Cale and Doc led the band of mounted dandies away from the home place, across the north pasture, pushing twenty head toward a draw that stretched into a canyon a half-mile back in the breaks. Hugh flanked the herd on the east side.
Thorson rode up, bouncing in his saddle. “You plan to run the cattle back down this draw?”
“Yes, sir.” But this was no circus where ponies trotted around in show rings. Every steer carried near forty dollars on its head, and Cale had no plans to litter the canyon with money. “Have your camera fella pick out a spot on our way up, because I’m running them down only one time. Can’t be burning weight off ’em.”
Thorson dropped back, and Cale turned in the saddle to see if he understood. Sure enough, the kid riding Scout, a snorty bay, seemed more than happy to cut off to the side.
Cale shook his head. They’d picked the wrong horse to pack that camera contraption. Scout shook his head and chewed his bit, and the little bounce in his hind quarters looked like he’d as soon toss the whole kit ’n caboodle into the scrub.
Cale should have warned them.
Or not.
Everyone else seemed to be holding their own. Jed Barr and a woman rode mid-pack, but he didn’t see the seamstress. Suited him fine. The less trouble he had today, the better.
Around the shoulder of a hill, Hugh sat sentinel, one leg cocked up over his saddle swells, his shoulders slumped in that “missing Jane” attitude. Their approach raised his head, and he drew his leg back, reined around, and trotted over to Cale.
“This everybody?” Icy eyes took in the riders.
As much as Cale felt for his brother’s predicament, he also wanted to beat the stuffin’ out of him. Moping around and seeing the bad side of everything was no way to run a ranch or raise his boys.
“Don’t forget we’re marked men.” That drew Hugh’s attention. “Five dollars a head every day for each of us and our horses, plus what Thorson’s givin’ us to use our cattle.” His brother couldn’t argue with cold cash and he knew it.
Hugh indulged his habit again. He didn’t chew—just spit when he was mad, which lately was dang near all the time.
Cale turned Doc to face the approaching riders bringing up the tail end of the small herd. Riding drag probably wasn’t in their plan, but they’d look more the part with a good coat of dust. Jed Barr and his friends faired best of all. At least some of the bunch would know what they were doing. Thorson and Barr broke from the group and rode over.
Cale jerked his chin toward the draw. “We’ll hold them around the next outcropping until you give the word.”
Thorson shifted in his saddle, obviously unaccustomed to hard leather.
“Good. Good.” His hands were busy holding the saddle horn. “We’ll film a stampede today, and if we have time afterward, a runaway scene with Mabel.”
Cale cut a look at the woman who flashed him an eye-batting smile and considered the finer points of his brother’s bad habit. “Runaway what?”
“Horse, if you’ve got one.”
Oh, he had one, but Snake could drag her to death. She wasn’t a hand like his sister, Grace, and he wasn’t about to risk some highfalutin woman’s neck.
Hugh had other ideas. “She done a runaway before?”
Thorson’s belly bounced with a laugh. “No, but Slim has. We throw a wig on him and dress him like Mabel, and you’d never know the difference. Then we film her before and after the danger’s over.”
Figured. More play-acting.
Cale pointed to a flat boulder jutting into the shallow draw. “That’d be a good spot for the camera. Tell your man to stay high. You don’t want him run over.”
Thorson barked another laugh. “Excellent. Excellent! Pete can handle himself.” He jerked his horse around and joined the cameraman trying to dismount his jittery horse. They might have a runaway right this minute, whether they wanted it or not.
Barr heeled his horse forward. “You want me and the boys to chase ’em down?”
Over Barr’s shoulder, Hugh was shaking his head. “We’ll cover it.”
At least his brother hadn’t told the leading man to stay out of the way. Cale coughed against the back of his gloved hand, grateful for small miracles. “Probably best if you and your men position yourselves along the top of the draw in case some of the steers try to break out. We’re not runnin’ this stampede more than once.”
Barr quirked a half-hearted agreement and turned back to the others, who split off, a couple of them taking each side of the wash.
Pete found the ground and, stiff-legged, hefted his equipment to his shoulder. Thorson showed him where he wanted him, then followed the fella to the top. That left Mabel and another man.
She kicked her mount forward and stopped close to Cale, her painted eyes fluttering between him and Hugh.
“I certainly didn’t expect two handsome cowboys out here in the wilderness. What’s a girl to do?” She held out a gloved hand. “I’m Mabel Steinway. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
Prodded by memories of their ma’s teaching to treat a lady with respect, Cale shook the end of her fingers, hoping that counted. “Ma’am.”
Hugh huffed and turned Shorty toward the draw, leaving Cale with a woman fit to be tied.
~
Ella wiped dirt from the box Kip had dropped on his way to the house. He’d been so proud to match his older brothers’ efforts that she hadn’t the heart to point out the bent corners and dust. But looking inside, her stomach clenched at a thick slab of beef embraced by two pieces of day-old bread, both amply spread with butter.
No watercress and minced-chicken tea sandwiches here.
If the men and Mabel were hungry enough, perhaps they wouldn’t notice the less-than-delectable offering. An apple, two cookies of questionable content, and a pickle rounded out the meal.
She re-wrapped the sandwich in its waxed paper, tucked it back in the box, and folded over the flimsy top. There could be an ugly confrontation involving wooden spoons and rolling pins if Clara got wind of this fare.
As if Clara’s scolding and cosseting weren’t enough, now Ella had a second mother hen to deal with, completely opposite in her approach. Clara boasted that she knew everything that went on in town. Helen unashamedly demanded to be told one’s personal history. It was none of her business, but how did one put off such an obviously caring woman’s bold inquisition and avoid an uncomfortable day working side by side?
Ella ordered the boxes into a neat line, much like the Hutton boys’ presentation, and toyed with the idea of escaping to the yard. She could sit on a crate and stay out of the kitchen, leaving Helen to serve alone. They would never see each other again, but that fact didn’t allow for such unkindness. Nana’s lessons had not fallen on deaf ears.
A scraping chair and breathy oomph behind her announced Helen’s seated position. Ella joined her hostess, who lifted a coffee cup to her lips. Another steaming cup, filled near to the brim, waited before a second chair at the pie-covered table.
Resigning herself to a partial revelation, Ella sat, grateful at least to be off her feet, and sorted through what she would share and what she would not. Where to begin?
“At the beginning, dear.” Helen dabbed her brow with her apron hem. “Start at the beginning.”
Surprised, Ella fidgeted with her belted skirt waist. Did the woman read minds? No wonder those three little urchins were so well mannered.
“It’s not every day I get womenfolk to visit with out here on this ranch full of men—tall ones and short ones.” A soft chuckle betrayed her affections. “So pardon me if I cut past the chit-chat. But what happened to your leg? Help yourself if you want a piece of pie. Or is it your hip or ankle that pains you?”
Trying not to picture herself in a courtroom, Ella stalled as she sipped the hot coffee. Not as bitter as what Mr. Thorson brought from the café, but strong enough to strip paint. She glanced around for sugar and cream and finding none, chose to apply the old adage, when in Rome.
She had not discussed her condition, nor its cause, with anyone. Everyone she knew also knew what had happened, and therefore they did not ask. Her family, their physician. Charles’s family. Even Mr. Thorson hadn’t mentioned it.
Her throat tightened and she drew a deep breath through her nose. “I was in a motorcar crash involving a horse . . .”
Helen swirled her coffee and shook her head. “Those infernal things will be the death of us all.”
“My fiancé was killed.”
Helen’s shock bled into regret, for she leaned across the corner of the table and took Ella’s hand. “Forgive me, dear. I’ve no intention of re-opening wounds or prying into your business.” She leaned back. “Just thought you might benefit from talking it over some. About your leg, that is. And how you hired on with a moving-picture company when moving about is, well, difficult for you.”
Helen’s curiosity, guised as concern, was stronger than her sense of propriety. But maybe her homey recipe for “talking it over” was worth trying. Appreciating her play on the word moving, Ella swallowed a second sip of unsweetened coffee more easily than the first. “I needed a change of scenery.”
Helen nodded, eyes trailing over the assorted pies. The soft line of her mouth and her silence invited Ella to continue.
“A change in scenery is easily managed with a moving-picture company.” Ella’s mouth tipped in a wry smile. “They use portable backdrops.”
Helen puffed gently against her coffee cup. “You’ve got me there.” Her eyes smiled with her. “As clever as you are, do you write the stories for the pictures?”
“Oh, no.” Feeling as though she’d escaped a firing squad, Ella warmed to the change of topic. “I’ve copied script onto a few title cards, but I don’t write the storyline. Mr. Thorson, our director, does most of that. I’m just the seamstress.” A much less boastful explanation than what she had given Helen’s employer.
The woman visibly straightened from her relaxed posture and focused her gray eyes on Ella as if learning she was a moneyed heiress. “Is that right?”
“I look after the costumes, mend tears, tailor pieces for proper fitting. And make sure accessories are readily available during filming.”
“Do you sew as well?” Helen eyed Ella’s simple blouse.
“I’ve made some of my own clothing and reworked a few costumes.”
That seemed to satisfy the woman, and an eager light entered her eye. “If you have the time, could you look at a pattern and a dress length I bought last summer and give me a few pointers? I haven’t got around to doing anything with it, what with feeding these men and looking after their needs.” She pushed to her feet and refilled her cup, offering to do the same for Ella.
“No, thank you. I still have plenty.” Ella cradled her cup away from the looming coffee pot. “But I’d be more than happy to look at what you have.”
A distant rumble drew Helen’s attention to the screen door, and she stood squinting through it quite like Clara, one hand on a robust hip. “They’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain.” Her shoulders bounced with a chuckle.
Ella joined her, following Helen’s gaze to a pale dust cloud trailing into the brilliant sky. Though far removed, it was churned by numerous hooves, and the faint roar stirred the same sensation that had frozen her to Main Street’s dirt course. Suddenly dizzy, she stutter-stepped back, bumping against Helen’s empty chair.
“Are you all right?”
The second time the woman had inquired about her well-being. Was Ella that transparent? “Y-yes, thank you.”
She gripped the table’s edge for support, working hand-over-hand until she reached her chair and fell into it, tight-chested and faint.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Helen set the coffee pot on the table, and with one hand on Ella’s shoulder, bent to look into her eyes. “You’re trembling like a leaf.”
Ella raised a hand to her temple, confirming Helen’s observational skills. Disgusted with herself, she crossed her arms and leaned against the chair back.
“Did you eat breakfast this morning?”
Eyes closed, she slowly shook her head.
The clatter of a plate and utensil alerted her to Helen’s remedy. She and Clara were cut from the same cloth.
A stronger scent of cinnamon and sugared apples tainted the air, and Ella peeked with one eye to a plated slice before her and a fork dangling from Helen’s fingers. Both were supported by a visual command that brooked no argument.
“I’ll get you a glass of milk to go with that.”
Ella took the plate and a bite. She didn’t like milk, but that was a moot point. Pie and milk beat passing out on the kitchen floor. Maybe Clara had been right all along, and she didn’t eat enough.
~
Surprisingly revived, Ella pushed the screen door open with the toe of her boot and carried out a tray of boxed lunches. With pie and lemonade and Helen’s snappy ginger cookies, the meal might be a success.
A cooling breeze danced past the back porch and around the massive pine, carrying the whoops and hollers of mounted men. Thick dust rose from a gap beyond the house, and a half dozen riders thundered around the base of a rock outcropping, as if fleeing the grim reaper himself. Ella held the empty tray against her waist, drawn by a childhood memory of the wind lashing her face and whipping her hair—and the luscious sense of power and strength beneath the saddle that spread into her legs and arms and dreams.
The screen slapped, and she whirled. Helen carried the refilled lemonade crock. Ella’s feet stuttered in her quest for balance, and she fairly danced to Helen’s side. No more whirling.
“Looks like they’re hell-bent, pardon my language.” Helen set down the crock and swiped her apron corner across her forehead. “Do you mind filling the cups? We’ll bring the pies out after they eat whatever’s in those boxes.”
Ella could only hope. “I don’t mind at all.”
“And send everyone round back to wash up first. Don’t let them get by without it. ’Specially those three boys.” Her gaze shifted over Ella’s left shoulder. “They’ll try you, so watch out.”
She followed Helen’s frown to see the boys dashing for the yard. They must have been hiding out in the barn, waiting for their father and everyone else to return.
Father. Cale Hutton.
She snatched the ladle from the red-checkered cloth and in her best Clara imitation, aimed it in the direction of the washstand behind the house. The little urchins didn’t even stop at the table, just cut to their left, dragging their enthusiasm along with them.
Most of the company had ridden themselves weary. Horses plodded around the barn and up to the corral, where their riders dismounted and unsaddled. At least those who knew to do so. Mabel slid down and pulled her hat off, tossing her dark mane as if she didn’t know every man there was gawking at her. Fame gave her license to let someone else tend to her horse.
Ella rolled her lips and ladled cool lemonade into a tin cup. One of Jed’s friends unsaddled Mabel’s mount, all the while gazing after the woman like a lost pup as she sashayed to the yard.
Pete was first to the table, poor man. He looked like he’d carried his horse rather than ridden it. Swabbing hair off his forehead with his sleeve, he lifted a cup, closed his eyes, and drank it dry in one long draw.
“Wash first, then you can eat.”
Pete’s eyes opened slowly, as if resenting the effort.
She pointed toward the house. “In the back.” He dragged himself that way only to meet up with the Hutton herd. They slid to a stop in front of the table and their heads wagged like curious kittens before Ty uttered what Ella knew they all were thinking. “Where’s the pie?”
“Pie? You mean you want more?”
Shoulders slumped at her tease, and they eyed the boxes.
“Your lunch is inside, boys. These are for the company actors and crew.” At their disappointed droop, she leaned across the table with a stage whisper. “What Helen fixed for you is much better than what the grownups have to eat.”
A visual consultation among the three decided the matter, and they bolted for the back porch. Did they never walk?
“I’ll have another.”
She knew the voice without raising her eyes to its owner. “Of course, Miss Steinway.” Ella took the proffered cup and refilled it with a polite smile. “Please help yourself to a box lunch. Dessert will follow.”
Mabel peered down her nose at the lunches, snatched one off the table, and turned on her booted toe.
Pete returned from washing, looking the better for it, and stepped in front of a cowboy reaching for a cup. “Wash first. Over there.”
The man frowned, glanced at Ella, and stomped off to the chore.
“Thank you, Pete.” She handed him a full cup and a box. “How did the stampede go?”
“Nearly got trampled is all, but I got the film.”
“Saved us a lot of money, I might add.” Thorson’s hearty voice drew Pete up with a start, or maybe it was his thumping hand on Pete’s bony back. “Earned your keep today, son.”
Ella peered into the crock to hide her notice of the snarl on Pete’s face.
“Wash, Thorson. Back there.” Pete jerked his thumb over his shoulder and headed for the tree.
The director inspected his hands and turned away shaking his head. “Come on, you rowdies.” His heavy arm flagged the air and the troupe followed.
All but Cale Hutton who strode to the tree and groused at the boys for not staying out of the way.
Ella’s heart plummeted. So he was their father. She drew herself up and promised to see the boys had an extra piece of pie. Even if it meant that Mr. Hutton had none.
He turned away from his sons and with a hard stride, crossed the yard and stopped before the table. A frown marred his striking features. Abrupt and distant, he grabbed a box and dismissed Ella with a surly glance, as though she were a distasteful morsel.
Stricken deeper than she would have expected, she fingered the collar of her blouse and forced her stinging eyes elsewhere. He’d been kinder at the studio. With renewed fervor, she added a stony layer to her emotional blockade and busied her hands rearranging boxes, ladling lemonade for thirsty cowboys, and serving thin slices of berry and apple pie that Helen brought to the table.
Until Mr. Hutton came back.
Angered by his reappearance, she steeled herself against his good looks. Did he think her feather-headed and easily fooled, too dimwitted to observe his different vest and hat? She tugged at her apron and ignored his heavy presence, standing there waiting, as if in need of her notice. Well, she did notice. It was her job to regard such details. Even his belt was different.
She looked up. The same blue eyes took her in but without scorn. Clearer, this time, with no frown cutting between the brows. Her breath caught at an unlikely possibility. Searching the crowd, she spotted Mr. Hutton straddling a log and eating like a heathen.
But that was impossible. He was standing right . . .
Her gaze shifted back to the tall cowboy calmly waiting, a dimple stitched into one cheek as he held out his empty cup.
“Oh my.” She dunked the ladle. Warmth crested her cheeks at the laughter rumbling from his throat as she filled his cup.
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Hutton.”
“Cale.”
“Indeed.” She dropped the ladle in the crock and lemonade splashed a spot onto her flaming face. She dabbed it with a corner of her apron, too embarrassed to meet his gaze, but he reached across the table and touched her arm ever so lightly. Her traitorous eyes responded.
“Younger by a full minute.” A near smile.
He tipped his head toward the giant pine where his carbon copy sat stuffing his mouth. “And the better-looking of the pair, don’t you think?”
A soft laugh bubbled out, and she pushed at the fringe on her brow. Relief loosened a block in her barricade, and she took note that it was his left cheek that dimpled. She must remember that if she was to keep the two brothers straight.