by Janet Dailey
"I'm sure there'll be enough," Sam answered, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Behind the sunglasses, his gaze had narrowed to inspect the premises. "This place could be used to film the nesters scene. I'll have to make sure he doesn't paint anything until we decide."
"That arrogance is typical of you producers. You give a man money, then tell him when he can spend it," she retorted with biting softness.
Sam merely smiled and walked to the porch. LaRaine didn't follow; she doubted that the porch floor would hold the weight of two people. She waited beside the Scout, wiping at the dust on the soft fawn leather of her split riding skirt. The screen door rattled when Sam knocked on it. The swirling wind billowed the light blue windbreaker that protected his slender torso. He knocked again.
"Doesn't seem to be anyone home," he decided, and walked off the porch. A chicken scratched the dirt in his path and clucked in protest as it was forced to move out of his way.
"Did you tell him that you were coming by this morning?" LaRaine wondered aloud. "Or did you just expect him to be here when you showed up?"
"No, that's something you would do," Sam retorted. "You always expect people to be around when you want them. I called McCrea last night to tell him I'd be by this morning." He pushed back the elastic cuff of his windbreaker to look at his wristwatch. "Carl warned me about the road, so I told McCrea not to expect me until around eleven. It's a couple of minutes before that now."
His passing remark that she expected people at her beck and call had hurt, and LaRaine tried to get back at him. "I'd laugh if he's changed his mind about letting you film on his land."
"You wouldn't laugh for long," he told her as he walked around to the driver's side. "Any more delays would mean budget cuts. Your role isn't all that essential. You might remember that, LaRaine."
"Are you threatening me, Sam?" For all the laughing challenge in her voice, LaRaine was inwardly intimidated by his statement. "I didn't realize what a sore loser you were, that you'd contemplate revenge."
"Revenge might be sweet," was the only response he made as he reached inside the opened window of the vehicle to honk the horn.
The blaring sound sent the chickens scurrying, wings flapping, to the rear of the house. LaRaine felt sick and frightened, but she wouldn't let Sam see that. Her downcast gaze glimpsed the dust on her knee-high boots. The handkerchief had been used to wipe everything else; she decided she might as well use it on her leather boots.
Resting a toe on the chrome bumper, she bent to wipe away the dust from her boot. A swipe of the linen cloth brought out the high-polished sheen of the fine leather, a darker, complementing shade of brown to the riding skirt she wore. With one boot free of dust, she shifted her attention to the other.
"That must be McCrea coming now," Sam announced.
LaRaine glanced up to see a horse and rider approaching the ranchyard. She held her pose, one foot on the front bumper of the vehicle and an elbow resting casually on a raised knee. Her attitude of indifferent interest was feigned as she studied the horse and rider coming toward them.
The muscled conformation of the mahogany bay horse was flawless. LaRaine was a novice when it came to ranches and cattle, but she did know good horseflesh, and the horse the man was riding was no ordinary nag. As they came closer, LaRaine realized that the horse was not only powerfully muscled, but tall as well, standing easily sixteen hands high. Its running walk ate up the ground with effortless ease.
When she got a better look at the rider, she saw that the horse had to be big in order to carry the man on its back. Anything smaller than the bay and the rider would have dwarfed his mount, making a combination as incongruous as an adult on a Shetland pony.
The man was big, tall with a broad chest and shoulders. Despite his size, he rode with effortless grace, relaxed and at ease as if born in the saddle. LaRaine could see little of his face beneath the brim of his sweat-stained cowboy hat. What was visible was mostly strong jaw and chin.
Saddle leather creaked as the horse and rider entered the ranchyard. A red calf was draped across the saddle in front of the rider. It hung limp, showing no sign of life, when the horse was reined to a stop in front of the barn.
Gathering the calf in his arms, the rider stepped down from the saddle. As yet, the man had not acknowledged their presence with more than a look. Sam walked forward to meet him, but LaRaine waited.
"Hi, I'm Sam Hardesty from the movie studio." He introduced himself, not bothering to extend a hand since the rancher's arms were holding the calf. "I called you last night."
The calf wasn't as small as it had first appeared. LaRaine guessed that it easily weighed over a hundred pounds, but the rancher carried its limp weight with ease.
"Sorry I wasn't here when you arrived, Mr. Hardesty." The man's voice was pitched low, with a pleasant drawl despite the business tone. "Do you mind if we hold off our talk for a few minutes? This calf is in bad shape. I have to tend to him first."
"I don't mind a bit," Sam replied with the faintest trace of impatience creeping into his answer.
LaRaine removed her boot from the bumper and moved a couple of steps to bring her in line with the path the man was taking to the house. She tipped her head at a provocative angle, letting the black cloud or her hair drift to one side.
"Was I deceived or did I detect a trace of Texas in your voice?" she questioned in a deliberately playful challenge.
The man stopped. A pair of brown eyes inspected LaRaine with almost insulting indifference to her feminine beauty. Meeting him face to face, she noticed the wings of gray in his otherwise dark hair. Even though he carried the calf, she could tell that the broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist and hips, giving a deceptive impression of leanness. And it was deceptive. Her petite frame was dwarfed by his bulk.
"Yes, I'm from Texas originally," he admitted, and turned his brown eyes on Sam.
The look prompted an introduction. "Mr. McCrea, this is one of the supporting actresses in our film, Miss LaRaine Evans. She came along to get an idea of the lie of the land." His sly innuendo wasn't wasted on LaRaine. Sam had meant that she was checking the rancher out.
She had the suspicion that the rancher knew exactly what Sam meant. It was an unnerving feeling. She had expected him to be something of a country bumpkin, unversed in the subtleties of life, someone who could easily be tricked. She caught a hint of worldly sophistication in those glittering brown eyes, despite the obvious brute force.
"LaRaine, this is Travis McCrea," Sam finished the introduction.
"It's a pleasure, Miss Evans," the rancher offered in greeting.
"Please, call me LaRaine," she insisted with a wide smile.
"Thank you." His head dipped in acknowledgment, the hat brim concealing the glitter of mockery she briefly glimpsed in his eyes. "Excuse me, I have to take care of the calf."
Travis McCrea moved past her onto the porch, which surprisingly supported the combined weight of the rancher and the calf. It didn't sit well with LaRaine that this man found her subtle flirtation amusing. He had been impressed by neither her looks nor the fact that she was an actress, two things she had been counting on. She had struck out, and Sam was finding that laughable.
As she started to follow the two men into the house, her gaze swept the weathered boards of the house. The appearance of the house didn't match its owner. Her previous disappointment in the surroundings had faded when she had seen Travis McCrea for the first time. He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would be content to live in this hovel. So why was he?
It was a puzzle and one she couldn't solve until she had more answers to the questions buzzing in her head. Sam was holding the screen door open for her. LaRaine put a tentative boot on the porch floorboards. They were more solid than they appeared and she walked forward. The interior of the house might be totally different from the outside. Then the thought crossed her mind—how different could it be if Travis McCrea was taking a calf inside?
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Chapter Two
THE PORCH DOOR opened into the living room. In LaRaine's estimation, it was furnished with Salvation Army rejects. A couch and chair were covered in a hideous maroon with a thin gold stripe. An overstuffed recliner in cheap vinyl leather was in front of a smoke-blackened fireplace. An area rug covered the linoleum floor. LaRaine guessed that the rug might have once possessed an Oriental pattern, but it was so threadbare, the color and design had faded into meaningless combinations.
There were water stains on the ceilings in both the living room and the hallway leading into the kitchen. Both areas had the same wallpaper, equally yellowed with age and with seams curling away from the wall. The few pictures that had been on the wall resembled old calendar covers that had been framed. LaRaine looked around with disdain. If it were possible, the interior of the house was worse than the outside.
A darkened staircase branched off the hallway to the second floor. LaRaine shuddered at what might be in the rooms above. She followed the men's voices into the kitchen. There, the linoleum floor had cracked in several places, exposing black seams splintering across a scuffed, yellow-splattered pattern. The wood cabinets were finished in a cherry-wood stain.
Gray tile rose halfway up the walls where a band of brick-patterned wallpaper separated the tile from the upper half of the wall painted a sickly shade of green. The wooden table in the center of the room looked as if it had fifteen coats of brown paint on it. The surrounding chairs were all in different styles, from an armed captain's chair to a severe straight-backed chair.
Everything about the house made LaRaine want to cringe. The only thing that could be said in its favor was that it was clean. Even that couldn't make up for the deplorable lack of taste used in decorating it.
The red calf had been laid on a braided throw rug in a cleared area of the room. Travis McCrea was kneeling at its head while Sam hovered nearby, watching. LaRaine's intense dislike for the house didn't extend to its owner. She walked around the ugly brown table to stand near them.
"What happened to the calf?" she asked to make conversation.
"He got a faceful and noseful of thorns," was Travis's response as he continued working near the calf's head without glancing up. "He either tangled with some cactus or a patch of briars."
Travis moved and LaRaine noticed the tweezerlike instrument in his hand and glimpsed the swollen and festering sores around the calf's nose and eyes. It was a repelling sight, but she forced herself to remain indifferent.
"How did it happen?" She found it difficult to believe that even a dumb animal could have something like that happen to it.
"I wouldn't even begin to guess." Travis shrugged to indicate the "how" was immaterial at this point. "Maybe something frightened it into stampeding into the thorns."
Although LaRaine didn't have a clear view, she could tell that he was pulling out some of the thorns and cutting out others that had worked themselves in too deep. Despite the obvious pain Travis had to be inflicting, the calf didn't make a sound or struggle.
"Is it alive?" She was beginning to doubt it. She glanced at its rib cage to see if she could tell whether or not it was breathing. The movement was very faint.
"He's alive, but just barely. It must have happened a couple of days ago or more," Travis explained. "He hasn't been able to eat, maybe not even able to drink, since then. He's very weak."
"Will he live?" It was Sam who put forward the question.
"I don't know." The grim mouth quirked briefly. "I'll tell you in a couple of days." Raising his head, Travis cast a glance sideways at LaRaine. "There's antiseptic and some swabs in the cabinet by the back door. Would you get them for me?"
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then walked to the cupboard he had indicated. The bottle of antiseptic and swabs were exactly where he had said they were. She carried them to where he knelt beside the calf.
"Is the calf worth saving?" Sam questioned.
"He's worth saving, if for nothing else, than to butcher as beef for my own use." A note of dryness crept into Travis's otherwise patient voice. With a nod of his head, he indicated that LaRaine should kneel beside him. When she did, she was made aware again of how powerfully muscled his shoulders and arms were. One of his hands was equal to almost both of hers. Amidst the animal smells clinging to him, she caught the tang of his after-shave lotion. "Your hands are cleaner than mine. You apply the antiseptic and I'll hold the calf's head still."
LaRaine stared at the swollen, and now bloodied, face of the injured calf, stunned by the request Travis had made. So many of the wounds were close to the eyes, nose and mouth. She had heard or read somewhere that antiseptic could be fatal if swallowed. She had never treated a sick thing in her life, and the thought kept running through her mind that she could accidentally kill it in her ignorance.
"I …I can't," she stammered out her stunned refusal, shoving the bottle toward him and recoiling.
"It's very simple. You just —" Travis began to explain with taut patience.
"Save it," Sam interrupted, his voice laced with scorn. "I'm sure LaRaine doesn't want to risk staining her leather skirt with the medicine. Ornamental, the lovely lady is, but useful she definitely isn't "
There was a suggestion of contempt in the dismissing glance Travis gave her. "My mistake. I should have realized you wouldn't want to risk soiling your clothes." He placed the faintest emphasis on the pronoun "you." "Move to the side." It was an order, not a request. It all happened so quickly that LaRaine didn't have a chance to refute Sam's statement. "Would you mind holding the calf's head, Mr. Hardesty? He's been pretty quiet up until now, but I don't want to take any chances."
"Be glad to help. What do you want me to do?" Sam moved closer while LaRaine shifted out of the way and rose to her feet.
She watched as Travis showed Sam what he wanted. She could have done that, but she hadn't been asked. LaRaine kept silent. Why on earth should she regret not being able to treat an animal? It was stupid and silly. She should be glad she didn't have to touch that smelly, infected creature.
"In the same cupboard where you found the antiseptic, there's a black container with a syringe inside," Travis told her. "Would you get that for me, and the vial of antibiotics in the refrigerator?"
The syringe LaRaine located right away, but she had to look for the vial in the refrigerator. She brought both of them to Travis as he finished disinfecting the wounds. Sam looked away as Travis jabbed the needle into the calf. LaRaine had never been squeamish about such things as shots or the sight of blood. She had watched all the rancher's ministrations to the calf with a kind of curious fascination.
"You can let go of him," Travis told Sam.
The calf weakly kicked out with a hind leg when Sam relaxed his hold and straightened to his feet. It seemed to be breathing more easily. LaRaine wondered if the swelling had affected its nasal passages. Poor little thing, it looked so helpless lying there on the rug. She resisted the impulse to kneel beside it and pet its tangled red hide. Sam would only make fun of her and silently accuse her of doing it to impress Travis McCrea. Instead, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her riding skirt, pretending an indifference to the plight of the calf.
"What will you do with the calf now?" she asked. "You aren't going to turn it loose, are you?"
"Right now I'm going to mix up some mash and calf milk to see if I can get some nourishment down him. Then I'll put him in one of the stalls in the barn until he's up and around again before I turn him loose." Behind the surface blandness of the strongly defined male features, LaRaine had the impression that Travis was mockingly inquiring whether or not his plan met with her approval.
It irritated her. "I see." She looked away, aware that there were dark sparks shooting in her eyes. "Tell me, do you always treat your sick animals in the kitchen?" The audacious demand slipped out before she could get control of her irritation.
"Not all the time. Some of the animals I can't get through the door. In this case, it
seemed easier to bring the calf to the equipment than to bring the equipment and medicine to the calf. I didn't realize that you would object if I treated my animals in my kitchen." He stressed the possessive pronoun with challenging emphasis.
LaRaine turned away, aware that she had put her foot in her mouth again. "Of course I don't object. I was merely curious."
"And I always thought curiosity killed the cat," Sam murmured, and LaRaine wanted to hiss at him like a cat after that remark.
Instead she responded with frigid control. "Doesn't the rest of the verse say something about satisfaction bringing it back?" But she couldn't resist one playful claw at her former boyfriend. "You mustn't pay any attention to Sam, Mr. McCrea. He's bitter because he asked me to marry him and I turned him down." She watched Sam turn red with anger and gave him a tiny feline smile.
Sam grabbed her arm and half turned her so that her back was to Travis, who seemed to find the interplay between them beneath his attention. LaRaine didn't like being ignored any more than she liked being the butt of some secret joke.
"Dammit, LaRaine," Sam muttered beneath his breath. "This is a business meeting between myself and McCrea. I said you could come along, but I'm not going to let you start dragging personalities into the conversation."
"You started it, darling." She ran her fingernails lightly across his shaven cheek in a mock scratch, then disdainfully twisted her arm free of his hold. In a louder voice, addressed to both men, she said, "Since you have business to discuss, I think I'll get some fresh air."
Neither man made a single protest as she walked from the kitchen. LaRaine was in one of those moods where even that angered her. Out of sheer politeness they could have pretended that she was welcome to stay.
In a burst of temper, she let the screen door slam loudly shut. Walking off the porch, she kicked at a rock. It bounced over the ground and sent a chicken squawking for cover. The bay horse stood in front of the barn, the ends of the reins dragging the ground. Under other circumstances, LaRaine might have wandered over to it. It wasn't her horse, so why should she care if it was still saddled and standing in the sun?
