Chapter 14

Who would’ve guessed that sitting next to Wyatt would completely erase her unease of being the center of attention? Having every eye on her didn’t bother her nearly as much as the man at her elbow. His shoulder brushed hers. The stiff fabric of his coat rubbed against her arm as he pointed out a blank spot on the paper. He lowered his voice from his public calling to share a wry observation. Once she got the gist of the instructions, once she caught Wyatt’s rhythm and could make sense of his chant, she enjoyed working with him. Enjoyed the camaraderie and enjoyed the feeling that she was contributing. She didn’t know how to help Grandfather, but after the horrible scene Wyatt endured, anything she could do to ease his job gave her pleasure. Was that wrong of her?

And he was still at her elbow, walking her home before he returned to the barn that night to help Betsy’s uncle Fred settle up with the last customer. Take away the barnyard smells that clung to both of them, and she could imagine that they were on a promenade through Boston Common, especially the way he walked with the easy gait of a man with the world at his feet. Ever since seeing him in that suit, Miranda couldn’t erase the thought that he held some inborn quality that set him apart. Although Isaac’s gentle manners were more pleasing, Wyatt possessed an air that wasn’t learned. He might work with his hands, he might sport a scruffy beard, but he had a nobility about him. It was evident in the way he faced adversity, the way he treated everyone, and by the way they adored him. Obviously, he was capable of rising to the very heights of his particular social class.

Had the thin mountain air affected her reasoning, too?

As they rounded the corner to Widow Sanders’ house, Betsy rose from the porch step where she’d been sitting. Miranda smiled, happy to see the girl, but she only had eyes for Wyatt.

Betsy picked up a Mason jar of tea off the porch and rushed to hand it to him. “A new pot is steeping, but this is the last that’s cool.”

Miranda wetted her lips, suddenly realizing how parched she was. With a start she also realized how closely Wyatt was watching. He took the jar from Betsy and held it out to Miranda.

“Ladies first.”

Miranda took the jar in both hands, her fingers covering his. “Thank you.” She’d almost forgotten how to swallow, and he must’ve forgotten how to work his fingers, because he stood there, fingers entwined, until Betsy snorted. His eyebrow gave a little hop, and he released the jar. Miranda refused to think how she looked slurping out of a canning jar and instead enjoyed the cool, slightly bitter liquid washing down her throat. She lowered it and had to force herself not to swipe at her face with her sleeve as Betsy was wont to do.

“Is Grandfather inside?” she asked Betsy as she offered the jar to Wyatt.

Betsy tugged on her blond braid. “I saw him and Moore drive by the house a few hours ago. I hollered for him, but he didn’t stop.”

Wyatt gulped the rest of the tea down, then handed the empty jar back to Betsy. “That man needs a keeper.”

Just then Miranda turned to see Grandfather waving merrily from the wagon as it made its way up the hill toward them. Moore wasn’t with him. He was alone, unless you counted the piece of sculpture riding in the back.

“You won’t believe what I’ve acquired.” He pulled the wagon alongside the house and gestured to the log standing on end in the back of the wagon.

The tree must’ve been impressive, because the trunk was a full yard in diameter, but it’d been carved into a figure, the honey-colored wood taking on a golden skin color. Above the shoulders where the head should’ve been was a narrow neck, headless and smooth, but beneath that—

Miranda stepped up to the edge of the wagon. Grandfather came around back. Beaming with pride, he dropped the tailgate and gestured. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Every ounce of blood in Miranda’s body must have made a mad dash for her face. No Baroque artist had ever been more enamored with the voluptuous female form as the backwoodsman who’d carved the rough likeness, heavy of breast and generous of buttocks. In fact, the artist had hardly bothered worrying about a waist at all, but merely gave an impression of space between the two areas upon which he wished to concentrate his efforts. That was her professional opinion. Her opinion as a maiden having to face the obnoxious figure in broad daylight was even more harsh.

Betsy whistled. “Wonder who he used as a model.” She looked down at her undeveloped chest and then assessed Miranda’s rather healthy form. “I don’t think even Miss Miranda—”

“Betsy!” Wyatt lifted the tailgate and dropped the pin into the staple, all without looking up.

“You cannot ship this to Boston,” Miranda said.

“Of course not,” Grandfather laughed. “I won’t be parted with Lady Godiva. That’s what I named her. I thought we’d keep her in Widow Sanders’ garden to enjoy.”

“I don’t know who Lady Godiva is,” Betsy said, “but Mr. Godiva is one lucky man.”

“Go sit on the porch, Betsy.” Wyatt could sure be bossy when the mood struck.

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed herself. “Widow Sanders does not want this in her garden, Grandfather. It’s vulgar.”

“Nonsense. It’s no different from Venus de Milo.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. “That might be fine and dandy for some foreigners, but no one in this part of the woods would put this outside. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, it’s about time you met with some culture.” Grandfather unhooked the tailgate again. “Are you going to help me unload this, or do you want Lady Godiva to ride in the back of your wagon all week?”

Wyatt took his time weighing his options, but really, did he have any? Elmer had bought this monstrosity—just wait until he got his hands on Moore—and he didn’t want to leave his wagon behind. Hopefully the widow would forgive him.

He leaned into the wagon bed and stretched out his hands, but then stopped. Exactly where could he grab? He drew back and scratched his head. Somehow it didn’t feel right handling the woman, even if she had no modesty. He quirked his mouth to the side and went in cautiously. It was just a tree trunk, he reminded himself as he wrapped his arms around the stout waist of the figure and hefted Lady Godiva out of the wagon.

“Where do you want it?” he grunted.

“In a bonfire,” Miranda said, but Elmer led the way to an empty space in Widow Sanders’ rose garden. He deposited the statue with a thud and turned to find Widow Sanders, fists against her hips, mouth ajar, and eyes bugging.

“What in tarnation is that?”

Wyatt ambled past her. “C’mon, Betsy. I’ll take you home.”

Betsy hopped off the porch and ran to the wagon, where Miranda stood, still too shocked to move.

“What am I going to do?” she asked.

Wyatt stood at her side and watched the widow bickering with Elmer. She jabbed her finger at him, but Elmer only had eyes for the controversial lady. “You’re going to take care of your grandfather as best as you can. God hasn’t forgotten you.”

She nodded, her chin quivering. For crying aloud, did she know how badly he wished he had an answer? Did she have any idea how he wanted to take care of this for her?

With a tightness in his chest, he reached for her. One hand on her shoulder, a squeeze. Her chin dropped. “I’m not doing very well.”

“Don’t give up. Help will come when you need it.” His big old hand was probably crushing her. If only he knew what to do, but his position wasn’t the best. As unstable as the old man was, he couldn’t cross him. One wrong move and Elmer could ruin everything Wyatt and his father had worked for.

“I’ve got to go back and make sure everyone leaves with the animals they bought, but if you need me I’ll be here in a jiffy. And tomorrow I’ll keep him with me. If nothing else, we’ll keep him so busy he won’t have time to buy any more . . . art.”

She flashed him a watery smile. “I underestimated the strength of the muse in these hills.”

He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but the way her warm shoulder compared with the cool wood statue . . . he shouldn’t make any more comparisons. He cleared his throat, then hightailed it to the wagon where Betsy waited.

Betsy smiled innocently, which meant she was thinking thoughts that were anything but.

“I know that look. You’re up to no good, so you might as well tell me.”

Betsy held on to the seat as the wagon rocked to life. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this, Mr. Wyatt, but I expect you won’t be appreciating my observation.”

“I expect you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Sure enough.” Betsy nearly sang her next words. “You love her.”

Wyatt’s neck tightened. “Hogwash. A fancy city lady like her? I might as well poke myself in the eye as fall in love with her. She ain’t looking for an auctioneer for a husband.”

“I didn’t say she was in love with you, you big oaf. I said you loved her. All the signs are there. The way you get real quiet when she’s around. How you’d just as soon put a whooping on Isaac as let him breathe the same air as her. And how just then, it took you a full two minutes to decide whether or not to touch her shoulder. I nearly split a gut laughing at you.”

Wyatt tried to stare her down, but Betsy’s pert, lightly freckled face registered no remorse. “Don’t look so scared,” she said. “She’s a nice lady and I won’t tell her.”

“There’s nothing to tell. You’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and watched the mules’ backs as they plodded toward the sale barn. The nervousness, the hesitation that Betsy saw wasn’t love. It was uncertainty. Wyatt didn’t trust Miranda, and he had to be on guard because he was too vulnerable where she was concerned. No one had ever made him question his plans like she had. All these years he thought he knew who he was, what he wanted, and then, from the moment she hopped off the train, he began to wonder if there was something more. Maybe this life he’d so carefully planned for wasn’t what he desired. Maybe he’d only settled for it because the pain of his family’s rejection kept him from trying anything grander. But knowing that Miranda existed led him to want things that had never seemed possible before.

Was that love? He didn’t think so. He pulled up to the barn as Betsy sprang from the wagon and skipped into the building. If not love, then infatuation maybe, but Wyatt wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t wager his heart on someone who wanted to leave, who had nothing in common with him.

Nothing in common besides a love of family. Besides a sense of duty to those she cared for. Besides faith. And besides an abhorrence for naked tree-stump women.