At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  “We aren’t paying guests there anymore. We need to eat here.”

  “We aren’t paying guests here, either,” he said.

  “We are paying—”

  “No, you’re not.” Wyatt stepped out of the kitchen, dishrag in hand. “Come get a bite to eat.” He returned to the kitchen, opened the oven door, and bent to retrieve a tin.

  Honestly, he looked attractive from every angle. And he’d wanted to kiss her.

  “Bring me something, please.” Grandfather patted her hand. “If I’m not getting Widow Sanders’ rhubarb jelly and toast, it’s not worth getting up.”

  Go into the kitchen with Wyatt? Alone?

  Miranda slouched, ducked her chin, and dragged her feet. She wanted to look as unattractive as possible. Not really, but she definitely didn’t want to look like someone trying to look attractive. She wasn’t the type that wanted a man to kiss her against his better judgment.

  A tin of cornbread clattered onto the table. Steam curled off it as Wyatt tossed the kitchen rag aside. He pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms. With his foot he pushed a chair out before sloshing milk into the mugs. Miranda clutched the back of the seat. “Are you sure you don’t mind me being in here?”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Evidently he didn’t find her quite as irresistible in the kitchen.

  “I’ll eat standing, thank you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself.” He handed her a bowl of beans with a golden square of cornbread crumbled atop. She carried it in to Grandfather, and by the time she’d returned, Wyatt had prepared her a bowl. The cornbread melted in her mouth. She licked the butter off her finger before seeing the napkin he’d placed beneath her bowl. After a cool drink of milk to loosen her voice, Miranda spoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you earlier. I thought I was being helpful by making the bed.”

  “Miranda—”

  “I certainly don’t want you to think I’m forward or brazen. Perhaps it’d be better for Grandfather to stay upstairs. Widow Sanders’ upstairs didn’t inconvenience him.”

  “No. You stay upstairs. It doesn’t bother me none.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea, especially if I might lead you into temptation too strong—”

  “Miranda.” He held her gaze, even as a slow red burn crept up his neck. “I’m sorry for what I said upstairs. You are in no danger around me.”

  “I know you wouldn’t hurt me. That’s not what you threatened.” She lifted her spoon of beans, then lowered it back to the bowl, unsure that she could swallow with him looking at her like that.

  A sudden bang on the kitchen door made them both jump. Wyatt leapt to his feet while Miranda steadied her nearly overturned bowl. A small bright face pressed against the glass pane in the door. Wyatt turned the knob and Betsy burst inside.

  “Miss Miranda?” She wiped the rain off her face with her damp pinafore. “I thought you’d done left.”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Well, you ain’t the only one. There’s a man staying with Mrs. Sanders. City folk like you. Do you know him?”

  Feeling the full weight of the question, Miranda smoothed her napkin. “It’s possible my father sent him to help us. Help us run the auction house, that is.”

  “What do you need that for?” Betsy dropped into a chair and took a piece of cornbread from the tin. “Ain’t Wyatt doing you right?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Wyatt said.

  “Grandfather might need more help. He’s involved in more than the sale barn.”

  Betsy nodded her blond head. “Like buying statues of naked women?” She blinked innocently until Wyatt bumped her chair and an ornery smile emerged.

  Miranda had no answer and the beans were cooling. She shoveled in a savory mouthful, foregoing any pretension that she wasn’t starving.

  “Can I?” Betsy asked.

  “Grab a bowl,” Wyatt said, but before Miranda could take another bite, Grandfather called.

  “Are we going somewhere, or not?”

  “If you’re ready.” Miranda meant to take a delicate bite of the cornbread, but once it got to her mouth she couldn’t help but shove it in.

  “I’ll take you.” Wyatt stood, but Miranda stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “No, please. We’d rather go alone.”

  His gaze dropped to where her hand lay against his blue shirt. She was acting inappropriate again. She moved to snatch it away but he caught it. His warm hand covered hers and guided it back to his arm. “You don’t know that man. You’d be safer with me.”

  So temptation no longer threatened him? Her eyes dropped to his lips and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  “I told you so,” Betsy said and raised her eyebrow in Wyatt’s direction.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asked Betsy. Miranda tried to pull away, but he held her tight.

  “I’ll leave with Miss Miranda and Grandpa,” Betsy mumbled around a mouthful of beans.

  “Might as well wait outside.”

  Betsy hummed as she sashayed past, leaving the two of them alone.

  “Is this about the painting?” Wyatt asked.

  “It has to be. That’s the only reason that man would be here.”

  “Does he know where it is?”

  Bless his heart, he sounded so concerned for her. “That’s what we’ll find out.” She studied his dark hand on hers. “I wish you could go with me,” Miranda said, “but Grandfather still wants to keep it a secret.”

  Slowly he slid his hand away. “I reckon I understand. We all have our secrets.”

  Her parasol caught the drops of rain, but once the fabric became saturated, she’d be as wet as the scraggly cat that darted across their path. Splashing through the puddles, Miranda pulled on Grandfather’s arm.

  “Let’s walk faster. If that man was sent by the LeBlanc family, we want to be presentable.”

  “I’m not going,” he said as he continued walking.

  Betsy, who was hunched over to get her head beneath Miranda’s ineffective parasol, twisted her mouth into a frown. “Looks like you’re going to me.”

  “I know why that man is here. He wants to steal a share of my apple doll business. They’ve seen how well Mrs. Hopkins’ art has been received in Boston, and they’ve come to get a slice of the market.”

  “Grandfather,” Miranda said, “the train left just this morning. Those dolls haven’t made it to Boston yet. Besides, the LeBlancs are in the shipping industry. They don’t deal in art and antiques.”

  His brow furrowed. “They have a spy, then. Someone told them what we were up to, Miranda. Someone has been watching us.”

  His fervor sent warning chills to the edge of her teeth. His misguided optimism was worrisome enough, but paranoia? This was something new. His eyes tightened as he turned to stare at Betsy. “Who have you been talking to, girl?”

  Betsy straightened, meeting his accusation with the contempt it deserved. “That ain’t none of your business.”

  “I knew it.” Rain dripped off his hat brim. “She’s a spy, Miranda.”

  Fear gripped Miranda. He’d never shown this hostility before. “No, she’s not, Grandfather. A soft answer turns away wrath, Betsy. Tell him you haven’t been reporting on him.”

  Betsy flung her braids behind her shoulder. “But Miss Miranda, sometimes Wyatt told me to see what you’uns were—”

  “Achoo!” Even if the sneeze was obviously faked, it interrupted Betsy. Miranda shot her a warning glance. Both she and Wyatt had made use of the girl’s ability to meander around town without any noticeable purpose. Grandfather wasn’t mistaken that Betsy was watching him. He’d just failed to realize who she was reporting to. “The point is that you haven’t been hired by any art dealers to report on Grandfather’s stunning acquisitions.”

  Please don’t mention Lady Godiva, Miranda prayed.

  “Like Lady Godiva?” Betsy shuddered as a gust flung ra
in beneath the parasol. “I might have mentioned it to Uncle Fred because I thought he’d like to do another story, but he said he didn’t want to raise community outrage.”

  “This child is a nuisance,” Grandfather said. “She’s led him to our treasure like the traitor she is. You can take her with you, if you’d like, but I’m leaving.”

  “You must come with me,” Miranda said. “McSwain won’t want to speak to me.”

  “Then don’t talk to him. It doesn’t matter to me because I’m looking for Leland Moore. It’ll be nice to be with someone who has my best interest at heart.”

  They stood at the intersection before Widow Sanders’ house. One road led to town—the other to the sale barn. “Watch yourself, Miranda,” Grandfather said. “Don’t trust anyone.” And with a last glare at Betsy, he walked into the rain in his stern black suit and his tall stovepipe hat.

  Betsy watched him a few paces, then turned, shielding her eyes from the rain. “You want me to follow after him?”

  Miranda drew a strong breath in through her nostrils. “No. Keep your distance, Betsy. Grandfather would never have accused you like that if he still had his wits. I just don’t know what he’s capable of in this condition.”

  Betsy splashed through a puddle. Water gushed out of the toe in her boot. “Seeing how it’s only raining heavier and heavier and how you don’t seem likely to let me listen in on your conversation with these strangers—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Then I might as well be getting back home to see if Eddie’s fever has dropped. He was sleeping when I left.”

  “I’m sorry, Betsy.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Miranda. You know, everyone about these parts talks about how mean and nasty Yankees are; even the people who fought for the Union don’t cotton to them any. But you and Miss Abigail have both been right nice to me.”

  Miranda gave her a tired grin. “I’m glad you think so.” But being nice wouldn’t get her through the upcoming interview. She waved good-bye as Betsy trotted away. Miranda stepped onto the familiar walkway through the widow’s competitive garden, still unsure of what she’d say or do. Just the thought of speaking to this stranger twisted her stomach into knots. How much simpler would it have been for her to have spoken up at the auction house that day when Grandfather sold the wrong painting. Her cowardice had led to this dilemma. She wouldn’t let it get in the way again.

  She’d turned the knob on the door before she remembered that she no longer resided at this house. With a shake of her head, she knocked and listened as the occupant of the cabin had to move from his seat to allow Mrs. Sanders through the room.

  The woman’s calico shirt hadn’t changed, and neither had her efficient grin. “Miranda, I didn’t think to see you again so soon. Did you miss the train?”

  McSwain inspected her as if trying to place her. She didn’t blame him if he didn’t recognize her. The month since Boston hadn’t been kind to her.

  “Grandfather and I decided to extend our stay.”

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Sanders covered her mouth. “I only have one room empty. If only I’d known—”

  “We’re fine,” Miranda assured her. “In fact, it’s most beneficial that we decided to stay. I believe I might have some acquaintances in common with this gentleman.”

  Widow Sanders’ eyebrows hopped and she turned to glance over her shoulder at McSwain. “All right, then. Since you already know Miss Wimplegate . . .”

  “Wimplegate?” He pulled a notepad from his pocket. “W-I-M-P-L-E-G-A-T-E?” Then with a nod he said, “We thought you’d given up already.”

  He scratched at his large jaw and stared at her through dull eyes. Miranda would’ve backed away from the inspection, but to do so would deposit her on the front porch. Forced to stand her ground, she hardened her face into an expression that would have impressed her father and horrified her mother. “We have not given up in our quest to help your client, but before I answer any other questions, I’d like to know what you are doing here.”

  The man carefully closed the notepad and returned it to his shirt pocket. “Monty King sent me. According to your father, you had failed and were returning home. Tough break for you, but it’s not too late for us to find the painting, which we would’ve by now if you would’ve told us where it went instead of trying to go it alone.”

  The rebuke stung because it was true. She had wasted their time. She and Grandfather were no closer to finding the painting than they’d been in Boston. It probably wasn’t even in the state anymore. Miranda rubbed her forehead, the exact spot that denoted her abundance of apologies. She might be sorry, but if he knew something, she needed to find out.

  “If you have more information, we’d be glad to help. The people here don’t much like outsiders, and they might not trust you, but I could speak for you if you already know where to look—”

  “Not likely, boss . . . er . . . ma’am. You’d be the last one we’d tell. Your mishandling of the family’s heirlooms is why I’m here in the first place. I don’t need a list of your friends. I know who I’m looking for.” McSwain motioned to the door. “I’ve got to review my notes before I start investigating tomorrow. I’m going to be like a real detective and all.” His eyebrows wagged on his crowded forehead. “So enough chatting. Go on home to your lunatic Gramps and don’t expect me to keep you informed.”

  So that was it? After all that she had done—all the fear of the journey, the trials with Grandfather, the awkwardness of the sale barn, the headless chicken—after all of that, this stranger was going to march into Pine Gap, pluck up the painting, and return the victor? How did he find out where it was sent when there was no record?

  Shaking in frustration, Miranda glared, but he didn’t care—no more concerned about her anger than a bear frets over the bees. Where had that saying come from? Not only had she lost all her nice clothes, now she was even thinking like a mountaineer.

  Miranda spun around and marched out of the house. No sooner had she reached the peony bush than she heard a whistle behind her. Holding an opened raincoat over her head, Widow Sanders motioned her over to where she crouched by Lady Godiva.

  “I heard what he said to you, Miranda. I don’t know what you are looking for, but you can beat that man. I really don’t think he’s that clever.” The widow’s eyes narrowed with tight focus. “Before you got here, he asked me right particular if I knew anyone named Eves.”

  “Eves? Is that a last name?”

  “Not one I’ve heard of. Sorry I can’t help you, but I thought you ought to know.”

  Miranda nodded. “I appreciate the hint. If that name is all he has, he might not be as close to solving the mystery as he thinks.” Widow Sanders blinked as a gust threw water beneath her shelter. “You’d better go inside,” Miranda said. “And be careful with that man. I don’t trust him.”

  “I can handle him,” Widow Sanders said. “I’ll sleep with a knife under my pillow, and heaven help him if he crosses me.” Then she hustled back to the house.

  Miranda bunched her shoulders up around her neck and then pushed them low. The dreaded interview was over. Sometimes you might not accomplish anything from an encounter beyond surviving it. She’d faced McSwain and she was still standing.

  But she didn’t know an Eves, or an Eve for that matter. First or last name. It sounded like Monty King’s research had been more thorough. He probably even knew that the Pine Gap sale barn sold animals, not antiques. Inadequate—her efforts, her intelligence, her persuasion. She’d given everything she could, and still she came up short.

  The rain dumped out by the cupful, and her saturated parasol finally admitted defeat. Sludging through the slick mud, Miranda made her way back to Wyatt’s house, heavy with disappointment. If the LeBlancs had new information, why hadn’t they wired it to her? Why send someone else to get the job done? Obviously Father hadn’t been able to convince them that she was capable. And why should he? He must’ve had his doubts, too. As hard
as she tried, she’d failed and no one believed in her.

  Only Wyatt. Wyatt, who worked so patiently with Grandfather, despite Grandfather’s eccentricities. Wyatt, who escorted them through the hills in search of their treasure. Wyatt, who occasionally wanted to kiss her against his better judgment—okay, maybe only once. Sure, he believed in her, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t help her. He had no more influence than her young friends hawking papers on the corners of Boston. In the end, if you weren’t a rich man with an office full of lawyers and detectives at your disposal, you were going to lose. Wyatt was just a simple country boy with a big heart, and in the LeBlancs’ world that didn’t count for much.

  Chapter 21

  With a grunt, Wyatt hefted the collars for the mules. Already in place in the steamy stable, they waited for the weight on their necks, but it never fell. Instead, through the wall of rain coursing off the side of the barn, he watched Miranda trudging toward the house. She was alone, so maybe they didn’t know about the painting after all. The bottom of Miranda’s dress carried an extra five pounds of mud, dragging it down until it met the original source. Shoulders hunched, she trampled across the sodden grass. He hung the collars on the wall and checked once to see the mules were tethered, then ducked into the fray and trotted to her side.

  “I was on my way to fetch you.” He flipped up the collar of his coat to keep the rain from running down his neck. She didn’t even spare him a glance.

  “Has Grandfather made it back?”

  “No. Betsy told me he took out, so I sent Isaac to Leland Moore’s to look for him.” Moore wouldn’t be happy to see Isaac, but he had to know that if he was messing with Elmer that the Ballentines would come looking for him. And Isaac didn’t seem to mind the chore one bit.

  He reached in front of her to push the door open, but she stopped at the threshold. Lifting her messy skirt, she twisted her foot this way and that, examining the boot slick with mud. With a sigh she tossed her frilly umbrella on the porch and knelt to tug at her boot fasteners. Wyatt let the door close and leaned against the wall to keep her company. “Don’t seem right going inside without you.”