by Janice Sims
“I won’t leave you,” Bass stubbornly said. There were tears in his eyes.
“But I’m gonna leave you,” Bella said. “Kiss me goodbye.”
Bass lowered his head and kissed her, and when he raised his head, her eyes were closed in death.
There was no time for grief though because Bella was right: the bastard had not come alone. Three men stood a few feet behind Bass with guns drawn. One stepped forward and ordered Bass to lay down his gun.
Bass was in no mood to negotiate with crooked lawmen. He rose and faced them, but he didn’t relinquish his weapon. With steely eyes, he said, “If you want a fight, you’ve come to the right man.”
He could smell the fear on them. They’d probably signed on with Beaumont because they had figured the colored lawman would be easy prey. Now that Beaumont was lying a few feet away with a bullet in the head, they were not so certain that the job would be a cakewalk.
One of them whispered to the others, “Maybe we ought to get outta here.”
Another whispered back, “He’s just one man. He can’t get all three of us.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be the one he gets. Look at him. He’s ready to kill somebody.”
Bass was waiting for them to make a move. He was as steady as a rock. Although rage surged through him, he was able to harness it and use it to his benefit.
Two of the men raised their arms and slowly moved away from the one who wanted to remain and fight.
“Toss your guns in the water trough,” Bass told them.
They did as they were told.
“Okay, now get the hell outta here!”
They took off running and didn’t stop until they reached their horses that they’d left tethered in front of the saloon, where they mounted them and raced out of town.
Bass had his eye on the remaining man the whole time. “Let’s get this over with,” he told him gruffly.
“You don’t scare me, boy,” said the man. “I’ve heard about you. They say you killed fourteen outlaws in fair fights. Well, I don’t fight fair.” With that, he drew his gun, but he wasn’t fast enough. Bass shot him through the heart before his finger could pull the trigger. He toppled over, a surprised expression on his florid face.
Bass didn’t know it, but the sheriff of the town had watched the entire gunfight. He walked onto the sidewalk adjacent to the spot where Bella still lay in the snow. “You might want to put that firearm away,” he said.
Bass, keyed up, turned the gun on him.
The sheriff held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “I’m Sheriff Beaumont. I got a telegraph from the federal judge saying you might be passin’ through here and to be on the lookout for you. You’re Bass Reeves, a federal marshal, right?”
“How’d you guess?” Bass asked. He knew full well that besides the four men who followed them there, he and Bella were very likely the only strangers in the little town.
“He sent me a description of you,” said the sheriff. “He said you were a tall, tough bastard with a handle bar mustache.” He looked with sympathy upon Bella. “I’m sorry about your woman. Do you need help with her?”
“No,” Bass told him, going to gather Bella in his arms. “I’ll take care of her.” As he stood and began walking down the wooden sidewalk, Bella cradled in his arms, the picture faded to black.
“And cut!” shouted Mike. “Congratulations, people! That’s a wrap!”
“You cry real pretty,” Patrice joked in her Bella voice while still in T.K.’s arms.
“And you die real pretty.”
“Where’re you taking me?”
“Straight to wardrobe so we can get out of these costumes. Then I’m taking you to my trailer and I’m going to make love to you.”
“What about the wrap party?” she asked mischievously.
“We can be a little late,” T.K. said.
“People will talk,” said Patrice smiling up at him. She was freezing, and the blood pack taped to her stomach was oozing red-colored syrup.
“Get real, Ms. Sutton. People have been talking about us for at least two months now.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to miss the mustache.”
“Liar,” he playfully accused her. “You were horrified it was going to fall off my face every time I kissed you.”
“I could imagine I was kissing Tom Selleck.”
“Had a thing for him, huh?”
“Only when he was in a Western,” said Patrice. “I like my men rough and ready.”
“I’ll give it to you rough,” said T.K. and nuzzled her neck.
They arrived at the RV that housed the costume department. He put her on the top step, and she walked inside and said hello to the two women who immediately began helping her out of the dress.
“When are you heading out, sweetie?” asked one of the women, a sweet-faced grandmotherly type with graying brown hair, warm brown eyes and almond-colored skin.
“Tomorrow morning,” said Patrice. She smiled at both of them. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”
“It was our pleasure,” said the woman’s partner, a tall, thin blonde.
“Yes, you were a treat to work with,” said the woman with the graying hair. T.K. walked into the room, and the women gasped in unison. “Out,” said the grandmotherly woman imperiously. Patrice was down to her corset. T.K. turned his back to them. “Is this better?”
“It is not,” the woman said. “Wait in the hallway, T.K., or you’ll be sorry.” She waved a hat pin threateningly at him.
T.K. took one look at the wickedly long pin and left. “What do you do with that thing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said the woman. She smiled at Patrice. “You’ve got to keep them in line.”
Patrice chuckled. “Yes, you do.”
“What are you working on next?” asked the other woman, obviously wanting to change the subject. “Got anything lined up?”
“I have a small role in a Johnny Depp film,” Patrice told her.
“There are no small roles, only small actors.”
“Like that cute little blonde who works on Broadway a lot,” her friend quipped.
“Oh, yeah, she’s a tiny thing. What’s her name?”
“Kristin Chenoweth,” Patrice provided the answer. “I loved her in Pushing Daisies. Chi McBride was in it, too. Do you know his work?”
The blonde smiled knowingly at her partner.
“What?” asked Patrice, curious to know why the woman had had that wistful expression on her face after she’d mentioned Chi McBride.
“He’s a sweetheart,” the woman told her confidentially, “so nice and not full of himself like some actors.”
Patrice had never worked with him, but that was nice to know.
“Don’t tell a certain person I said this,” the graying woman said to Patrice, “but Trevor Kennedy is my favorite movie star. He’s a dear. He treats everybody well, no matter who they are. I’ve never seen him be unkind to anyone.”
Patrice smiled. She knew T.K. was a good man, but it was wonderful to hear people like these ladies say it.
After she’d changed back into her own clothes, she hugged them both. “Take care of yourselves, and I hope to work with you again someday.”
By the time T.K. and Patrice arrived at the wrap party, which was being held in the dining room of the inn they’d used at the start of filming, it was in full swing. Although the inn didn’t have a live band, they provided the celebrants with music piped in over a sound system and, for those who were brave enough, karaoke. Ted Knowles was on stage singing “I Will Survive” as they walked in.
There was a buffet, and T.K. and Patrice went and filled their plates before sitting at a table near the stage where Lara Miller had waved them over, crying, “Come join us, there’re two empty chairs at our table!”
They sat, doffing their coats to reveal casual clothing of jeans, long-sleeved shirts and boots. “He’s pretty bad,” Patrice said of Ted’s sin
ging. She started to playfully shout something encouraging to him but Lara grabbed her by the arm. “Please, don’t,” she said. “That’s his third song. Someone else made the mistake of telling him he sounded good, and he hasn’t shut up since.”
Patrice smiled at her. “It wasn’t you by any chance?”
Lara smiled regretfully. “I learned my lesson.”
Patrice and T.K. ate their meals, entertained the entire time by Ted, who was now being intermittently booed. T.K. put down his fork and rose. “Someone’s got to end this madness.”
He reached down for Patrice’s hand. “Come on.”
Patrice laughed. “You’re on your own, big guy.”
“Chicken?” asked T.K., laughter evident in his eyes.
Patrice grudgingly stood up, “All right, but no disco.” While she was at Juilliard, she’d taken voice lessons and dance lessons with the goal of becoming a well-rounded actor.
However, she would never compare her singing to Elle’s or her dancing to Belana’s. They were devoted to their disciplines as she was devoted to hers, and it showed.
So it was with a bit of trepidation that she went onstage with T.K.
Ted took being kicked to the curb with his usual sense of humor. “Good luck,” he told them as he walked off the stage. “This crowd’s hard to please.”
Patrice and T.K. perused the song list for a moment and decided on “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” When the music began, they stood onstage back to back, microphones held in their hands at the ready.
The music started and T.K., taking Marvin Gaye’s part, turned around and sang to Patrice. They stood close, arms around one another’s waists.
Patrice gazed up at him the way Tammi Terrell used to gaze up at Marvin Gaye, and she sang with as much sincerity. She was pleasantly surprised that T.K. could carry a tune. He was no Marvin, but who was? He was getting into it, too, looking at her as if she were the most desirable creature in the world when he pledged to be there no matter what. Patrice let go and belted out the chorus, and T.K. met the challenge, matching her enthusiasm.
When they finished, they got a standing ovation.
Ted yelled from the back, “When’s the wedding?”
Everybody got a good laugh out of that one. T.K., looking into Patrice’s upturned face, thought the idea had merit. What would it be like to share his life with Patrice? The past four months had been among the happiest he’d ever spent, entirely owing to her. Was love enough to sustain a marriage in Hollywood?
He’d seen so many marriages between actors fail. There were a few that survived until the couples had been parted in death. Foremost in his mind were Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis and Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. All were actors. All remained devoted to one another for more than fifty years. Could he and Patrice have a marriage that stood the test of time?
Patrice was smiling strangely at him. He smiled warmly. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
They walked down the steps of the stage, allowing an actress to take it. T.K. took Patrice’s hand. “Can we get out of here?”
Patrice was agreeable. She hadn’t fully recovered from lying in the snow during their last scene together and wanted nothing more than a long soak in a deep tub of hot water. Before coming here, they had checked into T.K.’s suite. That’s where they’d left Sam, who was probably bored by now. “Yeah, let’s go,” she said.
They went back to the table where Lara and Ted were sitting. Patrice collected her shoulder bag and they said their farewells. Some of the people in this room they might never work with again; however, many of them they would see again during the course of their careers. Hollywood, while seemingly big to outsiders, was really made up of a rather small community of like-minded individuals.
Holding hands, they left the dining room.
Alone with Patrice in the corridor, T.K. paused to grasp her face between his hands and kiss her lips. Lifting his mouth from hers, he said, “What do you think of marriage?”
Patrice’s eyes widened. T.K. smiled. He hoped he hadn’t panicked the poor girl.
“I’m not asking you. I only wanted to know your opinion on the whole institution. Are you for it or against it?”
He took her hand again and they continued walking toward the lobby, which was pretty deserted at this time of night, ten-thirty. They would have to cross it to get to his suite.
“I would definitely prefer marriage over single parenthood,” Patrice said. “Not so much because I care what society thinks of me but rather what my parents think of me. They’ve had a long, happy marriage.”
“So have mine,” T.K. said contemplatively. Earlier he had held two Hollywood marriages in high esteem, forgetting about his own parents’. Patrice helped him to keep his feet on the ground. That’s another reason he admired her. She was down-to-earth and valued family, plus she had high ideals. She wasn’t afraid to say her parents’ opinion of her mattered.
“So you believe that two people can remain devoted to one another for the rest of their lives?”
Patrice gave him a puzzled look. “Of course I do. What are you getting at, Trevor?”
He loved it when she called him Trevor.
“I’m wondering how long I should wait before asking you to marry me,” he told her, making her stop in her tracks. He went on, not noticing that she was stunned. He stopped walking too, though, and peered into her eyes. “I love you, and to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. I was always bent on watching out for T. K. McKenna’s interests. I realize now that’s the reason I was convinced that Edina wasn’t with me out of love. She gave me no outward evidence of her infidelity until the end, yet I was still sure that she couldn’t love me. She might have loved T. K. McKenna but not me.”
Her mind reeling from his admission of love, Patrice nonetheless had to ask, “Why do you keep referring to yourself in that way?”
“Because T. K. McKenna is not me. I’m Trevor. T.K. is a Hollywood fabrication. With you, I feel like I can be Trevor, and you wouldn’t miss T.K. at all. You tend to reject me when I’m being T.K. You turned down my gifts. I’m incapable of impressing you with being one of the biggest box-office draws in the world because you don’t care about that. All you care about is whether or not I’m a good actor—and that I’m a good person.”
“That’s the only thing that lasts in this business,” Patrice agreed. “You may not always be on top, but you can still turn in fine performances. It’s so sad when aging actors keep trying to be the action hero because that’s all they know. You’re more than that. You’re a fine actor.”
He laughed. “I thank you for that, but you know my opinion of acting. It’s just a job. However, for you, I will expand my repertoire to more character roles and stop trying to save the world in every one of my films. Now, can we get back on the subject of marriage? Is it too soon to ask you, or should we wait a few months? Are you a traditionalist? Should I meet your parents before thinking of asking you?”
They’d arrived at his suite. He unlocked the door and allowed her to precede him inside. Sam came running to greet them.
Patrice knelt and rubbed his shaggy head. She was avoiding answering T.K.’s questions because she was trembling inside with excitement. She loved him. But marriage was a huge step. He had been a bachelor for a relatively long time. Did he really know what marriage entailed? The compromises one had to make? Not that she was an authority, but she did know that marrying someone was not like living with them. Marriage required faith in the relationship—faith in the person you married. It meant that no matter what that you would stand by them. She didn’t want to get married and get divorced a year later. When she married, she wanted it to last.
She rose and faced T.K. Looking into his eyes, his expression expectant, she said, “Sometimes I forget how decisive you can be. When you want something, you go after it with no notion whatsoever that you might fail in the pursuit.” She smiled. “That’s admirable. Really, it is. But know this—when I get m
arried I want it to last. Don’t ever propose to me if you’re not prepared to love me for the rest of your life. That’s a deal breaker. And to answer your other question, yes, I’d like you to meet my parents before you decide if I’m the woman for you. My family comes with me—just like your family comes with you. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t marry you if they didn’t like you. Then I would have to tell them I don’t need their approval to marry the man I love.”
T.K. grinned, and then he kissed her long and hard. She made him believe that love could last forever. He raised his head. “Then take me home to meet your parents.”
Chapter 11
Patrice and T.K. got back to Los Angeles on December 20. They had driven T.K.’s SUV, taking turns at the wheel with stops for meals and to walk Sam. Once in L.A. they spent a couple days at Patrice’s place and then decided if T.K. wanted to meet her parents, then there was no time like the present. They left Sam with T.K.’s parents and hit the road. Christmas in Albuquerque, because of its huge Hispanic population, is celebrated with relish. Everywhere luminarias—flaming candles set in paper sacks with their bottoms filled with sand for stability—line streets, staircases of homes and businesses and doorways.
Patrice loved the way they looked all around the city. She and T.K. had helped place the illuminated bags along the walk leading to the Sutton ranch house, a sprawling one-story structure. The house, architecturally Spanish in style, sat in the middle of a thousand acres that had been owned by the Suttons for generations.
Today, December 24, was the second day since their arrival, and she thought T.K. was enjoying his visit so far. Right now, he was out herding the cattle to the south pasture with her father; her brothers, Luke and Patrick; and a couple of ranch hands.
Patrice was standing at the big picture window in the kitchen, peering outside hoping to see T.K. riding up soon with the rest of the men to stable their horses and come inside for Christmas Eve dinner, which she and her mother; her sister, Keira; and her sister-in-law, Nina, had been preparing all day.
