The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  Everyone but me, thought the disgruntled desk clerk.

  He glanced down at the luggage stowed behind his counter. Holy Grail! Printed on the suitcase tag was the name John Chinook. Chinook was almost as famous as William S. Hart and Tom Mix, while Chinook’s horse, Dorado, commanded the same respect as Hart’s Pinto Ben or Mix’s Tony. The desk clerk studied the luggage as if Chinook’s scruffy mongrel, Pistol, was packed inside. Then he shifted his gaze toward the actor.

  Chinook didn’t look like a movie star. There he sat, wearing faded Levi’s and a white shirt. No ten-gallon hat. No spurs. No gun. No nothin’. And he read the newspaper just like any dime-a-dozen guy.

  Cat gave the desk clerk an icy stare. Usually he shrugged off his fame but today he felt decidedly hostile. Why had he accepted Edward Lytton’s offer to share star billing with Flower Smith, the brightest bloom in motion pictures?

  Blighted bloom was more the case.

  Twelve years ago, outside the bullfight arena, she had said that, when grown, she’d pleasure rich men. Lytton, rich as Midas, had even married the conniving parlor house girl.

  Cat’s sullen thoughts were interrupted by the subtle aroma of perfume. Laying aside his newspaper, he watched Fools Gold stride across the lobby’s Oriental rugs.

  She looked like a Russian peasant—a wealthy Russian peasant. She wore an embroidered white blouse beneath a red sleeveless jacket, a long gray skirt, white stockings, and a striped scarf. Over her arm she carried a wine-colored velvet coat with black-braid trim.

  Rising from his chair, Cat heard the orchestra playing “I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now.”

  “Hello, Fools Gold.”

  “My name is Mrs. Edward Lytton.”

  “That’s not the right answer. You’re supposed to say ‘spit’ or ‘we meet in the strangest places.’ ”

  “My husband will join us shortly.”

  “I look forward to meeting him, Mrs. Lytton.”

  Flo scrutinized the celebrated cowboy. Cat’s lips twitched with amused bravado, but his leaf-green eyes appeared dog-tired. “Would you care to buy me a lemonade?” she asked softly, relenting.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He cocked his head. “I sustained a punctured eardrum from an accident with Romaine Fielding’s motorbike.”

  “I wondered why you weren’t in the armed services.”

  “I tried to enlist,” he said, his voice bitter. “They turned me down. Seems Dame Fortune doesn’t want me to die.”

  “Do you want to die, Cat?”

  He glanced toward the orchestra. “It might be worthwhile getting laid to rest beneath the sod if Flower Smith Lytton fainted at my funeral.”

  “I never faint.”

  “Not even from ecstasy?”

  Her cheeks turned one shade lighter than her jacket. “It would be a waste of ecstasy to faint. How could one enjoy ecstasy while unconscious?”

  “Good point,” he conceded. “However, I’d relish an opportunity to cause the fainting.”

  “That’s an opportunity you’ll never get.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  With a mournful flourish, the musicians finished “I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now” and began playing Victor Herbert’s score from Naughty Marietta.

  “I’ll wager my stallion against your mare that I’ll have you swooning with rapture before we finish our movie.”

  “It’s not our movie, Mr. Chinook. It’s my movie.”

  “Is it a bet?”

  “I wouldn’t want to take your horse.”

  “Is it a bet?”

  “Certainly. Shall I have Edward draw up the papers so you can’t renege?”

  “No. A handshake will suffice.” Cat clasped her hand, bent forward, and traced the soft contours of her palm with his lips.

  She snatched her hand away. “The stables at my husband’s estate are very comfortable. Dorado should be happy playing the stud. After all, he’s a McDonald.”

  Before Cat could reply, a boy wearing a hotel uniform approached. “I have a message for you, Mrs. Lytton. Mr. Lytton telephoned and said he’d be detained. He suggested you show your guest the park. He said he’d join you upon his return.”

  “Thank you, Martin.” Flo drew a few coins from her reticule.

  The lad negligently pocketed the gratuity, his gaze fixed on Cat. “You’re John Chinook!”

  “Yep.”

  “Gawd, I knew it! Did Pistol have her pups?”

  “Pistol’s a boy dog.”

  “Aw, Mr. Chinook, everybody knows Pistol’s really a bitch, um, lady.” Martin’s freckles blurred into a blush. “Did she have her pups?”

  “No. But she’s due real soon.”

  “Could I buy one? I’ll pay anything you ask.”

  “After the pups are born and weaned, I’ll arrange to have one shipped to you at my expense.”

  “Thanks. Gawd, wait till I tell my sis that I met John Chinook. She’s gonna faint!”

  Flo felt her cheeks flush at the sound of Cat’s deep-throated chuckle. “What’s the score, Martin?”

  “Score, Mrs. Lytton?”

  “The World Series.”

  “Don’t know. Have you placed a wager, ma’am?”

  “I only wager when the odds are in my favor.” She thrust her arms inside the sleeves of her coat and walked through the lobby, toward the hotel exit. Cat followed by her side. “Have you seen Tillie’s Punctured Romance, Mr. Chinook?” she asked. “It stars Marie Dressler and Charles Chaplin.”

  “Yes. Mack Sennett is brilliant. Have you enjoyed many punctured romances, honey?”

  Seething, Flo ignored his question. A strong breeze whipped wisps of hair free from her neatly looped braids. The air was scented with the elusive odor of a crisp September day—ripe pumpkins, burning leaves, and smoke from the hotel’s stoves.

  “I hope the weather is warm for our river scenes,” she said, glancing up at the cloud-crusted sky.

  “Doesn’t DuBois plan to use a stand-in?”

  “Do you use a stand-in?”

  “No, but—”

  “Neither does Flower Smith. I’ve always performed my own stunts.”

  “I know you ride well. Do you swim?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve practiced in the hotel’s pool, but I can’t maneuver my legs with a steady kicking motion, so I tend to submerge. Women must wear such heavy bathing costumes. It’s ridiculous, swimming in sleeves and a skirt. Did you know that Annette Kellerman, the Australian swimmer, was arrested on a beach in Boston for wearing a one-piece bathing costume in defiance of accepted convention?”

  “Would you defy convention, Mrs. Lytton?”

  “I defy it all the time. I wear blue jeans. I refuse to cover my head with a gaudy winged bonnet, even though convention insists that hats and gloves are de rigeuer for public appearances. In my movies, the heroine rescues the hero.”

  Cat grinned. “Not in our movie.”

  “My movie.”

  She tensed, waiting for his next innuendo. But he merely rolled his shirt sleeves up past his elbows, exposing sun-bronzed forearms. She had once admired his good bones, and now, eight years later, his body was even more substantial. Rough rawhide. No. Tempered steel. No. A drawn bow-string, ready to release sharp, risqué arrows.

  Why had she mentioned wanting John Chinook for her costar? It had been an impulse brought on by her argument with Jack, and she had forgotten all about it. Edward hadn’t. He was certain he’d pleased her, and she couldn’t destroy his illusion.

  Would Cat talk about Cripple Creek and Little Heaven? What if Ned heard and decided to dig deeper into her past? Flo knew she could have stopped her wedding with three words—you’re my grandfather—but she’d gone too far in her masquerade, and the thought of Edward’s repudiation had stilled her tongue. She loathed Ned but she loved Edward. What if he learned he’d married his own granddaughter? The shock might kill him.

  She must control Cat. A man was controlled by a c
ertain portion of his anatomy, Jack had said. If Flo made good her threat, if she hooked and landed a certain catfish, she’d have to walk a taut tightrope. She must display interest then have Cat repudiate her. For starters, she’d hire Jane Percival. Jane was young and beautiful. Jane would be the bait to lure Cat away from “Flower Smith.”

  Flo had adored Jane at first sight. A Divide rancher’s daughter with golden-brown hair and eyes, she was a tiny slip of a girl who looked much younger than nineteen.

  “I’ve lived on a ranch my whole life,” she’d said, her voice wistful. “I can shoot, twirl a rope, and ride a horse better than Annie Oakley.”

  It would only be a matter of time before the young ingenue caught Cat’s eye. But, for now, Flo had better walk that tightrope.

  Despite the cool breeze, she shrugged off her coat, dropped it and sank to her knees. She let Cat help her rise, stumbled, and righted herself against his body. Then she walked a few steps backwards and lowered her lashes. “I want to make a confession, Cat.”

  “I’m all ears, Mrs. Lytton.”

  “Do you promise not to laugh?”

  “I rarely make promises I can’t keep.”

  Flo lifted her chin. “Then I shan’t confess. Let’s return to the lobby and wait for Edward there. Perhaps we might check the score of the baseball game.”

  “All right, you little devil, I won’t laugh.”

  “Do you remember that day on Romaine Fielding’s set? Oh, you’ve probably forgotten all about—”

  “I remember.”

  “I said no to your picnic because I had other plans. Then Jack had to attend a silly business meeting and . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I walked to the Plaza Hotel. I couldn’t wait to tell you I’d changed my mind. I kept hoping you hadn’t changed yours—”

  “Ruthie!”

  “Miss Adams answered my knock. She invited me inside, offered me a drink, and told me about your engagement. She said she’d visited your ranch and met your mother.”

  “Ruthie visited the ranch but the engagement was a lie.”

  How easy it is to lie when one sticks to the truth. Flo looked down at the tips of her white shoes. “I felt terrible. We’d finally found each other after so many years. I turned to Edward for solace as a result of that afternoon.”

  Cat walked toward a Boston ivy. The scarlet foliage reminded him of blood, and blood reminded him of that long-ago day when he’d tarried with Fools Gold. He remembered stealing Romaine’s motorbike and riding away from her, just as he had once ridden away from Madam Robin and Cripple Creek. But a motorbike wasn’t Dorado. The bike had swerved and he’d been thrown from its seat.

  What he didn’t recall clearly was finding his way back to his hotel room and collapsing from a near-fatal head wound. Romaine’s anger. A frightened Ruthie, promising she’d never touch a drop of liquor again, shouting it over and over because Cat was deaf in one ear.

  They returned to California. Ruthie still wanted to be a movie star, and Cat couldn’t help her. Maybe Claude DuBois could, she said, packing her bags and swinging her hips through his doorway for the last time. A shame the cactus nettle hadn’t stuck a bit longer. Their parting had occurred just before the release of Hoxie’s movie.

  Now Cat stared at Fools Gold. Was she telling the truth? She had sounded sincere until that last part. “Are you telling me the truth, honey?”

  “What do I have to gain by fibbing?”

  “Look me in the eyes and repeat the part about turning to Lytton for comfort.”

  “Why don’t you believe me? I swear I went to your room, and Miss Adams said you were betrothed. I swear it on my life.”

  “Flower! My God! Flower!”

  Flo turned at the sound of Edward’s call. Watching him walk swiftly down the path, she felt the color drain from her face. “What’s wrong, Edward?”

  “Darling girl, you’re standing outside with your coat off. Do you want to catch your death?”

  “For heaven’s sake, you scared me to death. I really believed there was cause for alarm. I’ll put my coat back on since it bothers you so.”

  Edward grinned at Cat. “That thin garment doesn’t do much good against the cold, does it? I’ve offered Flower every pelt in Colorado, but she always refuses. She says she doesn’t want to be responsible for the slaughtering of animals.”

  “Yes, I know. I once had a rattler’s vertebrae threaded with string and—”

  “Speaking of snakes, Edward, didn’t you just come from Aguila del Oro? Is the rattler problem truly solved?”

  “I hope so. We’ve transported dozens of pigs so they can eat the snakes.” He winked. “Now we have a pig problem.”

  “We haven’t been formerly introduced, Mr. Lytton,” said Cat. “I’m John Chinook.”

  “Yes. I could hardly fail to recognize you, even from a distance. I borrowed some of your oaters from Triangle after Flower expressed the desire to hire you as her costar.”

  “She requested me for her costar? I wasn’t aware that Miss Smith . . . Mrs. Lytton . . .”

  “Call me Flower, Mr. Chinook.”

  “Please call me John. In truth, it’s my given name. I was named for my father. Surely you remember John McDon—”

  “Edward, I believe I’ve caught a chill.”

  “My darling girl, you’re shivering. A hot bath should thaw you out. Retire to our suites immediately. I’ll entertain your new costar.”

  “Please, Edward, I want to hear about the latest progress on Aguila del Oro. Do you mind, Mr. Chinook?”

  “Of course not. I’m sure there will be many opportunities to chat during the filming of our movie. We can start tonight.”

  “A hot bath should cure my shivers, but I believe I’ll skip tonight’s celebration.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Flower. I was hoping I might use the occasion to establish our newfound friendship.”

  “Thank you, John,” she said, and Cat could have sworn she held back a sigh of relief. “If I cannot attend this evening, I’ll send another actress in my stead. Her name is Jane and she’s very pretty.”

  Not as pretty as you, my dove, thought Cat, watching the two figures stroll toward the hotel. I wonder why Fools Gold shines brighter than real gold.

  I wonder why Lytton didn’t wear the satisfied smirk of a man who’d married the brightest bloom in motion pictures.

  I wonder why he looked more like an elderly lion guarding his pride.

  I wonder why he acts like a fond uncle, or a father, or a grandfather, rather than a husband.

  I wonder if she ever tells him of me. I wonder who’s kissing her now.

  * * * * *

  After Fools Gold and Edward Lytton had disappeared from sight, Cat walked aimlessly about the hotel. Eventually, he found himself in the sun parlor. A small form immediately launched herself into his arms.

  “Cat! Oh, Cat, is it really you?”

  “Dimity-Jane! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Well, that’s a fine greeting, I must say. It’s been years. Couldn’t you fib and tell me how grown-up I look or how pretty I’ve become?”

  Cat held his sister at arm’s length. “It wouldn’t be a fib. You’re beautiful, Dimity-Jane.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not Dimity-Jane anymore. You used to call me Janey so I changed my name to Jane Percival. Why are you laughing?”

  “Don’t look so sorrowful. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I laughed because I once considered changing my last name to Percival, for Black Percy. Is that why you did it?”

  She nodded.

  “Come, give your favorite brother a big hug and kiss. Am I still your favorite brother?”

  She burst into tears.

  “What is it? My God, Janey, what did I say?” Stepping forward, Cat pressed her wet face against his chest. “Hush, baby. It can’t be that bad. Whatever’s wrong, I’ll fix it.”

  “Sorry, Cat. I can’t stop.”

  “All right, cry. We’ll t
alk when you’re finished.”

  “Is everybody looking at us?”

  “We’re the only ones in the room. In case you didn’t notice, the sun parlor lacks sun.”

  She stepped away, smiled at his remark then burst into renewed tears. Cat scooped her up in his arms and sat on a cushioned rattan chair.

  When her wild weeping had calmed, she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Hellfire, Cat, that felt good. So damn good.”

  “Don’t you be airing your paunch at me, young lady. What would Maman say?”

  “Maman?”

  “Dimity. Our sainted mother.”

  “Luke said he wired you. We all wondered why you didn’t come . . . oh, God, you don’t know.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  “Maman died last year.”

  Cat swallowed his first response. “How did she die?” he managed.

  “It was cold and snowing, a blizzard. Papa was out on the range, looking for stray calves. Papa insisted Luke help. Luke wanted to stay inside the house by the fire—he’s such a coward—but this time Papa stood firm. Everybody thought Mother was in her room, praying. She’d do that, stay in her room, on her knees, for hours and hours. It got worse after you left. Tonna . . . Rosita . . . we never thought to check . . .”

  “She wasn’t in her room.”

  “Tonna found her on the chapel steps, covered with snow, frozen to death. You weren’t there when the chapel was built. It’s near the house. Mother must have searched for Luke then tried to make her way back. Luke blames Papa. Luke was so nasty, Cat. ‘If you hadn’t made me come with you, Maman would still be alive,’ he said over and over. Now Papa just sits in his chair all day, mumbling about the trail drive and the killing of baby calves.”

  “Who’s running the ranch? Black Percy?”

  “No. Luke.”

  “Luke doesn’t know anything about ranching.”

  “He knows how to spend profits. Luke has his own automobile that he drives to Denver twice a week. He plays with investments, but I’m sure he gambles and loses more than he wins. He’s joined the Ku Klux Klan. He has a woman but she’s not the marrying kind, if you get my drift. Her name’s Suzette, and here’s the funny part. Luke has become friendly with Ned Lytton, whom he discovered at one of his Klan meetings. That’s how I learned about Dollyscope’s new movie. By the way, have you met Flower Smith?”