Stunned, Cale pulled back from Mabel’s garish face, and she slipped through his hands. Doc whinnied and danced away from the woman sprawled beneath him.
Thorson hadn’t said one blasted thing about kissing, and it better not be on the film. Doggone it, Cale had never tossed a gal off a horse, but this beat all. He jumped down and helped her up.
Pete ran over. “You all right, Miss Steinway?”
She sliced Cale up one side and down the other, then turned on the cameraman. “Tell me you did not get that on film.”
“I-I got the whole thing, ma’am. Just like always.”
She stomped her foot. “That last part, you idiot.”
His face blanched and he pulled at his collar and shied toward the camera. “Uh, no, ma’am. When you were getting off just now? No. I, uh, didn’t film that. No, ma’am.”
Ten to one he had, but Cale didn’t make a habit of throwing good money after bad. “Sorry, Miss Steinway. I didn’t intend to drop—”
“You!” The word shot like a bullet and hit him right between his eyes. She whirled and stomped away to the cars.
Looked like filming was done for the day. That’d save him the trouble of refusing any more of Thorson’s harebrained ideas.
Pete folded up his camera contraption and headed down the road toward the house. Thorson, Slim, and a few others stood out front. Ella was gone. Maybe she had seen what happened.
Dear Lord, he hoped his brother hadn’t seen it either. He’d never hear the end of it.
Snake had moseyed off the road and into the lower pasture, grazing his way toward the hills. Cale swung up and rode after him, gathered his reins, and turned back for the barn. Yes, he needed the money this filming crew brought with it. But no, he didn’t need the aggravation. And yes, he wanted to spend more time with Ella Canaday, but no, he probably wouldn’t get to.
As he rode into the yard, past the filming crew, and on to the barn, Hugh leaned against the wall, one boot cocked against it and his hat tipped back. Cale would knock him out if he said a word.
He didn’t, for once. Just took Snake’s reins, stripped the tack, and led him to the pasture.
On his way to the house, Cale yanked Jed’s hat and scarf off, and intended to do the same with the shirt. But that would make more work for Ella if he tore something. Instead he peeled it off and dropped everything in the crate, then took his own clothes around back to the wash tub. He’d prefer a dip in the creek, but Helen’s bar soap and towel on the porch made short work of the powder. Just like Ella said.
After he finished, he walked around to the front, where Pete, Thorson, and the rest of the men were laughing and shaking their heads. He was certain he knew the topic of discussion.
“Thorson.” He joined them with a change of subject. “What time you comin’ back tomorrow for the branding?”
“Day after. And the earlier, the better, if that works for you. With a good take, we’ll be out of your hair.” He offered his hand. “Fine job today. Fine job.”
“Just make sure those two minutes are in the check.” A hard glare and harder grip underscored his point.
The back screen door slapped, and Kip ran around the end of the house. “Miss Helen needs help with the table and then everyone can have pie and cookies.”
Two of Thorson’s men hoofed it inside and returned with the table. The boys and Helen followed, loaded down with her handiwork. While Thorson rubbed his hands together like he was about to sit down to a feast, Cale retreated to the big pine and waited for Ella.
She finally showed up with a stack of tin cups in one arm, the coffee pot in her hand, and a hitch in her walk. She started with Thorson and made the rounds, giving each man a cup and then filling it. He palmed his jaw, reminding himself he hadn’t shaved that morning. No wonder Slim had thrown powder on him.
By the time Ella made it to him, the pie was gone. He’d get the bottom of the pot too, more than likely on purpose, but he wasn’t sure why. Could be she was still mad about yesterday’s ride home.
He straightened as she approached and thumbed his hat back for a clear view. Her hair teased her eyes, and his hand itched to push it aside before he thought better of it. Instead he accepted her last cup and the thick brew that only half-filled it. She turned away before he could think of what to say, and limped back to the house.
Confounded woman.
After every last crumb was cleaned up, Thorson signaled two men to take the table in. Everyone else headed for the automobiles, and Cale planted a foot on the lone crate, determined to catch Ella before she left.
And then he saw her making her way across the road with Jay beside her. She’d gone out the front door, favoring her right leg like she had her first day at the ranch. He couldn’t figure. Yesterday she’d had hardly a catch in her gait, and now she limped like a saddle-sore cowpoke.
He started after her, but doubt hobbled him. Only a fool would miss that she’d intentionally avoided him. If he stopped her, what would he say?
Mainly, he just wanted to know if she was coming back for the branding. And if she’d ever forgive him for tricking her into riding Barlow.
He pulled his hat off, ran his hand through his hair, and re-set it. This was not how he’d hoped things would go.
The motorcars cranked and sputtered and rattled off down the road with the boys and Tug chasing after them nearly to the turn off. He headed for the barn, where he adjusted Doc’s saddle and swung up.
The rest of the day he spent doing what he knew best—cowboyin’ in the quiet of the mountain parks. Green and sprouting fiery Indian paintbrush and yellow buffalo bur, the parks opened around him like welcoming arms, giving up a dozen cow-calf pairs and a couple of maverick steers that he and Hugh trailed back to the corrals. The familiar thud of hooves on dirt, grit on his teeth, and an occasional bawl raised a reassuring barrier that insulated him from the crazy world of automobiles and crowds and clamor. He had more than enough to fill his days without worrying after some gal who avoided him. Who’d soon enough be going back home to the city.
Early that evening, the corral gate squawked shut behind the last cow and dust hung still and thick, no breeze to send it off. He rode around the barn and cut across open country for the south ridge and a clear perspective.
Some things a man could count on. Like spring calving and summer thunderstorms and the narrow valley before him, cut in two by the road to town. It lay clear and quiet with no sign of wagon or motorcars, as empty as he felt.
A troublesome ache throbbed behind his ribs. Something was missing, and he feared he knew exactly what it was.
A jay flagged by and Doc swiveled an ear, either dislodging a fly or detecting a scurry in a nearby thicket. Cale stood in the stirrups, stretching his legs, then settled and turned for home. From what he’d seen of Thorson’s filming in the last week, the cameraman wouldn’t need more than a few minutes of action from the branding. Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours and then, as Thorson had put it, the whole bunch would be out of his hair.
And Cale’d be right back where he was before the whole moving-picture brigade stormed Cañon City. Right where he should be. Giving more time and thought to the Rafter-H.
A spot on his chest twitched, and he dug in a knuckle. Focus was what he needed. Focus on building the herd, finding the rustlers or bear or whatever was steeling cattle. He needed to meet with the sheriff and other ranchers and come up with a unified plan of attack.
And enter the upcoming rodeo. With the sheriff, that made two reasons to ride into town.
Three, if he counted a wisp of a woman who’d crossed his track and left spur-marks on his hide.
~
Ella gripped the polished railing with her left hand, and with her right, lifted her leg to the next stair. At this rate, she’d be exhausted by the time she got to her room, but she refused to take the elevator. Thankfully, Thorson had called it a day and taken everyone to the café, not noticing as she slipped out the side door of the studio and hobbled to the hotel.
More than ever before, she needed to soak in the bathing tub. Every part of her ached, particularly her soul, and she deeply resented it. She had no business reacting as she had to Cale Hutton and his stunning blue eyes. None whatsoever, particularly since she and the troupe would be leaving as soon as filming was complete.
At the landing turn, she paused to catch what little breath she had left. Eight more steps before she reached her floor. Closing her eyes momentarily, she tightened her grip and saw again the predictable ending to the rescue scene. At least she hadn’t photographed it.
With a start, her eyes flew open and she reached for her satchel strap, craning her neck for a view of the hotel lobby. Had she left it at the foot of the stairs? Think. She must think. She had not photographed the scene for several reasons: it was not a still shot and she couldn’t bear to see Cale and Mabel in the same frame. All right, two reasons.
The last time she remembered handling her satchel, she’d set it on the bureau in the boys’ room. All the glorious relief at finally arriving at the hotel whooshed out on a groan. How could she have left her camera behind? And her needles and thread. What had she been thinking?
Pain darted through her leg, reminding her quite clearly of what she’d been thinking. Or rather, about whom she’d been thinking. And with no telephone at the ranch, she had no way of contacting anyone there short of making another trip.
She could not afford to buy a second camera on her meager salary. Besides, the one in her satchel held all the photographs she’d taken since leaving Chicago—everything she’d promised to share with her grandmother upon her return. She’d simply have to wait until the day after tomorrow and pray the boys’ curiosity didn’t override good manners.
Oh dear.
Fatigue and disappointment weighed against her upward movement, but at finding her door ajar, worry dropped the proverbial back-breaking straw, and she sank beneath the blow.
Bedding lay on the floor. Chairs lay on their sides. Drawers had been emptied and clothing strewn from corner to corner. With her throat tight and hands trembling, she dropped beside the bed and reached underneath for her main sewing kit.
Gone.
Oh, Lord, no.
Despair pummeled her defenses with gale force, ripping into her very soul. She wept into the discarded coverlet, twisting it in her hands until anger supplanted angst. Who had done such a spiteful thing? No hotel employee would create extra work for themselves or risk an ill report of a guest’s privacy invaded and possessions stolen.
She had no jewels or money or wealth of any kind with her, other than the sentimental value of the kit, a necessary tool of her trade.
Only someone who hated her could be to blame. Someone who wanted to see her fail.
One name came to mind.
Gripping the posted footboard, she pulled herself upright, then gathered what she needed for a bath and locked her room, wondering why she bothered. But the Singer sewing machine remained unscathed, thankfully. If it were damaged, Mr. Thorson might hold it against her, deducting its cost from her wages. She’d have no recourse but to stumble home as a failure.
At the bathing room, another lock clicked—her jaw against the defeatist thought. Failure was not an option. She jammed the single chair beneath the doorknob as a precaution, and turned on the spigots for the soaking she craved.
“Lord, please show me what to do.” Her words mixed with the splashing flow of running water and swirled into the rising steam, reminding her that her prayers did indeed rise to His ear.
The water received her like loving arms, enfolding her in an unconditional embrace. No judgment. No criticism, simply pure acceptance. Leaning her head on the copper lip, she closed her eyes against the longing of her heart—to be loved in such a way not only by her Lord, but by another.
Of course her Nana cared for her, perhaps her father in his own way, but their love was limiting. It squelched her independence, and their guardedness was especially stifling since the accident.
Peers? Yes, she wanted to be accepted, but she never felt quite like she belonged. She had not fit in with younger single women at home, and she did not fit in with the troupe. Not really. And Mabel reminded her over and over that she was an outsider.
A man? The water’s warmth bled into her neck and face. Yes, again. She longed to be loved once more as Charles had loved her, in spite of her age, in spite of her father’s fortune. For herself. But that was before her disfigurement and weakening. How foolish to think she would ever appeal to another man in her less-than-whole condition.
Without invitation, Cale Hutton’s bold challenge in the pasture rose up, his daring grin and overwhelming presence that assured her he would have carried her back to the ranch house had she refused to ride the mare.
She sank lower and puffed out an irritated breath, rippling the water’s surface. He had crossed the line of propriety. Pushed her in spite of her insistence. And done exactly the opposite of everyone else. Perhaps it was his rancher’s wisdom that looked past her shortcomings and into her soul.
Dipping her head beneath the water, she rubbed her scalp, ridding her hair of the last reminder of ranch life—a life entirely different from hers. Cale lived here and she did not. He would stay behind when she left. Their lives were as different as . . .
Lard and butter. She rose from the water, his phrase pulling a smile from her lips. His acceptance of her, in spite of their differences, was like sweet butter on one of Clara’s perfect biscuits. If only she could look forward to such a life with such a man.
Stepping carefully from the tub, she toweled her hair and tied on her wrapper, acknowledging God’s full acceptance of her, His perfect care in spite of any turn of events. He was the one constant in her life, and that realization loosed her tears again. But this time they were not tears of despair, but of gratitude.
~
The next morning, Ella woke with resolve in her heart and strength coursing through her leg. The pain had lessened considerably. She credited all the walking she’d done at the ranch, as well as last night’s long, hot soaking.
And that ride in the pasture?
“Let’s not jump to unlikely conclusions.” The woman in the dressing-table mirror quickly squelched the fanciful idea, and Ella noted the set of her jaw. Just the determination necessary for addressing Mr. Thorson about the theft of her sewing kit.
Dressed, marcelled, and armed with courage resulting from a good night’s sleep, she managed the stairs with considerable ease and made her way to the hotel’s mouth-watering kitchen. Her empty stomach cried out for Clara’s hot biscuits.
When the woman learned what had happened, she added a hearty side of indignation to the generous serving she set before Ella.
“Someone’s up to no good, and if I get my hands on ’em before the sheriff, they’ll be wishin’ they was already in jail.” She smacked her wooden spoon against a skillet’s edge and sent a blob of its contents flying against the wall.
Ella had never felt so hardily supported. Seated at the small table against the kitchen wall, she bit into a fluffy biscuit and sighed audibly at the blend of honey and butter slathered on it and melting against her tongue. Butter would never again hold quite the same connotation.
Clara smiled with satisfaction.
Fearing the woman could read her mulling over butter and lard, Ella voiced a decoy. “I’ll be thinking about these all day and not getting one thing done.”
The sudden drop in Ella’s tone turned Clara with a fist at her hip and a scowl between her dark eyes. Ella’s intended compliment had degenerated into a confession that Clara did read.
“Was that rancher anything less than a perfect gentleman?”
Ella choked on biscuit crumbs and reached for the glass of orange juice set out with the baked goods. “Oh, yes—I mean no!” Swallowing the freshly squeezed goodness, she untangled her emotions and started with the most recent thread. “I’m referring to my work. I’ll be hard-pressed to complete any mending today, and it’s my own fault for not taking the whole kit with me to the ranch.” But if she had, it would still be there in her satchel. With her camera.
Like the plot of a dramatic storyline, her insides twisted. She dabbed her mouth on a napkin. “It belonged to my grandmother, at whose knee I learned to ply a needle. It is nothing fancy or ingenious, but it helps keep her near.” And aside from the company’s Singer sewing machine set up in her room, it was all she had to make a living.
With another delectable bite, she considered confiding in Clara, telling her every evil thing Mabel Steinway had ever said and her suspicion that the leading lady was behind the theft. But her upbringing to not speak ill of others behind their backs prevailed. Gossip was still gossip, even if it were true.
Clara slid a roast into one oven compartment and two pies into another. Then she wiped her hands on her starched apron and disappeared into the pantry.
Oh, to be a bug on the wall, catching the Hotel Denton cook at work, photographing her skillful hands dusted with flour or pricking a pie for doneness or testing her thick sausage gravy.
If Ella got her camera back—and she must—she would do just that.
The idea straightened her back, and she studied the kitchen as if through the camera’s lens. Morning light was best here, and she envisioned a collection of studies.
Clara’s return and proffered gift snapped the shutter on her musing.
“Take this until you find yours.” Large, capable hands dwarfed a small leather-bound packet.
“Oh, Clara, I couldn’t possibly—”
“But you will. We can’t have you losin’ your job because some no-good, sticky-fingered thief took your stitchin’ tools. What d’you suppose I’d do if some low-down scoundrel made off with my pots and spoons?”
A heavy humph punctuated the declaration as Clara returned to her work. Argument was obviously pointless.
The kit was even smaller than Ella’s. Plainer, with no embossed covering. But such tenderness accompanied it that it warmed in her hands, softening the edges of her resentment.
“Thank you, Clara. You’re a dear.”
“Pshaw.” The wooden spoon waved.
Ella slid the modest bundle into her skirt pocket and wrapped three biscuits in a napkin for later. “I’ll ask Mr. Thorson today if he’d like to place an order for a pan or two of your biscuits. How much would you charge him?”
Another humph flopped bread dough out of a bowl and onto a floured board. “A dollar a pan and not a penny less.”
A smile slid across Ella’s mouth. Clara knew the value of her work and didn’t mind asking a good sum for it. “A dollar it is.”
She moved toward the door.
Clara stopped her with a sound just short of a cough.
“That trip to the ranch must have done you good. You’re not limpin’ like you was before.”
Clara had never asked, and Ella had never mentioned the accident or her injury. She glanced over her shoulder to find the cook watching her closely. “It did, Clara.” She raised the napkin-wrapped bundle. “Thank you again for the biscuits.”
A clear yet unspoken invitation hung between them to do exactly what Ella had wanted to do a half dozen times. But not now. She must concentrate on the task at hand and any other surprises that might await her at the studio. If she could just focus on her reinvigoration rather than a certain rancher’s blue gaze, she would surely accomplish a great deal this day.
~
“Uncle Cale! Uncle Cale!” Kip galloped toward him with a lopsided gait, dragging a leather bag Cale recognized with a pang of panic.
“Hold up there.” He met Kip at the end of the corral and lifted the satchel from the boy’s shoulder. The weight of it and the permanently molded bulge in the side suggested Ella’s camera was inside. “Where’d you find this?”
“In our room.” The youngster drew himself up to his highest point, proud of his discovery. “It’s Miss Ella’s. She left it behind.”
A look inside confirmed his hunch and Kip’s conclusion. “You’re right.” He squatted for an eye to eye discussion. “I think Miss Ella would be mighty pleased you found this for her.”
Another inch worked into the short stature.
“What do you suppose we should do about it?”
“You need to take it to her. There’s pictures of us inside that black box.”
“You don’t say.” He straightened and ruffled the boy’s hair that sorely needed to be cut. Frankly, he was surprised that Helen hadn’t already corralled him on a stool in the kitchen with a bowl on his head for a good clipping.
He ran his hand through the mane at his own neck. Come to think of it, he could do with a visit to the barber. If he left now, he’d have time to stop at the sheriff’s as well and make it back before supper.
“Seein’ as how I got a couple errands to run in town, I’ll get it to her and tell her you found it.”
An ear-to-ear grin cut across the dirt-smudged face.
“But we’ll keep this to ourselves here at home. Just you and me. Deal?” He didn’t need Hugh chapping his hide about runnin’ off on a fool’s errand.
Jumping to a sense of importance rather than inquisition, Kip nodded soberly. “Just between us.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and twisted as though turning a key to his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good man.” Cale wrapped the long strap around the bag for stowing in his saddle bags, but a shy question halted his turn for the barn.
“Might you be goin’ to Ott’s Candy Store while you’re in town?”
An enterprising youngster if ever there was. Ty and Jay better keep an eye out. He rubbed his jaw in a thoughtful way. “Now that you mention it, I think I might. You got a preference?”
Another grin lit the boy’s face. “Peppermint.”
A wink and a nod sent him off in a dusty cloud. If only his father was as easy to please.
Cale continued to the barn to stow his parcel and prevent Hugh’s questions from riling him into an ill humor.
But his brother was already gone. Riding for sign and weak fences, he guessed, after this morning’s discussion over hotcakes and bacon.
He wasn’t convinced that their raiding culprit was only a bear. His gut told him opportunistic rustlers were using the so-called Old Mose descendant as a cover.
Hugh had dismissed his opinion with a huff around a mouthful of berry-syrup-drenched hotcakes.
“There’s too many raids,” Cale argued. “Not to mention multiple hits on a single night. After what I found up the draw, I agree that a bear’s involved. But it’s not the lone culprit. And last time I checked, bears didn’t hunt in packs.”
Hugh shot him a goading look that said he might agree but he wasn’t about to out loud.
The one thing they’d seen eye to eye on was driving the youngest pairs to the pastures closer to the house, and they’d already done that. So a trip to town made sense, especially when it came to checking in with the sheriff and getting word about other ranchers. He might even pick up some news at the barber shop. Hank knew everything.
And there was the rodeo to think about. He’d heard talk among the filming crew that Jed was planning to sweep the championship.
Cale let out a sharp snort. He’d be givin’ the actor a run for his money where roping was concerned.
Doc took to the trail like they were on a mission. Probably had something to do with the rifle and scabbard Cale had strapped on before heading out. The horse had a second sense about these things.
So did Tug, and it took some stern shouting to get the old dog back to the house. Either it was deaf as a post or gettin’ as stubborn as Hugh.
An hour later, Cale rode past the penitentiary and counted three motorcars in front of the Selig Polyscope studio storefront. At least they hadn’t pulled up the picket line and moved on without coming back to the ranch for a branding.
Fighting the urge to ride up to the door, he skirted around to the alley behind Hank’s barber shop, flipped Doc’s reins on a hitching rail, and walked through the back door.
Jed Barr himself lay cocked back in a chair with his fancy boots aimed at the ceiling and his face full of lather.