Free At Love's Bidding by Regina Jennings

fine.”
    â€œBut I’m not going to shirk my duties. I play a vital role in the auction back home, and this venture will be no different. Let no one say I played the fop while others did my work. I intend to set an example.”
    Of how to drive a teetotaler to whiskey? But he did agree to having a sale Monday, didn’t he? Wyatt could shout hallelujah for that.
    â€œLet’s go inside and you can walk me through the process.” Wimplegate dusted a cottonwood puff off his shoulder. “Show me the bidder’s numbers, the catalogs, the sales receipts, and how we can best get through Monday. Then once we’re done, we’ll go to town and see if there’s not an idle tailor looking for something to keep his Saturday evening busy—and a barber.”
    How far was he willing to go to keep this dream alive? Wyatt motioned them ahead of him. Without the auction house, where would the people of Hart County meet to conduct their business? What else would force them to be civil to one another? But he knew working for Mr. Wimplegate wasn’t going to be easy. How the fellas would jeer at him sitting up at the auctioneer’s table while stuffed into a sausage casing of a suit. And what would the fancy Miss Wimplegate think?He’d look like a buffoon compared to the rich, barbered gents she was used to.
    Boston. He’d never been there, but the name of the city chilled his innards. Shame. That’s what he felt when he heard it, although he’d done nothing wrong. He knew it was a town so big that you could live there your whole life and never get to know all your neighbors. But he had to wonder if Miss Wimplegate and her grandpa had ever bumped elbows with anyone who might know of him. Probably not. He couldn’t imagine the refined Wimplegates having anything to do with the likes of that kind of people. With the likes of his kind of people.
    â€œI’ll unlock the office,” he said, “but I’m bound to get these animals watered before it gets any hotter.”
    Mr. Wimplegate didn’t quarrel with him, but once inside he took to the account books like they were pulled taffy.
    Looking at the fancy gent got Wyatt pondering what his life would’ve been like had the stories been true. But they weren’t, and there wasn’t no sense in stewing over it. He’d do the best he could with what he had, but without his job at the sale barn, he had nothing.

Chapter 8

    â€œIf 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?”
    â€œShe means the grand room where you sell everything.” Grandfather remained bent over the ledger.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œWhat’s he afraid of?”
    â€œFor 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, besidesCornelius, 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