Cowboy For Hire (25 page)

“Right. And
I’ll get started on the rabbits.”

Amy couldn’t
seem to look away from him. His gorgeous eyes held her there for
what seemed like hours. It was silly, she thought later. There he
was, with his hands full of strings wound around skinned rabbits,
and there she was, in her big stained apron and holding two huge
Irish potatoes, and they were staring at each other as if some
invisible bond connected them. At that moment, the bond was a
palpable thing, and it seemed to attach her hear to his.

It was
all make-believe, Amy told herself later. She was a practical
person and not given to whimsical fantasies. She didn’t believe in
deathless love or fated passions. All of the operas she’d seen in
which soul-deep love was featured ended tragically. Look at
Carmen
, for
heaven’s sake. Or
La Traviata
.

Anyway,
all of that was fiction. Amy had learned young to be hard-headed
when it came to her own welfare. No fanciful dreams for her,. No
sirree.

And she
couldn’t look away from Charlie Fox at that moment to save her
immortal soul.

It wasn’t until
they heard Karen’s cheerful cry of “I found the onions!” that the
spell broke, and they turned away from each other as if their
movements had been choreographed. Amy’s heart didn’t stop whacking
at her ribs until she’d peeled at least ten pounds of potatoes.

Charlie didn’t
say another word, but chopped up the rabbits as if doing so was
going to save his life.

She
absolutely
had
to write to
Vernon. And the sooner, the better.

Twelve

The air
was as clean as if God had scrubbed it with soap and water, and the
pungent scents of the desert kissed Amy’s nostrils pleasantly. The
sky was as blue as her own eyes—a coincidence Charlie had pointed
out to her earlier in the day—and Amy had a delicious sense of
belonging and of being an integral part of a new enterprise that
appealed to her. Her mood of satisfaction didn’t quite last through
the first paragraph of Vernon’s letter.

Dearest
Amy,

I am sorely
distressed to read about the miserable conditions in which you have
been living and working, and I pray that you will come back to
Pasadena safe and sound, soon. I also trust you will never agree to
participate in another motion picture production.

Amy sighed
heavily. On the third day after the rain stopped, the ground had
been dry enough to renew work on the picture. She and Karen had
also been able to cease being camp cooks, for which she was
enormously grateful, and the roads were traversable. She had
therefore sent a letter to Vernon by the first available
transport.

Today she
received his reply, and she was perusing it as Horace Huxtable and
Charlie Fox had a fistfight. For the picture. Amy was relatively
sure that both men would just as soon fight in earnest, but
Charlie, at least was too much of a gentleman to do such a thing
unless he were defending a lady’s honor or something equally
gallant.

She suspected
that Huxtable might try to get in a low blow or two, but she didn’t
believe he’d succeed. She had developed infinite trust in Charlie’s
finer instincts and was sure he’d not allow a blow to land, or to
retaliate should Huxtable succumb to his baser urges. He was too
good for that.

And she’d
better stop thinking about Charlie’s merits and concentrate on
Vernon’s letter or she’d become as depraved and uncivilized as
Horace Huxtable, perish the thought. She wrenched her gaze away
from the scene being filmed and focused anew on the missive she
held.

We all miss
you very much, my dear. Your aunt and uncle are doing tolerably
well without your help. This circumstance has been of interest to
me, since you will certainly cease working at the Orange Rest after
we are married.

Amy
supposed that was true. Respectable ladies in Pasadena, California,
whose husbands held good jobs—and Vernon’s position with the bank
was
very
good—did
not hold outside employment. No. They might work like galley slaves
in their own homes, but they didn`t get paid for it.

Now
where, she wondered, had that errant and unlovely thought sprung
from? It must have sprouted since she and Karen had become such
good friends. Karen was very practical and down-to-earth about all
things, and she was definitely a feminist and an ardent suffragist.
At present, Karen was in the costume tent, mending the shirt Amy
was to wear in the next scene to be filmed. When they’d rehearsed
earlier in the day, Huxtable had managed to take out a seam when
he’d flung her too energetically to the ground. He’d apologized,
but Amy didn’t believe he hadn’t intended to hurt her.

When they
filmed the scene later today, if he behaved badly again, she
planned to retaliate. She didn’t have to be a gentleman, and she
good and well refused to take any more abuse from Horace, the
Horrible Ham, Huxtable.

Oh, dear, she’d
allowed her mind to wander again. With another sigh, she went back
to Vernon’s letter.

I attended a meeting of the Valley Hunt Club yesterday. The
Tournament of Roses Committee is debating whether a series of
chariot races or a football game would be the more appropriate
entertainment after
the parade in 1906. I am privileged to be among those chose
to decide this important aspect of our city’s most prestigious
annual event.

Again, Amy
sighed. A chariot race or a football game? Neither one held much
appeal to her, although she imagined gentlemen might appreciate
either. She suspected, although Vernon did not say, that he would
prefer the football game. Vernon might be a stuff as a
taxidermist’s window display, but he liked to consider himself a
modern fellow. Football was modern, Amy guessed.

Perhaps,
Vernon’s letter continued,
you might again be persuaded to ride on
the Hunt Club’s float on the event of the coming new year. The
members are seeking three or four attractive young ladies to adorn
the float, and I can think of no more lovely an addition to our
float than you, my dear. You might well be selected to serve as the
Queen, as Miss Hallie Wood was this year. Selecting a Queen seems
to heighten people’s interest in the parade, and I believe you
would make a most admirable one.

O
h, how sweet.
Amy waited for her heart to flutter or do something else of an
appreciative nature, but it didn’t. It just sat there, beating as
usual. How strange. On January first of this year, when she’d
ridden on the Valley Hunt Club’s float, pulled by six gorgeous
white horses and decorated by any number of lovely flowers, she’d
been thrilled. Hallie Wood was a good friend of Amy’s and she’d
been happy for Hallie, too.

Surely
she should be excited about repeating the pleasurable
experience—perhaps even having the experience enhanced by being
crowned Queen of the Tournament of Roses herself. That was
definitely a stimulating prospect. She should be jumping up and
down with enthusiasm and anticipation.

Probably.
That is to say, she undoubtedly
should
be enthusiastic about it. The prospect of having Vernon
Catesby assist her onto and off of the float, however, did nothing
at all for her. Now, if Charlie Fox were to be there.... Yes,
indeed. Amy frowned, disappointed that the mere thought of Charlie
Fox did to her heart what the mere thought of Vernon Catesby was
supposed to do.

She hoped she’d
get over this infatuation with Charlie Fox before the conclusion of
this picture, or she was going to be in trouble. As long as Vernon
never found out how leaden her heart remained in reaction to him,
she didn’t imagine it would much matter.

Except to her.
Frowning, she considered this strange and unpleasant phenomenon and
tried to decide whether it would be awful to be married to a man
who left her heart cold, or if it would be worth it in order never
to experience vulnerability to the world’s cruelty and uncertainty
again. Glancing at Vernon’s letter, she took note of his firm, even
hand; of his firm, even attitudes; and his firm, even emotions; and
she shuddered.

“God, I can’t
keep reading this thing or I’ll fall into a decline.” She folded
the letter and stuffed it in her pockets.

It was almost
time for her scene in the shirt, and she turned to see if Karen was
anywhere nearby. She wasn’t, so Amy decided to go to the costume
tent. Maybe Karen would allow her to help somehow. Doing anything
at all would be better than worrying about her future with Vernon
Catesby.

“Hi there,”
Karen called cheerfully when Amy poked her head into the tent.
“Almost ready here. Do you want to change in the tent?”

“Might as well.
Thank you.”

So Karen
helped Amy out of the costume she’d worn that morning, her split
skirt and blue blouse with buckskin vest—very fashionable,
according to Karen, and quite attractive, according to Charlie. Amy
agreed, and was pleased that he’d noticed. Which was all wrong,
blast it.

She donned the
mended shirt in a jiffy. “I’m really not comfortable appearing in
public like this,” Amy said as she scrutinized herself in the
mirror.

“it’s not the
public,” Karen protested. “It’s the set of a motion picture. Take
it off. I have to fix one of those buttons. It looks loose, and we
wouldn’t want you losing a button on the set.”

Amy took the
shirt off. As she handed it to Karen, she muttered, “Yes, yes, I
know it’s a picture set, but it’s public enough.”

With nimble
fingers, Karen reinforced the button. “Pooh. It’s all been arranged
in the script, and everybody else likes the scene,” she pointed
out. “Anyway, this thing covers you every bit as much as any of the
dresses you wear.”

“
I know
it, but it’s a man’s shirt. It’s—well, it’s not very
respectable.”

“I know,” Karen
said with a laugh. “Whatever will Vernon think?”

Amy felt
herself flush. She should have known Karen would say something like
that. Ever since Amy had told Karen about Vernon, her friend had
considered him insufferably dull. What was worse, she was always
saying so to Amy.

“You can’t
really blame him,” she said in justification of Vernon’s attitude.
“He wasn’t keen on my appearing in this picture to begin with. When
he finds out I’ve been parading around in nothing but a man’s
shirt, he’ll like it even less.”

“yes, dear. I
know. But there’s nothing the least bit risqué in this shirt. It’s
huge, it’s flannel, and it covers you from your neck to your toes.
A body couldn’t find one of your curves if he looked forever.”

“
But it’s
a
man’s
shirt
, Karen!” Amy’s
protest was muffled in a swath of flannel as Karen again flung the
shirt over her head.

Karen tugged
the shirt down and laughed again. “Yes, Amy. It’s a man’s shirt.
You know what I think?”

“No.”

“
I
think Vernon’s
a fusspot.”

“he’s not. Not
really.” A sudden burst of affection for stuffy old Vernon made Amy
defensive on his behalf. “He’s a kind man and will be a good
provider.”

It was
Karen’s turn to sigh. “That’s something in his favour, I suppose.
Better a boring good provider than a boring bad provider. But what
I don’t understand is why you can’t find an
interesting
good provider.”

“Vernon isn’t
boring,” Amy said sternly. “He’s ... a little conventional, I
guess.”

“I guess.”
Karen stood back and surveyed Amy critically. “There. I think
you’re all set. I’ll go out to the set with you.”

“Thank you. I
appreciate your help.” She appreciated her accompanying her to the
set, too, although she knew Karen would pooh-pooh her saying so.
Karen, unlike Amy, didn’t believe in being embarrassed about
anything as long as one was engaged in a job of honest work. If
Peerless wanted Amy to disrobe completely and bathe naked in a
stream, Karen would undoubtedly see nothing wrong with it.

“I don’t know
why you can’t go after Charlie Fox,” Karen said as they left the
costume tent.

Her
statement was so exactly along the lines of Amy’s own thoughts,
although she didn’t want it to be, that Amy jumped a little. “I
don’t know what you mean,” she lied stiffly.

“
Piffle.”
Karen picked up a rock and threw it at a blue jay that was about to
settle on a lien of clothes she’d hung out to dry. “You do, too.
He’s wild about you, you know.”

“
He’s
not!” Sweet pickles, was she blushing again? Fortunately, since
she’d been here on the Peerless lot in the middle of the desert for
several weeks now, her cheeks had been blooming with color even
when she didn’t blush. “Anyway, I don’t believe I could ever
go after
a man, no matter
what.”

“I’m sure your
couldn’t. You’re pretty darned conventional yourself.”

Karen giggled,
and Amy huffed. “You’re awful. You know that, don’t you?”

“Piffle,” Karen
said again. “Charlie is crazy about you, and I think he’d make a
wonderful husband.”

Drat it! So did
Amy, and she didn’t need her new best friend’s confirmation of her
own feelings on the matter, because she was confused enough
already.

Amy’s
future had been settled before she came here. Amy detested,
loathed, despised, and abominated anything upsetting her plans.
Unfortunately, this time it was Charlie Fox who’d upset them, and
she couldn’t find it in herself to hate him. She could and did,
however, hate the fact that he was currently causing her to feel
unsettled. She said, “Nonsense!” It was inadequate, but she didn’t
feel up to arguing with Karen.