Cowboy For Hire

by Duncan, Alice

“It sure is.”

  “Places!” Martin called.

  With a smile for Amy, Charlie strolled back onto the set. They managed to get through the morning without too many more delays. By the time the luncheon gong sounded, Karen Crenshaw had arrived at the set, looking as if she’d spent a trying and tiring morning. Charlie saw her conferring with Martin, who seemed happy with whatever news she’d brought him. He supposed the sewing machine had survived yesterday’s crash.

  As soon as he heard the bell, Charlie hurried over to Amy. She’d accredited herself admirably during the morning’s rehearsal, refusing to give in to her impulse to react to Huxtable or to scold him. Charlie knew, because her face so vividly expressed her emotions, that it had been a struggle for her to maintain her composure. He wanted to express his appreciation.

  “Can I walk you to lunch, Miss Wilkes?” he asked politely.

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Fox. That would be nice. I think I’d better visit my tent first, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  It was hot as a firecracker today and there was no shade under which he could wait for Amy, but he waited patiently anyway, mopping his brow with his big red bandanna every three seconds or so. She didn’t take long, thank God.

  When she exited her tent, she was folding a paper and replacing it into an envelope. Charlie knew that the mail pouch was generally delivered from El Monte around lunchtime, and he imagined Amy had received a letter. He didn’t like the frown on her face, or the way her brow was wrinkled. In fact, she looked kind of distressed, and he experienced a mad urge to slay whoever it was whose letter had distressed her.

  “Everything all right, ma’am?” he asked solicitously.

  Her head lifted quickly, and she seemed to make an effort to smile. “Oh, yes. Thank you.” She waved the envelope. “I just received a letter from Pasadena.”

  From Pasadena. Not from home? “Who’s it from?” He wondered if it was impolite to ask.

  “My fiancé, Mr. Vernon Catesby. He’s a banker in Pasadena,” Amy said distractedly.

  Her fiancé. Shoot. “I—er—didn’t know you had a fiancé,” he mumbled, feeling a sickish sensation spread in his middle.

  “Well,” she equivocated, “we’re not formally engaged, but we’ve had an understanding for some time now.”

  Whatever that meant. Charlie allowed himself to wonder if Amy’s beau had written something disagreeable. He felt a fierce compulsion to beat Mr. Vernon, the banker, Catesby about the head and shoulders. “I hope the letter contained good news,” he ventured, knowing already that his hope was for naught.

  He noticed that her lips grimed up for a second before she said, “Yes. Fine. Thank you.”

  As much as he’d have liked to pump her for information, Charlie knew it wasn’t his place to do so. If, however, he ever learned that Mr. Catesby had written anything unkind to Amy, Charlie’d do something about it. He didn’t know what, but he knew he’d have to do something.

  “Ready for the chow tent?”

  “All ready,” she said brightly. Charlie saw that she’d brushed her hair and washed her face. He wished he’d thought to do that. He felt kind of grubby.

  They sat with Martin and Karen at lunch. Charlie noticed that Amy was doing better with the luncheon sandwiches provided for the cast and crew of the picture. She no longer hesitated to open the sandwich up and pick out its contents. Her pretty little mouth was too delicate to bite into such a gigantic sandwich whole. With a sigh, he thought he’d like to investigate her mouth for himself. He knew, although he didn’t know how he knew, that Mr. Catesby would never appreciate it properly.

  “We’ll rehearse the sawmill scene tomorrow, Amy,” Charlie heard Martin say, and he turned to listen. Far better to listen to Martin than to daydream about kissing Amy Wilkes or punching Vernon Catesby. More profitable, too, since he’d assuredly need to follow Martin’s instructions long before he ever got around to Amy’s lips, if such a delightful prospect ever did come to him.

  “Where will that take place?” Amy asked, her eyes bright with interest. She seemed to have put the letter out of her mind, a circumstance of which Charlie approved wholeheartedly. Doggone, she had pretty eyes.

  “We’ve managed to find a tumbledown building further out on the desert. I suspect it was used by prospectors in the old days. It’s a mess, but it will serve our purpose beautifully.”

  Amy fiddled with her milk glass. “Er—will there be a real saw?”

  With a laugh, Martin said, “No. We won’t risk our star’s skin on a real saw.”

  She laughed, too. “I must say I’m very glad to hear it.”

  Charlie suppressed his agreement. He didn’t like to think of Amy in peril, even fake peril for a motion picture.

  “It’ll probably be uncomfortable, though,” Martin went on. “The weather’s insufferable, and inside the building it will be even hotter, even though we’ve removed one wall because we have to set up lights and so forth. I fear it’s going to be awfully hot and stuffy, but we’ll try not to take too long in rehearsal. Then we can shoot the scene and get it over with, and we won’t have to work indoors any longer. Karen can take your costume out to the set with us in the morning and you can change there.”

  “I see.”

  Amy nodded, although Charlie perceived she still wasn’t sure what the morrow would bring. Neither was he, for that matter. All this moviemaking stuff was alien to his experience of life. Hers too, he realized, and he felt suddenly closer to her.

  Which was stupid, and he’d better not dwell on it, since their lives were, in reality, worlds apart, with precious little chance of them ever coming together.

  “This will be the first scene we’ll shoot.” Martin shared a glance with Amy and Charlie. “I’m sure you’ll both find the experience interesting.”

  “I’m sure,” Amy said uncertainly.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Charlie, on the other hand, meant it. He enjoyed new experiences, even if they weren’t awfully comfortable while they were happening. He liked learning stuff. And it would be lots of fun to tell stories later, to his brothers and pals on the ranch.

  Amy, he deduced, would rather be back home in Pasadena and forget all about picture making. She didn’t seem keen on new experiences. Which was another huge difference between them. The notion didn’t cheer him. Neither did the notion of her and the banker settling down together. It sounded like a mortally dull life to him. He’d rather take his chances with the ranching business.

  The afternoon’s rehearsal went more smoothly than the morning’s had. Charlie thought the relative ease of the afternoon was due in large part to Horace Huxtable’s state of health. He appeared to feel rotten, and he was obviously very weary. Behaving badly evidently took a good deal of energy, and Charlie was glad he’d never decided to play the part of a bad boy.

  * * *

  Martin cut the rehearsal short when an unexpected caravan entered the encampment, stirring up dust and excitement. He could scarcely believe his eyes when Phineas Lovejoy, his best friend and the monetary brain behind the Peerless Studio, chugged into the tent city in his Pierce Arrow Special shortly after two in the afternoon. Hot as it was, Martin raced toward the automobile.

  “Phin!” He didn’t have to feign his joy. This picture had been rough so far, and it was less than a week old. He really wanted to talk to Phineas about it.

  “Martin, old chum!”

  The two men embraced. Martin saw his second leading man eyeing them oddly, and deduced therefrom that men did not hug each other in Arizona Territory.

  “I’ve brought Ricardo with me, Marty,” Phineas said, sweeping his arm out to indicate a swarthy gent with bowed legs. “He finished the stunts for Arabian Nights, and we need him for Marching Along next week. Thought I’d drive him up today. That way he can teach Miss Wilkes how to ride a horse, and we can talk. I guess things haven’t gone too well so far.” He glanced slantways at Horace Huxtable.

  �
��I’m really glad you’re here, Phin.” Martin smiled at Ricardo Archuleta, whom he’d known for several years. Ricardo was a superlative horseman, a pretty good teacher, and an old grump. Martin liked him. “Hello, Rick. How are you?”

  Archuleta nodded without smiling, which was typical. “Fine, fine. I’m supposed to teach the lady in this picture how to ride a horse.” He squinted at the set. “Which one is she?”

  “Miss Wilkes is the one with the reddish hair, standing next to the tall cowboy.”

  Archuleta grunted as if he wasn’t impressed.

  “Right.” Martin pondered for a moment. Horace Huxtable was seated in a camp chair under a scrubby tree, looking sulky. Amy Wilkes and Charlie Fox were both watching the goings-on with interest. Martin realized that the two seemed to gravitate toward each other when nothing else was going on, and was pleased. Maybe they were beginning to get along better than they had at first. “I suppose you want to work fast.”

  Archuleta nodded.

  Phineas said, “Yes, I’m afraid we won’t be able to stay long. I’m hoping Miss Wilkes will be a quick study.” He gave Martin an inquiring look, which Martin chose to ignore. They could talk later.

  Archuleta huffed, as if to say he didn’t believe Amy Wilkes could learn to ride a horse if she tried for the rest of her life.

  Martin came to a decision. “Why don’t we begin lessons now? I’m sure Miss Wilkes would appreciate taking a break in the rehearsal.” He gestured fro Amy to join them. After shooting an apprehensive glance at Charlie, she walked over.

  “Yes, Mr. Tafft?”

  Martin hoped that before the picture was wrapped up and in the can, she’d unbend enough to call him Martin, although he wasn’t going to hold his breath. He gave her a warm smile. Given the state of the weather, it was the only kind he could drum up. “Amy, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Ricardo Archuleta, the finest riding instructor in Southern California. Mr. Archuleta’s going to teach you how to ride a horse for the picture.”

  “Oh.” She gazed at him blankly, then transferred her vacant gaze to Archuleta. Recovering her composure slightly, she held out her hand to him. “How do you do?”

  Archuleta frowned at her and gave her h and a grudging shake. “Fine, fine.” He eyed her up and down, scowling critically the whole time.

  Amy noticed his critical stare, clearly disliked it, and frowned back.

  Rats. Martin, who had known Ricardo Archuleta for a long time, feared the man had already assessed Amy’s ability to ride a horse as being less than spectacular—and he hadn’t even begun giving her lessons. Unfortunately, Archuleta was almost uncannily correct in his evaluations of people and their skill with horses. When the wrinkled old Mexican heaved a lusty, dispirited sigh, Martin’s fears were confirmed.

  “This,” said Archuleta in a gloomy accent, “will take some time. I hope there’s enough.”

  Amy smiled brightly. Martin exchanged an anxious glance with Phineas Lovejoy. Horace Huxtable snorted loudly from his chair under the tree. Charlie Fox moseyed over and grinned at Archuleta, who didn’t grin back.

  Just this once, Martin thought, he’d really like for things regarding One and Only to go right.

  “I won’t have no cowboy interfering with my instructions,” Archuleta announced to nobody in particular.

  In that instant, Martin knew, if he hadn’t before, that Amy’s riding lessons weren’t going to be that once.

  Eight

  While it was true that Amy’d never had much to do with horses, it was also true that she wasn’t afraid of them. At least she hadn’t been before now.

  She hadn’t realized as she’d watched them plod sedately along, pulling wagons and surreys and so forth on the pleasantly short streets of Pasadena, that horses were such large animals. They’d always looked rather sweet and graceful to Amy as she’d observed them from a sidewalk or a porch.

  But when one got right up next to a horse, one realized that horses were large. Very large. Really, Amy didn’t think a horse needed to be quite so big.

  This one didn’t seem like a particularly pleasant example of the equine race, either. At the moment it was giving her a steady, beady stare—more or a scowl, actually—and Amy sensed that it didn’t like her. She also feared that the expression of antipathy on the horse’s face boded ill for her success as a horsewoman.

  Whatever would Charlie Fox think of her if she fell off of this excessively tall animal? Dismal thought. She thrust it aside, much as she’d thrust aside Vernon’s letter earlier in the day. Drat Vernon Catesby to goodness. He had no business writing her such upsetting letters. Thrusting him aside yet again, Amy regarded the horse.

  She swallowed. “I’ve—er—never been this close to a horse before.” She offered Mr. Archuleta a shaky smile. He glowered back. Oh, dear. “I, ah, had no idea horses were so large.”

  “This is a pony,” he said. “A baby. A tiny thing.”

  She gaped at him for a moment. “It looks quite large to me.”

  He shrugged, said, “No. Small horse,” and turned to do something to the animal’s saddle.

  Amy thought she detected contempt in his tone, and she resented it. It wasn’t her fault she was born into a civilized community and had always had more to do with streetcars and trolleys than with horses.

  She glanced around, trying to find Charlie Fox. She didn’t see him and wasn’t sure if she was glad or not. Overall, she supposed she’d as soon he not witness her humiliation. On the other hand, she thought she’d detected some rather flattering interest in her person on his part, and she was disappointed that he hadn’t cared enough to watch this farce.

  This lesson. She meant this lesson.

  She squared her shoulders. Amy Wilkes was as capable as the next person. Surely she could learn to ride a horse. The horse continued to eye her unblinkingly, and her confidence, not awfully strong to begin with, sank further.

  Thank heaven Karen had come over to watch. Simply knowing that Karen was her friend, and that she was there for her, gave Amy courage.

  Karen had helped Amy change into the split skirt she now wore. Amy liked the skirt; it was really rather dashing, and she looked good in it. She only hoped it would preserve her modesty if she ever managed to mount this beast.

  “Don’t be afraid of the animal,” Archuleta, who’d finished with the saddle, commanded. As if she had a choice in the matter. “You’re his master, he’s not your master.”

  Technically, she was supposed to be the horse’s mistress, but Amy decided not to correct the little Spanish fellow’s English. She sensed he wouldn’t appreciate it, and she already had a strong suspicion that he didn’t approve of her. It was an odd sensation to Amy, who’d always been thoroughly respectable and had never experienced this sort of blatant disapproval before.

  Well, except for Vernon, who disapproved of her current endeavour. He’d made that perfectly clear in his letter, if she’d had any doubt.

  At any rate, she didn’t like the feeling of being disapproved of one teensy bit.

  Where was Charlie Fox, blast it? She shook her head, ridding it of irrelevant side issues. She had a horse to conquer at the moment, and Vernon wasn’t here. Neither was Charlie Fox. Blast it.

  “Right. Don’t be afraid.” She licked her lips and lifted her chin. She could do this.

  Archuleta gave her a short illustrated lesson in mounting, then said, “Put your hand on the saddle horn like I showed you.”

  He squinted at her with small dark eyes that reminded Amy of ripe olives. His skin was dark, too, and he had about a zillion crows’ feet radiating from around his eyes. Obviously, he’d spent lots of time in the sun, presumably bending horses’ will to his own.

  Which was not important at the moment. What was important was to learn to ride this wretched giant. The realization that Mr. Archuleta was no taller than she comforted her, and she braced herself. If a short gentleman could ride a horse, surely a short lady could. Sucking in another big breath and praying silently t
hat she wouldn’t kill herself, she put her hand, protected by a worn leather glove Karen had found in the costume tent, on the saddle horn.

  Archuleta handed her the reins, and she took them the way he’d demonstrated. He nodded. Amy assumed for encouragement’s sake, then said, “Put your foot in the stirrup.”

  She lifted her foot.

  “No!”

  The instructor’s harsh cry startled her, which startled the horse, which made them both shuffle awkwardly. Archuleta rolled his eyes. “Your other foot.”

  “Oh.” Good heavens, he was speaking to her through gritted teeth. Was she that incompetent? Swallowing again, she vowed to try harder. “The other foot. Right.”

  “Right. Otherwise you’d be riding backwards.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She felt like an idiot. “Sorry.”

  It took Archuleta a moment or two to settle the horse. Amy could have sworn the animal was now sneering at her. Its expression reminded her of Horace Huxtable’s when he was being naughty.

  “Try again.” Archuleta’s expression was grim. Amy believed that a truly superior teacher wouldn’t allow doubt in his student’s ability to show.

  She attempted to ignore her instructor’s expression as she again placed her hand on the saddle horn and lifted her foot—the correct foot this time—to the stirrup. The horse moved sideways. She lost her balance and fell against it.

  A horse smelled very—horsy—when one’s nose was pressed against its belly. She withdrew her nose from the horse’s hide and attempted to straighten up. Since her heel seemed to be caught in the stirrup, this entailed quite a bit of jumping up and down on her other foot. She heard someone—she assumed it was Mr. Archuleta—sigh heavily, and tried not to hate him for it.

  Thank God he stopped sighing and restrained the horse from prancing about. She was out of breath and panting when she finally regained her balance. She cleared her throat. “Um, the horse moved before I could leap up.”

  There he went again, into that eye-rolling routine. Amy frowned at him. Disregarding her frown, he growled, “You don’t leap up. You lift your body into the saddle. You don’t have to leap.”