piano. Laying his bundle on the ground, he shoved the piano away from the wall. Then, unwrapping his treasure while watching over his shoulder, he slid the painting into the back of the piano, balanced it in the frame, and shoved the heavy instrument so that the wall held it pinned inside and off the floor. Elmer returned as he was gathering his linens.

  “She’s coming.”

  With hands folded sedately before her, Miranda stepped into the room. Moving slightly left, she pressed her back against the wall and came no closer.

  “What do you want?” she nearly whispered.

  What did he want? He’d only sent for her to get Elmer out of the room. One last glance at the piano to make sure it was flush against the wall, and he had to come up with an answer.

  “I . . . I thought I’d see how Ma and Pa’s room looked. I haven’t been in there for years, and it could be dusty.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “But it could be dusty.”

  “But it’s not.” She crossed her arms, letting him know that was the final word.

  “I’ll get dinner going directly. It’s nearly noon,” he said.

  “Then I’ll be sure and stay out of the kitchen.”

  That’s right. Because he might attack her. Good grief, but she was moody. Thunder rumbled outside. The curtains whipped with extra vigor. “Do you have anything you want me to carry to the washhouse?” he asked.

  “We did
all our laundry before the trip.” And she had no clothes here, either. Again he appreciated her fitted gown, and even the subtle color was growing on him, but how long could she wear the same getup?

  “I’ll be back.” He crossed the parlor, strode through the kitchen, and delivered his sheets to the washhouse. By the time he reached the kitchen again, fat drops of rain had begun to fall. Not an auspicious beginning for his new boarders.

  Chapter 20

  He’d wanted to kiss her. With hands flying, Miranda tucked the corners of the sheet beneath the mattress and looked about for a quilt. She’d come back to Pine Gap determined to be brave, to speak her mind, and to act without fear. Yet within the hour she’d made a mess of everything. The back door creaked open. Miranda spun, expecting Wyatt at any moment, but from the clanging pans it sounded like he was staying in the kitchen. Her heart sped again at his words. He wanted to kiss her so badly that he questioned his ability to resist? She thought of his passionate outbursts, his determination, and she couldn’t help but be a tiny bit awed. This was no cheek peck he was thinking of.

  But maybe he didn’t even like her. That would explain why he wanted her away from him. Or did he think she was being forward? Miranda twisted a dark lock of hair as she surveyed the tidy bed. He’d tried to get her to stay in his parents’ room, but she’d insisted on staying in his. What if he mistook her intent? Knowing how he felt about Isaac, she really shouldn’t be surprised at his disapproval.

  After cleaning Grandfather’s room, she tiptoed into the parlor. Grandfather was making use of a rocking chair and had propped his feet up on the sofa. Miranda nudged him out of his trance but remembered to keep her voice down. “You saw McSwain, didn’t you? Monty King’s man?” She kept nervous eyes on the kitchen.

  “I’m hungry.” He swung his feet to the floor. “Let’s see what Widow Sanders has for dinner.”