Looking at the mountains rising steeply to the east of the town, Rex wondered why people would lock themselves in a dark theater when they could be outside enjoying the ephemeral beauty of the town. He sidestepped a pile of horse droppings and held his breath. That offered one explanation.
“Rex!”
His head snapped to attention at the familiar voice. A wide smile curved Muriel’s generous lips. Dressed today as a modern American woman and not an ancient Indian princess, she took his breath away. The people of Cortez might ignore Rex Pride, film director, but they would flock to the first lady of stage and screen. He increased his pace and joined them moments later.
Rex recognized the gleam in Benny’s eye. “Go ahead and film it if you want to. We might use it in another movie.”
Benny’s eyes wandered to the camera case standing to his right side. “Not unless I want to start a stampede.” He sighed. “Some people still object to still cameras; they won’t want me following them around. They may not have even heard of moving pictures.”
“There’s a—” Muriel started.
“I saw a theater down one side street.” Rex supplied the information. Trust Muriel to have found it already. “You’re right. I would prefer to remain incognito for the time being.”
After they settled their equipment in a room for the night, the five of them went to a restaurant that Muriel recommended. “Plain cooking, and plenty of it. Not quite like home, but then again, my mother has different ingredients to work with than here in Colorado. The pot roast is excellent.”
“What are Rocky Mountain oysters?” Benny asked. “Do they have oysters packed in ice and shipped here from the sea?” He shook his head. “No, that can’t be it. Then they wouldn’t be called Rocky Mountain oysters.”
Muriel blushed, and she dabbed at the corner of her mouth as if to hide her embarrassment. She recovered enough to say, “I asked the same thing my first night. They’re not exactly oysters…they’re from…oh dear. From bulls that have been made into steers.” She grabbed the menu and hid her red face behind it.
Benny’s expression told him he was working as hard as Rex was to contain his laughter. Once he knew he had control of his voice, he said, “I believe I’ll stick with the pot roast. That sounds like a safe bet.”
The meal was as delicious as Muriel had described. While they were eating, one of the prospectors Rex had noticed earlier on the street, hardly recognizable after a two-bit haircut and shave had removed most of the mop of red hair on his head, came in and ordered the most expensive item on the menu.
Even with five of them present, the well-set table with dancing candlelight was the most intimate setting Rex had ever shared with Muriel. She sat to his right, between him and Sarah. A part of him celebrated the fact she did not sit next to Benny. After the waitress served the first course, Benny, Muriel, and Sarah bowed their heads. Rex hurried to follow their example. All three of these people professed to be Christians; if he didn’t watch out, they’d convert him before they returned to Mesa Verde. He blanked his mind while Benny said grace, and raised his head when he said Amen.
Conversation flowed naturally, that of people who knew and respected each other and felt no need for pretense. Even the taciturn Sarah contributed a story or two, displaying a droll sense of humor he had never suspected lay beneath her quiet exterior. Rex said little, remained quieter than usual, satisfied to enjoy Muriel’s company.
As he kept her profile in sight, he registered the variety of people wandering in and out of the dining room. Compared to the crowds he had seen on the street earlier that day, most of them had taken some effort to spruce up for the occasion. Someone in town must be aware of current fashion trends. Women sported a wide variety of hats, from straw boaters that perched on top of their heads to elaborate creations, complete with feathers and bird’s nests and such. Their clothes ranged from prairie homespun to outfits that wouldn’t look amiss among Denver’s elite.
But Muriel exuded a simple elegance that made every other woman in the room fade into obscurity. In an industry where the lines between the stage character and the actress could get blurred, she stood out as the most genuine person he knew. She exemplified everything he admired about the Christian faith.
“You’re not saying much tonight.” Muriel turned to face him full on. Her skin glowed with health after her summer in the sun.
He cleared his throat. “I was thinking how you are three of the best people I know.” Which was true, even if he was bowled over by Muriel’s beauty. “And that all three of you claim to be Christians.” He turned his gaze from the affable Benny to the quiet and steady Sarah to the luminescent Muriel. “You may be the only true Christians I have ever known. You live what you preach.”
Sarah cast her eyes downward. Benny gaped at him for a moment before nodding, a smile crossing his face.
Rex turned his attention to Muriel, hopeful that she would blossom in the wake of his words of praise. Instead sadness clouded her eyes as she shook her head. “I’m no one so special. I’m only a sinner saved by God’s grace.”
The chasm between them only widened. He might not be perfect, but he didn’t need saving. By anything or anyone.
“You are sad.” Sarah stood behind Muriel where she sat in front of an ornate oval mirror. She ran a brush through Muriel’s hair, and it fell in gentle waves down her back. “Is it Mr. Rex Pride?” She looked over Muriel’s head into the mirror, a challenge in her eyes.
“You know me too well, my friend.” Muriel blinked away tears. She didn’t want salty tear drops to mar the pampered beauty regimen she had enjoyed this evening. “He thinks it’s enough to admire Christian teaching. He doesn’t think he needs God—or anybody else.” Her voice caught.
Sarah paused in mid-brushstroke. “He admires you. I saw him watching you tonight. His eyes were as bright as the stars at night.” She continued with the brush gently separating a tangle. “Or is he a man who admires many ladies?”
“Sarah.” A giggle hid the shock in Muriel’s voice. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t have that reputation. That is one of the reasons I agreed to do this film. He makes us work hard, but he doesn’t chase women. I wouldn’t work with him if he did.” She heard the smugness in her tone and cringed.
“Then it is you he likes. Something about you draws him. Perhaps it is the Lord Jesus.” Sarah parted Muriel’s hair and began brushing the other side.
“I don’t think so.” Muriel stared at her fingernails, which she had kept short during the filming of Ruined Hopes. “I so long to lead people to the Lord, but it’s not happening. Except for you.” She smiled at Sarah in the mirror. “You don’t know how thankful I am for you.”
She picked up a nail file and began smoothing a rough edge. “I was so disappointed when no one came to the Bible study last Sunday.” Not even you. Twisting in her seat, Muriel looked up into her friend’s face. “What am I doing wrong?”
Sarah’s cobalt eyes bore in Muriel’s. She set the brush on the marble countertop. “My people think Jesus is the white man’s god. One more way the white man tries to change us. You call me Sarah and my brother, Charlie. Those are names given to us in the white man’s school.”
Apprehension dawned on Muriel, and she shivered. “What name did your parents give you?”
“My name is Nascha. The Owl.” Pride vibrated in her voice.
“And your brother?”
“He is Yanaba.”
Muriel stood and extended her arms to her friend. “The name suits you. You are truly as wise as an owl, and I was too blind to see. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course. Is that not what our Lord Jesus teaches us to do?” Sarah—Nascha—stepped into her embrace. This time, Muriel let the tears flow.
Chapter 11
So this is the famous Four Corners.”
Muriel couldn’t blame Benny for his disappointment. The landscape stretched for miles in every direction, barren desert dotted with cacti and scrub brush, far more desola
te than Mesa Verde. Never had the artificial nature of manmade boundaries been more evident.
“Not even as dramatic as when two country lanes intersect, is it? Well, do what you can with it.” Rex walked around the marker. “Hey, I just walked through four states.”
Sarah stood to one side, not saying much. Her faint smile seemed to say These white men and their artificial lines in the earth.
“It is a crossroads of sorts.” Muriel closed her eyes to orient herself.
She pointed back the way they had traveled. “Colorado. Mining towns. Boom or bust.” She swung to the west. “Utah. And I confess I know next to nothing about these so-called Latter-day Saints. But imagine. A salt lake in the middle of the continent!” She thought back to their discussion about “oysters.” What kind of fish lived in that Great Salt Lake?
She spread her arms to encompass all the land south of them. “New Mexico and Arizona. Even the names remind us of their ties to Mexico. And how can we forget that before the Europeans came, this all belonged to Sar—Nascha’s people?” And hadn’t she heard of other Indian tribes? Wasn’t Geronimo from somewhere around here? She shook her head. She knew less about the native peoples of America than Nascha did about Europe.
“And before that, people lived in the cliff dwellings where we’re filming.” Benny tightened his eyes as if envisioning the procession of history.
“We could put that in a storyboard. ‘At this spot, where four territories and states meet, paths of people have crossed since before time began.’ That kind of thing, and tie it back to Ruined Hopes.” He nodded his head. “That’s good. Be sure you get the countryside here. It’s forbidding.” His cocky grin was infectious. “We’ll discourage anyone from ever visiting, and keep it to ourselves.”
Muriel laughed. Sarah’s smile was strained, and Muriel reminded herself that this was her home. For her, there probably was no place on earth where she would rather live.
Benny and Rex roamed the area, using up a roll of film, while Nascha and Muriel set up camp. The camp where the film was located was just as removed from town, but with all the adaptations they had made while staying there, it felt like New York City compared to this spot. “Out here, I can almost imagine I’m Abraham, wandering the desert.”
“Abraham, the man who was married to Sarah?” Nascha smiled. “Me?”
“That Abraham, yes. Whenever I’m tempted to doubt God, I think of Abraham. Wandering around without a permanent home. Waiting twenty-five years for God to give him the son He promised. Sarah was ninety when she had Isaac. Can you imagine?”
“Ninety winters?” Nascha shook her head. “Do white women still bear children at that age?” She sounded incredulous.
“Certainly not. Not that many people live to be ninety anymore, although it was more common in Bible times than now. It was a miracle. When it was impossible for man, God made it happen.”
Her gaze shifted to Rex. “A God who can make an old woman give birth can change that one’s heart, I think.”
“That’s what I’m praying for.” Out here, it seemed more possible.
The men spread out their bedrolls under the stars while the ladies retired to the tent they had brought with them. Muriel appreciated their consideration of her modesty, but she almost wished she could spend the night in the open air. In spite of the filling supper and several days’ strenuous riding, she found herself unable to sleep. She blamed it on the excellent coffee they had consumed by the potfuls throughout the evening hours. Slipping on a dressing gown and her walking shoes—no soft slippers for this rugged terrain—she left the tent, determined to walk no farther than she could see by the dying embers of the fire.
Sitting down on a smooth rock face, she looked up into the sky, and began praising the God of creation. “‘When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained.’” No wonder a poetic soul like King David was drawn to write of Creation and the Creator after spending so many nights watching over his sheep. She listened to the sounds of the night, the hoot of an owl—Nascha. She sent up a prayer for her friend.
“Mind if I join you?” Rex’s quiet voice startled Muriel.
“Please, take a seat.”
In pajamas, Rex looked the most informal of all the times she had ever seen him—almost ordinary. She suppressed a grin. Rex Pride was many things, but ordinary wasn’t one of them.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Your pajamas. Muriel shushed the thought. God. Rex wouldn’t want to hear that either, and she didn’t want to push him away by sounding religious.
“Is it a difficult question?” He sounded amused.
“Oh, it’s only that I was thinking about how the skies remind me of God. And I didn’t think you joined me to hear another sermon.” She tilted her head back. “So let’s talk about the constellations. I like the Big Dipper—mostly because I can always identify it. That and Orion’s Belt.”
“Let me point out some of the others to you.” Rex leaned in and put his arm over her shoulder, pointing with his hand. “There is Cassiopeia—the seven sisters.”
Muriel counted under her breath. “…five, six…where’s seven? Oh, there she is.” She settled against Rex’s chest. It felt so good, so right.
“And there is Aquarius and Lyra and Pegasus.” He continued pointing out various groups, and somehow, through his keen eye, she could see the shapes that had eluded her before.
Their conversation died down, and they sat in a comfortable silence. “There’s one you missed.”
“Not possible. Where is it?”
She pointed to the east, to the bright white globe hanging in the sky. “The moon.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.” But Rex wasn’t looking at the sky. He was staring at her face. He leaned forward. Muriel knew she should jump up, leave, at least pull away. But instead she leaned in, accepting his caress.
And it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
I never should have kissed her. Rex repeated it to himself for the hundredth time since they had returned from their expedition to see the Four Corners marker. Ever since that night, Muriel had distanced herself, pulling back when he wanted to push forward.
But oh, that kiss…a man could do a lot of dreaming on that kiss. For those brief moments, they were one man, one woman, as it was meant to be. As God, if He cared about such things at all, intended.
He knew the kiss had awakened something in Muriel as well. Now in her love scenes with Fred, she brought a depth he hadn’t seen before. This film might represent the best work of an actress already renowned for her extraordinary abilities. From time to time, when she thought Rex wasn’t looking, he caught her licking her lips, as if reliving the feel of his lips against hers.
During their trip back to Mesa Verde, he put down her silence to the difficulties of the trail. Back at the camp, he attributed it to a return to the hectic pace of filming. Nearly every minute of her day was accounted for, and he was even busier, skimming his sleep to a maximum of six hours a night.
But as the days dragged on, she didn’t speak more than two sentences to him on any given day, aside from pleasantries at meals and necessary dialogue regarding the movie. Something precious had slipped through his grasp, and he didn’t know how to get it back.
To distract his mind from disappointment, Rex threw himself into finishing. Scene by scene they built the film. As he had seen happen in previous productions, filming took on a life of its own as the actors became their characters and needed less and less direction.
“You should be pleased with today’s rushes.” Benny set up the projector in Rex’s tent after the nightly chapel service. “Muriel and Fred lit up the screen.”
The camera loved Muriel, or maybe it was the man behind the camera, but he wasn’t alone in that feeling.
Fred ducked into the tent. “Mind if I join you?”
The film’s leading man was another man en
amored of Muriel. The deeper he sank into Killdeer’s character, the more solicitous the Brit became of Muriel. Rex reminded himself that no whiff of scandal had ever attached itself to Fred, who was a devoted family man. He channeled his emotions into good acting, nothing more.
Images flickered on the screen, accompanied only by the whir of the film feeding between reels. Rex kept a notebook and pen ready to take notes, as did Benny, but his hand didn’t move. The story carried him away, something that rarely happened in an art form created by camera angles and lighting and gestures that could be controlled.
Sometime midreel, the tent flap rustled and Muriel entered. When the film ran out of the reel, she brought her hands together in a single clap. “That was good.”
Rex turned to greet her, unsure if his mouth had twisted into a frown or a smile. “The film is going well.”
“Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.” Muriel had tucked her hair into a loose bun at the back of her neck, which managed to look both cool and elegant. Fred vacated his chair and took a seat on Rex’s bed. Muriel accepted the seat. “Are we still on schedule to finish filming next week?”
“We have a few scenes to do over.”
A smile hovered on Muriel’s lips.
“But yes, I expect us to finish.”
“The biggest scene ahead of us is that paint scene. Don has come up with white-limestone paint that looks quite realistic. He’s also fashioned your paint brushes.”
“Do you expect us to actually paint? I can’t even draw a straight line.” Fred looked from Rex to Muriel. “What about you?”
“Artistic talent passed me by.”
“You’re acting like I’m asking you to do your own stunts.” Rex picked up the pen and tapped it against his notebook. “You don’t have to do much except dip the brush in the paint bowl and dab some on the rock face.” He explained his plans for the scene.
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