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.
Oh, 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.
It was interesting, though, that Karen had noticed a certain warmth in Charlie’s dealings with Amy. It confirmed Amy’s own observations. Which made her rather proud, actually, since it was pleasant to be considered desirable, although it also played hob with her plans.
Stop being a nitwit, Amy Wilkes. Charlie Fox has nothing whatever to do with your plans. It’s not as if he’s asked you to marry him or anything.
Good Lord, what if he did? What would she do What would she say?
She’d say she was engaged to marry another, was what she’d say, she thought grumpily. At the moment, she wished all thoughts of Charlie Fox to Perdition.
“Mercy sakes, what are they doing?”
Karen’s startled question plucked Amy’s thoughts from the muddle they were in, and she was glad of it. She glanced over to where Karen’s attention seemed to be fixed, and even found a grin somewhere inside herself. “They’re fighting for the movie.”
“Oh. I was hoping they were fighting for real. I’m sure Charlie would win.”
“No doubt.”
Karen eyed her for a moment. Amy pretended not to notice. She would not, she swore to herself, indicate by so much as a flicker of any eyelash that she found Charlie Fox the most wildly attractive man she’d ever met in her life. That road led straight to disaster.
If—and it was a great big huge fat if—he began paying her special attention, and if he proved to her that he was fully able and willing to support a wife and family—Amy would never, if she could help it, be in the position she’d been in as a little girl—she might reconsider her resolution to marry Vernon Catesby. She and Vernon weren’t officially engaged, no matter how much Vernon seemed to think theirs was a fixed engagement. Amy was no jilt. She hadn’t given Vernon a definite yes yet because she wasn’t entirely sure of her own mind.
Unfortunately, the longer she worked on this ridiculous moving picture, the less sure she became. Bother. She hated it when circumstances disturbed her firm ideas about things.
“Cut! Great job, gentlemen!”
Amy and Karen both looked at the scene of the pretend fight.
The two men on the set, who had been struggling quite realistically, turned away from each other so abruptly that a laugh was startled out of Karen. Even Amy, who was in no mood to laugh, grinned. Huxtable brushed himself off. The ground, thank heavens, was no longer muddy but had turned duty once more. It hadn’t taken long for excess water to be sucked up under the relentless sun.
Today the sky was as blue as her aunt Julia’s Spode china teapot, and sported clouds like cotton fluff. They reminded Amy of lambs cavorting in a blue meadow, and she wondered if the sky in Arizona Territory was as pretty as this.
Fiddlesticks. She really had to stop thinking in such a romantic way about Arizona Territory. It was probably hot and dirty and full of desperadoes and illiterates. And bugs and snakes. And prickly cacti. It wasn’t even a state, for the love of heaven!
She walked over to where Martin stood, discussing something with one of his minions. She didn’t interrupt. Nor did she react when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Charlie Fox spot her, change the course of his travels, and begin to stride over to her. She wished his attention didn’t thrill her so, but it did.
She was a fallen woman, and she ought to be ashamed of herself. Unfortunately, she was ever so much more pleased than ashamed.
Bother.
“Howdy, Miss Wilkes.” Charlie removed his hat politely and smiled one of his wonderful, heart-stopping smiles at her.
She smiled back, mainly because she couldn’t help herself. “Hello, Mr. Fox. I watched most of the fight. It looked very realistic.”
“It ought to have.” He didn’t sound as if he appreciated it, either.
Surprised, Amy said, “Oh, dear, what happened? Did Mr. Huxtable do something awful again?”
Evidently he found her instant supposition that Huxtable had been at fault amusing, because he chuckled. “No. He was all right. But it was hot and uncomfortable, and ... well, I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me, and it’s not fun being all wrapped up with someone you don’t like.”
“I should say not!” Amy laughed, too, until she understood the meaning behind Charlie’s words. It shouldn’t have taken her as long as it did, really, since he was gazing at her with the most abject longing she’d ever seen on a person’s face. Oh, dear. He shouldn’t do that; he was embarrassing her. She looked away, and he sighed.
“Ah, Amy. You’re here. Good. We can get started on the next scene,” said Martin. Amy blessed him for his perfect timing.
The next scene featured Amy running away from Charlie and being rescued by Huxtable, who was supposed to throw her onto a horse’s back.
That was how her shirt had become torn in rehearsal, because his throw had been too energetic. He said he hadn’t meant it, but Amy didn’t believe him. Nor did she trust him and she was a little worried about the scene, although she was almost sure that Huxtable wouldn’t do anything too dreadful. Not with Martin Tafft watching. Not to mention Charlie Fox, who could break Huxtable in two without half trying.
If he did do something rotten, at least his actions would be captured by the camera. When he was arrested and tried for her murder, he wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of it, the fiend.
She scolded herself for even thinking such a thing.
“Places, everyone!” Martin called. “We don’t have much daylight left, so let’s make the most of it. I’m sure we can get this next scene filmed.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled an all-together-boys-let’s-do-this-right smile. “Try to make it in one take, all right?”
When they’d first begun to film the picture, Amy hadn’t known what a “take” was. Now she knew. And she also knew that Martin was keen on doing everything only once—in one take, as he said constantly. Amy understood. After all, it
must take must less film if each scene only had to be shot once. Which would also help keep expenses down.
So she always did her best to assist Martin in achieving perfect scenes in one take. This one would be no different. She told herself so even as she experienced a mad desire to rush toward Charlie rather than away from him. She had a sinking feeling that if Vernon Catesby were playing Charlie’s role, she wouldn’t have any trouble at all making herself run away from him. She told herself to stop thinking such thoughts at once.
“Everyone ready?” Martin hollered through his megaphone. “Charlie, try to look meaner.”
Charlie, who had been gazing at Amy not meanly at all, scowled and turned into a ferocious animal. Amy was impressed!
“Amy, you have to look terrified. Remember, this man wants to kill you and steal your ranch.”
“Right,” Amy said, and saluted. It was remarkable how much easier this whole picture making endeavor was these days. Which only made sense. She looked at Charlie and plastered an expression of horror and fright on her face.
“Good! Perfect! And ... action!”
At the cry from martin, Charlie began moving toward Amy as if he were a panther stalking a defenceless bird. Amy backed up, as Martin had told her to do, with her hands up as if she were pushing Charlie away. If she’d truly been in danger, she would have bolted away from her pursuer without pausing to back up as her character was doing. But that wasn’t art; it was sensible. This was art. Therefore, she did her best to appear panic-stricken and aghast—and extremely slow-moving.
“Perfect!”
Martin’s approbation pleased her.
“All right,” Martin went on. “It’s almost time to turn and run. One, two, three, turn!”
Amy turned and, as she’d rehearsed that morning, ran like a frightened animal away from Charlie, who let out a roar of what sounded awfully like rage, and ran after he.
Cowboy For Hire Page 19
