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, expressive 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.

If he could only get the barrels full before they interrupted him. Water splashed against his mostly clean shirt. He forced the tension from his chest at the welcome sensation. He had to keep his temper. Simmer down. Nothing good could come from upsetting these folks. He continued pumping and tried to see the barn through fresh eyes.

Before the barn, Wyatt had gone around with his pa to conduct sales wherever people were apt to gather. Once he was good enough with his writing and arithmetic, or at least better than Isaac, he stood by his father at the auctioneer’s stand and kept notes of the buyers and the prices. Then came the barn. Wyatt had helped the men raise it, but too soon his pa’s strength began to fade. That’s when Wyatt began to chant the lulling rhythms of the auctioneer’s song himself. There’d been a time when he dreamed of greater things, but he’d grown up, seen how the world really worked. He was destined to run the sale barn—if he could keep out of trouble with his new boss. With the barrels full, he hopped down and went to meet the spry gentleman next to the pens.

“Wyatt Ballentine.” Elmer Wimplegate planted his cane into the ground and nearly posed. “I’ve made a decision. You’re going to continue working for me, and my first order of business is to get you in a suit. We can’t run an auction with you looking like a common laborer.”

Where had this man concocted his ideas about auctions? Wyatt pulled his wet shirt away from his chest. “I don’t have a suit, and if I did, I’d be saving it for my own burying, not ruining it by hopping gates, herding cattle, and driving pigs.”

“And regarding that beard . . .” Wimplegate’s eyes turned steely.

Well, horsefeathers. Wyatt would have to try another angle. “I can’t get a suit by . . . when do you want to start the auction?”

“That’ll depend on how quickly your printer can print a catalog.”

“We don’t need a catalog,” Wyatt said.

“How do you know if you’ve never used one? Miranda is quite talented with her descriptions. She really adds value to the items.”

Wyatt studied that spun-sugar granddaughter of his, dressed in another drab shade somewhere between brown and dirt brown. Talented with descriptions? So she could tell a whopper. That’s what that meant. And she probably didn’t cotton to bearded men, either.

Betsy piped up, “Are we going to have a sale on Monday or not?”

“We couldn’t be ready by Monday, could we?” Elmer tilted his head until his flat hat brim was parallel with the slanting roof of the barn. He waved a pesky fly away from his mouth.

“These animals have been ready for weeks.” Wyatt propped a leg up on the fence, hoping Mr. Wimplegate would forget about his duds. “The longer we keep them, the more we lose in feed and the less healthy they are. Today is Thursday. By Monday you’ll be ready to be rid of them.”

Elmer squinted through the plank fence at a pen of lambs. “Won’t they bring more if you wash them up a bit? You know, give them a spit and polish to bring a few more dollars?”

Betsy giggled. If Wyatt thought for one second that Mr. Wimplegate would wash all these critters himself, he’d be tempted to play along, but he knew only too well who’d be standing in ankle-deep manure with a bucket and sponge and bathing goats.

“Clean animals don’t sell any better than dirty ones, Mr. Wimplegate. People want them healthy, though, and the longer they sit here, the weaker they’re getting.”

Wimplegate nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. A goose won’t sit on a bureau and appreciate in value like a Gainsborough painting. It does appear that Miranda was right. I don’t have the foggiest notion of what I’ve gotten myself into.”

Wyatt dared a look at her. Jaw set, eyes mistrustful. She didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want her there. Maybe they could work together?

For a moment Wyatt tried to imagine a Boston auction of art and fancy furniture. He wouldn’t know where to start there, either. “Don’t you worry. Let me get this place to rolling, and you won’t have any regrets. Everything will be just fine.”

“But I’m not going to shirk my duties. I play a vital role in the auction back home, and this venture will be no different. Let no one say I played the fop while others did my work. I intend to set an example.”

Of how to drive a teetotaler to whiskey? But he did agree to having a sale Monday, didn’t he? Wyatt could shout hallelujah for that.

“Let’s go inside and you can walk me through the process.” Wimplegate dusted a cottonwood puff off his shoulder. “Show me the bidder’s numbers, the catalogs, the sales receipts, and how we can best get through Monday. Then once we’re done, we’ll go to town and see if there’s not an idle tailor looking for something to keep his Saturday evening busy—and a barber.”

How far was he willing to go to keep this dream alive? Wyatt motioned them ahead of him. Without the auction house, where would the people of Hart County meet to conduct their business? What else would force them to be civil to one another? But he knew working for Mr. Wimplegate wasn’t going to be easy. How the fellas would jeer at him sitting up at the auctioneer’s table while stuffed into a sausage casing of a suit. And what would the fancy Miss Wimplegate think? He’d look like a buffoon compared to the rich, barbered gents she was used to.

Boston. He’d never been there, but the name of the city chilled his innards. Shame. That’s what he felt when he heard it, although he’d done nothing wrong. He knew it was a town so big that you could live there your whole life and never get to know all your neighbors. But he had to wonder if Miss Wimplegate and her grandpa had ever bumped elbows with anyone who might know of him. Probably not. He couldn’t imagine the refined Wimplegates having anything to do with the likes of that kind of people. With the likes of his kind of people.

“I’ll unlock the office,” he said, “but I’m bound to get these animals watered before it gets any hotter.”

Mr. Wimplegate didn’t quarrel with him, but once inside he took to the account books like they were pulled taffy.

Looking at the fancy gent got Wyatt pondering what his life would’ve been like had the stories been true. But they weren’t, and there wasn’t no sense in stewing over it. He’d do the best he could with what he had, but without his job at the sale barn, he had nothing.