Miner's Daughter

by Duncan, Alice

  He imagined he’d find out. He’d been on his own for years now, but not in such rough company in such a rugged place. He unbuttoned another button on his shirt—he’d shed his celluloid collar hours earlier—and scowled as he scuffed up dust. His shoes were probably ruined by this time.

  “I think she’s got a lot of guts,” Martin said. “I hate to contradict you, Tony, but look what she’s had to face in her life.”

  “I’ve already looked,” Tony growled as he did so again, scanning the scenery, or lack thereof, with loathing. “And I agree that this is a hell of a place. That doesn’t excuse her . . . her . . . her arrogance.” A prince of arrogance himself, Tony didn’t know why hers had irked him, but it had.

  Martin chuckled. “Give the girl a chance. She’s fighting mighty big odds.”

  “She’s a fool to fight, if you ask me, and an even bigger fool to hesitate about taking your offer.” Tony detested pigheaded people. “Obviously, she’s never seen ten thousand dollars in her life, she’ll never he offered ten thousand again, and I can’t understand why she doesn’t just snap it up.”

  “Well,” Martin equivocated, “it’s only ten thousand if she agrees to play the lead.”

  Tony stopped in his tracks, turned, and threw his arms out. “Why wouldn’t she?” he demanded. “Why, in the name of all that’s holy would a young woman on her last legs—she’s about to lose that precious mine of hers, as you well know—make a fuss about such a splendid offer as the one we just made to her?”

  With a shrug, Martin said, “Don’t know, although I have a hunch.”

  Tony pulled in a lungful of incinerated air and dust. “Please enlighten me. Her attitude is completely beyond my understanding.”

  Martin grinned at him. Tony liked Martin. He also respected him a good deal. Martin wasn’t hot-tempered like him, and he seemed to understand his fellow man a good deal better than Tony did. The latter quality was often a blessing and sometimes a pain in the ass. Like now, for instance.

  “I think it has to do with her father. She considers the Marigold Mine his legacy to her.”

  “Some legacy.” Tony wheeled around and recommenced the trudge toward the hotel. This place was hell, and there were no two ways about it.

  “I know. It’s not your kind of legacy.”

  In spite of the heat, Martin looked kind of perky. Evidently, Tony thought sourly, their recent encounter with the Pottersby witch had invigorated him. It had infuriated Tony. Made him want to punch things, in fact.

  Martin went on, “Your kind of legacy is millions in stock shares and bonds, and a life of blissful prosperity.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Tony jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. Why would a young woman who looked like Mari Pottersby want to run around in men’s britches? They made her seem common and crude and unfeminine. Why, the girl looked like Calamity Jane or another of those hellcats out of the Old West.

  A gray and toothless prospector leading a tired, elderly mule was coming down the road toward them. Tony shook his head. Until recently, he’d believed scenes like this were the product of a dime novelist’s imagination. He wondered if the old coot was going to pay a visit to Miss Pottersby. Probably. He looked like the type she’d fall for.

  By God, he was really in a bad mood. Martin deserved better from him. So did his father, although the truth of it made him queasy. Tony made an effort to cheer up, but it didn’t help much. He was too hot, too sweaty, too mad at Mari, and too uncomfortable to be cheerful.

  “Nothing’s wrong with your kind of legacy,” Martin assured him. “I’d be willing to bet that Miss Pottersby would kill for one. But that wasn’t the hand life dealt her. She was born to a father with a dream, and he passed it on to her.”

  “He ought to be shot,” Tony said bitterly.

  Martin grinned. “Too late. He’s already dead.”

  “I still think she’s insane not to jump at the chance we’re giving her.”

  “She’ll probably come around,” Martin said with a shrug. “I suppose she won’t be able to help herself. Money’s like that.”

  Tony eyed Martin briefly. “You sound as if you disapprove.”

  “Oh, no. It’s just that . . . well, I feel sorry for the girl. She’s young and pretty and bright. Most girls her age are going to school or getting married or working at jobs designed for women. She’s trying to keep a dying mine alive for the sake of a man who was probably nuts, but who was obviously a good enough father to have inspired devotion in his daughter. The fellow couldn’t have been all bad.”

  Dammit, Martin was making him feel like a bully and an old meanie. Simon Legree Ewing. That was him. Tony sighed. “All right, I’ll grant the girl has a few good qualities. I only hope this dinner idea will work.”

  “I hope she photographs well and can act. Not only does she look perfect for our heroine, but she needs the extra five grand.”

  “You’re entirely too nice, Martin.”

  “Nuts. She’ll be perfect.”

  “I hope so.”

  Tony, who’d never thought much about his own blond good looks, had to admit that if anyone took the effort to scrub Marigold Pottersby clean, slather some cream on her to get those rough hands soft, give her a manicure, send her to a hair salon, and clothe her in something besides dirty dungarees, she’d be a looker. She’d never be one of those petite things who simpered and fainted every other minute, but at least she wouldn’t look like a scarecrow.

  Actually, she could be damned near striking if she ever tried. “I wonder how she’ll dress for dinner,” he mused aloud.

  “Me, too. I expect she’ll try to look nice.”

  “Do you?” Tony wasn’t so sure.

  He and Martin spent the remainder of their day in the fan-cooled parlor of the Mojave Inn, discussing how Lucky Strike was to progress. Martin seemed sure they’d secure Miss Pottersby’s permission to rent her mine. He sent a cable to the Peerless Studio, requesting a cameraman be sent out as soon as possible so that a screen test could be made for Marigold Pottersby.

  Tony still had his doubts.

  If she had any money, Mari thought glumly as she hiked up her skirt in an effort to keep it out of the dust, she’d be able to buy a car. Even an old, beat-up rattletrap held together with baling wire, like the heap driven by her buddy Gordon Shay, would help in times like this

  Not that she expected there would be any more times like this. Her heart rattled against her breastbone like dice in a cup, her nerves hopped and skipped like Mexican jumping beans, her mouth was as dry as the surrounding countryside, and she wanted to turn tail, run back home, hug Tiny, crawl into her narrow cot, and pull the covers over her head. She’d stay there until Martin Tafft, Anthony Ewing, and the entire Peerless Studio either left Mojave Wells or finished their project without her, whichever came first.

  There wasn’t a chance in heck of that, though. No matter how scared and nervous she was, Mari wasn’t going to turn her back on the prospect of ten thousand dollars. She wondered if they’d meant it.

  The whole thing sounded highly unlikely to her. On the other hand, she’d read something somewhere about Peerless; she’d even seen a couple of their pictures when Mr. Purdy at the grocery store had invited people over and projected some moving pictures against his back wall. Mari’d especially enjoyed an opus called One and Only.

  Every time she considered watching herself in one of those pictures, however, she felt a mad compulsion to turn around and run, screaming, into the night.

  She hoped she looked passable. It was too much to ask of the Fates that she look good. Her face was brown from years of working outdoors, her hands weren’t soft and lovely like the hands of beautiful women were supposed to be, she was too tall, too thin, and too—not perfect.

  She’d washed her hair, however, and pinned it up. When she wasn’t holding her dress up out of the dust, she was disconcerted by the way its long skirt buffeted against her heels as if it were chasing her. Obviously, she’d spent
too much time in trousers and not enough time in dresses. Not that dresses were appropriate to her way of life, but Mari acknowledged sourly that her way of life wasn’t appropriate to a lady.

  When she’d surveyed the result of her efforts in her mother’s old hand mirror by the light of the kerosene lantern, she’d decided she hadn’t turned out too bad. At least her face was clean and her hair was shiny. A couple of people had told her she had pretty hair. One of them had been Gordon Shay. Big deal. On the other hand, it had been a compliment delivered by a man.

  The dress she wore was one of the two she owned; both had belonged to her mother. That made them at least twenty years old, but Mari had tried to update them, using pictures from ladies’ magazines she’d borrowed from the librarian, Miss Winters. She had a sneaking hunch that Miss Winters felt sorry for her. Mari didn’t really blame her for it. Lots of people did.

  Anyhow, the dress was old. Fortunately, the fabric was a good, sturdy calico. Unfortunately, fashions had changed a good deal in twenty years, and the calico had faded in spots.

  Mari told herself to stop finding fault with herself. She’d done the best she could, and that was all that could be expected.

  Oh, but she was so nervous!

  Fortunately, she still possessed a pair of her mother’s evening slippers. Unfortunately they, too, were at least twenty years old. And too small for her. She’d have blisters before the evening was over, or she’d be much surprised.

  Fortunately, the Mojave Inn was only a mile from her cabin. Unfortunately, that mile was dry and dusty and Mari had to pass by the homes of several of her friends along the way.

  Fortunately, they’d be through working in their mines and gardens for the day. Unfortunately, they’d also be finished with their dinners and probably, given the heat, sitting outside to enjoy the relative coolness of the evening.

  “Stop it!” Mari commanded herself. If any of her neighbors saw her and asked what she was doing, all duded up and headed for town, she’d simply explain it to them.

  They wouldn’t believe her. They might believe the part about Peerless wanting to rent the mine, but they’d never believe anybody wanted her to play a part in the picture, much less the leading lady’s role.

  But that couldn’t be helped. It was the truth, and Mari had often found it necessary to stand on the truth even when explanations sounded skimpy. It occurred to her that existing on the truth was a perilous and generally unprofitable business.

  And that’s exactly where the promised Peerless money would come in handy. She tried to encourage herself with the prospect of ten thousand dollars. Or five thousand, when that nice Mr. Tafft realized she wasn’t cut out to be an actress.

  Unless he’d been spoofing her about that part of his deal. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed likely that he had been. Who’d want her, of all people, to act in a motion picture?

  Such a trick, if trick it was, was really unkind of him, though. Mari hadn’t believed him to be unkind; he acted so nice. She pressed her lips together and reminded herself that the only reason confidence artists succeeded was that they’d mastered an air of sincerity.

  Oh, but it would be a bitter pill to swallow. What a disappointment! She’d thought so highly of Martin Tafft.

  That Anthony Ewing fellow was another kettle of fish. Mari figured this sort of thing was exactly what she should have expected from a man who looked like him. He was too handsome. All that thick, dark blond hair and those blasted classical features. Why, that nose of his made him look like he was sneering even when he wasn’t.

  What a rotten trick to play on her! It wasn’t enough that she had to endure poverty and the prospect of never being able to run the mine properly, but now she had to put up with men trying to exploit her. Imagine, offering her money when they only meant to divert her from their true motives. The two of them were so slick, they slid. Drat them.

  What a fool she was to have rigged herself out because she believed their sweet talk. And making her walk a mile to their supposed dinner conference was a prank, too. Mari was hopping mad by the time she reached Mojave Inn.

  The dining room at the Mojave Inn wasn’t like any decent restaurant Tony’d ever been in. Which made sense, since it wasn’t one. It was more like a hole in the wall, and the menu carried two choices for the main course. Steak and pot roast. Tony watched the waitress, a buxom lass named Judy, as she carried food to the tables, in an effort to determine which entree looked tastier. He finally decided it wouldn’t make any difference. They both looked awful.

  Tony didn’t recognize Miss Marigold Pottersby when she first appeared at the door to the Mojave Inn’s dining room. He noticed a tall, lovely, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman standing in the doorway, fingering a small beaded bag, and his interest perked right up. He hadn’t expected to encounter such a fine specimen of womanhood in this hellhole.

  When Martin rose and started for the door, Tony frowned and opened his mouth to ask him what he was doing. Only then did he understand.

  Good God. Could that attractive female possibly be Miss Pottersby, the grubby miner’s daughter? He narrowed his eyes and peered closely at her.

  By God, it was. Tony slowly rose from his chair and started to follow Martin.

  But this was uncanny. Impossible. A miracle, even. That the untidy, trouser-clad ragamuffin he’d met this morning could have been transformed into this stunningly shy violet was incredible. Inconceivable.

  It must be some kind of trick.

  At once he realized he was being foolish. It couldn’t be a trick. There was no way on earth Mari Pottersby could have known Martin wanted to use her mine before the Peerless folks spoke to her about it. And she certainly never expected Martin to want to use her in the picture. Therefore, she couldn’t possibly have made herself look good in order to deceive Tony into wanting her.

  No. This astonishing transformation must, therefore, be the result of one of those freaks of nature that kept mankind constantly confused.

  But . . . good God.

  Martin got to Mari before he did. Tony saw Mari and Martin smile at each other. It wasn’t until Mari held out her hand in the same slightly self-conscious manner Tony had noted earlier in the day that his insides fully reconciled themselves to the fact that this comely female was really, honestly and truly Marigold Pottersby.

  The fact that she was clearly as nervous as a cat also clued him in to her true identity. He couldn’t recall another such interesting instance of feminine metamorphosis. When he got to where she and Martin stood, her glance for him was as apprehensive as hers for Martin had been friendly. Tony begrudged her that look.

  “How do you do?” she asked him politely.

  “I’m well, Miss Pottersby. And you?” His voice, he noticed, had chilled considerably in his walk from the table to the door. Interesting. Why should she make him want to be impolite? Was it merely because she so plainly liked Martin better than him?

  She stiffened visibly. “I’m fine, thanks.” Her words, too, sounded clipped and frosty.

  Snippy little thing, wasn’t she? Tony jogged Martin out of the way and held his arm for. Mari. He was a trifle embarrassed when Martin looked at him strangely, but he hid his discomposure. “Here, Miss Pottersby, let me show you to our table.”

  Now that he was standing right next to her, Tony saw that she wore no paint or powder. Probably didn’t own any. If she did, she wouldn’t know how to use it. She was a nobody from nowhere, in fact, and didn’t have a sophisticated bone in her body.

  It seemed a lovely body, though. His senses recognized its slender beauty even as his conscious mind attempted to find fault with it.

  Her gown looked as if it were a million years old.

  Tony’s finer nature told his critical one not to be so damned snooty. Not everyone could be born with a silver spoon in his or her mouth, as he had been. Poor Mari Pottersby had been reared by a lunatic in dire circumstances. Tony should be treating her courteously, not seeking ways to find fault
with her.

  Mari murmured, “Thank you.”

  As she walked, she lifted her skirt, and Tony saw dust coating its hem. And those shoes. They were antiques if he’d ever seen any and they, too, were so dusty, he couldn’t make out what color they’d been to start with. He frowned. “Did you walk all the way over here, Miss Pottersby?”

  Her color, which was deep to begin with, deepened still until a rosy flush crept into her cheeks. Tony watched, fascinated. He’d never, ever have dreamed that she could be so attractive.

  “Yes, I did,” she said, her tight tone implying she considered him a fool for asking. “How else was I supposed to get here?”

  Martin, hurrying behind them, said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Pottersby. I should have thought to send a car for you.”

  Dammit, Tony wanted to be the one to have said that. Too late now He said, “You ought to have told us this morning that you had no transportation, Miss Pottersby. We didn’t expect you to walk here.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. Her eyes, Tony noticed with a sudden clenching in his chest region, were huge and dark and sparkled like jewels. “I have transportation. It’s only that I didn’t think the donkey would have been appropriate to the occasion. I don’t generally expect folks to provide transportation for me, you know. Besides,” she added with something like a smirk, “one ass at a time is my limit.”

  Dammit, she was too fresh for this world. “Meaning me, I suppose.”

  “You know yourself better than I.”

  Tony heard Martin snort as if he were smothering a laugh, blast him. He decided to quit firing her wit with fuel, dropped the ass question, and went back to the original point, which she was either too stupid or too stubborn to perceive. “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Pottersby. We’re hoping to conduct business with you. We’d have been happy to send a car.”