Cowboy For Hire (5 page)

* * *

Charlie strolled along next to Martin Tafft,
whistling under his breath. He wondered if he’d overdone the cowboy
routine with Miss Wilkes, and pondered whether to be ashamed of
himself of not. His ma would have whupped him upside the head if
she’d heard him cuss in front of a lady. Heck, any one of his
brothers would have done the same thing if his ma hadn’t been
handy.

But, ding-bust-it, she’d been so unfriendly
and cold, and she was so danged pretty, and those huge blue eyes of
hers had opened so wide, and he’d wanted to kiss her so badly, and
she’d irked him so much with her haughty manners, that his funny
bone had taken over and he’d let her have it.

She’d probably never speak to him again.
Fudge. Charlie kicked a clump of creosote, and the pungent, oily
smell of the shrub kissed his nostrils, reminding him or Arizona,
soothing her nerves a trace.

Martin cleared his throat. Charlie looked
down at him and realized the shorter man was having to hotfoot it
to keep up with Charlie’s long, country-bred stride. He slowed down
and smiled. He liked Martin Tafft, who seemed like a pleasant,
down-to-earth sort of fellow, even if he did wear some mighty fancy
city duds.

Today Martin sported gray plus fours and a
Norfolk jacket with a polka-dotted four-in-hand tie and a tweed
cap. Charlie supposed the movie man’s sporty attire made Charlie’s
own denim trousers, plaid shirt, blue bandanna, sweat-stained
Stetson hat, and faded sack jacket appear mighty shabby. Although
Charlie had never cared much about clothes, today he wished he’d
visited a tailor in town before he’d hopped that train to
California.

“Um, you might want to slow down on the
cussing a little, Charlie,” Martin suggested. His voice was totally
devoid of censure, and Charlie was impressed. He’d anticipated a
lecture. He knew he deserved one. “I think Miss Wilkes has lived a
pretty sheltered life.” With a chuckle, Martin added, “I think you
shocked her.”

“That so?” As much as Charlie didn’t want to
disappoint Martin, who’d given him this chance, still less did he
want Miss Wilkes to think she’d cowed him into complying with her
personal notion of propriety.

“Yes, I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of
Pasadena, but it’s where she’s from, and it’s a pretty straitlaced
place. I understand there’s a church on every street corner, but it
didn’t have a single saloon until recently.”

“Honest to God?”

“Honest to God. The Women’s Christian
Temperance Union’s big there. I understand the
White Ribbon
is the biggest-selling newspaper in town.

“Shoot.” Charlie was honestly impressed. Not
to mention appalled.

Martin chuckled. “So you can imagine what
Miss Wilkes thinks of folks who cuss.”

“Mmmm.”

“To tell the truth, I’m a little worried
about how she’ll get along with Horace Huxtable. He, er, drinks
sometimes.”

Charlie nodded. “I expect she won’t like
that.” No wonder Miss Wilkes acted so high and mighty. It was a
shame, too, because Charlie’d seldom seen such a pretty girl. But
if she lived in a town that didn’t even let its citizens have a
snort every now and then—Charlie could scarcely conceive of such a
place—he feared there was probably no hope for her ever becoming
human.

“So,” Martin went on, “I guess you might want
to take it easy on the cussing. Don’t want to shock our leading
lady, now, do we?” He laughed a full-bodied, happy laugh.

Charlie laughed with him. Why not? It was a
kind of funny situation.

They entered the chow tent together. “Golly,
Martin, I didn’t know it took so many folks to shoot one of these
here movie things.”

Martin smiled with evident satisfaction.
“This is the largest film crew ever assembled, Charlie. Why, this
is the most ambitious project ever to be attempted in the
industry.”

“Honest?” Charlie was impressed. And he was
part of it. Made a fellow kind of proud.

“Absolutely. Why, Charlie,
The Great Train
Robbery
only ran for nine minutes. This movie will run for four
whole reels, and will be a full forty-eight minutes long. We’re
even going to do one of those premiere things, like they do for
stage plays.”

“Shoot, really? Where?”

“Chicago. Chicago’s a great place for moving
pictures.”

“Holy cow.” Although Charlie couldn’t
conceive of who’d be willing to sit still for forty-eight minutes
staring at a screen, he didn’t say so. Hell, maybe folks in Chicago
didn’t have anything better to do with their time. Besides, it was
nothing to him if the Peerless Studio folks wanted to throw their
money around. They were throwing a good deal of it Charlie’s way,
and that was the only thing that mattered to him.

“Of course, the main players in the picture
will be invited to the premiere. You’ll like Chicago, I’m
sure.”

Only if Peerless paid. Charlie didn’t say so,
but he wasn’t about to waste his money taking a train to Chicago to
see a moving picture show. Hell, he could go to the nickelodeon in
town if he ever wanted to see himself on film.

“Oh, there’s Miss Wilkes.” Martin nodded
toward the front of the tent.

Turning, Charlie saw her, too. She looked
mighty little, standing there at the opening of the tent, peering
around with her hands folded politely in front of her as if she
were sort of scared. Charlie’s big heart got all warm and slushy,
and he forgave her for being a prig and a cold fish. “I’ll see if
she’d like to sit with us.”

“Good for you.” Martin gave him an approving
slap on the back, and Charlie strode over to her.

“Howdy, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and smiled
down at her.

She gave a jump of alarm, and some of
Charlie’s friendly feelings slid sideways. Slapping a hand to her
starched white bosom, she gasped, “Oh, Mr. Fox, you startled
me.”

“Yeah? You might want to talk to a doctor
about your nerves, ma’am. I hear they got all sorts of nerve
specialists and other such truck out here in California.”

“My nerves are fine, thank you, Mr. Fox.” Her
voice had taken on the frigid quality that rasped so disagreeably
on Charlie’s pride.

“Glad to hear it. Would you care to join Mr.
Tafft and me, ma’am? I’ll try not to eat with my knife.” He
probably should have attempted to suppress his sarcasm, but she was
annoying the hell out of him with her fancy airs and graces.

“I’m sure your table manners are delightful,”
she said. It sounded to Charlie as if she’d chipped the words from
a block of ice. “Thank you. I should be happy to sit with Mr.
Tafft. And you.”

Cold-hearted heifer. “We’re over there,”
Charlie muttered. And since he figured it would scandalize her, he
pointed with a jabbing finger.

“Yes,” she said—and she was clearly
scandalized. “I see.” She began moving ahead of Charlie, as if she
hoped to lose him in the milling throng.

Fat chance. Not only was Charlie taller than
almost everybody else in the tent, but he found himself resolving
to stick to her like a flea on a hound dog until she either
recognized him as a fellow human being on this green earth—well,
brown earth here in this lousy desert—or he nettled her so much
that she lost her temper and screamed at him. That would unnerve
her completely. He knew he was being childish and couldn’t seem to
help himself.

She smiled at Martin as if she were relieved
to see a civilized human in a throng of wild savages.

Martin stood, smiled a charming smile, and
held a chair out for her. “Here you go, Miss Wilkes. Nothing but
the best for our stars.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Then she sat as if
she were a queen and Martin a courtier. She ignored Charlie
absolutely, which grated on his self-image like a rusty file.

Feeling unaccountably huffy—what did he care
about this female?—Charlie hauled a chair out for himself, making a
lot of noise about it, and straddled it, being sure his long legs
sprawled out on both sides. Let her deal with a
real
cowboy
and see how she liked it.

Three

Amy gazed at Charlie’s legs with some
perplexity. She should deplore his abysmal deportment, but couldn’t
seem to get past admiring his musculature.

This was surely a bad sign. It probably
signified the beginning of a slide down the perilous slope of moral
rectitude into the swamp of sin and degradation. And all because
she’d agreed to do something not quite right for money. Filthy
lucre. Served her right. She should have stuck to what she knew.
The familiar. It was safe. Pasadena was safe. Vernon was safe. This
picture business was new and frightening and therefore, extremely
unsafe, and she was a silly fool to have agreed to do this job.

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap,
unsure what to do now, but extremely glad that Vernon wasn’t there
to see the depths to which she’d sunk. Her heart thundered
sickeningly, and her craving for the security of her old life rose
up in her mind’s eye like a shining, golden star.

Thank heavens for Martin Tafft, who seemed to
have an uncanny knack for sensing when she was in distress. He
smiled kindly and said, “The catering crew will be handing out
sandwiches, Miss Wilkes. Peerless tries to give its case and crew
only the best, but sometimes the conditions don’t allow for fancy
meals. We’ll probably be having sandwiches for lunch most
days.”

“Of course.” She smiled at Martin and hoped
her expression conveyed even a fraction of her appreciation. If she
were made to deal with Charlie Fox and the whole new universe of
moviemaking without Martin Tafft to ease her way, she was sure
she’d fold up like a fan and run home to Pasadena, defeated and
depressed. Wouldn’t Vernon be happy then? Of course, she probably
would be, too. She decided not to think about it.

“Here y’are,” a female voice said at her
back, and Amy started slightly when a waxed-paper-wrapped sandwich
hit the table with a soft plop in front of her.

“Oh,” she whispered. With a little more pep
in her voice, she added, “Thank you.” She smiled up at the girl
who’d delivered the luncheon package and discovered herself being
completely ignored. The sandwich girl was all but drooling over
Charlie Fox. Amy quickly returned her attention to her
sandwich.

“Thanks,” Charlie said at her side. “I don’t
suppose I can have another one?” He grinned up at the girl who was
handing out sandwiches. She grinned back and threw another sandwich
onto the table in front of him.

Shocked out of contemplating her own
sandwich, which looked large enough to feed a battalion or two, Amy
turned to stare at Charlie, flabbergasted. “You’re going to eat
two
of these things?” Good heavens, Amy was sure she’d never
plow her way through even one of the enormous concoctions presently
being flung hither and yon.

Charlie squinted down at her, and she wished
she’d kept her mouth shut. “You got something against a feller
eating a hearty meal, Miss Wilkes?”

“Of course not.” Her voice, she noticed,
sounded stifled. She felt stifled.

“I reckon,” Charlie continued, “that you’re
not used to folks who toil for a livin’, but some of us have to use
our muscles and such, and we work up quite an appetite.”

Indignation swelled in Amy’s breast. Why did
this man seem so all-fired eager to make fun of her? She resented
it every bit as much as she deplored her own ignorance of the
world. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fox. I didn’t mean to upset
you.”

“Hell, ma’am,” Charlie said, “you didn’t
upset me.”

He laughed. Amy noticed that Martin rolled
his eyes. He, too, had a couple of sandwiches sitting in front of
him.

Martin said, “Let’s dig in, folks. I
understand the roast beef sandwiches these folks prepare are quite
good.”

Fearing she would only put her foot in her
mouth again if she tried to speak, Amy slowly unwrapped her
sandwich. She was pretty sure she could get through a quarter of it
if she tried hard. A thick ceramic mug of coffee appeared as if my
magic in front of her, and she jumped again. Drat! Although she
hated admitting it to herself, she guessed her nerves were somewhat
rattled. Shooting a sideways glance at Charlie, she noticed him
eyeing her with distaste. She lifted her chin, picked up her coffee
mug, and sipped.

An involuntary shudder ran through her from
tip to toe and she set her mug down with a jerk, slopping the
horrible-tasting beverage on the table. Good heavens, how did
people drink this stuff? More to the point,
why
did they
drink it? Amy had never tasted anything so vile in her life.

“You got something against coffee, too, Miss
Wilkes?” Charlie’s voice had taken on a sugary quality.

Swallowing convulsively, trying to get the
bitter taste out of her mouth, Amy couldn’t answer at first. When
at last she managed to get her tongue uncurled, she said, “I’m
unused to coffee, Mr. Fox.” Then she braced herself, wondering what
unkind thing he’d say now.

“I imagine you’re more accustomed to drinking
orange juice,” Martin said with one of his friendly chuckles.

Silently blessing him as a saint, Amy said,
“Yes, I am, Mr. Tafft. I—I’ve never tasted coffee before.” What was
more, if she could help it, she’d never taste it again.

“Orange juice?” Charlie stopped chewing and
lifted an eyebrow. He had lovely eyes, Amy noticed with some
dismay. They were ever so much prettier than Vernon’s, which were
rather squinty and small.

She nodded. “My uncle has a health resort in
Pasadena where orange juice is served daily.”

Amy’s heart gave an enormous tug of
nostalgia, and all at once she felt like crying. This was so
foreign to her. She wanted her aunt and uncle here. She wanted
Vernon. She wanted an orange. If she had to exist on huge meat
sandwiches and coffee for as long as it took to finish this movie,
she wasn’t sure she could do it. She, who was accustomed to eating
delicate meals replete with vegetables, fruit, and milk, and to
drinking pure, sweet-tasting, unadulterated orange juice. Oh,
dear.