Cowboy For Hire

by Duncan, Alice

  Amy saw Charlie first thing, and the shock was so great she turned away before she could stop herself. She’d meant to treat him with cool friendship and try to demonstrate no change in their relationship to the rest of the crew, but she’d expected to be able to warm up to it. She hadn’t expected to see him standing there looking around as if searching for her.

  Moving picture people lived in perilously close proximity to one another when they were filming in remote areas like this one. The fact had no especially bothered Amy until today. Today she wished she wouldn’t have to deal with anyone at all connected with the picture until she was under better control.

  But there was Charlie, and he’d seen her. He came over to her, his long strides eating up the ground, his expression one of grave concern. His expression irked her. She didn’t want rumors and speculation to race through the cast and crew, as they were bound to do if people suspected anything amiss between them.

  “Amy,” Charlie said when he reached her side. “We’ve got to talk.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Charlie,” she said crossly. “Stop looking so obvious.”

  He drew himself up short, as if her words and the tone of her voice had slapped him. “But … but we really need to talk.”

  “Fine. But not here and not now. Please, Charlie, have some discretion.”

  “Discretion?” The word fell out of his mouth on a breath of air. “Discretion?”

  “Yes.” She glanced around. “Oh, Lord, they’re all staring at us.”

  When she turned her head and peered up at Charlie, she found him staring down at her as if he’d never seen her before. She hardly blamed him; she’d never felt like this before. Taking his arm, she whispered, “Please, Charlie, let’s talk about it later. I—I can’t right now. Anyhow, we’ve got to get back to the set.”

  “I see.” He took a step away from her and glanced down to her hand gripping his arm. “So, it’s all over? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Through gritted teeth, Amy hissed, “I won’t talk about it now. I can’t. There are too many people standing around.”

  “I see. It didn’t mean anything—that’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it? You thought I was rich, I’m not, and it’s all over now. I get it.”

  “Stop it!” she said. “I can’t talk about it now!”

  “I see.”

  She saw him lick his lips, and then she glimpsed an expression of anguish enter his eyes. She wanted to grab the knife out of his scabbard and stab herself. That couldn’t hurt any worse than this.

  He was going to hate her now; the only man she supposed she’d ever love—and who loved her back—was going to hate her. And all because she was a moral coward and a spiritual invalid. Because she’d allowed a childhood experience to ruin her life.

  And she couldn’t help it. “Charlie—”

  “No. That’s all right. I see it all now.”

  She sucked in air. “Good. I’m glad you see.” Her voice had gone as cold as the blood in her veins.

  Charlie turned and walked away from her, and Amy felt her heart crack in two.

  * * *

  It took two more days to finish the filming of One and Only. Charlie went through the motions as if he were walking in his sleep. Somehow he managed to convey the impression that nothing in the world was wrong with him, but it wasn’t true.

  He was crushed. Vanquished. Brought low. Made miserable by the one person in the world who he believed would lift him up and create brightness in his life forevermore.

  Fat damned chance. He should have remembered that first impressions are often correct ones, and that he’d pegged Miss Amy Wilkes as a prim and prissy female who didn’t care about anything but money and appearances the first moment he’d set eyes on her. His initial impression had been confirmed with a vengeance when they saw each other outside Martin’s Pierce Great Arrow before Martin drove them back to the Peerless lot. She’d as much as told him she didn’t want him now that she knew the ranch in Arizona wasn’t his but belonged to his family.

  Not for Amy Wilkes a young man starting out in life. Hell, o. Charlie Fox, whose prospects were as good as any man’s but who hadn’t achieved his goals in life yet, wasn’t good enough for her. She’d probably go back to that rich banker in Pasadena and settle down. Or find one of those slimy lounge lizards from a big city somewhere; the rich, old farts who went after the chorus girls.

  He knew he was being irrational. After all, while Amy might have pulled the wool over his eyes and made him believe she was really interested in him—hell, she’d said she was in love with him—she’d never given any indication that she’d succumb to anything but a proper marriage. At the moment, however, he was bitter. He couldn’t seem to stop these unkind thoughts from holding sway.

  As the last few scenes of the picture were shot, he watched her, trying not to be obvious about it. She appeared much as usual. That first day after the glorious hour of love they’d shared, she’d looked tired and down-pin. The next day, and the days following that, however, she’d looked just fine. She’d looked as if she’d never had anything more to do with Charlie Fox than a shared sandwich in the chow tent.

  He could hardly stand it.

  “Your scene’s next,” Martin said, startling Charlie, who hadn’t heard him walk up. “Are you all right?”

  He glanced at Martin and frowned. “Sure, I’m all right. Why? Do I look sick or something?”

  Martin jerked back a bit at Charlie’s tone, which was savage. “Er, no. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you don’t look well. There’s just … well, it’s only that you haven’t seemed quite as happy as usual these past few days, and I wondered if it’s anything I could help with.”

  Crap. The poor man, one of the nicest fellows Charlie’d ever met, was trying to help him out of his dismals, and Charlie’d snapped him off. Criminy, unrequited love was a real pain in the ass. In fact, it stunk, and Charlie hated it.

  “Er, no. Sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to let my bad mood out into the open.”

  Martin eyed him for a moment, then shook his head. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m right here. You’re a good fellow, Charlie, and I hope nothing’s gone amiss with you and … well, with you and any of your fellow cast members.”

  Dang, did everybody on the whole blasted lot know about him and Amy? Charlie thought about it for a second or two and decided they probably did. Super. He’d always wanted his deepest personal ordeals out there entertaining the masses.

  He said, “Thanks, Martin,” and took his place on the set. He did appreciate Martin’s concern. He’d sooner poke out his eye with a branding iron than admit to how stupid, how utterly gullible and ridiculous he felt.

  Taken advantage of by a city girl—and all because he’d believed her to be something other than a city girl. He’d thought she was a real, honest, down-to-earth person underneath her starch. What a blamed fool he was.

  He even tried to hate her, but couldn’t manufacture so much as an ounce of antipathy. Mostly, he just felt rotten. And, although it pained him to acknowledge it because the knowledge made him feel like an idiot, if he suddenly came into a fortune, he’d chase her down and propose again on the spot.

  Which meant, he concluded, that there was no hope for him whatsoever, and the sooner he took himself back to Arizona Territory and got away from these blasted motion picture people, the better off he’d be.

  It therefore came as an unpleasant shock when Martin cornered him on the final day of shooting and begged him to act in “just one more cowboy picture, Charlie. Please? You’ll be doing me the biggest favor of your life. We need you, Charlie. There’s nobody else we can use. There’s nobody else as good as you.”

  Aw, hell. “I dunno, Martin. I’m not keen on doing another picture.”

  Martin pleaded. Charlie demurred. Martin pleaded harder. Charlie declined. Martin begged. Charlie, although his heart was weakening, kept his tone of voice firm, knowing he really didn’t want to work in anothe
r picture. Then Martin made him one last offer.

  “We’ll pay you well for it, Charlie. We’ll pay you three times what you made on this picture. Imagine it.” Martin waved his arms in the air as if conjuring the studio’s largess right then and there. “You’ll be a wealthy man. And I swear to you, we’ll never ask again—unless, of course, you want to be in more pictures. There will always be roles for you. You look better on celluloid than any other actor I’ve seen.”

  “Yea?” Charlie felt his left eyebrow—the one that doubted everything—arch like a rainbow.

  Martin said, “I know, I know, it sounds like I’m spinning moonshine, but I’m not. You haven’t seen the daily rushes, but I have. You’re going to be a star, Charlie, whether you want to be one or not. If you want to hide your light away in the deserts of Arizona Territory, so be it, but I’m begging you to consider making one more picture with Peerless.”

  “Well….”

  Martin clutched at his arm. Charlie was too accustomed to the ways of movie folks by this time to mind. “It’s financial on our part, too, Charlie. It’s because you’re so good. Mr. Lovejoy, who’s a genius at this sort of thing, thinks One and Only is going to take off like no picture has done since The Great Train Robbery. He’s sure it’s going to be the making of Peerless. He’s also sure that if you’ll star in a follow-up Peerless feature, the picture-going public will flock to see it. You see, this will set Peerless up better financially than anything else he can think of. You’ll be doing Peerless a tremendous favor, and Peerless aims to pay well for your consent.”

  “Well, shoot, if you put it that way….” Charlie fell. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to another month or so of living in California.

  It probably wouldn’t be too bad. They discussed the matter further, and Martin said the filming would be done in and around Los Angeles. That being the case, Charlie wouldn’t have to run into Amy anywhere.

  His heart gave an enormous twinge at the knowledge, and he wondered if he’d hurt forever or if he’d eventually get over being in love with Amy Wilkes. Or even, failing that, if he’d develop scabs over his open wounds that would protect him at least a little bit from the everlasting pain of losing her.

  Not that he’d ever had her. She’d wanted a man well set up in the world and had believed him to be the one. He wasn’t, and she’d scooted off like a spooked longhorn in a lightning storm.

  * * *

  The very last scene to be shot was one in which Amy and Horace Huxtable were supposed to ride off into the sunset together, staring at each other mooney-eyed from the saddles of their respective horses. Martin was worried about the scene but he hesitated to ask Charlie to keep an eye on Huxtable.

  “Charlie’s been acting really strangely these past couple of days,” he confided in Karen, who looked worried herself.

  “He’s not the only one. Amy’s been in a real blue mood.”

  Karen gave Martin a glance he could only consider significant. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out what it was meant to signify. “Er, do you think they … had a fight or something?” He’d noticed that they’d become chummy and then that their relationship had cooled off since their stay at the Royal El Montean. “Um, a lover’s quarrel, perhaps?”

  “Yes, I do,” Karen said with none of Martin’s hedging. That was one of the reasons he liked Karen—she never beat around the bush.

  “I see.” Martin realized he’d begun tugging at his favorite tuft of hair and let it go. He wished he wouldn’t do that. “Well, I want somebody to watch Huxtable during this last scene. It’ll be his last shot at Amy, and I don’t trust him.”

  “Nobody trusts him,” Karen said grimly. “I’ll talk to Charlie.”

  Relief swept Martin from tip to toe. “Thanks, Karen. That’s be swell.”

  She marched off like a general aiming to give his troops a good dressing-down, and Martin grinned. Good old Karen. Nothing daunted her—at least not for long. He hoped Benjamin Egan was up to her weight.

  Charlie saw Karen coming, knew she was aiming at him with some purpose in mind, and wished he’d thought to conceal himself. She was bold enough to ask him about what had gone wrong between him and Amy, and he didn’t want to talk about it. Not to anyone.

  He hadn’t thought fast enough to hide, though, and anyway, there wasn’t much of anything to hide behind—not to mention the fact that hiding was the epitome of cowardice—so Charlie faced her with a smile. He trusted it didn’t look as fake as it felt. He even initiated conversation, and gave himself a mental pat on the back.

  “Howdy, Karen. Fine day.” It was probably the worst day of his life, but he didn’t feel like going into that.

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  She came to stand beside him, turned, and observed the scene with him. They both watched as Amy, in her split skirt, heaved herself up into the saddle after a couple of tries. No matter how much she practiced, she’d never be any kind of a horsewoman. Charlie tried to take some satisfaction from the fact, but couldn’t drum up an iota. He sighed, and wished he’d controlled himself when Karen shot him a look.

  “Listen, Charlie,” she began. “I don’t know what’s happened between you and Amy, but I’m sure it’s only a misunderstanding.”

  Like hell. He said, “Hunh.”

  “I know, I know, it’s none of my business.”

  Right. He said nothing.

  “But the truth is that I care about both of you, and I know Amy thinks the world of you.”

  Like hell she did. He didn’t say anything.

  She shifted irritably. “Oh, very well, don’t speak to me about it. Amy won’t talk about it, either. And that’s your privilege—both of you. But if you’d only talk to each other, you could probably fix things in a minute.”

  “Like hell. She won’t talk to me, either.” Dagnabbit, he hadn’t meant to say that. Charlie squeezed his lips together and wished his uncle Bill were here to toss a few old-time adages at him. He could use a couple. Unfortunately, the only one that came to his mind at the moment was Some things just ain’t funny.

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  Charlie noticed that Karen’s eyes were squinty, and she looked as if she were thinking hard. He didn’t want to hear any more about Amy today. Or ever, for that matter. It hurt too much. Because he figured Karen was just winding up to spew more platitudes at him, he spoke first.

  “Listen, Karen, I’m sure you mean well, but there’s nothin’ anybody can do about this. If you have something to say, please just say it and get it over with. I’m not going to talk about it, so you’ll be doing a solo.”

  She looked up at him for a minute, frowning, then said, “I won’t bother you, then, Charlie. I’m very sorry, though.”

  He nodded, unwilling to test his ability to talk. He feared he might cry, and then what would his uncle Bill say? He heard Bill say A man can pretty much always stand more than he thinks he can, but right this minute, Charlie didn’t think he believed it.

  “Anyway, Martin was wondering if you’d be willing to watch out for Amy during the filming of this last scene. It’ll be Huxtable’s last chance to do something awful to her, and I suppose he’ll try. Unless he’s finally come to his senses.”

  “Naw, he ain’t done nothin’ so sensible as that.” Charlie spoke with conviction. “I’ll watch out for her.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  He liked and appreciated Karen Crenshaw more than he ever expected to when she gave him one last searching look, nodded, and turned and walked away without trying to pump him. God bless her.

  Eighteen

  The last time Amy had been so glad to see the end of something was when she’d bidden good-bye to Alaska and gone to live with her aunt and uncle in California. She could hardly wait to get back home to Pasadena, to hug Aunt Julia and Uncle Frank, to go upstairs to her own room with the chintz curtains and bookcase full of novels, and hid away from the world.

  She’d have to deal with Vernon, of course, but not
immediately. She had some healing to do first. And before she could begin to heal, she had to get through with this odious picture. She wished she’d never seen Martin Tafft, as much as she liked him. Even more than that, she wished she’d had the strength of character to resist his offer when he’d made it.

  She hadn’t, and here she was. At the very last scene in the picture. Thank God.

  Horace Huxtable was going to do something beastly to her; she knew it. And she was prepared. She’d even armed herself. If he so much as looked at her cross-eyed, she aimed to throw something at him. If he tried to hurt her, she was going to stab him with her letter knife. It wouldn’t hurt him much, but it would stop him; Amy’d bet on that.

  Oh, good grief, there was Charlie. Amy saw him leaning against the fence on the far side of the corral, and wished he hadn’t come to watch the last scene being filmed. Was he worried about her still? He’d seemed very cold and distant during these last few days. She certainly didn’t blame him for that. She deserved to be shunned by him.

  Her heart gave a hard spasm, and she scolded herself for thinking about Charlie. She was a miserable coward, and she’d spoiled any chance of happiness for the both of them. So be it. She had a job to do now, and she’d better concentrate on that and not the mess she’d made of everything.

  Concentrate on finishing the picture, Amy Wilkes, she lectured herself sternly. Pine away for Charlie Fox later.

  She’d do that for certain—probably for the rest of her life.

  “You have quite a faraway expression on your face, Miss Wilkes,” an oily, snakish voice said in her ear. “Are you daydreaming about riding off into the sunset with me?”

  She turned and looked Horace Huxtable straight in the eye. “I’m thinking about how happy I’ll be never to have to see you again, actually.”

  She saw the ornery expression she’d become accustomed to during the past few weeks cross his face before it smoothed out and the actor took over. He smiled beatifically. “My, my, you’re quite a bitch, aren’t you? I had no idea you’d turn out like that. When I was in that dreadful prison run by your uncle, I believed you to be a kindhearted young woman. It didn’t take me long to discover my mistake.”