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THE CAR SERVICE dumped my bags without a backward glance at the terminal where Geoffrey Stone’s private jet sat idling on the runway. A rail-thin blonde wobbled her way toward me, resembling a little girl playing dress up in her mother’s high-heeled shoes. She juggled an armful of glossy-looking booklets, which threatened to slip away with each step.
“I’m Tiffany Rawlings, Mr. Stone’s assistant.”
Darn! Would’ve lost my bet that her name would be Britney.
Struggling to hand me a brochure, she continued, “This is general information. Covers questions you may have. I . . .” Tiffany jumped like she’d been jabbed with a cattle prod and lost her grip on the booklets, which spilled from her arms. She tapped her earpiece, answering, “Yes, Mr. Stone.”
I bent and scooped up the booklets, alternating each spiral binding to corral them into an orderly pile. My OCD wouldn’t let them just lie scattered on the tarmac. Tiffany smiled when I handed her the stack, but then she teetered away—still talking into her headset—without offering any further instructions.
My experience flying by private jet is zero, so I stood awkwardly wondering what to do and where to go. A uniformed man came toward me, relieved me of my luggage, and told me the plane would be leaving in ten minutes. I admit I felt a little privileged as I sank into my seat—its leather was butter-soft and smelled like a saddle and tack shop. My stomach did its usual little flutter as the jet lifted skyward. The high seat backs didn’t allow for gawking to the front or back of me, but across the aisle, a young man and woman turned toward each other, their hushed conversation too low for me to overhear.
The flight attendant handed me a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, and I settled in to read the information Tiffany had given me. I was still waiting on Nancy to email more about my role as consultant. We’d had dinner together three nights ago, but when I’d asked her about my job, she had said “something horsey,” actually air quoting with her bejeweled fingers.
I flipped the brochure shut and closed my eyes to digest what I’d read. The film was starring none other than Lindy, Wes, and Alex—The Baker High Trio. They must be trying out the big screen. The movie synopsis had the three celebrating their high school graduation with a Western-flavored vacation. We were flying into the private TRO Ranch in the Montana Rockies, the brochure said, “to film horse and mountain scenes including Lindy’s kidnapping by a deranged mountain man and her subsequent rescue by Wes and Alex.”
I love horses. And mountains. Sounded like a perfect place to draw inspiration for my nonexistent novel while getting paid for a fun job at the same time.
The jet touched down on the private airstrip, smooth as a trumpeter swan landing on Yellowstone Lake. The scenery that sped by the window reminded me of my home state of Wyoming: a forest of thick evergreens under a blue sky painted with mares’ tail clouds. Homesickness tugged at my heart.
The passengers milled around in small groups on the tarmac waiting for the luggage to be loaded into the back of a van. We all piled in, and the vehicle drove down a paved road and stopped in front of a massive log structure. The foyer of the lodge was what I imagined a billionaire’s Montana McMansion would look like—native stone, massive logs, elk antler chandeliers. Room assignments included a welcome packet with a list of ranch do’s and don’ts discreetly tucked between fliers detailing the history of the area and the lodge amenities that were available to the guests. The ranch blurb described the untamed beauty of Dryhead Mountain, named after the dryhead agate that had been mined in the area many years ago. The brochure had pictures of Raven River, which ran through the ranch, and boasted of having the best trout fishing in the lower forty-eight. I wondered where it had gotten its name. Most likely from the large black passerine birds whose noisy caws ruin a peaceful horseback ride through the forest. Or an early explorer could have named the river after the black-haired beauty who broke his heart. Maybe Serena Knight would have to figure out what happened to the woman named Raven who mysteriously disappeared while trout fishing. I’d keep that plot line in mind. The town of Eagle Landing was thirty miles from the ranch, and transportation to and from town would be provided. Courtney McKeena was printed on a brown name tag, which dangled from a lanyard with the suggestion it be worn at all times. I scowled at the name tag. It depicted a cartoon horse standing with a cell phone to its ear. Tiny print in a word balloon said, “Hi-yo, Silver—Away!” Come on, people—Lone Ranger’s Silver was a classy horse!
My single-occupancy room resembled a picture from Log Home Living Magazine, and I sent a text to Nancy with a smiley face and thumbs-up emojis. I quickly unpacked and headed down to the dining room where brunch was being served. I bypassed anything healthy-looking and sat down with my heavy-laden plate away from the few others who dotted the dining room tables.
“You’re CJ McKeena! I recognize you from your book’s jacket.” I looked up to see a willow-thin woman with a near-translucent complexion. “I can’t get enough of your character Serena. Gutsy lady, and boy, does she get into some pickles.” I smiled up at her, my eyes traveling to the lonely looking piece of wheat toast on her plate. I discreetly pushed away my buffet for show only, having no intention of not scarfing down every last morsel after the runway model moved on. Instead of walking away, she set her plate down and took the chair next to me. “My name is Sissally—two s’s, two l’s—Meade. My dad stutters, so when he told the social worker my name for the birth certificate it came out with extra letters.”
I finished chewing my mouthful of bear claw before answering. “Please call me Courtney. CJ, the writer, is on hiatus,” I said with a smile. I studied the Hollywood type, finding it odd that she used words like “gutsy” and “pickle” and that she had already shared personal information like her father having a stutter. I liked her immediately, though, and heard my mother admonishing me for judging a book by its cover.
“I do hair and makeup for the stars,” she said, air quoting stars. She leaned forward. “Between you, me, and a fence post, I’ll have my work cut out on our star diva, Lindy. She may have been a golden child star once, but burning the candle at both ends has taken its toll.”
Before Sissally could gossip further, a commotion at the door drew our attention. The star child herself, all grown up to the ripe old age of 21, was posing for a selfie. She and her entourage of three flounced to a table and looked around as if expecting a waiter to be at their beck and call. I didn’t imagine the term “self-serve buffet” was in their vocabulary.
Sissally raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. I motioned to the second bear claw on my plate, and she smiled and took it. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she had a mini orgasm with the first bite. I turned away to let her chew in privacy.
“Oh, boy,” Sissally said around another bite of pastry. “Maybe we’ll see some fireworks. Probably not, though, because there aren’t cameras rolling, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as we watched two boys on the cusp of manhood enter the dining room. They were Hollywood Handsome—chiseled jaws, kissable lips, perfect noses, eyes that made Grandma’s nether regions quiver just a little. I knew from TMZ that the blue-eyed blond was Alex Winston. Personally, I preferred the dark coloring of Wes Gabel—chocolate-brown eyes, and ooh la la, the way his dark locks curled around perfect earlobes. I snatched up my water glass and took a big gulp.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sissally breathed just above a whisper. I watched as the tip of her pink tongue slid across her top lip. She broke the spell with a cackle. “Out of my league. Plus, because I’m 25, they consider me ancient. And they are pretty smitten with Lindy.”
I said, laughing, “I’m at that awkward age of 31, not old enough to be considered a cougar but too old for teeny-boppers.” I watched as several other young, athletic-looking women made healthy choices from the buffet. I glanced at the carbs on my plate, losing my appetite, and pushed up from the table. “I’m going to get a walk in on one of the designated walking paths before our meet and greet tonight.” I sighed. “Suppose there will be more food?”
Sissally laughed. “Designated walking paths. What a joke. We’re smack dab in the middle of the mountains. I don’t know about you, but where I grew up in the hollers of Kentucky, we didn’t have walking paths. We had trails.”
I raised my not perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Yup. Just like Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton, I was crammed into a one-room cabin, walls you could throw a cat through, and a sibling born every year. I’ve worked hard to lose my accent and to get where I am today.” With a twinkle in her eye, she said in an accented drawl, “though sometimes I mess with y’all.
“And absolutely on more food. Geoffrey’s personal chef and his staff are in residence. A small nation could live off the food budget for this film, not to mention feed themselves on what will be wasted. Oh, man, that sounds preachy, doesn’t it?”
***
I CHOSE THE RIVER PATH for my walk. The black ribbon of asphalt twisted and turned away from the back patio to deposit me at a large grassy clearing that butted up against Raven River. The snowmelt from higher elevations was evident in the fast-moving water. Having never learned to swim, I kept my distance. An ugly, ripped tree branch the size of a canoe swiftly came and went. I sincerely hoped my “horsey stuff” job wouldn’t find me crossing this fast-moving, ice-cold river on an unfamiliar horse.
After my walk, I stopped at my room to pull on a cardigan before returning to the dining hall for the meet and greet. Really, I was having body-conscious moments being surrounded by so many thin women, but I justified wearing the bulky sweater with knowing that temperatures drop after sunset in the thin mountain air.
Sissally waved to me, and I joined her after dishing up a more modest plateful of food. “How was the walkabout?” she asked in an Australian accent.
I smiled and replied, “I’m disappointed there’s no shrimp on the barbie. I went down by the river. Wild beauty would describe it.”
“I’ll have to check it out. Maybe we can do some exploring together.” She winked and added, “Maybe even off the designated walking paths.”
“I’d like that,” I said. And meant it. Though I considered Wyoming my home base, I now travelled constantly on book tours and speaking engagements. That made it hard to maintain a weekly schedule of lunches with girlfriends. Thinking about spending time with Sissally made me think maybe I wasn’t quite the loner I professed to be.
We chitchatted through our meal, and I offered to raid the dessert spread to get us a sweet treat along with coffee. As I returned to the table, Tiffany Rawlings walked gingerly to the front of the room in pointy-toed cowboy boots. My crystal ball saw bunion surgery for her by age 35.
“May I have your attention, please?” My mother would be beaming at this girl’s proper use of the word “may.” Tiffany began by recapping the information from our check-in packet. There was a quiet buzz throughout the room as most people ignored her and continued their conversations. “Mr. Stone will be here at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning to go over general filming information. Afterwards, I will meet with individual groups. I encourage everyone to check your name tag for your group assignment and locate fellow members before leaving this evening.”
“Groups?” I asked Sissally. “I’ve never been on a movie set before. What does she mean by groups?”
“Mr. Stone divides his filming crew into sections—like wardrobe, which includes me for hair and makeup.” Waving her purple name tag, she said, “We are color-coded. We will get a text telling us when and where to be, and everyone in that group had better be there and be ready to ask how high when he says jump. It’s a fast-paced industry, especially when the scene depends on a specific natural lighting. I’m not sure who else is here for wardrobe. I’m going to go see.”
I stood up, scanning the crowd, squinting to look for other brown tags.
“Staring at young women’s chests makes me feel like a dirty old man.” Warm breath brushed the curls at my right ear, causing me to jump and hit my knee on the table leg. A full water glass toppled, sending ice cubes floating on a rivulet of water.
“Sorry,” the voice spoke again. “I think you are in my group—brown name tag, Silver the horse? Pretty sure the Lone Ranger wouldn’t be happy to see his classy stallion depicted as a cartoon.”
I turned and said, “You got that right, Kemosabe.”
“I’m David Brown, horse wrangler.”
I was caught off guard by David’s Irish good looks—blue eyes, black hair, and a sexy five o’clock shadow. He was close to my age, and my mind immediately jumped to thinking that together we would make beautiful babies.
I shook away the thought and said, “Courtney McKeena, consultant to all things horsey. I guess. My job description was a little ambiguous.”
“I think you are my . . .” his voice trailed off.
“Your what?” I asked.
Ignoring my question, he asked, “Have you seen anyone else in our group?”
I gave him a puzzled look before responding, “No, but I only started looking. Should we mingle?” After a walk through the room, we determined that we were the only ones with Hi-Yo Silver—Away! I challenged David, “Do you know Tonto’s horse’s name?”
“Scout. My parents exposed me to all the old classics. How about you?”
“My grandmother. She loved all the Westerns. In fact, she’d play Marshall Dillon while I pranced around as Miss Kitty. My hair isn’t quite as red, but it’s close.”
“I think it suits you perfectly,” David said.
Embarrassed, I looked away at the thinning crowd. “Looks like the party is breaking up. Have you worked on a movie set before?”
“Nope. First time. I’m eager to see what the horses look like. Hopefully, there will be some nags these Hollywood types can ride.”
