Nobody Else But You

by Claire Marti

  But he’d been cold to her last night when she’d actually been friendly. Definitely his fault. Witnessing her break down stirred something unfamiliar in his gut, something he didn’t care to explore.

  When she’d been so hostile toward him, he’d figured she had a chip on her shoulder. He wasn’t stupid; he knew he could be an obnoxious ass. He hadn’t figured on how deep her resistance to having the movie filmed on the ranch went. Now he’d seen her crying, he felt shitty for being well, so shitty.

  Damn it. She’d been a kid when her mom was killed and avoided anything to do with the movies ever since. So, maybe he needed to treat her like a little sister. Wouldn’t that make it all much safer and smoother? Yeah, it would. He’d treat her like she was his little sister from now on.

  But, she’d be suspicious if he was suddenly Mr. Nice Guy, especially after he’d frozen her out last night. All the way around, it was probably smarter for him to avoid her as much as possible. How hard could it be?

  No more ballet studio when she was there. If he could erase the vision of her grace and sensuality when she danced, it would be a hell of a lot easier to act like a big brother. No more guesthouse visits. No more stables or rides across the ranch.

  No problem.

  Dilemma resolved, he squared his shoulders and trotted down to the set, ready to focus on work. At thirty years old, it was taking longer and longer to recover from the beatings he took on the job. His body couldn’t sustain the current punishing pace he’d handled for the last decade. This movie would be grueling and he’d shut off anything to do with the youngest McNeill and begin the mental and physical preparation necessary for a successful shoot.

  Industry outsiders usually assumed stunt people were reckless show-offs, when the total opposite was true. Successful stunts required mathematical precision, bordering on obsession. A bar fight, for example, was more like a choreographed ballet performance than a wild punching match. Mental preparation and exquisite control were vital to performing some of the dangerous work without succumbing to injury.

  He shaded his eyes with one hand and surveyed the scene. The area was abuzz with activity and as far as he could tell, everything was moving along according to schedule. Workers were unloading the exorbitantly expensive and state-of-the-art cameras and lights. Although they had stipulated not to film at night, often natural light wasn’t adequate to create the images on film, even on a sunny summer day.

  He spotted Harry, who was gesturing animatedly with his hands, standing next to Chris McNeill. Sam’s father was shaking his head and frowning. Shit, would he throw a wrench into the movie production after all? No way could this gig go south now.

  He dismounted from Rocco and tied his reins on the temporary split rail fence. He sauntered up to Harry and Chris, who were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t even notice him until he addressed them directly.

  “Morning guys, so how is everything looking? Start date on schedule?” It better be.

  They turned to look at him. Holt couldn’t read Harry’s poker face and didn’t know Chris well enough to gauge what was going on, although his scowl indicated he wasn’t thrilled.

  After a moment, Harry nodded. “Yes, we’re good to go.”

  “So what should we do first? Do you have the schedule outlined yet?” Holt had worked with Harry many times and knew the director’s planning bordered on obsessive-compulsive.

  Harry ran his tongue around his teeth. “Well, I’m trying to talk Chris here into coming on board and helping me out a little bit with the directing. He was the best in the business back in the day.” He slapped Chris on the back.

  Chris remained silent. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened and his eyes remained hidden behind his dark shades.

  “You’re going to direct?” Holt’s jaw dropped open. Sam would freak out. And why the hell was that his first reaction?

  Sam’s dad shrugged one broad shoulder.

  “Just hoping I can convince Chris to lend his eye and input on some of these scenes. Right?” Harry grinned, showing even rows of white teeth, kind of like a shark before he chomped on fresh prey.

  Finally Chris’s fierce expression softened. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull with all of this. It’s just too damn hard to be on set after everything––”

  “It’s been more than ten years. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” Harry gripped the taller man’s shoulder. “Pamela loved what she did. Losing her was a tragedy. But, you’ve moved on and I know you’re happy.”

  Holt remained rooted to the spot, an unwilling witness to another McNeill’s pain.

  “Don’t you miss it, even a little bit?” Harry’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “Yeah, damn it, once in a while I miss the excitement and the energy, but it doesn’t mean––” Chris scanned the busy movie set. Blew out a breath.

  “Look, all I ask is you come down for a few of the pivotal scenes. Observe only the way you can. Offer some feedback.” When Mr. Harry Shaw, two-time Academy Award winner, wanted something, very few could deny him.

  Chris whipped off his glasses and his hazel eyes were hot. “Fine. One scene. Maybe two. But you make sure the security remains air-tight, you make damn sure every piece of equipment is triple-checked, and you make double damn sure no harm comes to my family, or my horses. Got it?”

  Holt caught himself before he whistled through his teeth. Had Chris McNeill just agreed to direct for the first time since he’d lost his first wife? Harry was persuasive, but Holt hadn’t anticipated this plot twist.

  What would Samantha do when she learned of her father’s capitulation? She’d obviously inherited not just the McNeill backbone but also the fiery temper. And damn it, why did his thoughts keep jumping to her? Oh yeah, because he regarded her like a little sister to be protected.

  Right.

  “I’m heading back to my office. Let me break the news to my family my way. We’ll figure out the scenes later. And by the way, Angela invited you for dinner tonight, Harry, so don’t try to weasel out of it.” He pointed at Holt. “You too. My wife has taken a shine to you. 7 p.m. Don’t be late. Either of you.” With that, he marched off toward his own horse, leapt up onto its back, and cantered back toward the estate.

  Harry grinned and slapped Holt on the back. “Come on, let’s check everything out.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me about your plans here? I’m not a big fan of surprises.”

  “Nope, son. Nothing you need to worry your pretty blond head over.” Harry snorted.

  “Screw you.” Holt lightly punched his arm as they headed over to the camera truck.

  12

  Absolutely unacceptable.

  Food was the answer. Only a crunchy, salty snack would do. Better her jaw worked crushing something tough into tiny bits than experiencing the blow of pain she’d suffered looking down at the movie set.

  After her crying jag, she’d ridden Princess Buttercup for another hour in a desperate attempt to calm the hell down. Anger was an easier default. Today, she would have preferred stewing in the pure dark energy of righteous fury, but instead she’d sobbed like a toddler who’d dropped her favorite toy into the toilet.

  Dylan tended to be the one who shed the tears in the family, while Amanda was stoic and had an incredible ability to remain calm and unruffled, at least on the surface. Sam preferred everyone stick to her assigned familial role, thank you very much.

  Sam foraged through the fully stocked walk-in pantry, seeking something to help numb her overwrought nerves.

  Cashews? Nah, too sweet. Barbequed potato chips? No, too salty.

  Jackpot. She plucked an unopened bag of her favorite blue corn tortilla chips off the shelf and wheeled around to the fridge to select the perfect salsa. She fist-pumped when she found the caliente extra-spicy salsa and reminded herself to hug Angela. The woman had the best shopping skills and always found the hottest, most potent salsa at the weekly local farmer’s market.r />
  She plopped down in the breakfast nook and ripped the bag open with her teeth. Shoveling the first few chips into her mouth, she pried open the salsa with her other hand. The chips crunched with a satisfying pop and she heaped an enormous mound of salsa onto a few more and stuffed them in. Her eyes floated closed and she chomped in utter bliss as the savory flavors exploded on her tongue.

  Suddenly, her eyes watered and she wheezed and choked. She jolted upright and coughed and struggled to draw in a full breath.

  “Angela bought the salsa with the habanero peppers again, huh?” Her dad laughed and he thumped her on the back.

  Sam opened her mouth and no sound emerged except for a slight squeak and maybe some blue flames like a fire-breathing dragon.

  Her dad guffawed and went to fetch a glass of water. By the time he handed her the icy liquid, her throat felt like it had been blow torched. After she guzzled the entire glass, she managed to speak.

  “Apparently I’ve lost my touch or they doubled the number of peppers in the salsa for this batch. Oh my god, it was like trying to extinguish a campfire with my mouth.” She wiped her eyes and joined his laughter. Served her right for trying to bury her feelings with junk food.

  “You okay now?” Her father’s tone turned serious and he slid into the booth across the reclaimed wood table.

  Uh-oh. When her dad looked this somber, something was up. What now?

  “Yes…” She drew out the syllable and braced herself for bad news.

  “Don’t look like that. I’ve got something to share with everyone and I wanted to share it with you first.” He reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “Yes…?” Every muscle in her body clenched as if anticipating a blow.

  “So, I was down on the set talking to Harry. So far so good. It’s far enough away from the rest of the ranch and shouldn’t impact the family or our horses.”

  Sam nodded her head, unwilling to share what had happened this morning. Her dad didn’t need to know she’d lost it and indulged in the biggest crying fit she’d had since her mother died. He needed her to be strong.

  “Anyway, Harry asked me to help him out.” Her dad clasped his hands on the table, his knuckles white against his sun-weathered skin.

  Her eyes widened. What now? “Help him out? You mean more than allowing him to invade the ranch and film a movie here? What do you mean?”

  “He asked me to consult on a few scenes.” He gazed down at the table.

  “Consult? What does that mean?” Her belly clenched.

  He paused for a moment and swallowed.

  “You mean direct again, don’t you? But you swore you’d never work on a movie again. Seriously?” Unwilling to face him, she surged to her feet, stalked to the other side of the kitchen, and stared out the window over the huge white farmhouse sink.

  “Sam.” He followed her and placed his hands gently on her rigid shoulders. “Please just listen for a moment.”

  She shrugged, and braced her hands on the familiar granite countertop, the cool stone a comfort.

  “I told Harry I would direct one or two scenes. If it’s too tough, I told him not to ask me again and he agreed.” Her dad’s voice was even.

  “And if it isn’t too tough?” She bit her lip, unfamiliar emotions simmering too close to the surface.

  “If it isn’t and I direct a few scenes, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  She blinked furiously, she would not cry again today. “We’ve lived through the worst, Dad, but––”

  “Exactly. That’s what Harry said. And he reminded me it’s been more than ten years since your mom passed. He asked me a question and it changed my mind.”

  “What?” She dug her fingers into the unyielding counter.

  He squeezed her shoulders and his deep voice cracked. “He asked me if she would have wanted me to forsake my passion for making movies forever.”

  Sam squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain to dissipate. Was she the only one who still felt like it was yesterday her mom died? What could she say without hurting the man she loved and trusted most in the world?

  “Sammy?” Her dad whispered her childhood nickname.

  She released her death grip on the granite and reached back and squeezed his hands. When she turned to face him, his eyes shimmered with emotion.

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” She searched his face for clues.

  “Sammy, if you really don’t want me to do this, I won’t.” As usual, sincerity radiated from her father.

  “Do you really want to do this?” Why was she asking? His expression revealed how much he yearned for it.

  “I do. God help me, there was something about the set being built and the moment I was surrounded by the grips and the crew and the excitement in the air, it pulled at me. I’d been planning on making a big Western like this one right before…” He shook his head. “If you will be too upset, I’ll respect your feelings.”

  She closed her eyes again. “I’m still so scared what will happen if the paparazzi find us again. And what if there’s an accident? What if––” Her stomach clutched and she blinked her eyes open.

  An unreasonable terror gripped her heart. What if he loved it and suddenly they were all plunged back into the Hollywood nightmare? Not just the loss of her mom, but also the callousness of the paparazzi relentlessly hounding them until they’d moved to the ranch.

  “What if it’s fun like it used to be? What if everything is normal? You used to love being on set with us. You loved performing once.”

  She swallowed the fear rising in her throat. “Dancing was a different life for me, and it’s over. But I can see this means a lot to you. If it’s permission you want, you’ve got it. I just hope this isn’t opening up Pandora’s box for you. For all of us.”

  He enveloped her in a warm hug and she rested her cheek against his solid chest. Maybe it would help him move beyond the past once and for all. The final memory of his lifelong passion and career was a tragic one. Perhaps working on this film would serve as a bridge for him to move on and let go.

  For the whole family to move on and let go.

  What if Harry were right and this whole situation could help them? Her dad had sacrificed everything for her and her sisters; she wouldn’t be the one to cause him any more pain.

  “Like I said, I’ll know after I direct the first scene. Maybe you could come down and watch like you used to love to do?” He smiled tentatively.

  “Don’t push it, Pops.” She lightly pressed him away and sauntered back to her chips and salsa. “Don’t push it.”

  The cool refreshing water soothed Sam’s skin. She’d spent the remainder of the day in the rehab center, helping Amanda work with one of their neighbor’s horses who had a mild ligament sprain. Not that she minded getting dusty and dirty, but nothing beat a long shower. Because Southern California was officially in drought season for the umpteenth year in a row, she forced herself to shut off the water sooner than she would have preferred.

  Her stomach grumbled and she hurried to her closet to find something to wear down to dinner. Angela preferred everyone clean up before the evening meal. Not dress fancy or anything, but she drew the line at dirt-encrusted boots, dusty shirts, or straw-filled hair. She tossed on an aqua and lime green striped sundress and slid on her favorite flip-flops––her official fancy dinner ensemble. She snorted. Dresses were fine once in a while.

  She combed out her nearly-waist length hair and decided to allow it to air dry naturally instead of bundling it up into a braid or knot. She’d never admit it to anyone, but her long silky red hair was her one true vanity. No need to restrain it for a family dinner.

  “Headed downstairs?” Amanda poked her tawny head into the bedroom and whistled. “Oooh, someone is dressed like a girl—ready to flirt with the stuntman?”

  “What?” Sam’s head snapped toward her sister. “Holt is here?” She ignored the kick against her ribcage.

  “Yeah, Dad invited Holt and the dire
ctor to dinner tonight. I figured that’s why you got all gussied up.” Amanda’s eyes widened.

  “Gussied up? Please. Can’t I wear a sundress once in a while?” Once a century was probably more accurate.

  “And your Titian mane flowing down your back like the goddess Aphrodite?” Amanda’s dimples showed in her fair cheeks.

  “Oh that’s me, the goddess of beauty. Very funny.” Dylan and Amanda were the beauties, not her.

  Amanda stepped in and enveloped her in a hug. “You’re so easy to tease, Sam. I can’t help myself. You are as beautiful as Aphrodite and probably more so because you just don’t seem to know it.”

  Samantha’s chest tightened. For a moment, she rested her forehead on Amanda’s shoulder and savored the connection with her kind, loving sister. Guilt tickled her throat, should she warn Amanda before they went downstairs? She hugged her tight, knowing Amanda would be upset when her dad shared the news about his plans to direct again.

  Sam doubted her usually even-keeled sister would react any better than she had initially. Amanda played her cards close to the vest and always seemed to radiate a serene calm, but underneath she was a McNeill through and through. Maybe she was the one who had inherited their mother’s acting talent. Lord knows Sam and Dylan couldn’t hide their feelings worth a damn.

  “You’re the beautiful one. Princess Amanda.” Her sister’s willowy golden beauty befitted royalty.

  Amanda snorted. “Right, that’s me, the princess. The only princess around here is your horse. You and I both know Dylan is the one who got the princess genes in the family.” Amanda threaded her slender arm through hers and they headed downstairs together.

  Showtime.

  13

  There are my beautiful daughters,” Chris McNeill called from the dining room table, where they were all already seated. “Come join us.”

  Holt rose to his feet at the same time Harry did. Manners. His breath caught at the vision Sam made and something unfamiliar tightened in his chest. Her hair was unbound and tumbled like a fiery silken blanket around her bare shoulders. Her creamy skin glowed and her dark eyes were fixed on Harry. He raked his gaze lower and saw she wore one of those floaty sundresses. She looked delicate.