Chapter 22

“I can’t waste my time at the auction, Miranda.” Grandfather straightened his cuffs and pulled his walking stick from behind the door. “My efforts would be better utilized pursuing other opportunities.”

Her heart sank, but she kept up a good front. “What efforts would those be?”

“I hate to speak of it, because you never know who might overhear.” His eyes shifted to Wyatt. “But I suppose since he’s not in position to take financial advantage, it doesn’t signify. I’m considering purchasing a gold mine.”

Wyatt spewed his coffee back into his mug. “A gold mine? For crying aloud, there isn’t any gold here.”

“That’s exactly what my partner wants everyone to think.” Grandfather winked at her.

“Is Moore involved in this mess?” Miranda peered out the window expecting to see the ne’er-do-well on the road but instead saw the pristine world beyond the glass. The leaves hung heavy, still dripping with the overflow. But at least her one dress was dry and ready for the day.

“Moore is worthless,” Grandfather said. “Miles Bullard is my contact now.”

“Who is that?” Miranda asked.

Wyatt’s coffee cup clunked as he placed it on the back of the piano. “Miles Bullard makes Leland Moore look like one of the disciples.”

“Which one?” Miranda asked. “Judas?”

Grandfather pointed his cane at Wyatt. “Miles is going to get that banker set straight. They shouldn’t need any more collateral than the sale barn.”

Miranda and Wyatt had already obtained the bank’s cooperation. There’d be no further loans made to Grandfather, but still the threat of losing the sale barn was enough to worry Wyatt. Miranda shot him a sympathetic smile.

He brightened. “If Mr. Wimplegate is busy, then I’ll need help at the sale. Can you come?”

She never felt more useful than on auction day, or more exposed. “I’m willing as long as I won’t be in the way,” she said. True, Grandfather would be roaming the hills unrestrained, but even when she’d tried, she’d been unable to keep the prodigal out of the swine pit.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He pulled on his dress coat over his satin waistcoat. Miranda had to bite her tongue before she found herself offering to button the jacket for him. His tie rested crooked. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a little help. Miranda stepped close. Wyatt’s hands stilled on his buttons as she reached up and tugged it horizontal. His lashes lowered. “Thank you.”

Grandfather opened the front door, stopped on the threshold, and then announced. “I declare, every time I turn around, that girl is there.” And then he bellowed out across the yard, “Don’t think I don’t see you. You may think you’ve got me fooled, but I know when I’m being followed.”

Floating among a tattered mob of young boys, Betsy maneuvered them toward the house.

“I ain’t following you, Mr. Wimplegate. I’m just coming by to see if Wyatt has left for the sale already. Thought me and the boys might walk over with you’uns.”

But instead of greeting his former friend, Grandfather huffed past her. “You stay away, young lady. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I will find out.”

For the twentieth time that morning Miranda readjusted the crumpled collar of her gown that hadn’t dried just right. “She isn’t doing any harm, Grandfather. She’s a little girl.”

But Betsy’s cocky tilt of the head showed her willingness to argue that assessment.

“So are all the boys coming with us?” Wyatt scooped up a little fellow with hair just as blond as Betsy’s.

“Yes, sir. Their pa said they could come along if’n they behave themselves and don’t bother him while he works in the office.”

With that they gathered their hats and made their way toward the angular structure. The boys ran forward and behind, darting between their legs, bumping against the adults, tossing rocks off into the thick growth on both sides of the road. “They will have traveled three times the distance by the time we get there,” Miranda observed.

Wyatt tugged at his collar. “And if I’d known your Grandfather wasn’t coming to the sale, I could’ve worn my usual clothes.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again and, with burning face, choked out, “I think you look nice.”

His chin went up. His lips twitched. Suddenly he broke out in the biggest grin she’d ever seen. “Then maybe I’ll wear this more often.”

It felt nice to make him smile like that, but all Miranda could do in reply was nod.

Betsy whistled. “Listen to you, Wyatt. As vain as a banty rooster in the henhouse at the county fair.”

“I just want to be clear exactly what she’s admiring. If it’s the waistcoat, I could throw it on over my work shirt and keep her happy at the same time.”

Finally finding her voice, Miranda spoke up. “It’s the impression you give in general. The coat civilizes you. You look refined.”

His eyes sparked with interest and he leaned closer as they walked. “Tell me honestly, Miranda. Do you think I could pass as a member of one of those rich families you’re so fond of? Do I have the look?”

Miranda bit her lip. He could never pass for the elite class. Not with that honest, earnest expression. People like the LeBlancs never cared half as much as Wyatt appeared to care at this moment. Besides, they didn’t have the robust good health, the skin tanned by labor instead of sun-kissed in leisure. The fluid movements and joints made smooth by nonstop motion. The direct mouth that only said what was required instead of dancing around the niceties of vapid conversation.

“You’re dangling me over a barrel,” he said.

Miranda was already fanning herself before she realized how warm it’d become. “You’d never be mistaken for one of them,” she said. She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, but her answer didn’t please him. If only she had the courage to tell him that she preferred him the way he was.

Now within the confines of the barn, Betsy’s charges scattered to the four winds. “Stay out of the pens!” she yelled as they raced toward the gates, and then she clapped her hands together and squealed. “Mr. Jeremiah . . . Miss Abigail! Over here!”

At the sound of their names, Wyatt lifted his head and waved. With a frank, determined air, Abigail strode toward them.

“How’s our little Betsy faring in the big city?” Her eyes danced, obviously adoring the girl as much as Wyatt did.

“I’m staying out of trouble mostly,” Betsy said. “Having those cousins of mine to tend is surely a trial.”

“And how about you, Miranda? Are these, er . . . mountains . . . winning your heart?”

Why did her eyes dart to Wyatt? “We won’t be in Pine Gap much longer,” Miranda said.

“Not unless Wyatt can give her a reason to stay,” Betsy quipped.

Mr. Calhoun whistled. “You might have your work cut out for you, Wyatt.”

He gifted Miranda with a slow, warm smile. “Miss Miranda can’t abide all these animals. I’m just lucky she tolerates me.” Then, seeing a man smiling at Jeremiah’s shoulder, Wyatt extended his hand. “Wyatt Ballentine, sir. Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen you around here.”

The man’s scraggly blond hair fuzzed past his ears. He smiled pleasantly. “I’m up from Arkansas, aiming to buy a horse off the Calhouns.” And despite his friendly tone, Miranda’s blood ran cold. She’d seen this man somewhere before. But where?

“The Calhouns have the best horses around,” Wyatt said.

Still standing with an arm wrapped around Abigail’s waist, Betsy scratched beneath her slat bonnet. She opened her mouth, then with a quick look at Miranda and a shake of the head, popped it closed.

Whatever memory niggled at Miranda seemed to fluster Betsy, too. The girl’s eyes narrowed and she watched him as closely as a mouse watches a sleeping cat.

In answer to Wyatt’s observation, the man said, “When Mr. Calhoun described the breadth of animals being offered today, I thought I’d better come have a look-see. I might pick up some cattle or sheep while I’m at it. I do love an auction.”

And that’s when she knew. She’d seen him here, in the dark, beneath the stairs. She shrank closer to Wyatt, wondering what excuse the man would make if she exposed him. He hadn’t just arrived, and why was his hair blond now instead of red?

“We’d best get the sale started.” With a touch to the small of her back, Wyatt leaned close. “Are you ready?”

Ready to do what? Several options presented themselves. She waited for the chills to fade before she spoke.

“That’s the same man, isn’t he?”

Wyatt turned to face her. “The same man that what?”

“The same man I saw beneath the seats. The same man that Mr. Fowler caught at the Rineharts’. His hair is different, but it’s the same face.”

Wyatt watched closely as the man took his seat with the Calhouns. “Any chance you’re mistaken?”

Unlikely. Once Miranda made an identification, she was never in doubt, and yet she’d choke before she insisted. “I could be wrong,” she said finally.

Judging from the way his chin hardened, Wyatt didn’t like that answer. “Stay close today.”

And judging from the way her pulse quickened, Miranda didn’t mind his response.

As the two of them took the stage, she couldn’t help but wonder how it happened that Wyatt was dressed finer than she. To look at the two of them, one would think that he had all the breeding and culture, if it weren’t for his untrimmed beard. Her throat constricted. Better not to think of anyone looking at her on the stage. She’d just keep her chin down and focus on being accurate. Wyatt pushed her chair in as she took her seat on the raised platform. Widow Sanders nodded and held up her rhubarb pie, but even that notice twisted Miranda’s stomach. She tidied the stack of buyer’s tickets before her and grasped the pen with stiff fingers while Wyatt greeted the crowd and called for Josiah to send in the first animals.

“What you see here are five steers. Five Angus steers from Holbrook’s farm. They weigh . . .” He slid the metal sleeve over the arm of the scale, tapping it until it swung balanced. “They weigh 9,275 pounds. That’d be 1,855 each. Ready for butcher or to ship out on the next train north. What do I hear for them?” And then started that song peculiar to the mountain auctioneer until it came to the conclusion, “Going . . . going . . . gone.”

It took Miranda a moment to locate the space for head count and weight. She’d already written the farmer’s name, and all that was left to add would be the buyer’s name and the price they sold for. Then off to Fred Murphy in the office where he’d figure the payout amount and the money would exchange hands. Not so different from her auction house after all.

The first hour flew by. Laughter, then a contentious argument over who had won the fifteen-cent bid with neither side willing to bid fifteen and two bits. Wyatt handled it firmly, and they were off again. Miranda craned her neck up, scrunched her shoulders to stretch, and saw the blond man leave. Wyatt’s knee bounced into hers. His cadence faltered.

“Keep going,” he said as he stood.

A fat drop of ink dripped off her pen and soaked through the ticket. “What do you mean?”

With the back of his hand, Wyatt pushed the gavel toward her. “Sell the animals. I’ve got to see about something.”

“I can’t do this. I don’t know the first thing about these animals.”

“You’ll do just fine.” And he stepped down off the platform and around the arena, leaving her to face one hundred or so skeptical farmers. She didn’t blame them. This was a disaster waiting to happen.

Josiah led in a cow and had to take second look at Miranda sitting alone at the table. She took a deep breath. The metal band on the gavel’s handle cooled her fingers. Her job at the Wimplegate Auction House was to write the descriptions for the catalog. Making each piece of furniture sound unique and irreplaceable was her specialty. Surely her powers of description could be used here, as well.

The sun filtered through the high windows to illuminate the arena. The beast snorted at her, its spray sending the dust motes spinning in the sunbeam. She cleared her throat and those in the room grew deathly quiet, with only the cheers of the cowboys outside to distract them.

“What we have here is a cow. A multi-colored cow with a blazing gaze.”

Josiah grinned crookedly. Two men in front looked amused. Widow Sanders set her pie on the seat next to her and hid her hands between her knees. Jeremiah Calhoun was making his way to the corner where Wyatt had disappeared.

“We can’t hear you,” Mr. Rinehart called out.

“Very well,” Miranda said. Her voice bounced thin and fragile in the room. “I’ll start again.”

By now the cow had stalked forward, its tail slashing through the air with every prod of Josiah’s cane.

“We have a cow here. . . .” Was she yelling? She felt like she was. “But not just any cow. This cow exhibits a remarkably unique pattern. You’ll notice that besides an aura of ivory around its muzzle and eyebrows, it has an ebony face. This dark motif is carried on across the fur on its shoulders where it slowly begins to fade into a coffee tone, and as it reaches the median of the beast, it turns caramel.”

She dared a look around the room. Just like Mr.Wakefield when she was detailing the Chippendale bureau, they hung on her words. Father had always said she had the ability to enhance any item with her descriptions. Warming up to the powerful animal before her, she continued.

“And while you might be tempted to purchase this cow for its aesthetics alone, please don’t overlook the powerful build of the beast. Crafted by the finest . . .” She covered her gaffe with a cough. Was she getting as bad as Grandfather? “Beneath this sturdy, velvet covering lie supports solid enough for the most discriminating . . . cow person. This cow has stood the test of time and will be reliable for many years to come.”

A bearded woodsman stood on the third tier, cupped his hand to his mouth, and belted out, “What we want to know is how good a milker is she?”

Afraid she’d made a mistake, Miranda raised out of her seat for a better look. Then with a shake of her head she corrected her antagonist.

“There’s no milk coming from that animal, as you well know. It’s a male cow, not a female.”

Wyatt jerked the door open but didn’t have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before plunging ahead. He’d played behind the seats since he was shorter than a billy goat, swinging around the two-by-four braces, stepping between the supports that stretched up to cradle the seats above. Evidently the newcomer wasn’t as confident.

“What are you doing in here?” But instead of finding the Calhouns’ suspicious guest, Wyatt ran into Widow Sanders’ new boarder, McSwain.

“I think that was a rat,” the fat man gasped, but even for his scare he stayed out of Wyatt’s reach.

“You aren’t who I expected to find,” Wyatt said.

“You have something that belongs to my boss.”

“And what would that be?” Wyatt’s gut tightened. He knew this day would come. Hadn’t Aunt Corinne warned him? But if he decided to hand the painting over, it’d be going into Miranda’s hands—not to this smarmy man.

The man held his hands up between them. “There’ll be no charges filed. In fact, if everything works out all right we might be able to give you a little something for your trouble.”

“I don’t want anything of yours.”

“Then give it back. It’s that simple, Yves.”

Wyatt’s head spun a bit at the use of the name.

The man laughed. “I’ve done my research, and I’m not as slow as everyone says. Of course I’d check at the auction house, but I know something Wimplegate didn’t. I know that a sniveling family called Ballentine tried to con the LeBlancs out of the fortune years ago. Luckily, Mr. LeBlanc’s solicitor kept the letter. Working on a whim, he sent me directly to you.”

No longer did his head feel light. Now it felt near to bursting. “My parents are gone,” Wyatt said. “And you won’t say aught against them.” Heavy boot steps thudded just outside the door. Wyatt flattened himself against the wall just in time to see Jeremiah Calhoun enter.

“Everything okay?” His eyes darted from Wyatt to the stranger.

“Just fixing to tell this fellow that he ain’t welcome on the barn property,” Wyatt said.

“This isn’t your place,” McSwain replied.

“I said leave.” Wyatt motioned behind him as Jeremiah backed out to make room.

“I know you have it, and I will get it. Might as well cooperate. It’d be worth your time.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Jeremiah didn’t look mad, but Wyatt wouldn’t want to tangle with him, and neither did the ruffian from the city. With a last unconvincing glare, he obeyed when Jeremiah pointed ahead and then followed him out.

Wyatt ducked his head passing beneath the last support beam to exit and nearly ran into Isaac as he stepped into the storage space. Sweating like he’d been locked in the smokehouse, Isaac blocked his way. “Wyatt, I need to talk to you.”

Isaac at the sale barn? Not a good sign. “If it can wait, the auction is going on without me.”

“It’s important.” Isaac’s hair stuck to his neck. It was possibly the first time he’d ever seen Isaac sweat. If this was just another stunt to disrupt him and keep him from his work . . .

“She’s pregnant.” Isaac gripped the seams of his trousers just like he used to when Ma was chewing him out.

Wyatt’s jaw dropped. “Who is?”

“Alice Moore.” With an effort, he raised his eyes to Wyatt’s. “I’m going to be a pa.”

Wyatt had to hug the support beam to keep the room from weaving. Confusion, outrage, and yes, even a touch of jealousy flooded over him.

“What have you done, Isaac? Moore will kill you.”

“It’s not like that.”

Of all the emotions, anger was outpacing the others. “Then how exactly is it?”

“We’re married.”

“You’re what?!” Wyatt stomped to the door, but one look at Miranda, head tilted as she tried to examine a ram, stopped him cold. Had Isaac told Miranda, or had he continued to toy with her? Seething, he turned around and marched right upon Isaac’s toes. “You have some explaining to do, big brother.”

“We wanted to get married—she’s a good girl, Wyatt, you’d like her—but her pa wouldn’t let us on account of me not having a job or house or anything. So when the circuit rider came through he hitched us, but we decided to keep it secret.”

“Why get married if you’re going to keep it a secret?” But at Isaac’s raised eyebrow, Wyatt sighed. “Fine. Go on.”

“We were going to tell everyone. I just needed to get some things straight first, but it’s too late now. We have to tell her folks and after that . . . well, I’m bringing her home. Her pa doesn’t go none too lightly on her anyway, and the longer we wait, the more people are going to talk when the baby comes.”

Through the screeching banshee going off in his head, Wyatt could hear Miranda’s patient but firm voice. “With ears shaped like tulip petals . . .”

And here he’d thought Isaac was after Miranda. He closed his eyes. Isaac would need some way to support a family, and wasn’t this Isaac’s sale barn as much as it was his?

In his prideful quest to show his parents that he belonged, Wyatt made sure to outdo Isaac in every endeavor. If Isaac worked hard, Wyatt would work twice as hard. If Isaac helped Pa all day, Wyatt would stay up at night. Anything to earn his place in the family. After a while, Isaac stopped trying. Maybe if Wyatt left, then Isaac could live up to their pa’s expectations. Suddenly, all he’d fought for in Hart County seemed puny compared to the importance of giving Isaac his chance at being a man.

And without the sale barn, that painting became even more valuable to him.

“We’ll make room for her, Isaac. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Thanks, Wyatt. And I intend to do my part from here out. I’m going to prove her pa wrong. You’ll see. And I have to say, I’m surprised it isn’t you first. I thought for sure you would settle down before me.”

And it was high time that he did. When he boiled it all down, Wyatt would rather have Miranda than the family in Boston and the painting. If she loved him as he loved her, they’d figure out what to do to make it right. He’d write Aunt Corinne and explain his change of plans. He couldn’t let fear keep him from acting. He couldn’t dwell on what could go wrong.

He’d made his choice. Now if she would only make hers.