A Change of Scenery, page 5
Slim didn’t look much better than she felt, and once they slowed in the ranch pasture, he jumped from the car before it came to a standstill. The engine choked to its death, delighting three small boys who bounced around the automobiles, waving their arms and yelling directions. The sight surprised and cheered her, for she’d not expected children. Of course that was silly. How else would ranchers get future ranchers if not by raising their own?
Discomfort shivered up her already sweaty neck, and she glanced around for sight of Cale Hutton, whose clear image had prompted the blush to begin with. Such thoughts, when she wanted nothing to do with the man and his man-handling ways. Quickly she draped the folded costumes over the back seat, climbed down, and lifted the basket. A piercing stab buckled her knee, and she dropped the basket to grip the running board. Tucking her chin, she drew in several deep breaths and all her determination to not throw herself on the grass and weep. Oh Lord, help.
Pulling upright, she regarded the remainder of the brutal track that lay between her and the ranch house where everyone was headed. Could she make it that far?
Scuffing in the grass behind her set her heart to fluttering. Please, please, not Mr. Hutton.
“Can I help you with that basket?”
A dark-haired boy with squinting eyes and a dirty face stood a pace away, one hand raised to shield the sun.
She could have kissed him.
“Why, yes, you can.” Forcing herself to her full height, she gave a bit of her weight to her right leg while holding the door’s edge. “What a gentleman you are.”
A shy grin escaped before the boy bent to heft the load and visibly gulped in the spicy fragrance. He lifted his gaze with a hopeful question. “Is this here apple pie for everybody?”
Laughter eased her grip on the door, and she took a shaky step. “The answer is yes, again. Do you like apple pie?”
He grinned more fully and threw his shoulders back. “Sure do.” He eyed her feet and scoured her from toe to head with the purest of childish curiosity and worldly wisdom. “Can you walk all right, or do you need me to get somebody bigger to help you?”
Somebody bigger? Like his father? She would walk or die. Another step forward and she grimaced but took another, then another. “With you by my side, I think I shall make it, young man. Might I ask your name?”
“Jay Hutton, ma’am.” He jerked his chin toward the house, where the other two boys were darting through the crowd. “Them’s my brothers, Kip and Ty. I’m in the middle but I’m the tallest.”
So Cale Hutton had three sons. Perhaps he’d used his daring rescue stunt before, sweeping his children from harm’s way. She rubbed her leg and continued to match the boy’s short strides. “I’m so glad you are, Jay. You are the perfect size to help me with the pies. My name is Ella Canaday, but you may call me Miss Ella.”
By now they were across the road with a grassy patch ahead that hemmed the house and spread beneath a giant pine at the far end. An older woman stood behind a table with a red-checkered cloth, filling cups from a large crock and handing them to those who stood nearby.
“Is that your grandmother at the table, Jay?”
“Grandma’s dead.” He blinked and his footsteps slowed. “So’s my grandpa and my ma.”
An ache passed through her. So much death in a young life.
“That’s Miss Helen. She cooks for us, our pa, and our uncle, and makes us wash behind our ears.” Stopping, he looked up and wrinkled his nose into a question. “You don’t got no behind-your-ears, do ya?”
In spite of the ache, laughter bubbled again at the boy’s straightforward speech. “Well, if you can keep a secret, Jay, I did not voluntarily wash behind my ears either when I was your age.”
His eyes rounded in disbelief.
“But I do now. Always.” She nodded to strengthen her statement, and he must have decided to believe her, for he dashed off to the table and lifted the basket to Miss Helen. The woman looked Ella’s way with a welcoming smile and set the basket beside the stoneware crock.
Ella had never been thirstier.
She quickened her pace to near normal. Blue sky draped the giant pine where Mr. Thorson stood, his booted foot planted atop a wooden keg as he leaned toward the actors and others fanned out around him. Pete jotted notes in his little camera book that was always with him, and Mabel twirled a long curly lock around her finger, looking completely bored and put out.
“Hello, dear. I’m Helen.”
Ella turned her attention to the woman behind the table.
“So glad you made it out with everyone.” Helen offered a tin cup of cold lemonade and a warm smile.
“Thank you.” Ella grasped the cup in one hand and the sturdy table’s edge with the other. Perspiration clung to her neck beneath her bob, increased by her trek from the car. “Exactly what I needed.”
Helen flicked a concerned gaze over her, then met her eyes with a lowered voice. “Are you all right, dear?”
No, I am not. “Yes, quite.” The tin cup kissed her lips with cool relief, rescuing her from further explanation. She did not want accommodations. Merely a moment to regain her strength. Too many months of a sedentary lifestyle were costing her dearly.
Helen lifted the napkin from the basket and leaned over, drawing in a deep breath. “My, but these pies smell delicious. Did you bake them?”
“Oh, no. I’m renting a room at the Denton, and the cook there, Clara, sent them with me this morning.”
Helen’s obvious curiosity brightened her kind gray eyes, urging Ella on.
“She thinks I’m too thin.” She let out a self-conscious laugh and eased along the table’s edge until she stood directly in front. “What can I do? I won’t be needed during the filming, so I’d be happy to help you set up for the noon meal.”
Helen lifted the basket. “Many hands make light work, my mother always said. Follow me before one of those fellas discovers what you’ve brought and tucks into them without us getting a chance to divvy them up for everyone.”
Excited voices drew Ella’s attention as the troupe and cowboys made for the corrals. Several horses stood saddled and waiting, including Mr. Hutton’s. He was not in the crowd. She ducked her head and patted the back of her hair. No sense staring after someone who wasn’t there. A clearing throat drew her around to three stair-step boys whose scantily concealed mischief brimmed in their eyes.
She straightened, reminding herself she was the grownup in the current setting.
“May I help you?”
Jay elbowed the boy in the center, who took a step forward and jerked a thumb at the elbow’s owner. “Jay says you got two apple pies from town. That so?”
Ella pinched back a smile and folded her arms at her waist. “Well now. Would your brother tell you something that wasn’t so?”
Jay added a couple of inches to his stature and a confident smirk lifted his mouth.
She held a hand out to the speaker. “I’m Ella and you are . . .”
A small, grimy hand took her fingers. “Ty. I’m the oldest.”
“And I’m Kip,” said the smallest boy, shoving his hand out with a gap-tooth grin. “I’m six going on seven.”
“Next year,” Ty scoffed.
Her heart melted. “I believe there will be a piece of pie for any boy who has helped me.”
Jay nearly popped the buttons on his shirt and his two brothers visibly deflated.
“Since Jay helped me carry the heavy basket, perhaps you—and you—can bring to me the clothing that is in the back of the dark green motorcar. Wait, they’re all green. Check the one in the middle.”
Dust stirred like storm clouds as the two pushed away to run for the cars.
“But”–Ella raised her voice, and they skidded to a stop—“No pie if the clothes are wrinkled or have been dragged in the dirt.”
Again the youngsters tore out for the automobiles in the pasture, and Ella looked squarely at Jay. “Do you think they can do it without ruining the costumes?”
“Maybe I better go make sure.”
“I will be in the kitchen with Miss Helen.” She muffled a laugh as Jay’s long legs carried him across the yard toward the pasture, so full of boundless energy. Heading in the direction Helen had taken, she stopped at the sound of a fray at the corrals.
Mabel snatched at the chestnut’s bridle, and the horse tossed his head viciously, his ears pinned back, forelegs stamping. His displeasure was enough to send the leading lady skidding away, and Ella covered a chuckle with her hand and hurried around the back of the house.
Mr. Hutton’s horse was indeed a very intelligent animal.
Helen met her at the back screen door with a table knife and an extra apron.
“After you wash up, slice each pie into eight sections. I normally don’t cut such scant pieces, but this way when the men ask for a second helping, they’ll think they’re getting something.” Her eyes sparkled with merriment equal to that of the boyish trio.
A small table beneath the kitchen’s back window boasted a half dozen berry and custard pies in addition to the two Clara had sent. Ella donned the ample apron, wrapping the strings around her waist and back again and tied them into a long bow. A white pitcher of daisies brightened the sideboard, and a hand pump delivered icy water to the sink, not surprising so far from town. She’d also spied the privy set back among the scrub oak. A more primitive atmosphere than what she was accustomed to—and with no electric lights, she guessed. Oil lamps perched on sideboards, unneeded now in the bright sunshine pouring through the window.
Apparently, few modern comforts found their way to a mountain ranch, but a nearly tangible peace looped itself into Ella’s apron strings and snugged around her.
The large kitchen appeared to be as wide as the house, added onto one end where a rough log wall had no doubt been the outside of the original cabin. Now a long sideboard stretched its length with cabinetry above and below, interrupted by a doorway into a dining room appointed in lovely fashion. While drying her hands, she noted a fine cherry-wood table taking up most of the low-ceilinged room, framed with matching high-back chairs, and cushioned by a floral oriental rug of deep burgundy and muted blues. Never would she have guessed such a room offered hearth and home between the time-worn logs of a ranch house.
Helen squeezed lemons and added the juice to a sugar-syrup base. “I’ve no ice for the lemonade, but our water’s always a bit nippy and should wet their whistle plenty.”
Ella’s hands still tingled from the cold wash. “Everyone will be happy to have something other than Mr. Thorson’s coffee to wash down the box lunches.” She looked around the kitchen but didn’t see any boxes. Cookies, pie, and lemonade would be scant lunch for the troupe after today’s filming. Surely Mr. Thorson had not forgotten.
“Oh, I’m glad you mentioned that. I forgot to make more coffee.”
The screen door popped against the outside wall, and Jay bounded through, his hands clutching two large hats stuffed with belts and scarves. Kip and Ty were right behind, arms draped with shirts and trousers and a riding skirt.
“Didn’t drop a one, Miss Ella.” Kip clutched one of Jed’s shirts that was bigger than he was, pride shining from his little face. Ella could steam out the wrinkles with Helen’s kettle.
She took the hanger hook from Kip, gathered what Ty had carried in, and motioned to Jay to set the hats on a chair. “You boys did a fine job, thank you. But I have one more favor to ask.” What she considered a painful chore, they might find a lark.
Again they lined up, hands behind their backs, eyes on Helen. Well trained, at best.
“There are twelve small paperboard boxes in the automobiles—lunch for the actors. If you each return with four boxes, I’m sure Miss Helen and I can find a tasty reward for your efforts.”
Helen’s mouth twitched as she wiped her hands on her apron and queried Ella. “Do you think they’ll earn a piece of pie?”
Three little chests expanded.
“I believe so, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
She bent at the waist, hands on her knees. “You were so careful with the costumes. Can you be that careful with the box lunches and not drop even one?”
The trio nodded in unison and scrambled out the door.
No sooner had Ella sliced the final pie, they stampeded onto the back porch, through the door, and into line again. One of Kip’s boxes bore dirt around the edge and a bent flap.
“Thank you all. Please put them on the board over there.” She indicated the long surface fronting the log wall.
Assignment accomplished, they lined up again.
“Shall we let them choose?”
Helen wagged her finger at the boys. “Don’t be makin’ a mess in my kitchen. Take your slice and eat outside.”
All three crowded the table and reached for the nearest apple pie. They made it out the door with only two apple chunks hitting the smooth wooden boards. Ella knelt to clean the spills with her apron, then gasped as she pulled herself up on a chair.
Helen threw her a questioning look.
“They’re good boys.” Good enough, Ella hoped, to run a conversational decoy to what was obviously on Helen’s mind.
“They are.” The woman resumed her lemon squeezing. “When they aren’t in trouble, that is.”
Laughter sparked again, its long-forgotten pleasure becoming the mark of Ella’s day. How often had Nana told her that a merry heart bore medicinal effects? The memory rose like a vapor nearly forgotten, smothered by more recent, unpleasant realities.
“Would you grind the coffee for me, dear, while I finish up these lemons? We’ve plenty of time to cook a pot before everyone comes back to eat.”
Happy to busy her hands, Ella found a sack of coffee beans where Helen’s finger pointed and filled the large mill near the stove. What she wouldn’t give for a stout cup of tea with milk.
“Then, if you don’t mind easing a nosy old woman’s curiosity, you can tell me all about that leg of yours.”
CHAPTER SIX
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.”
