Her Leading Man

by Duncan, Alice

  Martin appeared troubled, and his brow was furrowed when he glanced at her again. His gaze traveled to her hand on his arm and then back to her face. Christina wondered if he felt the same strange tingling sensation she did whenever they touched. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the phenomenon before, but she did so now. She also withdrew her hand because she’d become self-conscious.

  They both moved a step or two away from each other, but Christina, watching Martin out of the corner of her eye, noticed that he stopped tugging on that hank of hair. Orozco screamed again, and they turned to gaze at the sofa, where the doctor stood over the actor. He was frowning indignantly down at the suffering star.

  “There’s no need to make that racket, Mr. Orozco. And there’s certainly no need for violence,” Dr. Wetherby said stiffly.

  “You hurt me!”

  Christina muttered, “The doc should have knocked him over the head with a frying pan before even trying to deal with him.”

  She wished she hadn’t said that when Martin stiffened. She shot him a glance. “Sorry, Martin. Pablo Orozco really gets my goat.”

  “Yes,” he said repressively. “Well, I imagine he’s in a good deal of pain.”

  Right. She knew children of five who had better control of themselves than Pablo Orozco. She rolled her eyes, but said, “Of course.”

  The doctor leaned over, did something to Orozco, and the patient bellowed again. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Has the man no pride at all?” Christina muttered to herself, although she knew Martin heard her when he shot her an unhappy glance.

  “For the love of God, Mr. Orozco, try to be still. I can’t get these cactus spines out of your leg if you keep flailing about like this. I’ve dealt with children who are braver than you are.”

  Christina was pleased that the doctor’s mind ran along the same lines as her own. She refrained from saying so, because she didn’t want Martin to think she was completely heartless.

  “What?” Orozco yelled. “What did you say to me?”

  Christina huffed. “For Pete’s sake.” Even though she knew she was asking for a rebuff, she walked up to the sofa. Ignoring Orozco, she asked the doctor, “Need some help? I’m a trained nurse.” She elected not to tell the man she aimed to be a doctor one day. He’d only scoff.

  He didn’t scoff now. In fact, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Miss—” He looked confused.

  “Mayhew,” Christina supplied with a sweet smile. She did earn a good deal of money as an actress, after all. She could smile when she needed to—and even pretend to be sweet. “Christina Mayhew. I’m this blockhead’s costar.” She hooked a thumb at Orozco, who glared at her with offended dignity. It was, in Christina’s considered opinion, way too late for dignity. He’d already made an ass of himself twenty times over.

  “Miss Mayhew.” Dr. Wetherby smiled at her, and it even looked like a genuine smile. Christina felt sorry for the poor guy, imagining that he’d never had to deal with the likes of Orozco before.

  “What would you like me to do?” She’d be happy to sit on him. Or hog-tie him, as she’d seen folks do in cowboy pictures.

  “I’ve been trying to remove those cactus spines from his leg. but he keeps kicking me. You don’t look awfully strong . . .” The doctor’s voice trailed off.

  Christina turned. Good, Martin was still there. She gestured to him to come over. “Can you give us a hand here, Martin? We need to hold Orozco down so the doctor can do his job.”

  “Fah!”

  When she squinted down at him, Christina was amazed to note that Orozco didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. What a gold-plated egomaniac the man was.

  “You want me to help?”

  She saw Martin swallow and allowed herself to be surprised. She’d never have pegged Martin Tafft for a squeamish person. A frisson of disappointment smote her. She tried to stuff it away and reminded herself that not everyone in the world was as fascinated with human physiology and as immune to blood and guts as she was.

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” She smiled at him to show him that she didn’t hold his reluctance against him—even though she sort of did.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tafft,” the doctor added. “We do need some more help here.”

  “Sure,” Martin said.

  It appeared to Christina as if he had to force himself to walk away from the wall. When he got to the sofa, he swallowed once more and gave Orozco a somewhat sickly smile. “How are you doing, Pablo?”

  “I’m wretched,” the actor announced, looking bitter and not altogether unlike someone who might have been stabbed during a sword fight. If one walked into the scene without prior knowledge of what had really happened, one would never guess he’d fallen off a camel because he’d been behaving like a naughty child. He looked more like he was dying. Not, Christina thought wryly, unlike a male Camille or something.

  An actor to the end, she thought. After surveying Martin critically for several seconds, she decided he wasn’t in too much danger of fainting, so she transferred her attention to the doctor. “Want us to hold his legs down, Dr. Wetherby?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, please. That would be a big help.” He frowned again at Orozco. “I really need to get those spines out of his leg before the wounds fester.”

  “Fester?” Orozco shouted. “Fester? My God, I’m going to lose my leg. I’m going to die! I’m going to—”

  “Oh, shut up, will you?” Christina snapped. She clamped a strong hand onto his right ankle and jerked her head at Martin. “Take his left one, Martin, and let’s get this over with. I’m sure the doctor has better things to do than spend his day pampering a spoiled brat.”

  Martin didn’t say a word, but Christina clearly saw the look of astonishment he shot at her. Nevertheless, he took Orozco’s other ankle without argument.

  Thank God, Christina thought bitterly. Maybe they’d get this done and get on with the picture. Taking a critical survey of Orozco’s moderately unclad body, she was pleased to note that his legs were skinny and hairy and not at all what she’d consider ideals of masculinity. She was glad because she hadn’t wanted him to look good.

  She wanted to ask Martin if he’d considered who might take Orozco’s place in the picture, but Orozco set up a steady stream of moans, groans, shouts, and bellows, so she didn’t have the opportunity. Removing the cactus spines didn’t take long, however, and soon the doctor straightened with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “There,” he said, “that’s finally done. Now I’ll clean the wounds and disinfect them. We’ll wrap the leg now, and I’ll come back later today to check him.”

  He spoke to Christina. He’d apparently given up talking to Orozco since Orozco wasn’t in the mood to be practical. Christina, all business, nodded. “Good. You already set the arm?”

  The doctor’s face fell. “Not entirely. I splinted it, but have to come back to build the cast and put it on.” The doctor sighed heavily. “He was in such a state, I thought I’d take care of the cactus spines first. I gave him some laudanum drops and hoped he’d drop off to sleep so I could cast the arm in peace, but—”

  The remainder of the sentence was drowned out by Orozco’s bellows. “Peace? Peace? How can there be peace when I’m suffering so?”

  His head whipped back and forth on the sofa cushion, and he reminded Christina of a woman in labor, but with a far poorer reason. What a sissy.

  Suddenly Orozco’s gaze locked on Martin. “Martin! I’m dying here! Call Los Angeles. Get me another doctor. Please! This man is a butcher.”

  Dr. Wetherby straightened as if Orozco had threatened him at gunpoint. “Now, just wait a minute here, young man—”

  Again the doctor’s protest was cut short. This time it was Christina who did it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Orozco, get a grip on your senses and use your wits, if you have any. Dr. Wetherby is as competent as any other doctor to set a broken bone. For heaven’s sake, I could
set the damned bone for you!”

  She oughtn’t to have said it. Women not only weren’t supposed to make extravagant claims for themselves—whether they were true or not—but women never cursed. Silence fell like a wet blanket in the room, smothering all sounds. She cast a frustrated glance at the ceiling and wanted to swear some more.

  Where was Gran when Christina needed her? In bed, taking a nap, is where she was, drat it.

  Peeved with herself for exploding, with Pablo Orozco for being a baby, with Martin Tafft for no sensible reason, with the doctor for practicing medicine as she wanted to do, with the medical profession in particular, and with society as a whole, Christina muttered, “Oh, never mind.” She gestured at Orozco. “Have at him, Doctor. You might want to chain and muzzle him before you try shaping the cast.”

  With that, and with Orozco’s incoherent protests following her, she left the room and stormed over to the resort’s elegantly appointed saloon, where she ordered herself a pink gin fizz and sat in a corner. Christina seldom drank alcoholic beverages, but she figured she owed herself one after that stupid scene.

  Six

  Martin had been in a good deal of distress when Christina stalked out of the room, leaving the three men in it to shift for themselves. Even though she shocked him sometimes, appalled him at other times, and puzzled him all the time, her presence had been soothing to him When she left and he had to deal with the doctor and Pablo Orozco on his own, he felt abandoned.

  Not only that, but he was terrible in a sickroom, and he knew it. The mere thought of broken bones and pain and blood made him feel lightheaded and sickish.

  It was ridiculous and embarrassing and even, perhaps, shameful, but there it was. He hated being around sick or injured people.

  However, after the doctor had dosed Orozco with more laudanum, and the actor had finally quit making such a blazing jackass of himself, things progressed more smoothly. It didn’t take more than another forty-five minutes or so to disinfect Orozco’s leg, bandage it up, and get the plaster cast on his ann.

  While Martin had felt queasy during the whole of it, he hadn’t passed out or done anything else that might have humiliated him. He was relieved that he’d come through the ordeal relatively unscathed. He was even more relieved when he was able escape the room entirely.

  Then he went in search of Christina. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt an intense compulsion to apologize to her for—well, for something. He didn’t know what, or why he felt she deserved an apology. All he knew for sure was that he needed to talk to her.

  He didn’t find her anywhere he searched. He even went outdoors, into the debilitating heat, and searched for her among the date palm oases that had been strategically planted around the resort. Off in the distance, he could see hundreds of date palms in tidy rows, shimmering in the heat, but those were for real. That’s where the Indio farmers grew and harvested the dates they sold all over the country.

  As much as he admired Christina Mayhew and believed her to be a stronger, healthier, and lovelier specimen of womankind than most of her sex, he couldn’t imagine her walking as far as the date orchards in this heat. Not on purpose. Therefore, he concluded glumly, she must have retreated to her room. He didn’t dare follow her there.

  Not, of course, that he had anything of a scurrilous nature in mind; he only wanted to talk to her and apologize for—well, for something. But he didn’t have the strength of purpose at the moment to tangle with her grandmother, and he knew he’d have to if he followed Christina to her room.

  Uncommonly out of sorts, he gave up looking for Christina and went to the resort’s telephone room, where he had the telephone operator place a long-distance call to Phineas Lovejoy at the Peerless Studio in Los Angeles. He told the operator he’d wait for the connection in the saloon. He could use a drink. Maybe even several.

  This picture was doomed.

  The saloon was dark, as was appropriate for such places, and Martin spent his first several seconds after entering the room blinking into the gloom and trying to accustom his eyesight to the changed level of light. He walked to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and turned to survey the room.

  And there she was! His insides lit up before he could stop them or figure out why they even wanted to. He didn’t have a clue as to why Christina Mayhew should always have this effect on him, but she did.

  He also wasn’t sure he approved of single females who went into drinking establishments all by themselves, especially when they were still wearing men’s trousers. She saw him and waved, but he didn’t think she was especially pleased to see him. Not nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her, for instance. Nevertheless, he walked over to her table, faintly shocked that she should be sitting alone in what was, essentially, a tavern.

  She greeted him with one of her beautiful smiles, though, and Martin couldn’t hold on to his disapproval.

  “Hi, Martin. Did that poor doctor ever manage to get the cast on Pablo’s arm?”

  With a weary sigh, Martin all but fell into a chair across from her. “Yes. It was a struggle.” He swallowed a good third of his drink and felt minimally better.

  She shook her head. “I know you don’t think I should say so, Martin, but Orozco really is a stinker.”

  Too depressed by circumstances to argue with her, Martin told the truth. “I know it.” He wondered if that fizzy pink drink was her first, or if she’d had more than one in the hour or so since she’d left him and the doctor in that back parlor. He didn’t ask, for fear she’d get mad at him.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do about his part in the picture yet?”

  Her words were perfectly crisp and clear. Martin cheered up a little bit, taking her coherence as a sign that she wasn’t a hardened drinker. Although—he chided himself as an idiot—what it should matter to him what she was, he couldn’t fathom. As long as she could act, what did he care if she was a hopeless drunk in her off hours?

  His insides answered back that they had no idea why it mattered to him, but it did, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Blast it, he wished they’d stop doing things like that.

  She sipped daintily at her drink, and Martin decided to hazard a question. “What’s that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pink drink before.”

  Laughing softly, Christina lifted her glass and tilted it slightly toward him “It’s a pink gin fizz, and it’s probably a sissy drink, but it tastes all right. I’m afraid I’m not much of a drinker.”

  Thank God, Martin thought, although he didn’t voice his relief out loud. He’d seen too much tragedy follow when young ladies got involved in too much booze and too much of the wild side of life. Look at that poor Normand creature, who was said to be addicted not merely to drink, but to cocaine as well. He shook his head before he remembered Christina was there and wasn’t privy to his thoughts.

  “What’s the matter, Martin?” There was an edge to her voice. “Are you shocked that I’m in here drinking alone?”

  “Not at all,” he answered too quickly. He saw she didn’t believe him, took another gulp of his own drink, and sighed again. “All right, I was a little shocked.”

  “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  She didn’t sound sarcastic. Martin eyed her uncertainly. “You’re welcome, I think.”

  She laughed again. “I’m not a drinker, Martin. I was so darned mad at Pablo Orozco—and, I must admit, at a world that refuses to acknowledge the equality of women—that I decided to come in here and defy convention.” She lifted her glass again, and her gorgeous eyes twinkled. “I guess it’s a Mayhew family tradition.”

  Martin chuckled some himself as he considered Grandmother Mayhew. “I suppose you do have something of a tradition to live up to.”

  “Amen.”

  The rest of her prior comment sank in and he asked, genuinely interested, “But what does Orozco have to do with women’s equality?” Martin had no problem admitting women were as smart as men—hell, most human bei
ngs of both sexes were as stupid as mud. Still, he didn’t understand why Christina had connected the two in her own mind.

  She didn’t answer at once, but looked at him as if she were trying to read his thoughts. After several seconds of that, she said, “I guess it just bothered me that Orozco could carry on like a spoiled brat and be catered to. If a woman did the same thing, everyone would call her hysterical.”

  That wasn’t what she’d been thinking; Martin would have bet on it if he’d been asked to do so. But he didn’t know how to call her a liar without seeming rude. He said, “I see,” and left it there.

  As if she couldn’t change the subject fast enough, Christina said brightly, “So, Martin, tell me a little bit about Egypt. It must have been fascinating to grow up there and be involved with your parents’ work.”

  Far from satisfied, but willing to go along with the changed direction of the conversation, Martin said, “It was. Very.” He’d find out more about Christina later. He discovered within himself a burning desire to know everything there was to know about her, actually. It was a desire he’d never experienced before.

  They talked about Egypt for Martin didn’t know how long. It seemed both like forever and like no time at all. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was totally wrapped up in their conversation when a bellboy entered the saloon and interrupted them. He was so startled by the interruption, having forgotten about the need to report today’s calamity to Phineas Lovejoy, that he gaped at the boy in surprise.

  “Your call has been placed, sir,” the boy said, looking exceedingly formal in the resort’s livery, even though he was probably only twelve years old.

  “Oh.” Martin stood up. “That’s right. Yes. Of course.” He turned to Christina, loath to leave her. “Um, will you stay here, Christina? I’ll be able to tell you what Phin and I decide to do about the picture.”

  It was a very strange phenomenon, he thought, his attraction to Christina Mayhew. This moment, for instance, the notion of leaving her, even to conduct a vastly important telephone conversation with his business partner, filled him with a huge sense of impending loss. His reaction to her was impossible to sort out at the moment. He needed more time. And Christina. He needed her, too, in order to get to the bottom of it all.