Cowboy For Hire

by Duncan, Alice

  As he vaulted back over the fence, Charlie said, “I guess I never thought about it before, but I expect you’re right.”

  “The industry is growing by leaps and bounds,” Martin said firmly. “And you’re fortunate to be in it at the beginning.”

  “I suppose so.” Charlie didn’t sound as thrilled as Martin thought he should. Charlie stopped next to Martin, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and surveyed the desert. “I don’t know, Martin. It doesn’t look too promising.”

  “No,” Martin agreed unhappily. “It doesn’t. Where on earth can the man have gotten himself off to?”

  Charlie had opened his mouth, presumably to offer a suggestion, when both men stiffened as if the finger of God had smote them into pillars of salt. A high-pitched, terrified scream pierced the air around them.

  Martin said, “Huxtable.”

  Charlie said, “Aw, hell.”

  They both took off at a gallop to see what the star of their picture had done this time.

  * * *

  Amy, trying hard not to be mortified, had just stepped out of her own plain chemise and donned the undergarments she’d have to wear for the picture. She now stood before Miss Crenshaw in a waist-length chemise and stiff-boned corset with a type of garters Amy had never used before. They dangled from the bottom of the corset and exposed a good deal of bare skin of her thighs. Amy felt extremely uncomfortable thus clad, as she was accustomed to wearing more demure underwear. And always covered by outer clothing if she was going to be seen by anyone.

  She’d just straightened up from attaching, via the garters, the pair of white silk stockings, also provided by Miss Crenshaw and undoubtedly much more fashionable than the dark cotton stockings she generally wore. She inspected herself surreptitiously in the full-length mirror on its stand in a corner—surreptitiously because she didn’t want Miss Crenshaw to think she was vain.

  Although she knew it was a meaningless conceit, she was glad that—although she was embarrassed to admit it to herself—she looked quite well thus clad. Or unclad. Shocking, Amy Wilkes. You’re becoming a perfectly shocking hussy. She believed, however, that Vernon might be jarred out of his general superior serenity if he could see her now, and she smiled inside.

  Worse than that, she had the scandalous notion that she’d like Charlie Fox to see her. She was sure he’d find her every bit as attractive as he found Miss Crenshaw. And, what was more, Amy didn’t smoke cigarettes, so her breath would be sweeter than Miss Crenshaw’s.

  Great heaven, she was slipping fast.

  Fortunately, Miss Crenshaw had begun to speak again, so Amy was compelled to haul her mind out of the sewer.

  “Does that fit too tightly, Miss Wilkes? I can loosen it if you want me to, although we need to keep it fairly snug so the costume will fit properly.”

  Amy swiveled this way and that, testing the garment. “I don’t think this is too tight, depending on what I’ll have to do in it.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. The ladies never have to do too much unless you’re in one of those Perilous Polly pictures or something. In this one, you’re going to be rescued, so you won’t need to be doing anything very strenuous. I think they’re going to tie you to a log in a sawmill, and you’ll have to struggle to get the bonds loose before the saw can cut you in half, but you’ll be lying down for that.”

  Amy snorted and then felt silly.

  Miss Crenshaw glanced up at her. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  Fiddlesticks. Would she never learn to keep her big mouth shut? “I beg your pardon, Miss Crenshaw. I was contemplating being rescued by Mr. Huxtable, and I couldn’t seem to help myself.”

  Miss Crenshaw’s laugh sounded genuine and spontaneous, and Amy felt better. “I know exactly what you mean,” Miss Crenshaw said. “That man is horrible. I don’t think there’s a woman on the set whom he hasn’t pestered at one time or another. He’s terrible when he’s not drinking, and he’s insufferable when he’s drunk.”

  “Oh, you’re so right! I really can’t stand him.”

  “He’s awful.” She poked Amy’s shoulder. Amy, having learned shortly after she’d arrived in the costume tent what that meant, obediently turned, and Miss Crenshaw began doing whatever it was she did to the right side of the garment. After a moment, she muttered, “Oh, piffle. I forgot the tape. Can you stand there, just like that, for another little minute? Don’t let your arm drop or the fit will change. I’ll be right back.”

  “Certainly.”

  Amy was facing the back of the tent, and peered over her shoulder to watch Miss Crenshaw as she headed to the table littered with scissors, tapes, pincushions, needles, and pins, and lorded over by one of those brand-new portable sewing machines. They were portable, that is, if one were a gorilla. Amy, curious about the modern phenomenon, had tried to life it and nearly broke her back.

  “I know it’s here somewhere,” Miss Crenshaw muttered, lifting and discarding pieces of fabric, cardboard, and sewing lint. “I just had it a minute ago.”

  Suddenly, as Amy watched, Miss Crenshaw squealed in fright and fell over backwards as an enormous body shoved against the closed flap of the tent, knocking into her and the table. The tent swayed as if in the clutches of a hurricane for a moment, as whatever it was that was trying to get in battered against the flap again.

  Amy cried, “Miss Crenshaw!” and ran to help her.

  A roar from outside the tent frightened her nearly to death. She reached Miss Crenshaw and grabbed the trembling hand the dressmaker was holding out to her. Miss Crenshaw stumbled up, and the two women threw their arms around each other, terror propelling them.

  “What is it?” Miss Crenshaw cried.

  “Something’s trying to get in!” Amy cried back.

  “Is it an animal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another terrible bellow smote the air, the women gasped in unison, and the center tent pole began to sway and tilt precariously. After one more violent bow to its side, the tent gave up the battle and folded up like a concertina, with Amy and Miss Crenshaw inside it, clinging to each other in horror.

  Six

  “It wasn’t I who screamed,” Amy grumbled. “And you can put me down now, if you please. I’m perfectly fine.”

  She was that. Charlie’s eyes had almost started from his head when he’d seen her flounder out from underneath all that jumbled canvas. The last time he’d seen a female in so few clothes, she’d been a picture on a cigarette card. And she hadn’t looked a tenth as good as Amy Wilkes.

  “We need to get you away from the mess there,” Charlie told her, lying through his teeth.

  “There might still be some danger.”

  In truth, the reason he still held her was that he couldn’t get his arms to perform any of the commands he was mentally giving them. They wanted to stay wrapped around the lovely, supple, warm flesh of Amy Wilkes.

  “But I need to know if Miss Crenshaw is all right!” Amy tried to struggle, which only made Charlie grit his teeth in erotic anguish as her delicious skin rubbed against him. Lord, Lord, she was really something.

  “Martin got her out safe and sound. She’s okay.” He could barely squeeze the words out of his tight throat.

  “Are you sure?”

  Charlie knew she was scared, and that was why she was doing all those wiggly things, but when she managed to twist her body around, press her bosom against his chest and her bottom against his arms, and gaze over his shoulder, he blamed near died anyway. He’d never dreamed, when he’d agreed to do this picture, that he’d be holding a near-naked Amy Wilkes. Hell, if he’d known, he’d have paid them. His britches were near to busting their buttons already, and he’d only been carrying her for a few seconds.

  “I’m sure I saw him. And her.”

  “But where are they?” She wriggled again, sending jolts of lust through Charlie’s entire long body, and stared over his other shoulder. “I can’t see them! Oh, please, Mr. Fox! I must know that she’s not hurt.” />
  It took every ounce of self-will Charlie possessed to make himself stop and turn around. Ding-bust-it, he wanted to carry her off somewhere private and ravish her; to sling her behind his saddle and gallop ff into the sunset with her and ravish her some more.

  Since his horse was currently being stabled at an ostrich ranch in Arizona Territory, that was foolish and he knew it. Besides, Miss Wilkes might be naïve, but she wasn’t any shrinking violet. Charlie imagined she’d have something to say about being made away with.

  Which was a real shame, in his opinion.

  Nevertheless, he turned. They were far enough away from the melee that he didn’t suppose it mattered—except to him. “There,” he said. “You can see from here.” He turned sideways so she could have a better view.

  “Oh, Yes, I see her. She doesn’t seem to be limping, does she?” Her voice conveyed a good deal of worry, and Charlie was pleased to k now she was capable of feeling concern for a female who smoked cigarettes.

  “No, ma’am. I’m sure she’s all right. Just scared.”

  “It was terrifying.” She shuddered, delighting Charlie and causing him to experience further tortures of an unfulfilled sexual nature.

  “I really need to get back there and see what’s going on, Mr. Fox.”

  “I think you’d better wait a bit, ma’am.” He knew he couldn’t hold out too much longer and would have to relinquish his delightful burden sooner or later, but he was going to do his best to prolong the event. Charlie Fox wasn’t a man to back down on a good deal without a fight.

  “But this is silly. You can’t stand here and hold me all day.”

  He could too. He didn’t say so, but said instead, “You’ve had a shock, ma’am. You ought to take it easy.”

  “Please put me down, Mr. Fox.” She was beginning to sound severe, as she did when she was deploring something.

  Charlie sighed and gave up. Very gently, he began lowering her to the desert floor, when a brilliant thought struck him and he stood upright again. Amy still clutched in his arms. “Er, ma’am, you don’t have very many clothes on. Don’t you think it would be better to get some duds on first?”

  “What?” She glanced wildly around, as if searching for her clothes. Then—and Charlie could feel it as it happened, since he’d made sure his hands were still placed on spots that weren’t covered by anything—she blushed from her toes to her head. “Oh, my sweet Lord in heaven! I’ve got nothing on! Oh, please! Do something.”

  Charlie’d like to do something. However, she’d probably slap him from here to Sunday if he so much as suggested it. “Um, how about I give you my shirt, ma’am? It’ll be long enough to cover you.”

  “Your shirt?”

  She had a powerfully shrill voice when she got going. Charlie was surprised he didn’t hate it more than he did, and chalked up his tolerance to his aroused state. Lust could get a fellow in trouble if he didn’t watch out. In spite of knowing it, he continued, “My tent’s nearby. I’ll get you a clean shirt to wear. It’ll be big enough, I’m sure.”

  “Your tent?” she squealed. “What about my tent?”

  “Yours is mighty near the action, ma’am. I thought you didn’t want folks to see you.”

  She said something, but Charlie couldn’t make it out because the words were a little high-pitched and jammed together.

  He shrugged. “It’s better than standing around in … well, the way you are now.” He wondered if his nose would grow if he told any more whoppers like that one. That’s what his ma used to say happened to little boys who fibbed.

  “Oh, my land,” she moaned, and buried her face against Charlie’s shirtfront.

  He had, therefore, a very large smile on his face when he carried Amy to his tent.

  * * *

  This was the last straw. It was the grand finale. Amy had taken just about enough of this nonsense. Never in all her born days—as her great-grandmother Wilkes, who hailed from Virginia, used to say—had she ever been so upset and humiliated. Just wait until she wrote to Vernon this evening.

  As she walked back to what used to be the costumer’s tent, trying to keep up with Charlie and clad in one of his huge shirts that dangled clear to her ankles—thank God—she already had a pretty good idea what had happened to make the tent collapse.

  Horace Huxtable. That’s what had happened.

  She was so mad she could ignite sparks from gnashing her teeth together. “He might have hurt somebody, the cad.” He might have hurt her, in fact! Or Miss Crenshaw, she added guiltily after a second or two.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s pure-D dumb luck that neither you nor Miss Crenshaw got hit by that center pole when it went down.”

  Miss Crenshaw. Amy shot a glance up to Charlie’s face. He knew her name. How had he learned it?

  Bother! That was none of her concern. She didn’t care if Charlie Fox and Karen Crenshaw got married and had a hundred children. She, Amy Wilkes, was going to marry Vernon Catesby and live in a comfortable home and be secure forever and ever and never experience another moment of insecurity in her life.

  Forcing herself back to the here and now, she said, “I hope she’s all right. She didn’t look as if she’d been hurt, from a distance, but—”

  “I think she’s fine, ma’am. There she is, standing with Martin. Looks like they got Huxtable under control.”

  Amy was glad to hear the note of disapproval in Charlie’s voice when he spoke of Horace Huxtable. At least he didn’t seem to find Mr. Huxtable’s antics amusing, as some young men of low character might have done.

  She ran the last few yards up to Miss Crenshaw. “Oh, Miss Crenshaw! Are you all right? I was so worried about you!”

  Miss Crenshaw and Martin turned and immediately began gaping at her. Amy stopped, embarrassed. “I—er—didn’t have anything on … well, I didn’t have much on, I mean … so Mr. Fox was kind enough to lend me a shirt.” When she peeked around, she noticed that several other people, who had already begun to raise the costume tent from its state of collapse, were also staring at her. Mortified, she lifted her chin. “I think it was very nice of him.”

  “Er … yes indeed,” said Martin.

  Miss Crenshaw, who had been considering Amy intently, turned suddenly to Martin, a strangely intense expression on her face. “What a wonderful idea! Martin, what if we were to have something happen to the heroine in the fourth reel after the rescue scene at the sawmill, and have her be forced to don the hero’s shirt? She looks charming dressed like that!”

  Another abrupt swirl brought Miss Crenshaw face to face again with Amy, who could feel the heat stain her cheeks. Charming? Good heavens. “Um….”

  “I mean, look at her!” cried Miss Crenshaw. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  Good glory, now they were all gawking at her. Amy wished her internal heater, which was pumping furiously, would ignite her entirely and save her from this humiliation.

  “Hmmm,” said Martin judiciously. “You may be right.” He smiled at Amy. “Would you mind turning so that I can see you from the back, Miss Wilkes?”

  She was going to die. That was all there was to it. She was going to die from shame and the disgrace of it all right this minute. She turned around and didn’t catch fire. Fiddle.

  “I do believe you’re right, Karen.”

  Good heavens, thought Amy, he calls Miss Crenshaw Karen. Picture people are such a loose lot.

  Martin gestured for Charlie. “Come here, Charlie. What do you think?”

  Charlie came there, and Amy was subjected to his scrutiny, too. If she didn’t die, she’d never be able to show her face in public again. She decided she’d leave this part out of her letter to Vernon; he’d never understand. She didn’t understand.

  “Looks good to me,” said Charlie with considerable warmth. Since fire had failed, Amy prayed for a bolt from heaven to strike her dead on the spot.

  Nothing happened, which made her wonder if she’d wasted her time going to church all these y
ears. If the good Lord wouldn’t help a poor woman in these circumstances, what good was He? She knew she’d just blasphemed, and was ashamed of herself. Not that she wasn’t ashamed already. Bother.

  Trapping her chin with a finger, Karen Crenshaw gazed fixedly at Amy in Charlie’s shirt. “After we get the tent upright again, we can determine how to work it out. We’ll need to decide whether the shirt should be plain or plaid, and if a darker color would look better on film.”

  “Right,” agreed Martin, also staring at Amy, who was beginning to feel like a painting in an art gallery. Or a side of beef in a butcher’s shop. “I think Huxtable’s considerably smaller than Charlie, so we’ll have to figure out how to make it look as if she’s wearing Huxtable’s shirt.”

  Both Miss Crenshaw and Amy huffed at once, and Amy broke through the paralysis of her embarrassment. “Speaking of Mr. Huxtable,” she said in a voice she hoped sounded as infuriated as she felt, “I presume he was the author of this particular travesty?”

  She swept her arm out to indicate the wreckage of the costume tent. Unfortunately, Charlie had moved up behind her and was now standing very close to her. She whacked his stomach with the back of her hand. She spun around. “Oh, my goodness, Mr. Fox. I’m so sorry!”

  His smile could warm the coldest winter day. “It’s nothing, Miss Wilkes. You can hit me any old time.”

  If it was nothing, how come her hand stung so badly? She shook it, amazed. His stomach was as hard as a rock. Amy tried not to be too impressed, since she couldn’t afford to get distracted from her complaint about Horace Huxtable. She did, however, wonder if Vernon was in such good condition. She didn’t think so.

  “I fear it was Huxtable, all right, Miss Wilkes.”

  At least her question seemed to have taken everyone’s attention away from her scanty costume and fixed it where it belonged: on Horace Huxtable and his abysmal behavior.