Chapter 8

“If you’re serious about having a sale here,” Miranda said, “then while you look at the books, I’ll see if I can tidy the salon.”

Betsy’s freckles bunched up in confusion. “The salon?”

“She means the grand room where you sell everything.” Grandfather remained bent over the ledger.

“It’s already clean.” Betsy shoved her hand into the pocket of what she probably considered a clean pinafore.

Poor thing. What would the scamp be doing if she lived in Boston? Living in a disease-ridden tenement? Working in a textile factory all hours of the day? As much as Miranda needed to look for the painting, she didn’t have the heart to send Betsy away.

Betsy followed her out of the office. “I reckon I’m supposed to come. Wyatt told me to keep an eye on you.”

“What’s he afraid of?”

“For starters, he thinks Isaac might be sweet on you and told me to tell him if Isaac came within a mile of you.”

Miranda lowered her eyes. Isaac found her interesting? Her lips curled of their own accord. It shouldn’t matter. She couldn’t imagine having a beau from these parts. Then again, besides Cornelius, she’d never had a beau anywhere. She stayed too busy working with Father and Grandfather. Mother would occasionally wrangle an invitation for Miranda to some musical evening or social event among their peers, but more often than not she found herself hiding—preferring to observe than be observed.

But what if Isaac was one of the gentlemen merchants in her set? The thought of him with his melancholy eyes gazing at her over a candlelit table at the Tremont Hotel did have merit. He’d place his open palm on the linen tablecloth, and Miranda would slip her hand into his . . .

And then his brother would burst through the dining room, lunge at his throat, and upend the table. China would explode, crystal would shatter, and once again innocent Isaac would bear the brunt of Wyatt’s uncontrolled fury. Miranda’s lips tightened.

She stood at the edge of the cavernous arena. What could be done? Dirt and other natural substances she’d rather not identify were all that kept the room from austerity. Flies swarmed everywhere. The worn wooden seats doubled as stairs. Put cushions on them and they’d only be stepped on. That left the table in the front. A cloth maybe to cover the primitive board? A lamp? Some candlesticks to dress up the work area? After all, their customers would spend hours staring at the auctioneer. They might as well give them something to look at besides Wyatt Ballentine.

Her ears warmed. The thought of looking at him all day was decidedly disconcerting.

“You’re going to spruce this place up, huh?” Betsy’s bone-china complexion gave her an angelic appearance, an impression that was criminally misleading. “I’m not sure you’re the right person for the job. If you were going through all the trouble of getting a fancy dress with ribbons and bows, why would you pick colors that only an earthworm could love?”

“The color is called cinnamon, and you are not exhibiting proper manners.”

“But you ruined what would otherwise be a humdinger of a dress.”

“The dress is understated and classy. It shows reserve and it’s . . . it’s—”

“Boring.” Betsy flopped on the first step and rested her chin in her hand. “The color is boring.”

“It’s respectable. I’ll not array myself like a strumpet—” The door leading from the pens in back swung open. Miranda stopped herself just in time.

But Betsy wouldn’t let it go. “Wyatt,” she asked. “What’s a strumpet?”

Miranda’s eyes burned, they stretched so wide. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You know good and well—”

“Betsy,” he warned, “where did you hear that word?”

Helpless. Miranda was helpless and at the mercy of a wickedly clever eleven-year-old. Her eyes went from piercing to pleading. Betsy lifted her chin in victory. “I heard it here at the sale barn. I just wanted to see what it meant.”

At least Wyatt didn’t look fooled. “Watch your mouth, Betsy Huckabee. You don’t talk that way in front of a lady.”

She dimpled, clearly unafraid of his bluster. Evidently, she’d never seen him rough up his brother.

Feeling minutely justified by Wyatt’s defense, Miranda waited until he made it inside the office before she asked, “What’d I ever do to you?”

“You took Wyatt’s sale barn. That’s what.” Betsy drummed her heels against the hard seat beneath her.

Enough arguing with a child. Miranda Wimplegate couldn’t set herself against this unruly brat, even if sorely provoked. Instead, she’d do what she could to improve the girl’s prospects. It might be the only thing she accomplished on this journey.

Carefully picking her way around the dirty arena to the auctioneer’s table she called over her shoulder, “Your uncle owns the newspaper? Is there that much news here?”

“Not often. Mostly he sells the papers from the city, but we print our own when there’s a call for it.”

“Is he raising you?”

“Yep. When my aunt died, I came to town to help with my little cousins. Three boys in all. My ma and pa live away from town.”

Miranda didn’t have the first clue where to procure knickknacks for the table, but surely with the tireless Widow Sanders’ help she could at least have a vase of fresh flowers by sale day. If she could only move the ugly equipment out of the way.

A large metal frame extended from beneath the floor and spanned the front of the table. She leaned on it and it gave a bit, sinking a few inches into the ground. When Betsy climbed the rungs of the pen, the beam shuddered beneath Miranda’s fingers. What a hazard. It was neither steady nor attractive. Short hooks descended from it on which were hung heavy metal disks—possibly an attempt to stabilize the structure and keep it from swaying so. Whatever could they have been thinking to leave this eyesore sprouting right before the focal point of the room?

Betsy took a seat at the table and tossed the gavel from hand to hand, imitating a carnival performer.

“Do you miss your family?” Miranda asked. To her surprise, the metal disks were easily removed from the hooks. She would hide them beneath the table. Once she found a drape to put over it, no one could see them there.

“I do miss them, but they come to town right often. Especially my brother Josiah. He works here on sale day.”

And they hadn’t had a sale day for quite some time.

“Besides,” Betsy continued, “Ma says I can learn more city ways here than at home. Someday I’ll be a sophisticated lady like Abigail Calhoun.”

City ways? Here in Pine Gap? Miranda couldn’t imagine how backward those in the hills must be.

She’d successfully dismantled the discs and hooks from the beam. The steel beam itself was too heavy for her to lift. She considered pushing it out of the braces where it balanced, but a quick look below the table assured her that she didn’t want to have to pick it up off the dirty floor. Turning her attention to the table, she measured it with an eye used to determining the length of sideboards, bureaus, and the like. With a crisp nod she smiled at Betsy. “You’ll help me find some fabric, won’t you? By Monday I can have this table adorned more appropriately. Widow Sanders might even have a vase I could use for some fresh-cut flowers.”

“You think Wyatt is going to sit in a mess of flowers?”

“Just wait until you see him dressed up. We’ll get that nasty beard shaved off and get him out of his old stinky clothes, and he’ll look as handsome . . . as . . . as . . .”

Only one thing could make Betsy look so happy, and that would be if Wyatt had returned and was standing behind Miranda at that moment.

“What did you do to my scale?”

Thankful that he’d chosen to ignore her plans for him, she answered, “I don’t have it.” Besides the steel frame, the table was empty.

He rushed around the arena pen with remarkable speed. “This.” He grabbed the metal frame with both hands. “You disassembled my scales.”

Her eyes flickered over the beam, once balancing on the supports but now resting heavily on the struts. “I’ve never seen a scale that big.” Not really an excuse, but in such circumstances one should say something.

“You’ve never weighed five tons of cattle before, either.”

Her face burned. The last thing she wanted was a lecture from this ruffian, but he was right . . . and she hated that she must admit it.

“I’m sorry.” She fiddled with the silver charms on her bracelet. “I was trying to help.”

He didn’t move. His fists were still on his hips and his legs were planted wide, but somehow she could sense the anger had gone. Instead, he was studying her, just like she might study a painting. But she was no masterpiece, and she didn’t appreciate the attention.

“I’ll help you put it back together.” She squatted and began gathering the various disks and hooks.

“I’d do better on my own.” His chest sunk as he surveyed the mess. “It has to be perfectly balanced. No room for inaccuracy.”

She’d messed it up, and she couldn’t fix it. Just like losing the LeBlancs’ painting. The metal pieces clanged out of Miranda’s grasp as she deposited them on the table. Stepping away, Miranda clasped her hands behind her back. “I’m going to get a tablecloth for this table and a vase of fresh flowers. It’ll add a touch of class to the place.”

Did his eyelids weigh five tons, too? Because he seemed to have trouble keeping them from drooping. “It’s your place. Do what you want. Your grandpa will be looking for me, so I’d best go.” Another look at the pile of the disassembled hardware, and he turned to march to the office.

Betsy whistled. “You sure ain’t much help around here.”

True, but unfair. She wasn’t supposed to be adorning a livestock barn. She was supposed to find a painting and get home before the LeBlancs took them to court. Time was running out.

Widow Sanders’ peony bush buzzed with evening guests. Wasps dallied from bloom to bloom, tracing their scalloped paths in the air. The sun hovered on the crest of the western mountain, just waiting to dip beneath. A calming setting if one could forget what had brought them to it.

“How did you get rid of that girl?” Grandfather reclined in a wicker chair, his jar of sweet tea drawing an occasional wasp to be swatted away.

Miranda readjusted her tree-stump seat in an attempt to find level ground. “She went home to fix dinner for her uncle and nephews. Maybe I can get away tomorrow to search for the painting without her.”

“Painting?”

Miranda smiled at his joke, then realized he wasn’t jesting. A chill raised bumps on her arms. Dear Lord, she prayed, has he forgotten already? “The LeBlancs’ painting. Remember?”

“Oh, that. You know, I don’t see it as critical as I did once. This place is a bonanza of opportunity. Even if we don’t find it, we might make our fortune here.”

Was this more than a memory lapse? The farther from home they traveled, the more his personality changed, and right now Miranda felt very, very far from home.

“Grandfather, one aisle of our auction house is worth more than this sale barn, the cattle, and all the land it’s on. Buying the barn was a mistake.”

“You’re awfully free with your opinion,” he snapped. Miranda dropped her gaze to her dirty fingernails and cringed at his tone. “Buying that barn has opened doors for us. While I was at the bank, I met a Mr. Rinehart who receives regular shipments of art from the outside world. We’re going calling on him tomorrow. He wouldn’t have been so friendly if he didn’t appreciate the investment we are making to the local tradesmen.”

“Then the LeBlancs’ painting wasn’t sent to the barn after all?”

“How would I know?” He shook his head. “Instead of questioning my every decision, Miranda, why don’t you go search the barn now that we’re free from our escorts?” He straightened in his chair and dug in his waistcoat pocket. “Here’s the key to the padlock. I wish you luck.”

Miranda’s eyes stung. A timid child, she hadn’t occasioned many reprimands—and never one from Grandfather. She missed the key he tossed and had to retrieve it from the soil. “It’ll be dark by the time I get back . . .”

“The mill has already closed, and there’s nothing else between here and the barn. You won’t see a soul.”

She should refuse. It wasn’t safe. All Betsy’s warnings about the hostility of the hills played in excruciating detail. Should Miranda assert her opinion that going alone was foolhardy, or was her reluctance further proof of her cowardice? Yet it might be the best chance to investigate without the grumpy Mr. Ballentine looking over her shoulder. Bravery. Her cranium ached at being stretched in the unfamiliar area.

“If I’m not back in a half hour . . .”

Ignoring her concern, Grandfather rocked his chair and hummed. Maybe having Betsy around wasn’t so bad, after all.

The sun-dappled road passed beneath tangled branches. It was impossible to tell which tree spawned the limbs. Soon all would be dark and the canopied walk would go from shaded to menacing. She hurried across the wagon yard toward the hulking barn, afraid to pause, afraid to check over her shoulder. The rusty padlock creaked at her twisting of the key, then with a click sprang open.

After removing the padlock and loosening the chain, Miranda tried to pull the giant door open. She’d forgotten her gloves, but her fingernails already carried a thimbleful of dirt beneath them. No room for more. She dug her heels into the gravel walkway and tugged, her skirt brushing in the dirt behind her. When the door finally decided to give way, she had to hurry to keep ahead and not have a foot caught beneath it. Catching her breath, she dusted off her hands and gingerly set forth into the shadowy building. Yellowed sunlight filtered through fly-speckled windows, but at least she could see in the office well enough. The calendar on the wall swayed as she rifled through a collection of empty crates. She remembered the size of the frame. Where could it hide?

She checked behind a desk—cobwebs, some scraps of paper, and cigarettes burned to the nub. Every other desk faced the door. One cabinet might provide results, but upon opening it, she found the space sliced up by shelving. Besides the door she entered, there was one other that beckoned. It was full-sized, but nothing suggested that it’d been opened regularly. Pushing her fear behind her, she turned the knob. A wall of pitch black greeted her. Her nose twitched, prompting a fit of sneezes. Grandfather wouldn’t expect her to go in there, but if she didn’t, who would? A quick search through the desk drawer uncovered some matches. She took the wire handle of the lantern, struck a blaze, and with a jut of her chin, entered the dark corridor.

And she wasn’t surprised when the door closed behind her.

This was just like her warehouse back home—a big room that echoed. The lantern wavered with her trembling. Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. She was all alone and things couldn’t hurt her. Holding the lantern aloft, she recognized the tiered ceiling. This storage space ran beneath the seating above her. The evening breeze nudged against the barn’s wood siding, and she could hear the shuffling of the small rodents that were sharing her space.

The room stretched toward the center of the arena, with the ceiling stepping lower and lower, the inverse of the seating above it. Beneath the bottom step was only space for a breadbox. The lantern light didn’t quite reach the farthest corners, but she suspected they were as empty as the rest, if you didn’t count the cobwebs and rat droppings. The narrow cavern curved as it wrapped around the arena, following the contours of the seating. Ahead, Miranda spotted bulky items. A broken gate leaned against the wall. Empty feed bags had drifted beneath the seats, and a rusted-out water trough lay gasping on its side. Nothing of value. Nothing that had been moved in years. Her task was halfway finished, but she was still not successful.

At the end of the passage, Miranda exited to find herself where she’d expected—in the arena. She only had the other side to go. Symmetrical. It shouldn’t take long.

Already familiar with the inverted stair-step shape of the room, Miranda forged ahead. Must get back before dark. Already the crickets were chirping outside. The moldy scent told her there must be a leak on this side of the building. Hopefully it wasn’t a dead animal. She swung the lantern low, allowing its beams to shine into the farthest reaches of the center of the room. All the time she had to watch her step, carefully making her way over the wooden braces and a pair of dirty work boots.

Miranda froze. Her heart stopped. Someone was wearing those boots. Slowly she lifted the lantern up, praying the vision would disappear, but no. A man stood in her way, blocking the exit. His red beard jutted from his face like a chisel. He was compact, stronger than she was, and he was hiding in the sale barn.

Not one of those things was good.

Lord, let my death be swift and painless was her only thought. Did that make her brave or a coward? If she were brave, she’d turn around and run, but her feet were glued to the floor.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.” His voice had the uneven, musical draw that she’d heard more frequently the farther into the mountains they traveled. “Thought you might need some help.”

“Who . . . who are you?”

He held her gaze, weighing her just as surely as if she was sitting on the scales. “Just passing through and saw the door open.”

Passing through? Even Miranda knew the sale barn was at the end of the road. Behind it was nothing but a cliff. But it’d be rude to mention his mistake, not to mention probably fatal.

“I don’t need any help.” Each word felt like sandpaper passing through her throat. Thinking of her fearless grandmother, she took a giant breath and uttered the two words that might be her last. “You’re trespassing.”

His eyebrow rose. His mouth twitched. “I’ll be heading out, then.” One last look around the room, and he left, disappearing into the dark shadows that curved with the bend of the arena.

Miranda fell against a support beam. She had to get home. Now. Deciding not to follow him, Miranda retraced her steps to the open arena. No time to recover her composure. She would run all the way back to Widow Sanders’. Just try to stop her.

She burst through the door and was immediately grabbed. Dropping the lantern, she swung at the man’s face with an untrained fist, amazed how much it hurt when she hit his cheek. Another scuffle, and her arms were pinned to her sides. She kicked, only then realizing that the shins she was thrashing were covered with a different pair of boots.

“Miranda!” It was Wyatt. The light of the unleashed flame distorted his features into something more sinister than usual. “What are you doing?”

Good thing he was holding her arms down, or she might just hug him. “There’s a man in there, under the stairs.”

His brow lowered. With a long reach, he grabbed the gavel off the table and tested its weight before opening the door beneath the bleachers. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.

How about back to Boston? But seeing there wasn’t a train at that second, she complied. He disappeared, leaving her to right the lantern and sweep the broken glass from the hurricane globe into her hand. Broken glass. Not the most effective weapon, but she’d use it if she must.

Lord, please protect me from the wicked, she prayed, leaving it up to God to judge which man best fit that description. Wyatt was gone an awfully long time considering the space beneath the seating was limited. Still peering into the darkness, Miranda heard footsteps coming into the room through the main hallway. With a shaky puff she blew out the lantern and brandished her shard of glass. Not much light came in, but enough to make out the outline of a man. Too tall to be the redhead. Did she want it to be Wyatt?

“Miranda? Where’d you go?”

She lowered her weapon. “I heard you coming, so I blew out the light.”

“I already knew you were in here.”

“But I didn’t know if it was you, or . . . oh, nevermind.” She didn’t care what he thought. Only that she wasn’t alone. She worked her way to the entrance, carefully avoiding the rows of seating. “How did that man get beneath the stairs?”

Instead of answering, Wyatt caught her wrist as she passed. He held her arm up in the waning light and scowled at the key dangling there. The shadows hid most of his face, but they couldn’t hide the warmth of his grip.

“He got in the same way you did. You left the front door open. There’s a broom closet just opposite the office. It’s the only other access to that side of the arena.”

Miranda jerked out of his grasp. What did he mean laying hands on her like that? No workman had ever touched her before.

“You don’t know who he was? No suspicions?” she asked.

“I don’t abide folks nosing around here after dark, including you. Why are you here, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business.” For some reason she could never reproduce the haughty Boston tone when she needed to. This time she only succeeded in sounding breathless.

“I reckon my business is chasing down strange men who scare you?”

She really wished she could see him, because despite his mountain drawl, the authority in his voice made her forget his ragged beard and homemade clothes. Hard to remember her superiority when it was only the two of them.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t think you want to be here in Pine Gap, and it’s no secret my life would be a sight easier if you weren’t. Why can’t we help each other out?”

Miranda sniffed, unsure that this wasn’t a trick. “I have to stay here for Grandfather.”

“What will it take to get Grandfather back home?”

Father had told her to keep their quest a secret. Otherwise they’d have to pay . . . and pay dearly. “We won’t stay a day longer than necessary,” she said. “On that you have my word.”

She couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to be weighing her proclamation. Finally he made his own offer. “If there’s anything I can do to hurry you on home . . . you have my word.” Promising to do anything it took to get rid of her? How charming. “But if you’re going to be out carousing at night,” he said, “you’d better be prepared to defend yourself. These hills are crawling with outlaws and ne’er-do-wells.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Maybe she couldn’t do haughty, but she had sarcastic in her repertoire. “I’ll return to my abode now, before the light fails.”

“I can’t let you go alone.” He took the broken lamp from her, left it in the office, then waved her outside. Swinging the heavy door closed, he wrapped the chain in the handles and held out his hand to her. “Give me your key.”

Miranda slid it off her wrist, but not until he’d palmed it did she realize her mistake. “You don’t need a key to lock a padlock.”

He dropped the key into his pocket. “But I need this key to keep you out of trouble.” He snapped the padlock closed. “Now, let’s both be pondering on how to get you back where you belong.”