Cowboy For Hire (18 page)

She’d
miss her aunt and uncle. She’d miss Charlie Fox—she wished she’d
been able to get to know him better; she believed they might have
found they had a good deal in common underneath their surface
differences. She’d miss her friends in Pasadena. She’d miss Martin
Tafft. She’d miss Karen Crenshaw, even if she did smoke
cigarettes.

She wasn’t
altogether sure she’d miss Vernon Catesby, because she was annoyed
with him and wished she’d had more time to deal with her feelings
about that wretched letter. She was pretty sure he’d miss her.

A sob broke
from her as the horse reached the fence. Was it going to try to
leap over it? If it did, Amy knew she’d fall off.

But wait.
Didn’t horses have to take running starts before they jumped over
things? Amy prayed it was so. Her relief was incalculable—and
inexpressible, since she still couldn’t talk—when instead of
leaping, the horse turned and moved along the fence, as if it were
looking for a gate. Thank God, thank God. Maybe it wasn’t as stupid
as Charlie thought it if was looking for a gate.

After
what seemed like thirteen days but could only have been a minute at
most, Amy realized that she wasn’t falling off of the horse’s back.
Not only that, but the horse, although entirely too tall for any
useful purpose in life, didn’t seem to have a truly evil spirit in
it, as Amy had at first feared. Actually, it seemed ... well ...
sort of relaxed. Placid. Lazy, even. It halted every few steps to
nuzzle the ground in search of green stuff to eat. There wasn’t
any, since this was the middle of the desert in the middle of
summer.

With that
realization came the understanding that she, who held the reins,
might actually be able to control this equine friend. She wasn’t
about to take any chances, but she did allow her body to relax its
solid rigidity. She even dared to turn her head an inch or so, and
was ecstatic to see that they were not too many yards away from
Charlie, Martin and Mr. Archuleta, who were still in animated
conversation.

She licked her
lips, pleased to note that she also had some spit to spare,
although not quite enough to swallow with. Taking a deep breath,
she released it slowly and said, “All right, horse.”

It was a
start, although it didn’t get her very far. The horse, however,
seemed intent on getting her farther, and she decided that such a
circumstance was probably not advisable. Which, she figured,
drawing upon scenes witnessed during her lifetime, was where the
reins came in. She lifted them in one hand—she still couldn’t quite
bring herself to release the saddle horn entirely.

Taking
another deep breath, she pulled back on the reins very lightly—she
didn’t want the horse to object—and said, “Whoa.” Even she could
hear the lack of sincerity in the one syllable, so she spoke more
firmly.

“Whoa!” There.
That was better.

It wasn’t
better enough, however, because the horse didn’t stop its slow walk
away from the people who were supposed to be taking care of her.
But were they? No-o-o-o. They were chatting. Arguing with each
other. Discussing Mr. Archuleta’s bruised ego. Amy turned her head
a little further this time and aimed a frown at the trio, who still
hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t there any longer.

Bother.
Amy was beginning to understand her aunt’s sometimes caustic
strictures against the male of the species. Her temper began to get
the better of her terror. She spoke sharply to the horse. “Stop
it!” Along with her command, she pulled more strongly on the
reins.

She could have
sworn the horse heaved a big, dispirited sigh, but at least it
stopped walking. Amy was very pleased with herself.

“That’s better.
Now why don’t you turn around and go back to where we came from?”
Still clutching the saddle horn with her right hand, Amy pulled the
reins in her left hand across her chest and over her right
shoulder. It was an awkward position, but she didn’t dare let go of
the saddle horn in order to rearrange the reins in her hands. If
the horse didn’t like it, that was just too bad. She didn’t like
it, either.

The horse might
well have not liked it, but it did as Amy directed. She wanted to
cheer, but still didn’t have enough spit.

Her
annoyance did not abate as she neared the three men, who were as
yet unaware of her at all—not her presence, her absence, or her
abject fear and terror. Amy resented them mightily and wished them
all at the devil. Since she was far too refined and delicately
reared ever to say such a thing aloud, she decided to bump into
them with the horse and see how
they
liked it. Fortunately for her, the horse was either also
annoyed or very obedient, because it did just as she directed it to
do, and thrust its big horsy head smack into the middle of the
three gentlemen.

Charlie and
Martin had begun to shout at Mr. Archuleta by this time, but the
intrusion of the horse effectively stopped their conversation cold.
All three men stared dumbly up at Amy, who frowned down at
them.

“Amy!” cried
Martin.

“Mr. Tafft,”
she said coldly. Turning her attention to Charlie, she said, “I
think this animal and I understand each other now, Mr. Fox. Would
you care to continue the lesson?” Eyeing Mr. Archuleta arctically,
she added, “I prefer to take lessons from Mr. Fox, who possesses
far more patience than you do, sir.”

Martin’s
eyes went as round as doughnuts. Charlie grinned. Archuleta scowled
hideously, threw up his hands, turned on his heel, and marched off
toward the tent village. Amy, who wasn’t nearly as unfazed by the
recent events as she wanted everyone to believe, glanced over to
find Karen Crenshaw holding her clasped hands over her head in a
gesture of victory and smiling broadly at her.

The starch went
out of Amy’s sails instantly, and she felt only very tired and
very, very glad she had Karen Crenshaw as a friend.

* * *

Thank the
good Lord
that
was over.
After her initial problems with horseback riding, Amy’s lesson had
proceeded fairly well, with Charlie teaching her. She had no idea
what had happened to Mr. Archuleta and didn’t care if she ever
found out.

At the moment,
she was frowning over the letter from Vernon Catesby which she’d
received that noontime. She hadn’t liked it the first time she’d
scanned it; she liked it even less now.

“My dearest
Amy,” the letter read, “I must admit to feeling great consternation
about the conditions that appear to obtain on the Peerless moving
picture set.”

“Hmmm,” mused
Amy, trying to decide whether or not to be angry about that first
sentence and deciding not to be. “He sounds awfully pompous,
though.” She wondered why she’d never noticed Vernon’s tendency
toward pomposity before.

“I must again
express my disapproval,” Vernon continued in the same stuffy prose,
in his same stuffy hand, “of this folly of yours.”

“Well, I like
that! Folly, indeed!” Amy was doing a job of work and earning
money, and she resented Vernon’s attitude like anything. She chose
to forget that she herself had possessed grave doubts about the
venture in the beginning. Vernon had no right to approve or
disapprove of anything she did. They weren’t married, after all. Or
even officially engaged. There had been an agreement, of sorts,
between them for some time, but that was all it was: a sort-of
agreement.

“I don’t like
to know,” Vernon’s letter went on, “that my future wife is doing
something of which I disapprove so strongly. You know, my dear Amy,
that the acting profession has been practiced among the lowest
classes for generations. Even in the great Bard’s day, actors were
considered far from upstanding citizens.”

“
Fiddlesticks,” muttered Amy. “I don’t need this.” So
saying, she thrust the letter aside, intending to ignore it until
her attitude improved. It had been a trying day, and she wasn’t up
to fighting Horace Huxtable, Mr. Archuleta, a horse,
and
Vernon Catesby. What she
realized she really wanted to do was to hold a quiet, civilized
conversation with Charlie Fox.

Or Karen
Crenshaw, of course.

But,
really, there was something so comforting about Mr. Fox. He was
such a sensible fellow. So calm.
He
wasn’t stuffy and disapproving of everything that didn’t
fit neatly into his boxed-in life.
He
didn’t write bothersome letters expressing his doubts about
Amy’s common sense and intelligence.
He
could even ride a horse.

Amy would bet
anything she owned that Vernon could ride a horse no better than
she could. And, actually, after today’s lesson, she’d bet she could
ride better than he.

So there.

On that
childish note, the supper gong sounded, and Amy had to rush to wash
her face and hands and get to the chow tent before the soup got
cold. She sat with Karen, Martin and Charlie, forgot all about
Vernon Catesby, and enjoyed herself. Hugely.

Nine

“
It must
be a hundred and fifteen out there,” Amy told Karen, who was
holding out a limp shirtwaist for her to put on. Amy was every bit
as limp as the shirtwaist. What was more, she was dripping with
sweat—she refused to think of it as perspiration as a lady should,
because she was too hot and miserable and crabby. “And the air’s as
thick as cream.”

They were
in a hastily set
-up tent
way out on the desert near the dilapidated cabin being used as the
sawmill.

“More like a
hundred and twenty,” Karen said. “And I suspect that thickness is a
prelude to rain. It looks like we’re in for a summer storm.”

“Wonderful.
Maybe I won’t have to wash the sweat off. Maybe the rain will do it
for me.”

Karen laughed.
“Nothing ever works out that well.” She, too, was dripping and
uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you’ll have to wear that awful makeup.
It’ll make you even more uncomfortable, or I miss my guess.”

“Makeup?” Amy
stared at Karen, slightly befuddled by her words although she knew
she shouldn’t be. It was the heat making her fuddle-headed.

With a
nod, Karen said, “Oh, yes. This is the first scene to be shot, and
you and everybody else will have to be made up. The cameras are
unkind to unmade-up faces. The stuff is thick and sort of
greasy.”
“Oh.” What an unhappy reflection. Amy’s moral attitudes toward
makeup weren’t strong enough to poke their uncomfortable heads
through the heat of the day and out into the open, but the notion
of slapping greasepaint over her sweaty brow held no appeal
whatsoever. Nor did the knowledge that, if Vernon ever saw this
picture, or a photograph of Amy in theatrical makeup, he’d
assuredly pitch a fit.

Her
attitude toward Vernon had improved slightly overnight. It was
still true that he was relatively fussy, but when Amy considered
the options in her life, Vernon looked pretty good. He was
absolutely reliable and solid. Rather boulder like, in truth. And
that was exactly what Amy needed. Never again, if she could help
it, would her life be insecure. Never. Ever. She wouldn’t even
entertain the possibility.

She stuck her
arms in the sleeves of her costume, and Karen buttoned her up the
back. Amy’s body was sleek with sweat, and she hoped perspiration
stains wouldn’t show on celluloid. How icky to have the whole world
view her sweaty armpits in a nickelodeon or theatre.

“With luck, the
process won’t take long. The rehearsal went surprisingly well.”

“Yes, it did.”
Amy had been as surprised as Karen. Horace Huxtable had been as
docile as a lamb all morning long. Amy hoped it meant a mended
attitude on his part, although she acknowledged that it was too
soon to count any chickens. If she knew Huxtable, he’d wait until
the chicks were ready to hatch and then smash them flat.

“Hope it keeps
up.”

“Oh, so do
I!”

She groaned
when Karen pulled the sash at her waist tight and tied a bow in the
back. “This is very uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure it
is,” Karen said sympathetically. “But I’ll have water for you if
you need it, and a towel to blot your face, and you can change
again as soon as the shot’s in the can.”

What
strange terminology these people used. Amy smiled at her new
friend, and they walked out to the adopted sawmill together. In
truth, it was a large, ramshackle cabin that had probably been used
as a prospector’s home in the last century, although nobody knew
for sure. Martin had scouted it out—Amy didn’t know how he kept all
aspects of his job straight—and decided to use it, and here they
were.

The building
sat alone on the bare landscape, brown and dilapidated, and listing
to port. The wind and earthquakes, Martin had confided to Charlie
and Amy, Tilted most structures in California that weren’t tended
regularly. Amy, who was familiar with earthquakes, had nodded.
Charlie had swallowed and muttered something she didn’t catch, but
she got the impression that Charlie’d as soon not hang around
California long enough to experience an earthquake for himself. She
was vaguely disappointed, although she couldn’t have said why.

There wasn’t a
speck of green on the ground anywhere. Amy wished these motion
picture people possessed the sense God gave a gnat and had decided
to film their famous feature picture in the springtime rather than
in midsummer. Midsummer on the desert was extremely uncomfortable.
Spring, on the other hand, could be rather pleasant, fraught as it
was with sufficient rain, grass, and wildflowers. But had they?
Heavens, no. They had to follow the sun. Like a sunflower. Or a
buzzard.