Cale had seen some fancy riding in his day—Grace was always willing to show off for the family and anyone who would watch—but Slim sure enough looked like a female floundering on a runaway horse. Trouble was the fella didn’t have much of a whoa.
Cale caught up with him before he made the turnoff to the county road. Ol’ Snake had nearly winded himself, but he’d be fine soon enough. Finer still for an easier run with Mabel. But Cale had yet to see hide or hair of Jed Barr, and he was beginning to get a funny feeling in his gut.
Galloping alongside his “sleeper” horse, he reached for its bridle, then slowed Doc to a lope. “Whoa there, Snake. Easy, fella.”
Familiar with Cale’s voice, the gelding quickly matched Doc’s stride and eased down to a trot. Cale took the reins and they circled around and back to Thorson.
Slim was gray as goose down.
Cale almost felt guilty. “That was quite a ride.”
“You’re telling me.” More winded than his mount, the man grabbed the front of his dress, clawing for air. Then he pulled his wig off, flinching visibly as pins snagged in his own hair. “This is some horse you’ve got. Ever race him?”
The question tugged a grin across Cale’s face as he recalled a lap ’n tap race at the county fair. “Some.”
“Well, my money’s on him if I’m ever around for the race.”
“You volunteering to jockey?”
“No, sir. One ride on this Pegasus is enough.”
If Cale’s memory served him right, Pegasus was a white horse. But he doubted color was what weighed on Slim’s mind.
He reined in near Thorson and the cameraman. Slim hunted the ground.
The director slapped the fella on his thin back. “Best you’ve ever done! And Pete got the whole thing.”
Slim stepped out of his dress and rolled it around the wig. “Good thing, ’cause I got only one of those rides in me today.”
Thorson guffawed but quickly sobered as he took in the bay standing calm and droopy-eared. He narrowed his eyes at Cale. “You got any more unlikely surprises around here?”
“Not if Jed Barr is half the horseman I hear he is.”
Thorson coughed and ran a hand over his mouth and exchanged a glance with his assistant. “About that.”
Dadblastit. He turned Doc toward the barn. Snake followed meekly.
“Hold on there, Hutton.” Thorson lumbered after him.
He was holding on. Holding on to his horses and his temper.
Harsh coughing—more like choking—turned his head to find the heavyset man braced on his knees sucking air. Cale stopped. He didn’t need a heart attack on his hands. The hospital was a good twelve miles away.
Pete and Slim joined them but didn’t look too worried, as if Thorson’s wheezing fits were a common occurrence.
The director wiped his mouth and straightened. “Jed couldn’t make it today, so we won’t be filming a branding.”
Good thing, because no cow-calf pairs had been brought up.
“But I need to film the rescue end of this runaway scene. Pete’ll splice the film together and it’ll look like the real deal.”
Cale nudged Doc on.
“You could stand in for Jed.”
“No.”
Footsteps scuffled behind. “It’s not more than a two-minute shoot.”
“No.”
Thorson caught up and puffed along beside him.
Cale considered squeezing Doc into a trot, but the man was already red-faced again. He reined in, surprising Thorson into a sudden stop. “What about your actors? You’ve got several here that would work just fine.”
“I’ll pay you extra.”
That was a low blow. Cale considered himself above being bought, but things had been tight the last couple of years. Too tight. Two minutes?
He failed to mask a growl. “Two minutes.”
“Wonderful! You won’t be sorry.” Thorson brightened considerably. “And you’ll be famous. Why, when the towns people learn a local rancher pulled off the stunt, they’ll be asking for your autograph.”
Cale snorted outright. The only thing he wanted to sign was a paid-off bank note. “I’d just as soon they didn’t know.”
“Fine, fine.” Thorson swatted the air. “Anything you say.” He sent Pete a few yards down the road. “Slim, take your makeup over to the pine tree and get Mr. Hutton’s face and neck powdered for the scene.”
Cale bristled. The day he wore face powder would be a cold day in he—
The sight of Miss Canaday hidden by an oversized hat like an imp beneath a toadstool cut his thought in half. He wanted nothing more than to sit and talk with her.
Mabel approached, her face plastered with yellow cream and her eyes rimmed with even more kohl than before. “Can you save me from that wild bronco, cowboy? Like you saved someone else on Main Street?”
How’d she know about that?
Miss Canaday’s wide hat brim blocked his view of her face, but her rigid posture said she was as shocked as he was. If Thorson hadn’t offered to pay him, he’d take off to the ridge. Leave ’em all to figure it out on their own. Get Hugh to do the ride.
That’d be the day.
Mabel and Thorson must have planned this whole thing and left Jed behind on purpose. He ground his teeth more at being set up than at her ghastly appearance.
“He’s no bronc, he just likes to run.” With a little encouragement.
He dropped Doc’s reins to the ground and headed for the yard.
Miss Canaday busied herself with a gabardine shirt he recognized from that fateful day in town.
Mabel reached out to touch Doc, but the gelding was havin’ none of it and tossed his head.
Duly snubbed, Mabel whirled and snatched the hat from Ella’s head, then held it up for him. Doc didn’t like that move either and side-stepped with his ears pinned flat against his skull.
“See if this fits you. You’ll need to wear it when you rescue me from that horse.” A little fear joined the kohl around her eyes as she regarded Snake.
“I’ve got a hat.”
“But you need to look like Jed.” She dipped her chin and batted her eyes up at him. “Please? For little ol’ me?”
Miss Canaday clapped her hand over her mouth, and Cale had a notion to plain ol’ clap Mabel Steinway. Tarnation, he was losing his manners.
Slim approached with an apologetic expression and what looked like a powder puff.
“Ella.” Thorson wheezed. “Get Mr. Hutton set up with Jed’s shirt and hat, and we’ll get this scene finished and come back another time for the branding.”
The way Cale saw it, Jed Barr was costing his boss a lot of money. Didn’t chap Cale’s hide none. Another day, another dollar. Tomorrow he’d have those cow-calf pairs corralled and ready to brand.
But at the moment he was taken by the rosy brand on Ella Canaday’s face and the way her dark eyes churned his insides. Maybe he’d just sweep her into the saddle with him and leave Thorson, Mabel, and everyone else behind.
And maybe he could fly.
~
Mortified that Mabel knew of her mishap on Main Street, Ella’s jaw tightened. As tight as Jed’s shirt would be on Cale Hutton. Anyone with eyes in his head could see it wouldn’t fit, and there wasn’t one thing Ella could do about it. Again, she appeared as if she’d failed at her job. And again, it was all because of Mabel and her manipulations.
Ella shook out the gabardine, praying it would miraculously stretch across Cale’s chest and at least reach his wrists.
He watched Slim’s powder box like a snake watches a mouse.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Hutton, but the camera sees things differently than we do.” Slim nervously cleared his throat. “You need powder on your face to even out your skin tone.”
Cale ignored him, Mabel, and everyone else, locking eyes on Ella. In three long strides he stood before her as stalwart as the pine, smelling of horse and man and strength. His expression said he wasn’t at all pleased with the turn of events but he didn’t hold it against her. Clearly, a double message, but she couldn’t quite make out the meaning of the other half.
“You’ll need to take your shirt off.” Flames shot through her insides and burst out across her face and neck. Such discomfort never occurred at the studio. Or on other locations with the regular actors. They didn’t stand before her like a giant child, waiting for her to tell them to disrobe.
She’d already seen him bare-chested. Or maybe it was his brother’s physique that had burned onto the inside of her eyelids. But it had been in private—if she could call the dining room private. He’d have no undershirt, not during these warm summer months. Lord, help her. How long could she hold her eyes on the piped yoking and pearl snaps of Jed’s shirt?
He tossed his vest and chambray on the crate.
Slim saved her from embarrassment.
“Close your eyes and mouth.” He hit Cale with a full puff and quickly worked it across his face, ears, and neck.
Ella rolled her lips and swallowed a laugh at his scrunched-up face. The three little Hutton boys had nothing on their uncle.
He blustered and blinked and reached for the gabardine, brushing her fingers. The act drew her eyes to his. Just as she’d feared, he was reading her as if she were a script in his hand.
“Slim is right.” She took a deep breath. “You can get by without the greasepaint because you won’t have a close-up shot in the chase. But without the powder, your skin will appear darker than it really is and blotchy.”
He stared at her, a muscle flexing in his powdered jaw. The powder flattened his weathered tan to the sickly yellow-white that would film more naturally.
“It washes right off.”
He slipped his arms into Jed’s shirt, tugged at the collar, and started with the first snap. A two-inch gap guaranteed no connection. Moving on to the next one, he dropped his chin to watch what he was doing. No luck. The next snap connected. Barely. And the next one and the next until he had most of the shirt front fastened.
She matched opposite corners of the brown silk neckerchief and handed it to him, resisting the urge to reach around his neck and join the ends herself.
As he tied it on, his perusal unnerved her. Clearly, his candid regard caused him no concern, and he continued to openly watch her. Inwardly she squirmed, as if caught in the camera’s eye. What did he want? He was pressing again. Just like in the pasture two days before. Did he think she understood the silent speech he so often used with Hugh? Did he think her a mind reader? If so, he spoke a language she did not understand. At least not completely.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. She stepped back and crossed her arms to hold the hammering beast inside. He picked up the hat she’d worn moments before and tugged it down.
All wrong. The camera could not be fooled. Jed would tip his hat to a jaunty angle.
She moved closer and reached up for the brim, cocking it to one side for a roguish look. And while she was there holding her breath, she might as well adjust the neckerchief so it covered the open shirtfront. Not that it would stay put in the wind of the ride, but it made her feel somewhat better to have him covered.
She retreated again and filled her lungs, at the same time considering the man before her. His stature. His unsmiling face, stern jaw—and too short sleeves. Oh dear. She took one arm and tugged on the sleeve as if by pure will she could lengthen it to cover his wrists.
And the boots. She looked at Mabel, who sat atop the bay a bit paler than before. “Did you bring Jed’s boots?”
The leading lady scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’d never fit Cale.” Leaning down, she added in less than a stage whisper, “And just so you know, Miss Hobble-skirt, your days here are numbered.”
Ella froze. What had Mabel said to Mr. Thorson while Ella’s absence? Forcing herself to focus on the scene, she again checked Cale’s attire. Pete would simply have to shoot a tight frame and leave the boots out of the picture. If that were even possible.
Mr. Thorson blasted through her worry with a boisterous interjection, laid out his plan for Mabel and Cale, and had them walk out to the road and take up their positions with Mabel in the lead. He waved his hat at Pete who remained at his earlier position and waved in return.
“Roll film!” he yelled.
Ella flinched.
He turned to Mabel. “Action!”
Mabel kicked the bay and shot off with Cale and Doc deliberately in her wake. Not as fast as Slim’s ride, but a good pace just the same.
Ella stumped to the road, dreading what she might see. But she could not look away, as if she were watching a burning house—full of wonder and agony at the power of the flames and the overwhelming loss.
Halfway to Pete, Cale came alongside Mabel and pulled her from the bay’s saddle and into his own. She flung her arms around his neck, and her full skirt whipped around the both of them. Cale reined Doc in just past Pete, who followed the action.
“Cut!” Thorson waved his hat again, completely ignored by Pete, who continued filming.
Even from this far away, Ella imagined the tension between Mabel and Cale.
The rescuer successfully saving the lady in distress.
Her overwhelming gratitude.
Ella’s hands balled into fists. This was the stuff of moving-picture romance, the lure that drew viewers to the theatre.
The moment when every woman’s heart stopped.
Ella’s eyes closed, yet still she saw the heroine’s hands reach for the hero’s face. She pulled him closer . . .
Turning on her left foot, Ella hobbled to the crate, where she gathered Slim’s costume and came as close to running as she had in more than fifteen months. Again, Mabel got what she wanted. And this time, it was what Ella wanted.