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 swell-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.
After making sure Judy was beyond hearing range, she hissed to Tony, “I told you so.”
He glanced up from the pile of onions, and Mari wasn’t sure if he was mad at her or not. She thought she detected a twinkle in those magnificent eyes, but didn’t dare stare into them for long enough to be sure. Lordy, the man’s eyes ought to be outlawed.
“You didn’t, either. I distinctly recall you telling me the steaks were as tough as an old boot. You didn’t mention word one about the cook’s penchant for onions.”
In spite of herself, Mari smiled. “I guess I forgot.”
“Um, I kind of like fried onions.” Martin slipped his comment into the fairly tense atmosphere, using a chipper voice in which Mari perceived an undertone of apprehension.
“Want some of mine?” Tony obligingly lifted his fork, from which dangled a tangle of limp onion rings.
“Ah, no thanks, Tony. I appreciate the offer.”
Poor Martin. Of course, he might be a legitimate good guy, but Mari didn’t feel it would be wise of her to let down her guard yet. He still might be out to trick her into some deal she’d regret.
Tony shoved most of the onions into a pile beside his steak. “I like onions, too, but not quite that many.” He tried to saw off a bite of his steak and found it rough going. Lifting his knife, he glanced first at its edge and then at his plate. Gingerly, he stabbed at his steak with his fork. The tines didn’t even make a dent in the meat. He glanced up at Mari, looking rueful. “I’m afraid you were right about the relative tenderness of this steak, Miss Pottersby.”
Mari refrained from another “I told you so.” Rather, she said, making an attempt to be agreeable, “Maybe you can get one of those steel carving knives from the kitchen. It’ll probably taste all right if you can ever cut up.”
Tony shook his head and resumed gazing at his steak. He looked both sad and hungry, and Mari took pity on him. She told herself she was being a jackass to give in to her tender heart. After all, Tony Ewing had enough money to buy the whole town of Mojave Wells if he took it into his head to do so.
Nevertheless, she said, “Please excuse me for a moment,” rose from her place, and walked to the swing door separating the dining room from the kitchen.
Even though she’d never bought a meal in their restaurant, she’d been to the Nelsons’ kitchen often enough to know the way. She returned a few moments later, bearing a sharp knife in her fist. Because she was feeling kind of jocular, she repositioned the knife as if she aimed to stab Tony in the heart with it. The blasted man didn’t even have the decency to pretend fright.
With a sigh, Mari decided she should have expected nothing better from him. He was too darned contrary play along with her joke. “Here, Mr. Ewing. See if you can kill the cow with this”
“Thank you, Miss Pottersby.”
“No problem.” She sat, smiled at Martin, and began on her pot roast.
Mari was no kind of cook, but she decided after the first couple of bites that the meat she cooked up in her one cast-iron skillet along with potatoes, carrots, and onions grown in her garden, tasted a heck of a lot better than this piece of dried-out shoe leather. She chewed, swallowed, took a sip of water to chase the roast down, and sighed. “I’m sorry we don’t have better accommodations for you movie folks here in Mojave Wells. We don’t get a lot of tourists or people who want to shoot pictures here.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Pottersby. This is great fare compared to some of the places I’ve been.”
Mari gazed at Martin for a moment, trying to catch him in the lie. At the moment, however, he was diving with evident relish into his pot roast. As his portion of beef undoubtedly came from the same cow and had been cooked in the same pot as had Mari’s, she acquitted him of subterfuge. “You must have been in some mighty rough places, Mr. Tafft.”
Martin laughed, took a sip of his wine, and said, “I have. The picture business isn’t all glamour.”
Tony snorted. Before Mari could say something nasty about his behavior, deportment, and general moral laxity, he said, “So far, I haven’t seen any glamour at all, and this is only my first time around a motion picture.”
In spite of herself, Mari was interested. “Is that so? I’d believed you to have been connected with the picture business for quite a while.” Her ignorance of motion-picture making was so acute, she didn’t even know enough to ask questions about it. Fortunately, Tony relieved her of that burden.
“Nope. I’d never even been to California before. Poor Martin bears the brunt of the work. He has to do everything that needs to be done for the studio, from hiring actors to finding locations. And wherever he goes, he has to eat the local chow. He’s been everywhere and done everything.” Giving up on his steak for the moment, he asked Martin, “Didn’t you have to travel rough in Mexico once? I remember heart something about fried ants and a donkey.”
“Fried ants?” Mari, who loathed, detested, and despised ants, stared at Martin, horrified. “How awful!”
Martin chuckled. “They weren’t ants, Tony. They were grasshoppers. They weren’t half bad, either.”
Yuck. Although Mari didn’t hate grasshoppers with the same vehemence she reserved for ants, she didn’t think she’d want to eat one. “Did you really have to eat them?” Her nose wrinkled before she could stop it. She hadn’t had much of an appetite when she arrived at the Mojave Inn because of her general state of anxiety. She was rapidly losing the little appetite she’d had to begin with.
“I don’t suppose I had to, but I had no objection, and I always try to blend in. Besides, it made them happy, so I did it. Honestly, they weren’t bad. Very crunchy. If they’d had a little salt on them, they might have tasted something like French-fried potatoes. The folks in this particular village didn’t use salt. Don’t know if that’s because there wasn’t any, or what.”
“Oh.” Mari’s tummy gave a little leap that didn’t do anything for her peace of mind.
“Sounds abominable to me,” Tony, said flatly. I don’t know how you can keep it up, Martin.”
Martin heaved another sigh. It sounded heartfelt to Mari. “I don’t mind the food part, but I do have to admit I’m getting a little tired.”
“A little tired?” Tony guffawed and drank more wine. “I’d be dead if I’d had the job you’ve done for the past eight or nine years.” As if he expected Mari to say something wicked, he turned and gave her a straight look. “Don’t say it, Miss Pottersby.”
For some reason, Mari suddenly felt like laughing. So she did. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Ewing.”
He grinned back, and Mari almost fainted on the spot. A girl could get used to being grinned at by Tony Ewing. Which was a very bad thing. Mari immediately went back to her pot roast, even though she didn’t think she could fit one more bite into her already overwrought stomach.
After they’d finished as much of their dinner at the Mojave Inn as seemed appropriate for good health, Martin suggested they retire to the hotel’s small parlor to discuss business. Mari had almost begun to relax with the two men by that time, but her nerves sprang to attention as soon as Martin mentioned business.
For some reason, her gaze flew to Tony Ewing. His face told her nothing. It looked to Mari as if he was bracing himself for an unpleasant encounter. She resented that. She wasn’t unreasonable. She was merely trying to protect her interests.
Who was she trying to kid? She’d probably be better off if she sold these men the Marigold Mine outright, moved to San Bernardino or some other decent-size city, and got a regular job for regular wages.
Tony’s spirits were in an uproar as he walked Mari Pottersby home after their wrangle in the parlor of the Mojave Inn. He still resented her a good deal, both for being pretty and not taking care of herself, and also for being too damned smart for a woman. Women were supposed to be meek and yielding. This hardhearted, hardheaded female was about as far from being meek and yielding as they both were from the Rock of Gibraltar.
Yet he couldn’t hate her. In fact, although it gave him no pleasure to admit it to himself, he found her fascinating.
His company made her nervous, though. He could tell. Her voice was brittle and breathy, and it seemed to him as if she were attempting to run some kind of race. She’d tried to get him to stay at the inn and let her walk home alone, but he’d refused. She might not like him, but he knew his duty as a gentleman. He held a kerosene lantern, the light guiding their way in fits and starts. He was unused to carrying such a primitive lighting tool, and it took him a while to learn to control it so that the light didn’t bounce all over the place.
“Are you worried about your dog?” he asked curiously, speeding to keep up with her.
She slowed slightly and turned to gape at him “My dog? Why should I be worried about Tiny?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I only wondered why you were hurrying so much.”
“Hurrying? Am I?”
There wasn’t light enough for him to tell, but he thought she might be blushing. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Miss Pottersby. I don’t bite.” Although a discreet nibble here and there on the comely Mari’s bare flesh held some appeal.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she advised sharply. “It’s late, and I have to get up early to work in the mine.”
He considered asking her why she bothered, but he didn’t want to rile her unnecessarily. “I see.” He was glad when she slowed down, though.
She turned her head and gazed at him, a hint of rebellion in her expression. “I suppose you think I’m a fool to keep working the mine, don’t you?”
“Um, well, that’s not my call.”
“Right. I can tell you do.”
Tony decided silence would be prudent.
“Well, it’s not,” Mari declared hotly. “You’re out here working for your father, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” Prudence also dictated that he not remind her of the differences between their respective sires. Maurice Ewing was a multimillionaire. Mari’s father had been a lunatic.
“There. You see? We’re both carrying on for our fathers.”
“Right.”
They walked along without speaking for a few minutes until Mari let out a huge breath and said, “Oh, very well. You’re right. The mine’s probably played out, and I’m an idiot for trying to keep it going.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t need to.” She sounded bitter. “And I suppose I am stupid. But I can’t bear to quit. It was Dad’s dream.”
“I understand.” He didn’t understand for a second, although he pitched his voice to what he hoped sounded like a soothing tone.
“I’ll just bet you do.”
They had come to within dog-sniffing distance of her cabin, and Tiny set up an ear-splitting racket, so Tony couldn’t try to redeem himself in Mari’s eyes. It was probably just as well, since he couldn’t figure out why he even wanted to.