A Change of Scenery, page 4
Cale agreed, except it did matter. “I’ll get a lantern. But first, I’m gettin’ my boots.”
The top pole was snapped clean as a whistle, and when he returned, they wired a board across the break by lantern light.
Hugh pulled against the mend. “That’ll hold ’till morning, unless we get a return visit.”
Cale grabbed the light, and they made for the house. “It got away with one of our calves, so I doubt it’ll come back tonight. I’ll ride up the draw at daybreak, look for a trail.”
In the kitchen, he cleaned and salved Tug’s wound, relieved to find only a shallow gash and no torn muscle. The dog had gotten away from something sharp, but he wasn’t sure what. It could have been a lot worse.
Cale let Tug curl up on the rag rug by his bed, and he listened to every snore and rabbit-chasing escapade before giving up and dressing in the dark. His own sleep escaped as easily as the marauder, and when gray hit the eastern horizon, he was mounted and riding up the ravine. Even in the thin pre-dawn, he could make out the drag trail.
Not long after, in clear light, stench and buzzing flies drew him to the kill covered with leaves and brush. The back of his neck crawled. Doc blew against the smell of death, his nostrils flared, his neck arched and tight.
Cale pulled his Winchester from the scabbard and stepped down, keeping tight hold of a rein. He kicked away the brush until a leg showed. Warming to the task, he found a heavier branch and cleared the brush for a better look.
His blood chilled. It wasn’t a calf this time, and the other ranchers might be right.
No little black bear hauled off a thousand-pound steer and left if half eaten. Neither did a man.
But a grizzly could.
~
Ella bit down on an empty thread spool and squeezed her eyes shut, envisioning herself kneading bread. Her fingers probed as pain slid from beneath her lashes. The muscle twitched and then tightened, waking in full rebellion from the night’s dormant state and yesterday morning’s long walk. If she clenched her teeth much harder, she’d either dislocate her jaw or fill her mouth with splinters.
Her breath staccatoed over the sting until the muscle yielded. As it relaxed, she traced the pink scar running nearly to her knee. This time when she bent her leg, it didn’t burn. She opened her mouth and the spool dropped into her hand. Progress came at a high price.
Gingerly she stood, testing her weight, then smoothed the bedclothes and her cheeks. Self-pity was a price she refused to pay.
Morning spilled through the window, brightening another of Jed’s gabardine shirts hanging over the back of a small rocker. Should someone enter her room, they would think the worst of her. A sharp laugh cut against her sore ribs as she transferred the garment to a wooden hanger and fastened the top button. Had things gone differently, the shirt could have belonged to Charles and not served merely as proof of her skill with a needle.
As it was, Jed would not notice her repair of the ripped seams from yesterday’s faux skirmish. But Mabel would. Ella rolled her lips to squelch an unkind remark. The woman noticed everything. Not that she approved, she simply noticed.
A split riding skirt, also newly mended, draped the footboard, and Ella folded it over a hanger. It was the second skirt Mabel had torn that week. She seemed bent on discrediting Ella’s abilities.
So be it.
Ella had not joined the company to make friends but to make a living, as meager as it was. She fingered the tatted edge of her camisole, the delicate lacework her most recent attempt at copying Nana Elizabeth’s fine stitches. “Mended tears and tatted edges beautify one’s life,” she’d often reminded Ella. One of her pearls, as Ella called her grandmother’s sayings.
Sadly, Nana was the only person she missed from home.
Ella buttoned her heart beneath her blouse, belted her own split skirt, and pulled on her boots. Not that she intended to ride. Heavens, yesterday’s fiasco of dodging horses at the river was far closer than she had ever intended to come to it. But since she could not get out of going to the ranch, she did not want to be hindered by her good shoes or a suit. And there could be snakes.
Her pulse raced as she tidied the room and picked up the mended clothing and her satchel, camera tucked safely inside. She’d not felt such anticipation in months. Fifteen to be exact.
Her room door shut with a quiet click, and she turned the key. No sense waking other hotel patrons in her pre-dawn trip to the studio. The burgundy carpet runner swallowed her uneven footfall, and at the stairs she glanced at the elevator. So much easier.
And noisier.
She grasped the railing and continued down.
A sharp left turn at the bottom sent her straight across the elegant dining room and through the kitchen door, following her nose to another of Clara’s marvelous concoctions. The woman could make a wooden Indian’s mouth water.
“You’ve ruined me for going without breakfast.” She stopped next to the buxom cook, drinking in the conflicting aromas of cinnamon and sausage. Flour clung to the woman’s dark hands and dusted the front of her starched apron snugging a long-lost waistline.
Clara reached for a rolled napkin lying at the back of the massive stove and offered it with a firm decree.
“Put some meat on those skinny bones.”
Clara’s motherly scolding warmed Ella from the inside out, and she wanted to toss the clothing in the corner, sit down at the worktable, and gorge herself on biscuits and gravy.
And pour her soul out at the older woman’s feet. Though they’d met only a few days ago when the company arrived in Cañon City, she sensed Clara’s compassion was as big as her girth, if not bigger. “You’re a dear.”
“Pshaw.” Clara waved her off. “Don’t you be late. We can’t have Mr. Barr fussin’ about his fancy clothes.”
Clara—and half the town—might not swoon over the leading man if they knew he didn’t arrive at the studio until ten o’clock, though he’d better be early today. But Ella refused to distort moving-picture dreams with harsh reality. The locals loved their reel cowboy hero.
And she loved the play on words.
“We’re going out to the Rafter-H Ranch today.”
Clara’s rhythmic kneading halted a half-second as she spun the dough a quarter turn and flopped it over on the flour-covered board. “If I’d known you’d be up before the chickens, I’d had a picnic ready for you.” She raised a brow at Ella’s skirt. “Mmh-mmh-mmh,” she chided, punching each syllable with a shake of her head. “You’re not planning to ride one of them wild mustangs are you?”
A small dart of fear pierced Ella’s breast. “Heavens, no. But I cannot hobble around out there in my low-tops now, can I? A girl has to be ready for anything.”
Clara clapped flour from her hands and planted them on her hips with a pointed look. “Like you was yesterday?”
Stunned, Ella balked against the stone in her stomach. “How did you know?”
Humph. “Know? Whole town knows, honey. It’s not every day that handsome Cale Hutton charges down Main Street on that fine horse o’ his and snatches hisself a gal out from under a runaway wagon.”
Ella’s gasp sent chuckles rippling through the woman’s bosom as she raised a dusty finger. “I knows everything that goes on in this town. And I knows he was at the studio yesterday mornin’ talkin’ to that director o’ yours.”
Ella studied the stove pipe that disappeared into the high white wall and drew a deep breath through her nose. If Clara really knew everything, why didn’t she know they were leaving early?
“It was a buggy, not a wagon. And it wasn’t quite as dramatic as you make it out to be.”
Another humph. Clara reached for an empty baking powder tin, swirled it in flour, and pressed it into the puffy dough.
Flummoxed, Ella followed her nose to the counter where a line of fruit pies sat cooling. The closest one was still warm to the touch. “My goodness, Clara. How early do you get up in the morning?”
“Early enough to bake two extra pies for you.”
Pricked by the tender voice close behind her, Ella turned to see Clara offering a cloth-covered basket full of something that smelled deliciously like baked apples and nutmeg.
“One for you and one for your Mr. Hutton.”
“He is not my Mr. Hutton.”
Clara’s black eyes snapped with glee, and she squeezed Ella’s arm. “Make sure you get a good-sized piece. Can’t have you wastin’ away and breakin’ in half.”
Ella felt as if she’d already done just that, but she’d die right there before admitting it. She dropped a quick kiss on Clara’s cheek and was promptly turned about and ushered toward the door.
“You don’t wanna get left behind and miss a whole day out on the ranch with that handsome cowboy.”
With a flush crawling her neck, Ella limped through the lobby, past the front desk, and out the Denton’s grand door, escorted by Clara’s fading laughter. Obviously, the woman had a spy, some urchin who hid under tables and chairs and reported back with every bit of scandalous gossip in town.
She peeked beneath the white linen napkin, and her traitorous stomach twisted in anticipation. A heart-to-heart talk later would set the “handsome cowboy” matter straight, but right now she needed to focus on the day ahead.
If she’d had a third hand, she would have brought a kettle of Clara’s coffee, which she far preferred to the bitter brew Mr. Thorson delivered each morning. Honestly, Jed probably dropped one of his horse’s shoes in the pot when no one was looking.
The town was awash with morning. A fresh start. A new beginning, as if every mistake were swept away. In spite of her injury and emptiness, she’d not completely rejected her childhood habit of viewing each new day as a gift.
And then she saw them.
Three rented motorcars in front of the studio, crouched like hungry green tigers waiting to devour their victims.
Her limp became more pronounced. Her palms dampened, and her temples pulsed at the idea of riding in one even farther than she had to the Hot Springs Hotel.
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay. She shuddered against the taunting line from a favorite poem and squeezed her eyes tight against a flashing scene. Halting on the sidewalk, she clutched at her collar, clawing for air.
It isn’t night. It isn’t raining. The roads are dry.
Truth swept through her on a quivering breeze, and she opened her eyes to bright morning, trading memories for reality. Thank you, Lord. Setting out again, she sought distraction from beneath the linen napkin, and the homey aroma lifted her spirit.
The pies. Focus on the pies.
At the 300 block of Main, she stepped into the street. If she took the pies inside, they would never make it to the ranch, and at the moment she did not feel that generous.
She stopped at the nearest car and set the basket in the back seat. Nothing Mr. Thorson had ordered from the café would half compare to Clara’s talents. With this hungry crew, Cale Hutton would be lucky if he got a single slice of apple pie for himself.
After gathering additional costuming for the day, Ella waited near the door, and at the first sign of departure, hurried to her chosen car. She slid in next to the basket and covered it with shirts and scarves and hats. Warmth seeped into her thigh, a delightfully distracting sensation.
“Something smells powerful good,” said the fellow who climbed in at her left.
“That’d be your mustache, Slim.”
Slim punched the jokester who sat ahead of them, and everyone laughed as the driver maneuvered the coughing contraption into the street. Mr. Thorson, the cameraman, and technicians took the next automobile, and Jed, Mabel, and other actors took the third. Ella had not asked how far it was to the ranch, but she prayed it wouldn’t be more than an hour, reasoning that it couldn’t be if they intended to get any filming done while they still had good light.
Leaning her head against the back cushion while the men jabbed and joked, she marveled at the blue Colorado sky. No smoke or haze as she was accustomed to in Chicago. And exactly the color of a certain cowboy’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
The wind shifted, ruffled through the ridge-top grass, and trailed Cale’s face like a woman’s fingers. His saddle creaked beneath him, and he tilted his hat brim to the lip of land where the sky burned gold.
Since boyhood, he’d had a need to see the sun break over the hills, watch it bleed fire across the mountains and leak down into the valleys and parks. But this morning, a flame curled in his chest, flickering stronger as dawn chased the shadows. He rubbed a spot beneath his vest, a familiar burn, the longing he thought he’d broke with for good.
Doc tossed his head and nickered, and the rumble traveled through Cale’s legs and up into his gut.
Morning’s breath licked around behind him and whispered against his neck – she’s close.
~
An hour after sunup, Cale strung a picket line along the west end of the near pasture, and another at right angles on the north edge, bemoaning the effort it took to corral horseless carriages. Nearly as much as it took to corral cattle, but he had to keep the rattletraps away from the animals. No telling how rowdy those moving-picture folks were, and he couldn’t afford any accidents.
Satisfied with his work, he headed back to the barn. The parade would arrive any time now. Hugh’s boys were itching for excitement and jostled each other as they ran to meet him.
“Are they here yet?” Ty hollered over the back of the middle boy who outran him with his longer legs. As the oldest, Ty had drawn the short straw on height, but he made up for it in grit.
“Not yet.” Cale handed the middle youngster the hammer. “Take this to the tack room and hurry back. I’ve got a job for three good men.”
Jay dashed to the barn and halfway back by the time Cale shoved his hat up and squatted to address his nephews eye to eye.
“Wait for me! Wait for me!” The youngster had a hard time stopping his feet, and he slammed into Kip, who hollered like a scalded dog.
Cale helped the littlest boy off the ground and dusted his britches, then soothed his bruised pride with a hand on his shoulder.
“I need a good lookout to let me know when those clackety ol’ wagons turn onto the ranch road. You know anyone fit for the job?”
Arms shot up like firecrackers in July.
“I knew I could count on you three.” Cale straightened and reset his hat. “Ty, you’re in charge. Make sure you all stay together—no one goes off by himself. Take Tug and watch for rattlers. And when you see dust on the road, hightail it back here and let me or your pa know. Understand?”
Three heads bobbed, and the youngest would have gotten away if Cale hadn’t snagged his shirt collar. “Hold on. You all need your hats. Kip, you grab a canteen. Jay, see if Miss Helen has any leftover cookies to take along.”
He chuckled at the wild bunch headed toward the house. What he wouldn’t give for energy like that nowadays.
As usual, Tug knew something was up. He peeled his old, sore self from the shady spot by the barn and stood at the back door until the boys stampeded out and down the road. The dog trotted along behind them like the good nursemaid that he was, a slight limp in tow.
Cale spent the next hour picking hooves and saddling horses with Hugh. Helen commandeered them both into hauling crates and nail kegs to the yard, and directed the placement of each makeshift seat in what, by mid-day, would be the shade of the big pine on the west side. The kitchen table came next, dressed with a checkered cloth for Helen’s lemonade and gingersnaps. He tossed a cookie to Hugh and sampled one himself. Those city fellas were in for a treat.
He cut back to the barn, gathered Doc, and rode for the ridge south of the creek bottom.
Pine jays scolded. Magpies flagged across the trail and jabbered from the scrub oak. Cottontails dashed to the tree line and froze as Doc scaled the ridge. Cale filled his lungs with mountain air, the purity of it and the peace. Would those city folks notice it? Would she?
He scratched the itch. Not likely.
At the crest, Doc slowed to a standstill, familiar with the routine. The western range bared its rocky spine to a clear sky, and a long narrow valley rolled out at its feet. The Rafter-H claimed most of the cedar and grass-covered country, and around the shoulder of two lower hills stretched the neighboring Crossett Ranch.
He’d grown up with old man Crossett’s daughter. She loved this life, even rode like a man and worked the roundups. Cale shifted in the saddle, considering how he’d tried to take a liking to her. George Harper’s daughter too. She was pretty and smart. Knew her way around the cattle business. But neither one suited him for some reason that escaped his cowboy sense of what fit and what didn’t.
All he knew was he’d not settle for a mismatch in a horse, and he refused to settle on a mismatch for a wife. Now he was almost too old.
He nudged Doc along the ridge. Cedar perfume escaped at the brush of his chaps against the dark blue berries. It’d been easy for Hugh. He and Jane were sweethearts back when they all grew out of the desks in that old one-room schoolhouse on Crossett’s place. Maybe that’s why Jane’s death still pained his brother so. He’d been sweet on her his whole life.
Cale, on the other hand, knew cows better than anything, and until lately, he’d been content to work ’em. Especially after watching his brother shrivel into an angry old man right before his eyes.
A clattering cough scattered the jays, and Doc’s ears perked toward the valley. Less than a mile away, three automobiles crawled ahead of a dust cloud like ants on the march. They’d soon be at the turnoff, and three little boys would be running to tell him the moving-picture makers were coming.
He reined Doc around and worked his way down the ridge and back to the barn, anticipating and dreading in equal parts the sight of Ella Canaday climbing out of one of those rattletraps.
~
Ella gripped the edge of the leather seat, regretting that she hadn’t brought her duster with her from Chicago. But she’d not expected so much touring to accompany a seamstress job. The track was not much more than a wagon trail, rutted and pitted and bent on jarring every bone in her body, including the weakest one.
