Ella focused her stare to a pinpoint on the cowboy’s vested back, determined to bore a hole through him. How dare he tell her how to cross the street.
The sensation of his iron grip still belted her waist, and her hand shook as she fumbled in her jacket pocket for biscuits the hotel’s cook had given her. Two of them, now flattened like pancakes.
She hadn’t been atop a horse in a year and a half. With a shake of her head, she shoved the biscuits back in her pocket and took a tentative step forward. The man had not even offered to help her back to the studio. As if she would have accepted his help anyway.
He saved your life.
Guilt, these days, had acquired a voice remarkably similar to her dear Nana’s.
All right. He had saved her life. She plucked an ornery grass stem from her stockings. He’d also insulted her. And who was to say that she might not have side-stepped the charging horse and buggy had he not been in her way?
She imagined Nana Elizabeth’s eyes rolling heavenward at such ingratitude, and an uninvited image imposed itself—her own trampled body in the street, buggy-wheel tracks marring her rose-colored suit.
Three men approached, one with a bowler in his hand and regret on his face.
“Miss . . .”
“Canaday.”
“Miss Canaday, please, may I offer you a ride back to town?” The bowler indicated the buggy, horse twitching in the traces. “I do apologize for any injury or danger resulting from my mare’s nervous condition.”
Nervous indeed. But not as much as Ella would be if she accepted his offer. Though her walk to the studio was blocks farther now than usual, she couldn’t trust that animal to remain calm at the next choking automobile, and it seemed more of them crowded the street now than before.
“Thank you, but no. I believe I’ll walk.” She gave a polite smile and angled away, her limp more pronounced than ever. As it turned out, she was the one who suffered the searing burn of someone staring a hole in her back.
Rounding the corner at Main Street, she ducked away from her audience and leaned against the store front. She couldn’t stop trembling, whether from anger or fear she didn’t know. So much for a change of scenery and observing the rumored West before it vanished. Perhaps she should have stayed in Chicago on the Canaday estate and filled her days with tatting and china painting and tea with spinsters whose ranks she would soon enough join.
Her now-empty stomach rolled, and a moan escaped. She’d completely humiliated herself in that cowboy’s presence. Not only had he seen her weakened condition, but he’d also seen her sick. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the brick, pressing a hand to her midsection until her insides settled. At lease she had no call to face him ever again.
The ache in her leg spread downward from thigh to calf, but she waited for passersby to do just that before kneading her fisted knuckles into the scarred thigh muscle. The building that supported her housed a grocer, one of three she had seen in town so far, advertising locally grown vegetables and fruit in season. A shame that early June was not the season for that fruit.
Jed Barr’s gabardine shirt looked as if it had been run through a wringer. She inspected it for tears but found only wrinkles, which could be remedied provided she had the time. She pushed off the wall and peered ahead for her destination, though it was completely out of sight. The Hotel Denton rose two blocks from where she stood, and the Selig Polyscope studio was three blocks beyond that. By the time she arrived, she would be even sorer—and sorely late—providing yet another arrow for the leading lady’s artillery.
Nearing the Denton’s stately four stories, she wanted nothing more than to stumble upstairs and into a hot bath, but she pressed on. Urgency tempted her to hurry, but she took her route slowly, accommodating her leg by strolling rather than rushing.
A baker’s enticing aromas wafted into the morning, as did a spicy concoction from the Ceylon Tea Store’s open door. The small town preened beneath her perusal, boasting a millinery and ladies’ clothing store, the Cañon City Record newspaper office, two drug stores—one with a soda fountain—as well as a hardware store, paint store, and a church.
The walk had dissipated most of her tension and loosened her tight nerves. Her leg, however, was another matter.
She stopped at the corner of Fourth and Main, looked both ways for signs of nervous horses or cacophonous motorcars, and then successfully crossed the street for her final stretch to the studio.
The dignified Raynolds Bank peered down as she passed, but she focused on resisting her leg’s painful throbbing and almost missed a visitor waiting at the studio—the very horse that had carried her to safety. In a manner of speaking.
Her neck prickled at the fresh memory of a man’s iron-like grip and pillared leg that together served as what really carried her from certain death, or at least further maiming. Pushing away those troublesome sensations of the cowboy’s powerful presence, she considered his equally powerful mount that waited calmly in front of the studio, reins dangling to the dirt.
He was a beauty with his fiery coat and fine head, two qualities she had failed to appreciate while flying down Main Street.
She cushioned her approach with a soft greeting. “Hello, you handsome fellow. And thank you for coming to my rescue earlier.”
The horse flicked an ear and nuzzled her jacket pocket.
She angled her right hip away, but rubbed the animal’s velvety nose, careful to keep her fingers from its supple lip. “Sorry, but they might be all I’ll have time to eat today.”
Dark eyes regarded her with a calm and understanding gaze. She leaned into the strong body still overly warm from its run. A good brushing and a bag of oats were what he needed. She drank in the familiar scent of horse, leather, and sweat, not surprised that it still held the power to console and depress her at the same time.
“You truly are a beauty.”
He dropped his head and rumbled a deep-chested thank-you.
“I prefer handsome.”
The bass tones jerked her around to the cowboy shadowed in a notch of the building. Unbalanced by the sudden move, she tilted against the horse’s shoulder, embarrassed by her awkwardness and peeved by a man who would not make himself known immediately. So much for never seeing him again.
The horse stood solid. Its owner moved toward her slowly, as if he didn’t trust her and hadn’t recently yanked her from the ground in as daring a stunt as any Jed Barr and Mabel Steinway staged. His expression was guarded and hardened, lacking the concern that had earlier drawn his brows together and kept her clutched in his protective hold. No staged scene, that. No director or cameraman, costumes or makeup.
A chill fluttered through her like winged truth, and her breath caught at the enormity of what she had been so quick to dismiss simply because she believed he thought her an invalid.
She straightened and faced him squarely. “Thank you for your assistance earlier today. What you did was quite . . .” Heroic? “My comments were less than appreciative. Please forgive me.”
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and his head turned a degree in that way that people did when doubting what they perceived.
She deserved that.
Standing so close to him without the wind tearing against her, she detected an earthy scent similar to his horse, minus the sweat. More like hay and sunshine, not at all in keeping with his previous manner. But if manners were in question, hers had been less than exemplary. “I am Ella Canaday.”
“Cale Hutton.” He touched his hat brim with his left hand in a perfectly natural and unaffected way. Jed Barr could learn a thing or two.
He extended his other hand, and she accepted it, not in the least surprised by his strong grip. Azure eyes had a similar hold. Creased at the edges but clear as the morning, they took her in with unpretentious candor.
Rescuing her hand, she buried it in her skirt pocket. “Are you expecting to meet someone, Mr. Hutton?”
“Cale.”
People here were quite casual with strangers, she’d learned, and Mr. Hutton was no exception, though she was hardly a stranger. Her half-nod revealed nothing of her determination to not be so familiar—a response she’d used countless times in the family parlor with any number of her father’s hand-picked suitors.
Mr. Hutton spread his stance and crossed his arms, apparently accustomed to controlling every situation he encountered.
She held back a sniff.
“Do you work for the studio?”
Rather inquisitive for a first meeting. Well, second meeting. “I am in charge of costuming.” A nervous tremor shifted through her at the lofty title, but it was none of his business what she did. Ruing such a boastful answer rather than evading his query with a pithy reply, she smoothed an obvious wrinkle in the piped yoke of Jed’s shirt.
He dipped his head. “That getup for Mr. Barr?”
“It is.” Drat. Had she no resistance to a penetrating, sky-blue gaze?
His cotton shirt and woolen vest quietly contested the fancy attire on her arm, and his wide shoulders carried a collar band a bit longer than Jed’s, by her estimation. She doubted the shirt she held would fasten across Mr. Hutton’s chest.
Surprised by the thought, she sidestepped him to get to the door.
He moved with her.
“I’ve come to see Robert Thorson about leasing my stock. He and Jed Barr were out to the Rafter-H the other day, and I told him we'd think about his offer.”
“I see.” She recalled their long absence and her relief that she hadn’t been required to accompany them. Working behind the scenes had its advantages. “Well, did you see him?”
“The door’s locked.”
At this hour? She dug the key from her skirt pocket, and when he held his place, she challenged him. “Excuse me, please.”
He watched her for an extra beat before stepping aside.
Brash. It might do him well to wait outside. But she had spent her allotment of rudeness on this man, if such a thing were possible. “Mr. Barr will not be in, but Mr. Thorson should be here soon if you care to wait.”
He followed her indoors and removed his hat from hair as dark as her thoughts. Turning on the lights, she gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat if you’d like.”
He folded himself into a curved-back captain’s chair, where he braced arms on legs and twirled his dusty hat between his knees. If Thorson used him in a scene, the man would dwarf Jed, though with his fair eyes, he’d likely be nothing more than a background character.
The camera’s blue-sensitive film would give him a ghostlike appearance if his eyes met the lens.
But her pocket Kodak was another matter altogether. For a moment, she considered what lighting would best aid her in capturing the cowboy’s rugged features.
Caught by his glance, she abandoned her musing. With slow and deliberate steps, she crossed to the clothing rack and hung Jed’s shirt with the other costumes. Once her cotton twill jacket was on a coat hanger, she smoothed her matching rose-colored skirt.
For the second time that day, she burned with an unsettling awareness of uninvited eyes on her back.
~
Ella Canaday was as puzzling a female as Cale had ever met. Unlike any rancher’s daughter, that was for sure. Not like his housekeeper, Helen, or his brother’s deceased wife, Jane. Not even like their little sister, Grace, who was a breed to herself where women were concerned. No, this gal wasn’t like one single woman he could think of, with her flimsy shoes and opinionated little chin.
And to think he’d held her in his arms. Make that arm. He snorted.
She jerked her head his way, hair swaying like fringe on a surrey.
He drove his gaze off in another direction. She hadn’t capped her name with a Miss, but her ringless finger said enough. No surprise there.
He leaned back, crossed one boot over his knee, and took in the room. Or saloon or hotel lobby, depending on where he looked. Movable canvas walls bore painted-on windows and doors and staircases, and all the furniture looked like it’d been rode hard and put away wet.
He’d seen a couple of flickers, but everything had looked better on the screen than all this did. Even Jed Barr had looked a little less than himself up close, compared to his nickelodeon posters.
A door closed at the back of the building, and heavy footsteps brought Thorson around the end of a saloon wall and into the clutter of scattered furniture.
Cale stood.
“Mr. Thorson, Cale Hutton is here to see you about some livestock.” Miss Canaday flicked her dark eyes his way.
“Hutton,” Thorson bellowed as if Cale was hard of hearing. “Good to see you this morning. You considered my offer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good.” The director swatted the air with each word and strode to a desk pushed against the wall. “I have a contract right here that I hope you will find adequate, and we can complete the transaction immediately.”
Thorson signed with a flourish and dusted his signature with fine sand from a small pot, then handed the paper and pen to Cale and stabbed a finger at a blank line toward the bottom.
A careful read of the small print satisfied Cale that no ambush awaited, and he added his name. Two hard winters, rustlers, and renegades—whether man or beast—had cut the herd in half. The Rafter-H wasn’t the only spread on Eight Mile and the high parks that needed outside cash to cover losses. This could be just the ticket.
Thorson gave him a second paper identical to the first, and Cale signed it as well. After the signatures dried, he folded his copy and stuffed it inside his vest. From the corner of his eye, he caught Miss Canaday watching the proceedings with interest. Or watching him. Something akin to dread darted through him like a startled quail.
Thorson corked the ink pot. “When can you have the cattle corralled for filming?”
“I’ve got twenty head bunched at the lower pens and horses at the ready. My brother will ride along as well, but your men need to be able to horseback, or those ponies’ll turn out from under ’em.”
Thorson guffawed.
Cale flinched, grateful the man didn’t trail cows with him.
“I assure you, Mr. Hutton, Jed Barr can handle whatever you throw at him. So can the other three men who will be driving out to your place tomorrow.”
“Only four coming?”
“Several more than that, I assure you. At least two touring cars, maybe three. Actors, cameraman, seamstress, technicians, myself. There will be quite a group.”
Cale picked up his hat and frowned at visions of city folk trampling the pastures and riling the animals. Doubt tripped up the dollar signs prancing through his head. Was it worth the risk?
“Don’t worry, son.” Thorson laughed again and slapped Cale’s shoulder. “We won’t be tearing anything up or down on your ranch. Just show us where to leave the automobiles when we get there. We all know how to stay out of the way.”
He cut a look at Miss Canaday, someone who didn’t know how to stay out of the way. Sure enough, she’d drown in the rain with her nose in the air like that. But five dollars a day for himself, another five for Hugh, and more for their cattle and horses would help stop the bleeding.
“Tomorrow, then.” He shoved his hat on and tugged the brim. “Miss Canaday.”
She gave a bare nod. From the way she rode herd on that rack of costumes, he’d wager she was the seamstress. He’d also wager she had no business around livestock.
He walked outside and gathered Doc’s reins. If Ella Canaday didn’t watch where she was going at the ranch, this whole affair might end up more risk than he’d bargained for.