Chapter 24

Miranda stood on the porch until Wyatt disappeared into the trees. In all her life she’d never felt so alone. How she wished Father was here to deal with the sheriff. How she missed Mother’s calming voice and reassurance. She sat on the porch and hugged her arms tightly as a whole mountainside of trees rustled in the night breeze.

God had crafted this wild land, formed it, and covered it in unrivaled beauty. His creation demonstrated His power and His perfection. But it wasn’t perfect, was it? If so, her grandfather wouldn’t be in jail right now. He wouldn’t be viewing the world through the distorted fog of paranoia. How much of God’s power would it take to heal Grandfather? A mere drop from the ocean of His ability? A brief thought from His infinite mind? If He had such power, such goodness, why didn’t he heal her grandfather? Why had Grandfather’s wisdom faded out of his healthy body?

But then there was Grandmother. The rough porch beam scratched Miranda’s face as she leaned into it. Grandmother had been the opposite. Her body had wasted away and she’d been alert for every painful breath. Was that better? Would Miranda ask God to do that to Grandfather?

She didn’t like her choices, but it really wasn’t her choice, was it? The persistent, comforting voice of reason could finally be heard over her hurt. She might not be able to choose her circumstances, but she still had a choice. She could still choose to show patience and love to Grandfather no matter how he misconstrued her actions. And she could still choose to trust God. She had to believe that God could make the destination worthy, even if the journey was painful.

Just like this journey. So many things she wished she could’ve done differently, but could she be sorry for the opportunity to know a man like Wyatt?

Inside the house, the piano began to play—heavy, halting chords that denoted a beginner. Pushing off her knees, Miranda rose and gathered her reticule and the money box. Wyatt should be to the jail by now—Grandfather wasn’t alone—but time would pass more quickly inside than out here staring into deep shadows watching for Wyatt to reappear.

When she entered the house, the tentative notes on the piano stopped. The young woman on the piano stool turned and pushed up sleeves that were already rolled up to her elbows. “Hello, there.”

Composure, even when her heart was broken . . . especially when her heart was broken. Although Miranda couldn’t quell the image of Grandfather sitting on a grimy cot behind bars, she didn’t want to sit and cry all evening. She removed her hat and gloves. “I’m Miranda Wimplegate. What’s your name?”

“Alice Moore . . . Ballentine, I mean. My goodness, this is the first time I’ve introduced myself with my married name.” She smiled prettily, her freckles lost in the blush that tinted her cheeks.

Moore? Inwardly Miranda groaned, but she couldn’t hold a family connection against the girl. Not while her own grandfather sat in a cell.

Still holding her gloves and hat, Miranda looked for an empty place to set them. Every available surface was covered with boxes, piles of quilts, and crates of household goods. She pushed the doily on the back of the upright piano over until the bowl of imitation fruit crowded the candlesticks, and balanced her items on the small clearing there. Recognizing Grandfather’s suitcase, Miranda lifted it from the couch. “Why is this here?”

Isaac rushed out from the adjoining bedroom, appearing more ruffled than Miranda had ever seen him. “I don’t want to be disrespectful to your grandfather . . . especially tonight of all nights . . . but I’d already started moving our rooms around before his trouble. He and Wyatt can share a room, and Alice and I will stay down here.”

Immediately the piano burst into a lively jig. If Miranda thought Alice had a blush before, she was blooming scarlet now. Her hands danced enthusiastically over the keys, her eyes wide and her mouth a firm line.

“I understand,” Miranda said. It was his house, after all. She looked again at Alice, dressed in a common work dress. Nothing as fine as she’d seen in town, definitely not wedding attire. “Congratulations on your nuptials. When . . . where was the ceremony?”

The music slowed. “We’ve been married for well-nigh two months now. We just weren’t ready to tell Pa yet.”

Of all the monkeyshine. How like Isaac to secretly marry a woman and expect her to deceive her parents. How unlike his brother.

“But now you’re ready to tell the world?”

“Well, we’d better be. Our little one will be arriving this winter, and we don’t want any questionable talk.” Alice beamed at Isaac, but it was all Miranda could do not to glare. Isaac had not conducted himself as a married man. Now that she better understood the brothers, she could imagine his gallantries were performed more to irritate Wyatt than to please her. And furthermore, how did the man who ridiculed his brother, shamed him throughout his childhood for being illegitimate, come so near to putting the same stigma on his own child? Suddenly tired, Miranda wanted no more of the day. She’d wait in her room until Wyatt returned home. The newlyweds surely wouldn’t mourn her absence.

“If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a difficult day. I’d like to retire.” Miranda gathered her hat and gloves, but as she swept forward, one of the gloves slipped between her fingers and disappeared behind the piano.

Alice hopped up and moved the stool away. “Here, let me help you.” Bending to take the thick leg of the piano, she tugged with a grunt. Seeing that it wasn’t going to budge without help, Miranda braced herself against the wall, dug her fingers into the top, and pushed while Alice pulled. With the combined effort, the piano rolled across the wood floor, giving Miranda about six inches of room to fish out her glove.

Something was in the way. A large frame was wedged between the back of the piano and the wall. She turned for the lamp, but anticipating her move, Isaac brought it to her.

“I’ve never seen that before,” he said. With a grunt he rolled the piano another foot and grabbed the gilt corner. Slowly, so as to not scrape it, he lifted the portrait out.

By the lamplight, the colors gleamed. Vibrant, decadent, and oh so familiar. The room spun and darkened. Miranda couldn’t breathe. Vaguely she felt gentle hands leading her to the sofa. The spinning slowed and the light returned enough to see Alice fanning her with sheet music.

“What’s a-matter with her?” she asked. “I’m the one expecting.”

Miranda pushed away the flapping music to see Isaac still holding the portrait out at arm’s length. Curious, but wary.

“Where did you get that?” Miranda gasped.

He gave her a sardonic grin. “Like I said, I’ve never seen it before. You need to talk to my brother.”

“Wyatt didn’t hide it. He would’ve told me if he knew about it.”

Bracing his thigh against the piano, Isaac shoved it against the wall. Then he propped the portrait on the back of the piano, right behind the bowl of imitation fruit. Stepping back to admire his work, he crossed his arms and whistled. “That’s an arrogant boss if I ever saw one. Where in the world would Wyatt find a painting like that?”

In Boston. In her family’s auction house.

“It’d been sent to the sale barn after all,” she said. But that meant Wyatt did know. Her anger battled with her fear. What right did Wyatt have to take it and hide it? She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to quiet the growing fear that suddenly threw all his proclamations into question. Just minutes ago, when he’d offered to give up everything for her, what was that? What kind of game was he playing?

Miranda gripped the arm of the sofa and pulled herself to her feet. Isaac and Alice jumped out of her way as she forged ahead to the painting. How well the artist had captured the character of this man—the practiced slouch that denoted disinterest, the slight smirk that betrayed his awareness of his audience, as well as his disregard for them. Miranda noted the soft white hands adorned by a thick signet ring. She leaned closer to inspect it. The ring had never been cataloged—Miranda would’ve remembered. Either way, the almost feminine hands and the sloped shoulders were probably portrayed more in keeping with fashion than an actual representation. As far as she’d noticed, the LeBlancs yoked up as straight as the horizon, but the sneer, the condescension had surged forth undiluted through the generations.

And Wyatt’s dishonesty had nearly ruined both the LeBlancs and her family.

One last look at the soft folds of his periwinkle coat and the lace at his wrist—lace that she’d never be able to afford—and she could stand it no longer.

“I’m going upstairs,” she said.

“Do you feel well enough?” Alice followed her with quick steps.

“Tell me when Wyatt arrives.” Miranda stopped at the stairs and turned to Isaac, who couldn’t take his eyes off the canvas. “Don’t let anything happen to this painting, Isaac. Please. It’s valuable.”

But she’d didn’t need to tell him that. Already he seemed strangely affected by the portrait. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, even to notice his new bride . . . or not-so-new, as the case might be.

“How fine!” Alice fluttered. “Where in the world did he get it?”

The decisive footsteps coming up the porch steps could only be one man’s. The door swung open. Wyatt’s careworn expression almost roused her pity, but then he saw the painting, and worry was erased by something much more definitive.

Guilt.

His eyes lowered. There was no room for doubt. He knew he was caught. Miranda wanted to run away. She wanted to hide from whatever insincere excuse he offered, but she couldn’t. She had to face this. To retreat would be to lose ground, and she and Grandfather had already lost too much.

Tears had already broken through once that night. With no dam to hold them, they coursed freely now. “You knew.” She sobbed the words that couldn’t be blocked. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I was going to tell you. . . .” He took a step forward, then thought again. He rubbed his chest. “Your grandpa is fine for the night. He’s angry, but as far as jail cells go—”

“Stop!” Miranda cried. “Leave my grandfather out of this. If it weren’t for you he wouldn’t be in jail—we’d be home. In fact, we could’ve turned around and gotten back on the train the next day. I wouldn’t be stuck here missing home, missing my mother . . .” Miranda choked. She had to regain her composure, but he should answer for his betrayal. He’d known what his secret would cost her. He knew her family could lose their business, but even worse, he knew that she might have to marry Cornelius.

And he didn’t care.

Her breath jerked into her lungs in painful gulps. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about her, or Grandfather, evidently. No use making a spectacle of herself. Hadn’t she spent her whole life hiding her opinions? Swallowing her emotions? She could do this one last time. Survive it, that’s all she had to do. Survive . . . and get the painting. It wasn’t too late.

“It doesn’t matter how you got it.” She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “We’ll return it to its rightful owners. They’ll have to honor the effort we put into reclaiming their property.”

Wyatt walked past her to stand before the painting. Seconds ticked by as he stood with his hands on his hips, his foot tapping. Then he turned. “You aren’t taking it.”

Miranda’s stomach heaved. She couldn’t be hearing him right. Wyatt, her Wyatt, couldn’t mean that.

But he didn’t look like a man about to change his mind. “It’s mine,” he said, “and I’m not giving it up.”

Wyatt had been willing to sacrifice for her, to give up everything for Miranda, but she wasn’t interested. She claimed that she needed more time to decide, or maybe she was there for one purpose, to get the portrait, and didn’t want the complication. Either way, Wyatt knew he couldn’t give Miranda what she wanted, and at this moment she wanted that painting more than she wanted him. As much as her earlier denial had hurt, now he knew where he stood. Maybe he’d been hasty in what he offered her, but he had another chance, and it was possible that something more was at stake. He couldn’t close the door on the only family member who’d ever come looking for him.

With a last look at Monsieur LeBlanc, Isaac slapped Wyatt on the back. “Here’s a mystery I’d like to see solved, but I think I have more interesting pursuits for the evening.”

“Isaac!” Alice’s nervous giggle pitched higher. “Don’t say such things. And shouldn’t we stay up and chaperone them?”

Funny, her seeing the benefit of a chaperone now.

“Don’t think they’ll be getting into any trouble tonight,” Isaac said. “But if you get into a brawl, please don’t damage the house. I want my bride kept in style.”

The bedroom door closed. Miranda stood at the foot of the staircase with tearstained eyes. His timing couldn’t be worse.

“Miranda, more than anything I want to help you and your grandfather. Ever since you arrived I’ve done all I could—”

“Everything besides turning over our property.”

He tilted his head. “Is it really your property? According to your story, it was bought at the auction fair and square.”

She pushed back her hair. “You’re using my words against me? That painting was not supposed to be sold. It made it to the block by mistake.”

“But if the buyer paid real money for it, then it wasn’t stolen.”

“You didn’t buy it. You have no right to that painting. If I was speaking to its rightful owner, I might have to make an offer for it, but as you have no claim to it, I’m wasting my time.”

“I might have more claim than you imagine.”

He cringed at the way her eyebrow soared to new heights. Her wet lashes fluttered. “The sale barn does not belong to you. If this was sent to the auction—”

“It was sent to me. Addressed to me, from my family.”

She hiccupped a sob. “Isaac told me, but I thought he was being cruel.”

“What did Isaac tell you?” He hated the way his voice strained. Why did he fear Isaac’s opinion?

“He told me you were from some disgraceful family, but I never dreamed that you were in league with them. What is their plan? Did they send this to you for blackmail? Are you holding the painting for a ransom?”

And he’d once worried that this woman lacked courage? Well, she certainly had imagination in abundance.

“I couldn’t vouch for the character of my family, especially after what you’ve told me, but this painting is my only tie to them, and I can’t give that up. I made a mistake by offering it to you earlier, but you declined my offer, and I’m not making it again. I’m standing my ground and doing what my Aunt LeBlanc requested.”

Miranda didn’t breathe. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “Your Aunt LeBlanc?” Her nose twitched. “The LeBlancs do not know you. They don’t acknowledge us socially, much less send family heirlooms out to country boys in the mountains.”

He’d been patient with her, but she was getting downright insulting. “You claim to know my story. Did you know that my father, Stephan LeBlanc, and my mother, Tarisa, came out west in a wagon train and both died?”

Chin up, her eyes narrowed. “I had not heard that these claims were made against the LeBlanc family, but it doesn’t signify. I understand your ma contacted them and they denied any connection.”

“I don’t know why they’d do that, but it seems that someone has had a change of heart.”

She gazed long at Monsieur LeBlanc, but the man didn’t speak a word to her. Finally, with a sigh, Miranda turned to him. Her face wasn’t quite as red, her demeanor calm. “I’m not as angry as I was. I see what this means to you. You’ve always held out hope that your family would accept you. You always thought they had made a mistake, and now this . . . of course this looks like a sign of inclusion, but Wyatt, you don’t know these people.” She tilted her head up to him, her face softened by pity. “I don’t mean to insult you—I’m not a LeBlanc, either—but everyone is born to their station.”

His hands balled into fists. “Just like everyone is born with lumps on their heads that tell them what they can and can’t do?” She could be right. Perhaps his parents weren’t married after all. Perhaps his father only worked for the LeBlancs and took their name when he started west, hoping to profit from the association. There really was no link besides what his ma had been told before his parents died and this painting. Forget what it might be worth to a collector, the connection to his family was what he valued. The chance was slim, but he refused to give up. Not yet. “It’s my painting and I’m not giving it away.”

Tension gathered in her like a river about to burst a dam. “That’s your final word? Knowing what it’ll cost me, that’s your final word?”

Alice’s irritating giggle drifted through his parents’ bedroom door. Wyatt refocused. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help you. I’ve written Miss LeBlanc and I’ll see what she suggests. I don’t know what the situation is between her brother and her, but they can’t blame you.”

“Her brother wants the painting back.”

“Well, my aunt wants me to have it, and she bought it. I’m not letting Mr. LeBlanc take it until I understand what my aunt wants me to do.”

Miranda held his gaze, the challenge clear, until a throaty chuckle from behind the closed door made them both look away.

Her shoulders slumped. “I’m worried about Grandfather. Worried about Betsy. I can’t believe you aren’t more sympathetic.”

“Me? I offered to give up everything for you, didn’t I? All I needed to know was that you loved me. But you couldn’t say it, so don’t lecture me on how I should feel.” The words came out of his own mouth, and still they pained him. She hadn’t been the only one hurt tonight.

Miranda’s eyes blazed. “So all I have to do now is say that I love you, and you’ll give it to me? Somehow I find it hard to believe.”

Wyatt’s throat tightened. “Because if you said it now, it’d be a lie.” Miranda didn’t argue. With a shaking hand, Wyatt smoothed the doily on top of the piano. “It’s getting late, and frankly I’d rather not stay down here any longer with Isaac and his bride. I’ll sit outside or at the top of the landing and argue with you all night long, but a better plan might be for both of us to get some shut-eye and see how things lie in the morning.”

“How you can sleep when Grandfather is in jail. . . .” Red splotches returned to her eyes faster than raindrops fall. She wavered on her feet.

“Listen to me, Miranda Wimplegate. You’re upset and exhausted, but I can’t stand here and watch you cry. Either go to bed, or I’ll snatch you up, carry you to the rocking chair upstairs, and hold you like a baby. It’s your choice.”

He watched closely for any sign that she’d welcome his comforting. Silently, he begged her to come to him, but she’d have none of it.

With a last tired flicker of rebellion, she spun around and clumped up the stairs.

Wyatt locked the front door, but before he could snuff out the lamp, Monsieur LeBlanc caught his eye.

So that was the lady in question? Ah, belle. Now I understand.

“Then I wish you’d explain it to her,” Wyatt answered.