Chapter 25

The light from the window assaulted her sore eyes. The darkness hadn’t lasted long enough for them to recover from the tears she’d shed last night, but that was behind her. Today would be a day of action. She must make amends to Betsy, secure Grandfather’s release, and then persuade Wyatt to let them have the painting. Perhaps Grandfather could talk some sense into him, if Grandfather had any sense left. She rolled onto her back and clenched the sheets in anxious fists. Would she involve the persistent McSwain? No. Not even with Wyatt’s betrayal could she trust his secret to King’s men. Once in Boston they could try to unravel the mystery of Aunt LeBlanc, but it would be the Wimplegates who restored the painting. Monty King would have to acknowledge that they’d found the mistake and that a disgruntled member of the LeBlanc family was the instigator. Nothing they could’ve done to prevent it.

The door across the way creaked open. Wyatt’s boots thumped into the hall, then stopped outside her door.

“Miranda?” he whispered.

She froze. Her fingers knotted as her grip on the sheets tightened. A moment of silence, then his sleeve rasped against the door before he clomped down the stairs.

It never would’ve worked. Although the ruggedness of the hills, the haunting savage beauty fascinated her, it could never be her home. She wasn’t like Abigail Calhoun, ready to roll up her sleeves and work in a barn. No, Miranda would miss the gentle civility of Boston. And even if Wyatt were to move to Boston, he wouldn’t be accepted. He’d be only a few steps above the paperboys, with his rough manners and unpolished speech. He’d be a detriment to their auction house, offensive to their aristocratic customers.

Besides, she couldn’t forgive him for the hurt he’d caused her family. How long had he had the picture? How many times had he lied to her, laughed at them, when he could’ve helped them all along?

The breeze tossed the curtains and teased her unbound hair. From below she heard the barn door groan. Cautiously, Miranda rolled to her side and raised an inch at a time, until only her eyes peered over the windowsill. A flash of a blue shirt, and she knew Wyatt was in the barn harnessing the mules.

The sale was yesterday. No livestock in the empty barn, but he had found something else to do while Grandfather waited. Her jaw clenched. Well, she didn’t need his help, and now that he was gone, she was free to go about her business without him spying on her.

Unsure of what the day would bring, Miranda pulled the curtains closed and reached for her only dress. No one wanted them here; it was time to leave for good. She tightened her stays, tied her petticoat around her waist, and wiggled into her skirt. She fumbled with the buttons in her rush. Grandfather would already be awake. She didn’t want him to wait any longer.

On sudden impulse she pushed aside the curtain one last time. There was Wyatt, driving the wagon out of the barn. He lifted his face to the window. Miranda stepped away. He continued to watch, probably waiting for more movement, but when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he hawed to the mules and continued down the path to the road.

She bustled to the hall, the scent of fresh rye bread floating up from below. Miranda smoothed the lace on her collar. She’d almost forgotten about Alice and Isaac. At the doorway to the kitchen, she paused. Isaac had his arms wrapped around Alice at the stove, pretending to help her stir the pot. Miranda backed into the parlor, embarrassed. No wonder Wyatt headed out. This wouldn’t seem like his home anymore.

The morning sun illuminated the contentious painting still propped on the back of the piano. The oil colors fairly glowed in the light, making the blooms on the tree behind the gentleman visible for the first time. It was a simple painting, really. Its uniqueness lay not in the skill of the painter, but in the character of the subject. A playful arrogance, a man at the apex of his strength who knew he was as yet untested, but who welcomed the challenge. Those who knew the man would appreciate the likeness and the telling, but besides that it wasn’t collectible. Not worth the value that’d been placed on it. Not worth losing her family’s living. Not worth losing Wyatt. But evidently he thought it worth more than her.

For a moment she could almost imagine the man was Wyatt, turning away from her need with arrogant aloofness. For a moment the proud features resembled the man who’d betrayed her. Drawing near, she trailed her finger over the gilt frame. Opulent scroll work twisted and turned the wood into something moving and alive. Dare she take it? What if Wyatt’s story were true? But did it matter? Frederic LeBlanc was the elder child, and the male. He would be the rightful owner and he wanted it back.

First things first. Grandfather. She looked again at the face, already growing familiar, and wondered . . .

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

Miranda startled. She dropped her hand and stepped back guiltily at Isaac’s approach. “I know the family, and there is a resemblance. I just can’t believe Wyatt had it the whole time.”

“Had you mentioned you were looking for something of the LeBlancs, I could’ve told you that was the family Wyatt thought he belonged to, and after seeing this painting . . .” Isaac’s eyes traveled up the artwork.

“You don’t think it’s true, do you?” Miranda asked.

Isaac shrugged. “For Wyatt’s sake, I hope it is. He’s been disappointed by them once already. Why would they send this if they were only going to reject him again?”

“Wyatt LeBlanc?” Miranda bit her lip. “He just doesn’t belong in their world. If you knew them—”

“It’s not Wyatt. It’s Yves Andres Thibault LeBlanc. Quite a mouthful for us simple folks, so Ma and Pa took to calling him by his initials which quickly ran together. Y. A. T., you understand. Anyway, his pa was from somewhere back East. He left his family and got holed up in St. Louis for a spell, where he met Wyatt’s ma. They claimed that’s where they got married—even left a fancy certificate with my ma when they died—but when she sent it to the LeBlancs, they said it wasn’t valid. No marriage had taken place.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this at first? Why act like he was delusional?” Miranda asked.

“I didn’t know what town they were from, and you never mentioned the LeBlancs.” Isaac stopped when Alice appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Breakfast is ready, Isaac. Won’t you join us, Miranda?”

This morning, everything about Alice spoke of a freshly scrubbed keeper of the home. Clean as a shiny apple. Clean and not wanting to be dirtied by her husband’s petty rivalry.

“No, thank you, Alice. I’ve got to go to Grandfather.”

Alice flapped the kitchen towel over her arm. “Well, as soon as I clean up breakfast, we’re going to town for shopping. I could use your help in ordering some new linens. It’s so hard to judge by the pictures in the store’s catalog.”

“Do you know Mrs. Rinehart?” Miranda asked.

“I know who she is, but she probably wouldn’t know me.”

“Have Isaac take you to her house before you order. It’d be worth your time.”

“What do you think, Isaac? Would she receive us? I’ve heard her house is the finest in the county.”

Isaac still studied Miranda. Her questions hung between them. “I’ll take you as soon as we finish breakfast. Be there in a second.”

Still smiling, Alice twirled her towel and waltzed into the kitchen. Isaac waited for her to exit, then he leaned against the piano. “Did you know it’s possible to tell yourself a story about how you were wronged, about how your friend is your enemy . . . to tell yourself this story so often that it grows until the weed little resembles the shoot it began as? Then when you meet someone new, you show them the ugly thistle instead of the innocent seeds that began the whole thing.” Isaac and his sad poet eyes. “You were just someone passing through, or I would’ve been more careful with what I said. I didn’t think it’d make much difference one way or another.”

But it did. Had she taken the story of Wyatt’s parents seriously, she wouldn’t have wasted her time looking all over creation for that painting. No, she would’ve found it sooner, he would’ve refused to give it to her, and she could’ve rushed home and married Cornelius before she realized how much she’d be missing.

She sighed. “Maybe I was too eager to believe you, but it really doesn’t matter what I think. The truth will come out. I just hope my family doesn’t lose everything when it does.”

If Isaac looked chastised, Miranda had no doubt he’d recover before she reached the jail. Especially with Alice cooking eggs and gravy for him. She set out and immediately wished she’d brought her parasol for the heat. The sun warmed through her dark hat, making her scalp tingle. The day promised to be scorching. She’d better get Grandfather somewhere safe while it was still early. But where? Perhaps it was time to go home.

She’d just reached the corner of the square when to her wonderment she saw Betsy approaching. Forgetting who might be watching, Miranda nearly trotted to join her outside the sheriff’s office.

“Oh, Miss Miranda,” Betsy snuffled. “I feel so sorry for what happened.”

Miranda threw her arms around Betsy and hugged her tight. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. You didn’t deserve Grandfather’s anger.” She stepped back and took Betsy’s chin in her hand. “Now, show me where he hurt you.”

“That’s just it. I’m not really hurt. He shoved me down, but my skirt padded my fall. If he were Josiah, I would’ve torn into him and held my own, but it being your grandpa and all, I didn’t think it’d be proper. Then he was hollering at me and carrying on, so I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there as dumb as a rain barrel and started crying. Those men who pulled him away thought I was crying cause he’d done me harm, but mostly I was just surprised and feeling sorry. I didn’t mean for him to be in trouble with the law.”

Her straightforward account wrung Miranda’s heart. Betsy didn’t deserve that treatment, and the sheriff was right to punish anyone who treated the dear girl so harshly. If only it weren’t her grandfather.

“Is he in here?” Miranda motioned to the brick building.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Wyatt came by already to check on him, but the sheriff was gone, so he couldn’t get him out.”

Wyatt had been there already? “Well, I’m glad to see you well. I would’ve visited you last night, but Wyatt wouldn’t let me.”

“It was for the best. My uncle might have been unkind. He had to send a letter with Postmaster Finley to my folks to tell them before they read about it in the paper.”

The paper? This was much worse than the chicken attack, but Mr. Murphy couldn’t spare them this time. Grandfather’s shocking behavior deserved censure. The mangy dog running across the street blurred before her eyes. People already resented him. Now he’d be even further exposed to abuse. With her shoulders feeling like they supported Samson’s pillars, Miranda trudged toward the jail.

“You don’t need to come any farther, Betsy. I don’t know what temper I’ll find Grandfather in, and I can’t allow you to endure his vitriol again.”

“That’s what Wyatt said, too, in plainer words. I’m awfully sorry, Miss Miranda. If I’d known he was going make a fuss—” She bit her lip as her blond eyelashes bounced back tears.

Walking inside the stone building, Miranda felt the air cool, but the dampness from the rock walls could be tasted. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the shadowy room. Grandfather was lying crumpled on a narrow bunk that stretched the length of his cell. His rough blanket reached no farther than his knees, and his mouth hung slightly agape in the slackness of deep slumber. Miranda clutched her waist and rushed to press herself against the bars. “Grandfather?”

He blinked drowsily, stretched his legs to the ground, and pulled himself up to sit. “It’s about time you came. I’ve been detained since last night, and it’s inexcusable that Wyatt didn’t tell you. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.” He tried to smooth his white hair that popped up like the lid on a tin can.

The cold bars dug into her body. If it weren’t for her hat, she would’ve had her face wedged between the iron bars. He moved slowly, resigned, and perhaps that was for the better. The last thing she wanted was for him to be excitable. “When is the sheriff coming back?” she asked.

Grandfather ran his hand over the cot beneath him. “Oddly enough, the man didn’t feel compelled to report his whereabouts to me.”

Sensing his acceptance, she stepped back and scanned the rest of the room. Bookshelves of law books, a desk, a gun rack, and coat hangers. Next to the back door, a sweating bucket sat with a ladle handle hung on its side. “Are you thirsty?” Not waiting for him to answer, she sloshed a cupful of water to him, grateful that at last she could do something to help.

And that was about all she could do for the next hour. Although Grandfather had calmed, he remained convinced that Betsy had opposed him in some vile manner and that she was conspiring against him to cause his business dealings to fail. The longer they spoke, the more Miranda’s unease grew. Clearly, Grandfather could not be convinced of Betsy’s innocence, and because of that the girl wasn’t safe. And neither was Grandfather. One more incident and some of Betsy’s rough defenders might take justice into their own hands. She’d seen what they’d intended to do with the man who lurked about. What kind of punishment would be handed out for laying a hand on one of their children? Miranda shivered at the sight of the empty gun rack.

The clip-clop of hooves sounded. Dust floated through the barred window as the sheriff tethered his horse and waddled inside. Seeing Miranda, he sighed and tossed his gun on his desk. His weathered face had seen more years than she could guess, and although his movements were slow, they were deliberate and steady. “This here’s your grandpappy, I’d guess.”

Miranda stood, glad to see Grandfather had, as well. “Yes, sir. I don’t know precisely what occurred last night, but I can assure you that he’s never—”

The sheriff held up his hand, stopping her. He removed his hat, releasing a flood of pure white hair. “Miss Wimplegate, if you’d accompany me outside, please.” His wide palm extended toward the door.

Grandfather grasped the bars. “Now wait a minute. Whatever you have to say needs to be said right here. I’m the boss here. She’s not my guardian.”

“We can stay here,” Miranda said. “I don’t want to upset him.”

“Too late. Outside?” Even though he was the sheriff, he looked uncertain as to whether she’d comply.

She stepped into the sun, then followed the sheriff to the green of town square, away, she presumed, from earshot. Sheriff Taney stopped under an oak tree.

“Miss Wimplegate, there’s a train coming through today just after noon, and it’s my suggestion that you and your grandfather be on it.”

Miranda cast an anxious glance to the jail. “Today? We can’t leave today.”

“Then it’s quite possible that your grandfather won’t be able to leave for quite some time, because if he continues to gallivant around town, throwing accusations against our children, trying to borrow money from our citizens, and harassing our local businesses, he will be facing charges of disorderly conduct. Did you know that I’ve had to personally escort him from the bank on almost a daily basis?”

She could feel her face reddening. “I . . . we . . . we tried to stop him, but we never knew where he was going.”

“Well, they wouldn’t loan him money, and he took offense at their refusal. Every morning he marched in there and disrupted their business while insisting that they fund his latest scheme. Now with Miles Bullard at his side, people are getting tetchy. He’s even more of a threat.”

How had she not known? But it wasn’t fair to let others deal with her responsibility.

The sheriff slid his hands into his pockets and scuffed a knot of clover with his toe. “Miss Wimplegate, I don’t hold you accountable for Elmer’s behavior. I’ve seen the years play out on many a fine man just like this, and there’s no shame in what’s happening, but we can’t allow him to wreak havoc on everyone else. Do you have any family back home?”

“Oh yes,” Miranda stammered. “My family would never allow him to act this way, but he worsened when we left home. My father would know what to do.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it. Then the sooner you get back to your father, the better. Can you have your things together by noon?”

What things? Miranda didn’t have anything besides the clothes on her back and her reticule. Grandfather’s bag had been packed by Isaac. But what about the painting? She needed to talk to Wyatt. Perhaps after having time to think it over, he might decide to let them buy it from him.

“I need to go to the sale barn first. It belongs to Grandfather, and I need to speak to the manager before we leave.”

The sheriff wasn’t fooled. “I’m sure Wyatt would appreciate that. I’ll take Elmer to the house to gather his things. I really don’t think he should go about unsupervised.”

“Thank you, sir.” She couldn’t say anything else, still numbed by the sudden news of her departure.

“You come back anytime, Miss Wimplegate. You and your family are welcome here. Like I said, we won’t hold this incident against you’uns.”

That was one person who’d forgiven them, but how many others had Grandfather offended?