Miner's Daughter

by Duncan, Alice

  Martin held a chair for her. At the same time, he grimaced at Tony, signaling him to stop quarreling with the mine owner. Tony knew he should. They needed her, and they’d succeed more easily if she liked them. But something foreign seemed to have taken possession of his common sense this evening, and he couldn’t have stopped tiffing with Mari if he’d wanted to.

  As Mari sat in a huff and a fluff, she barked, “Then you should have told me you could send a car sooner, shouldn’t you? How am I supposed to know what you big-money, picture-backing people do and don’t do? I’ve had to work for my keep all my life. And I can’t read minds.”

  Tony heard Martin’s stifled moan of despair even as he growled, “Most people who work for a living generally have some common sense.” He managed a fairly decent sneer. “At least that’s what I’ve always been told. I wouldn’t know from experience, would I?”

  She was glaring in earnest now. “It doesn’t look like it to me.”

  By the time Martin sat and began trying to soothe ruffled feathers, Tony was so mad, he could have punched something. Preferably Miss Marigold Pottersby, who was protected by an act of nature, being female and therefore unpunchable.

  Tony felt cheated. And very, very annoyed.

  Chapter Three

  If Mari ever got the opportunity, she was going to give Tony Ewing a great, big, fat piece of her mind, the intolerable snob. What she’d like to do is knock him flat with the big cast-iron skillet she used to cook dinner every night. Except this one.

  The only other times Mari had eaten in a restaurant, someone else had done the ordering. She’d been very little at the time, maybe five or six, and no one had expected her to be anything but shy, naive, and reserved.

  It was her misfortune to be a grown-up woman now and unable to retire into the security of childhood. People naturally expected a child to be inexperienced. She still knew nothing about dining out, but she no longer had any good excuses for her ignorance. Except poverty and lack of sophistication, and they didn’t count, being more apt to be ridiculed than understood.

  Thank God she and the waitress who was serving their table this evening were friends. Judy Nelson, whose parents operated the Mojave Inn, and Mari had gone to school together. Mari smiled up at her “Hi, Judy. How’s Pete doing?” Pete, Judy’s brother and twelve years old, had recently broken an arm when he’d fallen out of Mr. Nelson’s wagon as they were driving to San Bernardino.

  Judy eyed Mari in obvious amazement, a fact that went unappreciated by Mari herself. She did, however, vow to attempt to make herself look more like a lady from now on. If seeing her in a dress had this effect on her fellow Mojave-ites, it was past time she did something to boost her image.

  “Pete’s doing pretty well, Mari. He’s tired of being laid up and is being a perfect pig, though.” Judy grimaced, thus demonstrating her filial devotion. She went on, “My goodness, but aren’t you all dolled up tonight? You look swell.” Judy sounded as if she’d never encountered a more flabbergasting sight in her life than Mari looking swell.

  Mari felt her lips pinch together and made an effort to relax them. No sense advertising her discomposure. “I’m here tonight on business.” She tried to make the remark sound casual, as if such things happened to her all the time. Judy, of course, knew better and let all three of them at the table know it with the dubious lift of her eyebrows.

  “Oh. How nice.” Judy gave up on Mari and turned to the men. Mari blessed her silently. The waitress’s gaze seemed to get stuck on Tony. She simpered and tugged her apron straight, and Mari retracted her silent blessing. “You want the steak or the pot roast?”

  With a roll of her eyes, Mari decided it would be a good thing if Judy got out more, saw more of the world. A body would think this was the first time she’d ever seen an attractive man, the way she gawked at Tony Ewing. She was so obvious, Mari wanted to hit her. She also wanted to hit Tony, who gave Judy one of his winning smiles. He had never smiled at Mari like that. The only smiles Mari ever got from the big snooty moneybags were nasty ones.

  “Do you have a preference, Miss Pottersby?”

  Mari jerked her head in Martin’s direction. She’d forgotten all about him, which had been a big mistake since he was the nice one of these two men. She undertook to deliver a gracious smile. “I don’t think it makes much difference. I hear they’re both pretty bad.”

  Judy muttered something that Mari didn’t catch. Served her right, though. Judy had no business flirting with the customers. Mari sniffed and tried to look superior. Since she’d never done such a thing before, she wasn’t confident about the outcome.

  Tony sent her a scowl. Mari scowled back. It would serve him right if the food here made him sick.

  Martin cleared his throat. Mari got the feeling he wished he could clear the air so easily. She felt guilty for a second, before she remembered that these men were here to try to cheat her. She sat up straighter in her chair and said, “I believe I’ll have the pot roast, thank you.”

  “One pot roast.” Martin smiled with relief and turned to Tony, who was still frowning at Mari. He said, “Tony?”

  His dining companion started in his chair. “Oh. Oh, yes. Well now, let me see.” He glanced up and gave Judy another gorgeous smile.

  Mari wished she could kick him under the table, but he’d probably misunderstand and think she was jealous. As if she’d ever be jealous of so odious a specimen of mankind as he. His smile, the one he reserved for people he liked, transformed his face and made him look charming and approachable and almost deliciously masculine. It wasn’t fair.

  After a moment of his stupidly smiling at Judy, Tony said, “I believe I’ll try the steak.” He shot a mean glance at Mari. “I’m sure both main courses are delicious.”

  Mari said, “We’ll see,” under her breath.

  Judy cast her a triumphant glance.

  Martin hurried to say, “I guess I’ll take the pot roast.” It sounded to Mari as if he were trying to counter everyone else’s bad mood and worse manners by being especially festive. Another tiny stab of guilt smote her.

  But that was neither here nor there. She had to keep her wits about her because this evening might make or break the Marigold Mine. At least temporarily. The depressing truth was that no matter how much money Mari poured down the ravening maw of her father’s mine, it was played out. In her heart of hearts, Mari knew it, although she’d never admit it aloud, even to herself.

  The condition of the mine was too depressing to dwell on right now. She smiled sweetly at Martin. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the pot roast.” Transferring her attention, but not her smile, to Tony, she said, “I hear the steaks are always as tough as an old boot.”

  “So,” said Judy, interrupting mercilessly and looking as if she could cheerfully kill Mari, “that’s two pot roasts and one steak. Thank you.” She marched off, and Mari knew she needed to do some fence-mending in that quarter. She hadn’t meant to be rude to Judy, darn it. It was all Tony Ewing’s fault.

  Before Tony could use the breath he took to shower her with intemperate words—not that she didn’t deserve them, she supposed—Martin rushed into the breach. What a brave man he was.

  “So, please tell us, Miss Pottersby, have you lived at the Marigold Mine all your life?”

  Mari gave him points for attempting to salvage the evening. “Yes. All my life.”

  Tony said, “Hmph.”

  Martin said, “You’ll have to tell us about how mining operations go forward. We’ll need to study up on the subject for the picture.”

  “I’m sure that’s so.” Mari made sure she pitched her voice to sound honey-sweet for Martin, whom she liked even if he was probably going to try to gyp her.

  “I’ve cabled to the studio in Los Angeles to send a cameraman out here, Miss Pottersby,” Martin went on. “As soon as he arrives, we’ll have him take some moving pictures of you. I’m hoping you’ll look as good on film as you do in person.”

  Mari told herself not to get swe
ll-headed; he probably only said such things to gull his audience. Once he got them feeling good, he’d strike like a rattler. Since she hated to think such things about Martin Tafft, she shifted the blame for such sleazy business tactics onto Tony Ewing’s broad shoulders, where it fitted more naturally

  “I’m sure I’ll be very nervous,” she told Martin. Shoot, she was already very nervous. To counteract her jitters, she sat taller and lifted her chin. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Tony observing her. She wished he’d take himself off somewhere so she could calm down.

  “You needn’t be,” Martin assured her. “People don’t generally realize it, but a person either looks good on screen or he doesn’t. It’s the camera that decides. That’s not universally true, of course, but it’s the case more often than not. If your loveliness doesn’t come through on film, it’s the industry’s loss.”

  And hers, Mari thought glumly. Five thousand dollars would be a gigantic loss to her.

  To keep from being disappointed, she reminded herself that the offer was probably a lot of hooey to begin with. She wasn’t altogether successful. Even the thought of so much money thrilled her.

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Miss Pottersby?”

  Tony had asked the question, breaking into the conversation abruptly. Mari thinned her eyes and peered at him narrowly. Wine? Good grief, was she going to have to drink wine? Were they going to ply her with liquor to get her to sign some contract detrimental to her financial situation? Not that there could be any situation much worse than the one she already occupied.

  Then again, wine drinking was probably expected at these business dinners. All sophisticated people drank wine. Since she was about as unsophisticated as a human female could get and had never even thought about wine, much less tasted it, she wasn’t sure about that, but she read widely and recalled a lot of wine being drunk by rich people in books and magazines.

  She swallowed uncertainly, hoping this wasn’t an evil plot on the part of her dining companions to weaken her resolve. “Thank you. That would be nice.” She hated being even this courteous to Tony Ewing, but knew it would be worse to show her dislike openly. Except when he was being mean to her. Then she could be mean back. That was only getting even, and that was allowed.

  Or was it?

  Lord God Almighty, Mari was so jumpy, she wouldn’t have been able to recite the twenty-third psalm at the moment, even though she’d recited it every day of her life until her father died. He’d liked her to say it as an evening prayer.

  Thinking about her father and his favorite psalm made her sad, so she ceased.

  “When did your father die, Miss Pottersby?” Tony asked as if he’d tiptoed into her brain and known she’d been thinking about her father. As he spoke, he poured from a bottle of red liquid into a glass the likes of which Mari had never seen in person. It had a stem and was a glass especially designed to hold wine. Mari recognized it from pictures she’d seen.

  Trust this rat to bring up her innermost thoughts and spill them all over the dinner table. She frowned and said, “He’s been gone for six months now.”

  “I’m sorry.” This gentlemanly comment came, naturally, from Martin, who had a shred or two of human compassion in his soul. “His passing must have been very difficult for you.”

  “It was. Thank you.” Mari lifted her glass, took a largish drink of wine because she felt insecure, and nearly choked to death. She set down her glass, too hard, and some of the liquid spilled onto the white tablecloth, thus adding humiliation to her already skittish state. Blast it all.

  As she wiped her teary eyes with her dinner napkin, she noticed Tony eyeing her from over his own wineglass. She sensed him smirking at her, although he was too suave to do so openly. She hated him then.

  Once her nerves settled somewhat, she admitted that this latest gaffe on her part eliminated any necessity to pretend a sophistication she didn’t possess. Nobody’d believe her at this point, whatever she did.

  In order to show Tony Ewing that she had a sense of humor, as well as the mine he wanted so darned badly, she grinned at Martin. “Can you tell I’ve never drunk wine before?”

  Martin grinned back and lifted his glass in a salute. “It takes some getting used to.”

  It sure did. Although she didn’t want to, she shot a peek at Tony. If he’d been smirking before, the expression had tipped upside-down, and now he frowned. Fortunately, his frown wasn’t aimed at her. In fact, he didn’t even mention her abysmal table manners when he next spoke. “Maybe we should get down to brass tacks.”

  Mari blinked at him. What brass tacks? The mine? Are those the brass tacks he meant? She was willing, although she’d sort of expected the Peerless people to try to curry her favor awhile longer before they talked business.

  “Tony . . .” Martin appeared displeased.

  “I don’t think a dinner in this place is going to soften Miss Pottersby’s heart,” Tony said in a tone that told Mari exactly what he thought of her: nothing. He did do her the honor of looking at her when he next spoke. “If she has a heart.”

  Mari almost wished he hadn’t looked, his face was so hard and unyielding. She experienced a humiliating urge to cry. It wasn’t fair that he should be so heartless to her. What had she ever done to him? Well, except refuse to rent him her mine, but that didn’t sound like any sort of crime to Mari. She gazed back at him with as much serenity as she could muster. “You’re so right, Mr. Ewing.”

  Martin heaved a gusty sigh. “Listen, Miss Pottersby, I’m sure Tony didn’t mean to be rude—”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did,” Mari broke in. “He’s been rude to me since the moment we met.” There. She felt better now. She added, “Quite frankly, his conduct seems to me unlikely to help you in your business endeavors, Mr. Tafft. You ought to leave him at home next time.” If she’d been six years old, Mari might have appended a “Nyah, nyah, nyah,” to her assessment. It was implied, though, and she suspected Tony Ewing knew it. She had the satisfaction of seeing him look first startled, then embarrassed, and then furious. Unless that was her imagination.

  “Yes.” Martin gave Tony a thin smile. “I’m afraid he’s not used to the weather out here, and the heat’s made him somewhat short-tempered.”

  Mari said, “Oh?” and eyed Tony glacially.

  “You have to admit the heat’s not awfully hospitable,” Tony said, pushing the words out through clenched teeth.

  With a witheringly condescending smile, Mari said, “I believe it’s universally acknowledged that deserts are hot and dry, Mr. Ewing. Or did your teachers in New York fail to teach anything about geography and weather patterns?”

  Martin uttered a pathetic little whimper and reached for the lock of hair he liked to tug when under stress.

  Tony snarled, “No, my teachers did not fail to teach geography, Miss Pottersby. And whether deserts are hot and dry or not isn’t the point. The point is the weather here stinks.”

  Mari nodded grandly. “Indeed? I see the condition is contagious. It’s apparently made a stinker out of you.”

  She and Tony were squaring off to fight some more when their meals arrived. Mari wouldn’t have known it until Judy plunked her plate in front of her if Martin hadn’t sighed and whispered, “Thank God.”

  When she glanced around to see why he was thanking his Maker, she beheld Judy, who was again staring at Tony Ewing. The fool. Mari had never suspected that Judy could be so silly as to fall for a pretty face. She peered at Tony and amended her assessment slightly. Okay, so the guy was more than a pretty face. Actually, if one judged by appearances alone, he’d be a grand and glorious sight. Kind of like seeing the flag waving on the Fourth of July.

  Elegantly clad in a lightweight, light-colored summer suit, he seemed the very essence of masculine elegance. Mari knew that he wore a sporty straw hat, because she’d seen it on the hat rack and known it belonged to him because it looked cosmopolitan and out of place here in Mojave Wells.

  His face had the lightly
tanned effect that went beautifully with hair like his. His hair was thick and wavy, dark blond with lighter streaks that spoke of days spent out-of-doors. Probably on his yacht, damn him. His eyes were hazel, leaning toward green, and were large and luminous and exactly what Mari’s second cousin Joan, who lived in San Bernardino and was much more worldly than Mari, called “bedroom eyes.”

  It seemed a dirty shame to Mari that his good looks and fine clothes hid the soul of an ogre. As Judy absentmindedly laid her plate before her, Mari said pointedly, “Thank you, Judy.”

  Judy, who had been lost in a contemplative fog as she gazed wistfully at Tony, jerked, and her attention shifted to Mari. “Oh, sure, Mari. Hope you like your food.”

  She seemed to have forgotten Mari’s earlier sniping about the fare at the Mojave Inn. Mari considered this a piece of good luck, although she didn’t expect it to last The next time she came to town, Judy would assuredly complain to her about her bad manners. And she’d be right about them, too.

  Mari told herself she could feel contrite and apologize to Judy later. Right now she had to keep her wits about her. It was a darned good thing the wine tasted like vinegar, or she might be tempted to gulp it down to steady her nerves.

  Because she felt kind of blue for saying sassy things about the food, Mari said, “I’m sure we will, Judy.” She was sure of no such thing, having heard from others about the fare served at the Mojave Inn.

  “Ah,” said Martin, gazing at his plate and obviously trying to maintain a calm demeanor in, the face of trying odds, “food.”

  Mari considered it an optimistic statement under the circumstances.

  Tony Ewing lifted about a pound of fried onions with his fork, peered beneath to discern what they’d hidden, and said, “Um . . .”

  If Mari hadn’t been so angry with him, she might have laughed. Nobody’d warned him about the onions. Judy’s mother claimed that any kind of meat tasted better when smothered in fried onions. Since hers was the only restaurant in town, nobody dared contradict her for fear of being barred for life from her dining room.